A/N:Good afternoon and welcome to chapter two! First of all, uber kudos to the wonder that is Mycroft: A Study in Suits! Thoroughly recommend to the psychotic fangirl who wants to read context in every stitch of Mycroft's costume. Secondly, thank you to all who have reviewed/favourited/alerted- Always deeply appreciated! Thirdly, and most importantly, thank you thank you thank you to KrisEleven for being the best Beta I've ever had! Much exposition would've been left out if it had not been for her 3
Enjoy!
Chapter Two:The Most Dangerous Man You Will Ever Meet.
Travelling on the London Midlands Service between Euston and St Albans was never pleasant, particularly at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning when flocks of City commuters packed themselves into the cramped carriages in small hordes, each separating themselves from the rest through pride and costume. Mycroft smiled to himself from his vantage point amongst them. Whoever said class no longer existed in British society had clearly never used public transport; the brief-cased office workers guarded themselves against the common labourer with lofty disdain, whilst the common labourer warded off the brief-cased office workers with the complacent smugness found only in the man who has no need for airs and graces. None of it was real of course, a cliché is a perfect mask to hide the fact that they were all the same in the end - desperate to return home for the weekend and willing to accept a couple of hours of hot discomfort in return for a home-cooked dinner. They were used to it. Mycroft was not.
On the rare occasion that he did grace Hertfordshire with his presence, it was during an off-peak time when peace and quiet and space to complete The Times' crossword was assured. On this particular journey, there was barely room to open a paperback due to the especially well-built middle-aged man who had squeezed into the aisle seat beside Mycroft and had spread The Sun's sports supplement across both their seats without a murmur of consideration. He was obviously entirely oblivious to everything and everyone around him, so Mycroft decided to amuse himself for a moment by indulging in the game he and Sherlock used to enjoy playing together – the 'How Much Can One Deduce About a Stranger Just by Looking at Them' game.
The man's age was obvious to even the most untrained eyes; early forties according to his hairline and permanent lines crossing his brow and beneath the eyes. The calluses on his hands revealed his occupation as a construction worker, but had only been one for the last decade. An indent in the middle finger of his right hand explained that he had previously been some sort of academic but, presumably, after he had married...twelve years ago, it would seem, his wife had told him to go out and find a proper job to pay for her idyllic home in the country and the comfortable middle-class life she was accustomed to. The nature of their marriage was demonstrated by the man's shirt - clean, white, uncreased and a fraction too tight for comfort (he fidgeted every few seconds), clearly not something he wore out of choice, it was an article saved especially for his return home each week which adhered to his wife's image of how a husband ought to look. But it wasn't simply a case of a browbeaten husband; he was willing to live up to this image and the state of his wedding ring showed that he still felt a desire to impress, regardless of the length of their marriage. Despite the man's obvious physical discomfort, he did not appear melancholic – he was content with sacrificing his own happiness for hers. Mycroft doubted very much that the affection was mutual. It rarely was.
The fact that Mycroft had managed to procure a seat at all when even the aisles were crammed with people who had not, did nothing to make him feel any happier about the situation and, as the train pulled away from the station and gathered speed, the young man turned himself away from the overpowering stench of sweat and cheap aftershave, resigning himself to an hour of his own company. The close proximity of each seat to the one in front did not lend itself kindly to people over five foot eight, and it took a great deal of crossing and uncrossing his legs and cursing the decision to wear his smartest trousers before Mycroft finally settled into a half comfortable position, his nerves in a significantly more fragile state than he would have liked.
Taking a long, slow breath and shutting his eyes, Mycroft rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window and concentrated on the rhythmic sounds of the engine rather than the chaos around him, forcing a certain amount of calm through his body. Thank god the journey only took an hour, all being well.
Trouble always began with a telephone call, he decided, twisting the gold band on his right hand absently. Of course, he was entirely aware that it was his own fault; having returned a reluctant Sherlock to the custody of Haileybury School, Mycroft had slipped in a quick meeting with his brother's resident tutor – a young man, just slightly older than he, and charged with the pastoral care of the six boys in Sherlock's dormitory – and insisted that he receive regular updates on the younger Holmes' activities. As it transpired, this simple request served only to put Mycroft in the picture marginally earlier rather than soften the impact of Sherlock's erratic behaviour in any way.
At least on this occasion it had been an evening call which had come just as Mycroft was finishing an especially tedious report requested by the Secretary of State for Defence, George Younger, which would more likely than not be passed around the Cabinet for a week or so before ending its life in a toilet cubicle. Despite the seeming pointlessness of his current position, the desire for power had always been the driving force in the choices made by Mycroft; he understood both the value of it and that it could only be accumulated with infinite patience. His younger brother had always mocked him for his fastidiousness, his almost obsessive need to have things 'just-so', but it was this need which was carrying Mycroft swiftly to the point of having the whole of Britain at his own personal disposal.
However, the road to absolute indispensability was long and arduous and, consequently, the distraction of the weekly phone call was most welcome.
The content of the call, however, was not.
Although Mr Carter had been even more vague than usual, the phrase 'a serious matter' had been repeated at regular intervals and Mycroft was just about able to ascertain that their father was being summoned in for a meeting at some point the following day. Therefore, the next morning Mycroft had jumped on the first train from Euston (it was completely impractical to own a car in the city). Since the few days that the brothers had spent together three months ago, a new sense of responsibility had rooted itself firmly between head and heart – a connection that Mycroft was still trying to adjust to.
Long fingers drummed impatiently upon the plastic fold-down table, grey eyes followed the changing landscape as it rushed by, tall buildings dissolving into fields, cars turning into sheep and terraces of houses melting away to reveal blossoming trees. The young man shifted in his seat, praying that 'serious' was meant in relation to normal standards rather than Sherlock's own brand, which was significantly more concerning.
The dissonant chord of the overhead speaker pierced abruptly through Mycroft's thoughts and there was a collective groan running the width and breadth of the carriage as it was announced that, 'We are sorry to inform passengers of the London Midlands Service to Birmingham International that we are delayed by approximately thirty-six minutes. We apologise for any inconvenience caused.'
The jarring irritation returned with renewed vehemence and Mycroft seriously considered forcing the doors open, jumping off the train and walking the rest of the way. But, calculating precisely how much legwork that would entail, Mycroft sighed, recrossed his legs with a wince and settled with eavesdropping on the conversation two women were having in the seats behind him. Audio deductions were a fraction more challenging than visual ones and would have to do as a replacement for his crossword.
The almost overwhelming combination of nostalgia and displacement rose up from Mycroft's stomach as the taxi turned through a pair of wrought iron gates and drove up the long winding driveway towards his former school just after eleven o'clock. He held no particular feeling for the place, either positive or negative, having constantly reminded himself throughout his time there that it was merely a stepping stone along the way to liberty. Mycroft had always known how to play the game to achieve maximum success and neither people nor sentiment was going to jeopardise that.
It hadn't been easy though – secondary school never was, even to the most average of students – and it wasn't difficult to understand his younger brother's trouble adapting to the place and its inhabitants. Initially, Mycroft recalled, Sherlock had been excited at the prospect of leaving their home and gaining some degree of independence – it been unanimously decided that Sherlock would board during the week, whereas his brother had chosen to remain at home - and Mycroft, who had left for university the previous year and fretted for the majority of it, had been relieved that Sherlock would finally have something new to entertain himself with, away from their father and in an environment which was sure to push him to be sociable. Mycroft had sincerely hoped that the school would be able to teach his brother the lessons that he could not.
No such luck.
The greater the wave of excitement grew as Sherlock approached the start of term, the harder the crash of disappointment that came with knowing he had been wrong - that there was, in fact, not an abundance of people of the same disposition, as he had hoped. His peers either thought him too peculiar to bother with at all or had tried, and failed, to forge some sort of friendship which ultimately ended either in Sherlock inadvertently insulting them beyond redemption or revealing a terrible personal secret to an inappropriate audience. Sherlock's teachers proved to be even less tolerant; after a week of constant argument and impertinent questions from the new Holmes boy, it was collectively decided amongst the academic faculty that it was probably best for their sanity and his physical safety to simply ignore him unless absolutely necessary. Suffice it to say, Sherlock – with his unquenchable thirst for attention- took this as a personal challenge and, rather than conforming in the way that everyone had hoped, proceeded to become even more relentlessly insufferable than before, relishing the frustration that it caused until it ended in a stern referral for therapy.
Mycroft's hand tightened around the Malacca handle of his umbrella, steeling himself in preparation for the hours to come. It was infuriatingly simple to see how this point had been reached in one followed the chain of events accurately. Why could no one else see it?
He did not announce himself – confidence was as effective as any disguise; Mycroft had learnt quickly upon beginning his life in London that as long as you gave the impression that you had every right to be somewhere, nobody would question you.
The secretary, in any case, was far too immersed in a mountain of unfiled paperwork to pay Mycroft any attention as he marched through the main doors, across the welcome foyer and down the hall, barely even slowing to input the code for the security doors which guarded the entrance to the borders' section of the school. Nothing had changed.
Being a Saturday, the majority of borders had either gone home for the weekend or were enjoying the opportunity for a lie in. The distinct pizzicato of Vivaldi's Spring ghosted through the second-to-last door on the left, sign posting the end of Mycroft's journey.
The room was small, square and perfectly symmetrical, containing two single beds, two uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs pushed under two cluttered desks and two adolescent boys on their respective sides; the mousey haired one on the right sat up and leaning against the head bored with a book in his lap; the one on the left lay horizontally, dark curly hair in disarray as he stared up at the ceiling and plucked away at his violin, long legs hanging off the side of the bed.
His presence completely ignored by his brother, Mycroft addressed the other boy who had already put his book down and was looking up expectantly, "Forgive my intrusion, Victor, would you be so kind as to leave us for a moment?"
With a nod, he hopped from the bed and scurried to the door, casting one last regretful look n his roommate's direction before making himself scarce.
"Good morning, Mycroft," Sherlock greeted his brother in a bored, drawl.
The welcome was no less than Mycroft had been expecting. "You don't seem particularly surprised to see me," he observed, leaning his umbrella against the wall and unbuttoning his coat.
Sherlock turned his head lazily to look at him. "That's probably because it's not particularly surprising."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed." Long fingers moved deftly from string to string. "Really, Mycroft, if you're going to have someone spy on me, at least choose someone half-capable of subtlety." A slight smirk flickered in the corners of his lips as he took in his brother's appearance, "Pinstripes? I see you're wearing your armour. It must be serious..."
Mycroft shifted under the intensity of Sherlock's penetrating stare. "I'm lead to believe so, even though the details have not yet been made clear to me."
"So all your spying and snooping hasn't really paid off, has it?" There was a definite lilt of smugness.
The elder Holmes sniffed and allowed his own deductive eye to sweep across his brother, determined not to let Sherlock get the better of him. It did not take long and, with a smirk mirroring Sherlock's own, he lowered himself into the small chair and fixed the boy with a triumphant gaze.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow as though to say, 'Well?'
"Don't you think marijuana is a little predictable?"
Rather than being annoyed at the discovery, Sherlock chuckled and paused in his pizzicato to push himself up into a sitting position. "Well done. What gave it away?"
"Your fingers. Tobacco stains beneath your nails. If it had been regular tobacco, you would simply have received a detention. Obvious so far, but why? What was your intention?" Mycroft's grey eyes narrowed as he pondered it further whilst Sherlock watched him with amusement. "You have shown no desire to smoke before, so it has not developed from that. It is quite clear that you are not addicted, that you only dabble occasionally and yet... it would not be an easy substance to acquire around here, you must have gone to considerable lengths to procure it so it is important to you. Not peer pressure – that has never been a concern, why should it be now? – Curiosity, then. An experiment. Because...Ah." Mycroft was actually marginally surprised by the conclusion he reached. "This is my fault."
Sherlock shifted his position, crossing his legs beneath him. Spring started up again, the tempo a little quicker than before. "Well," he said coolly, "you did tell me that I should try to find my own way to make it easier."
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Mycroft said tightly, "Whilst I am pleasantly surprised that you considered my advice worth taking, I had hoped you would choose something less... illicit."
The light blue of Sherlock's eyes darkened. "I suppose it doesn't reflect particularly well on you, does it, Mycroft? To have an underage junkie for a brother."
Mycroft sighed with impatience. "We have spoken about your tendency towards the superlative before, Sherlock."
Scowling, Sherlock changed key.
"Anyway, what time is this meeting scheduled for?"
His brother's response was sharp and petulant, "Why should you need to know?"
"There is very little point in having a trial without the defence," replied Mycroft stiffly. "You ought to have at least one person there to represent you."
"Represent me?" Sherlock repeated scathingly. "And how exactly do you intend to do that?"
"Considering how effectively I have been kept out of the loop," said Mycroft, fiddling with his ring absently, "I have absolutely no idea. More to the point, Sherlock, in the unlikely event that that I can, in some way, influence the outcome, it would be beneficial to know precisely what outcome I am looking to achieve."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Well, they intend to expel you, don't they? Considering the stringent rules regarding drugs and the fact that they have involved Father, it is obvious that that is their plan. However, I am sure that I could... bring them round, so to speak, but would that be the most beneficial conclusion I wonder?"
"Considering the alternative is to go home-"
"Obviously. But let us suppose for a moment that it isn't."
Sherlock searched his brother's expressionless face with a confusion only ever caused by Mycroft. Then, cautiously, "That is a very vague supposition."
"Is it?"
The maple-wood instrument was laid down and Sherlock leant forward, hands placed together palm to palm. "What do you mean?"
The intensity of his brother's expression forced Mycroft to hesitate in the explanation of his plan and take one step backwards. It would not do to get too ahead of himself. He forced a quick smile, "Nothing, of course. I was merely thinking aloud. Now," he sat up a little straighter, suddenly business like, "unless you are certain that you do not require my assistance, I really do need to know the time of this meeting, Sherlock."
Despite his obvious suspicion, the younger Holmes decided to answer his brother, "They told Father to come in at twelve."
Their grandfather's gold pocket watch was pulled out of the pocket of Mycroft's waistcoat and checked with the slightest crease of the brow. "Well," Mycroft rose, closing the watch with a snap and replacing it, "I'd best be off then. It would be better to get this over and done with before he arrives." He glanced casually over at Sherlock, "Want to come?"
"Not particularly. I know what they're going to say."
"Isn't it usual for the accused to be present on occasions such as this? I thought it would be obligatory for you to attend?"
A sparkle of mischief flashed across Sherlock's eyes. "For some reason, they don't want me there, although I can't imagine why..."
As the understanding passed silently from brother to brother, Mycroft's lips quirked with interest. This looked as though it was going to be considerably more interesting that he had originally thought.
The headmaster's office had not changed in the slightest in the last three years; the books lining the wall were still meticulously regimented in alphabetical order in mahogany cases; the drapes framing the large bay windows were still the same faded red-velvet; the portraits of head teachers past still glared disapprovingly down from their frames and the present headmaster still sat fortified behind the vast desk, and sheltered by stacks of paperwork and boxes of stationary. Mycroft noted with interest that he had aged much more than he should have during the course of three years – deep set lines crossed his face and permanent frown marks made him appear closer to late sixties than a man in his mid-fifties. But, then again, what else would be the result of spending thirty years dealing with obstinate boys who would rather be anywhere else? Mycroft fervently hoped that children would never have any significance in his life. A younger sibling was proving to be about as much as he could handle as it was.
Dr Thayer raised his head wearily at the sound of his door clicking shut, bushy grey eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he recognised the newcomer. "Mycroft Holmes! What a surprise," he said, standing. "I'm afraid I haven't been expecting you." The inflection implied the question.
"Good afternoon, Doctor," said Mycroft with a pleasant smile, crossing the Persian carpet and reaching across the desk to shake the hand offered to him. "I apologise for the unexpected nature of my call, I hadn't known that I was coming myself until yesterday evening."
The implication was not lost on Dr Thayer. He swallowed, lips twitching with evident unease. "And what is it that I can help you with?" an old hand was waved towards the empty seat opposite him, "Please, sit down, dear boy"
Refusing not to allow himself to be moved by the older man's affability, Mycroft stood a little a straighter, raising his chin. "I won't, thank you," he said stiffly. "I don't intend to be long. I merely stopped by to inform you that, should you and your staff choose to continue to persecute my brother in the disgraceful manner in which you have been doing, you will be shortly receiving a visit from Scotland Yard's drug squad. Most likely next Wednesday at about five o'clock. I believe you will be holding a parents evening at that time?"
Dr Thayer stared at him in astonishment, twisting the gold cufflinks of his shirtsleeves unconsciously. "I-I don't know what you are trying to insinuate, Mycroft," he spluttered with the discomfort of a guilty man, neatly confirming Mycroft's theory.
The young man smiled genially. "I am not insinuating anything, Sir. I simply thought it was fair that you were informed of the facts."
Anger flashed across Dr Thayer's face previously affable expression. "The fact, Holmes, is this; your brother, aside from being an intolerable know-it-all, who insists upon disobeying his teachers and refuses to conform to the laws of the school, has been caught – red-handed, no less – committing a criminal act!" He sat back in his seat and turned his attention back to whatever it was he had been doing before Mycroft's arrival, the temperature of the room considerably colder than it had been only minutes before. "There is nothing further to discuss. Good day."
"When you say 'criminal act'," said Mycroft conversationally, ignoring the dismissal, "are you referring to my brother's newly acquired recreational habits or to the fact that he accumulated the substance from you? Believe me, Headmaster, I'd advise very strongly against that particular line of argument."
Dr Thayer's already pallid complexion paled even further. He opened his mouth as though to reply, decided against it and shut it again, before responding with a forced calm, "I do not know what nonsense your brother has been feeding you, Holmes, but I assure you that it is just that – nonsense. I have never in my life partaken in-"
But Mycroft stopped him midsentence with the raise of a hand. "Please, Dr Thayer, let us not waste both our time following this line of conversation. It is far too predictable to be worth entertaining. Let us assume, for the moment, that we have spent an hour or so going around the circle you seem to keen on following and that we have ended up precisely where we are now. Now, let's move on constructively, shall we?"
Dr Thayer's mouth rounded into the question he had become so used to addressing the younger Holmes but the sardonic look being thrown at him made him change his mind. He sighed, defeated. "What do you want?"
"For you to admit that you have been waiting for this opportunity," Mycroft's tone had grown icy. "I know as well as anyone how...difficult my brother can be, particularly to those with inferior intellect, who can't stand the fact that a child is more intelligent than they. He has been making fools out of you, of course he has, highlighting the mediocrity of what is allegedly one of the best schools in the country. You have wanted rid of him since the moment he arrived but, so far, beyond the odd detention, there has been nothing you could do – jealousy is hardly grounds for exclusion, is it? You have resorted to inflicting therapy on him in an underhand attempt to make him believe he is abnormal, make him doubt himself in order to impose your own pathetic version of normality. Of course, our father approved of this course of action – he has always been intimidated by our brilliance, especially Sherlock, who has no sense of self-restraint and, like our mother, questions everything he knows to be ordinary – but that doesn't make it right, in fact it makes it decidedly wrong. You disgust me, you all disgust me – you can tell our father that when he arrives – and I will not leave my brother here to be subjected to this perverse practise you call education for one moment longer." Any gracious facade had gradually disappeared until only disgust remained. "What I want from you are signed documents releasing Sherlock from your custody and any evidence of his latest transgression destroyed, along with the fairy stories conjured by the therapist and anything labelling my brother as a psychopath. In short, erase your pathetic lies and I will not pursue this further. Failure to do so will result in unimaginable disgrace."
Dr Thayer sat back and surveyed his former student with a furrowed brow and the faintest air of regret, not as impressed by the threats as Mycroft had hoped he would be. "I always thought highly you, Mycroft," he said slowly, "you seemed to have a good attitude and both feet rooted in reality, which is why I have tolerated your imposition so far. Unfortunately, my patience has reached its end and I think it is best if you leave at once. I don't know what you think gives you the authority to come in here, casting unfounded aspersions and making absurd threats, and if you think I will fall for it, you are even more delusional than your brother."
Mycroft shrugged with a nonchalance he did not feel, "Take that risk," he winced inwardly as the words came out in Sherlock's most petulant voice.
Dr Thayer nostrils flared. "Thank you, I will. Ah, Mr Holmes!"
Still reeling somewhat from the sudden shift in control, the arrival of his father – in Mycroft's opinion – could not come at a less opportune moment. He turned stiffly and was met by an identical pair of grey eyes and identical set of impassive features hardened into an identical expression of dislike. Mycroft noticed with mild interest that he now stood nose to nose with the man in the brown tweed suit, when the last time they had stood together he had been a good few inches shorter. He had always been envious of the fact that Sherlock had inherited their mother's looks whilst he had been given their father's, but never more so than at that moment – it was like looking at a picture of himself in the future, and not an attractive one.
Mr Holmes looked his son up and down, lips set in a thin contemptuous line. "What are you doing here?"
Mycroft forced a sardonic smile. "I am representing our mother," he replied coolly, meeting the hostile gaze with equal loathing. The sight of the man made Mycroft's skin crawl and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; nothing and no-one could provoke such a physical revulsion in him and it was all he could do to keep himself still when all he wanted to do was grab Sherlock and run. Mycroft glanced towards Dr Thayer, "I believe I have made my position clear, Headmaster. If you would be so kind as to inform my father of the situation, I will collect my brother and we will not trouble you further."
Mycroft made to leave but he had barely taken one step towards the door when a hand had shot out and grabbed his arm, preventing any further movement. A wave of revulsion washed through the young man's body at the touch. He tried to wrench himself free but his father's fingers tightened even further.
"Mycroft," Mr Holmes warned, adopting the same quietly threatening tone Mycroft favoured with Sherlock.
"I did not come here to have a conversation with you," Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth, every muscle in his body rigid with tension. "I want nothing to do with you and I want Sherlock to have nothing to do with you."
His father's frosty eyes hardened even more. "Sherlock's wellbeing is no concern of yours," he informed Mycroft in a low, condescending voice. "Leave it to the adults, Mycroft."
"It is my concern when it comes to light that the so-called 'adults' are motivated primarily by their own self-interest rather than his." Mycroft allowed the volume of his voice to be raised slightly for the benefit of Dr Thayer.
"Your brother has been granted every opportunity," said Mr Holmes firmly. "It is for the good of all concerned that Sherlock is transferred to somewhere with the facilities to give him the proper treatment-"
"Excuse me?" Confusion was not a sensation Mycroft Holmes was accustomed to and the distinct feeling of missing a crucial detail was a most disconcerting one.
An infuriating smirk of triumph appeared on his father's face. "Is that not why you are here?" he was asked with unconvincing innocence. "I was under the impression you were completely aware of everything that was going on..."
"It is irrelevant," Mycroft snapped back, raising his chin with a coolness he certainly did not feel. "I have enough information to know that my intervention is necessary; that this is an unsuitable environment for my brother to be."
"I quite agree." This was not a reassuring thing to hear. Mycroft shifted uneasily as Mr Holmes continued in the same reasonable tone, "No, it is clear from Sherlock's wayward behaviour that this is not that best place for him to be. It is obvious that the boy would benefit from proper psychological help in surroundings befitting his condition. We have decided that Nightingale Hospital will be a suitable place for Sherlock to be transferred to."
Mycroft stared at him, horror causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. "Nightingale the mental health institution?" he whispered, praying that he was mistaken in his conclusion.
"The most prestigious in the South," said Dr Thayer, reaching into a drawer and rummaging about before pulling out a brochure. "It has been decided that Sherlock will undergo six months of intensive correctional therapy as a resident of the hospital and, after that, he will either return here or remain there. Depending on the success of the treatment, of course." He leaned across the desk and handed the pamphlet to Mycroft.
He couldn't even bear to look at it. "Why didn't you inform me of this earlier?" the young man demanded, throwing it down in disgust.
The headmaster shrugged. "Confidentiality."
"As I have previously said," added Mr Holmes smoothly. "It is no concern of yours."
Rational, reasonable thinking had never come so hard to Mycroft in his life; every instinct was roaring in his ears to just take Sherlock and run. It was only the vague knowledge that that would be counterproductive that was keeping him in one place and grasping for the logical. "They will take one look at him and send him back," he told them with complete conviction. "They will tell you that there is absolutely nothing wrong with him."
"Doctor Monaghan has been consulting with Sherlock's therapist and they have managed to, ah... pull a few strings in order to acquire a place for Sherlock. You remember Doctor Monaghan, don't you, Mycroft?"
The cold sickness sinking into the pit of his stomach at the sound of that name reminded Mycroft just how much he remembered Doctor Monaghan.
"Now," Mr Holmes concluded, "it is simply a matter of paperwork and logistical planning."
It felt as though the world was imploding around him. In order to deal with this efficiently, he needed time; exclusion was simple enough to counteract, but this... this was underhand and required tactics of an equally underhand nature.
"You always resort to this, don't you?" Mycroft hissed, almost quivering with absolute loathing for this man. "The moment you realise that you cannot control someone, this happens!" He gave a dry, mirthless laugh, "I'm surprised you haven't had me sectioned yet!"
"If I had known how much you were going to take after your mother, how similar to your brother you are, I would have," Mr Holmes hissed back, rigid with barely contained anger. "But then you always have been the better actor. My fault; I should've known that insanity runs in the blood."
"I know what you are and what you did," Mycroft responded evenly, sounding significantly calmer than he felt. "And I will die before I watch you do the same to my brother." From anyone else's lips, this would have sounded ridiculously melodramatic, but it was quite clear that he meant every word. Sherlock was the theatrical one.
His father flushed heavily and took one step closer to murmur, "I will not discuss this with you here."
"There is nothing to discuss," Mycroft snapped back, lip curling in disgust. "Sherlock is coming with me and that is the end of it." He gave Dr Thayer a quick, curt nod, "Good day," before pushing past his father and striding out the door, heart hammering uncomfortably beneath his shirt, weak with adrenaline.
He had barely made it twenty feet down the corridor before his father's voice called after him, "Your mother was ill, Mycroft. We did everything we could for her, you know that."
Mycroft froze. In six years, this was the first time he had mentioned her, the first time The Incident had been alluded to out loud. Even though he had thought about it every day since it had happened, the force of all the repressed emotions surfacing from actually hearing the words spoken made Mycroft reel with the same sickening dizziness that he had felt all those years ago, as though time had not passed.
This was the reason why he had never pursued the subject of his mother's death, why he had always discouraged Sherlock from talking about her openly, why he always tried to push the inescapable thoughts to the back of his mind... Why Mycroft was determined that Sherlock never learn the truth of The Incident.
He could hear his father's footsteps coming up behind him, feel the hand on his shoulder. "Mycroft-"
"I did not come here to have this conversation with you!" The words came out as a snarl and he jerked away from the hand.
"You need to understand-"
"Do not patronise me! I understand perfectly. I have always understood."
"No, you haven't," Mr Holmes persisted. "Even if you knew all the facts of the matter, you would still not understand because you have made up your mind not to. She was going to leave you-"
"She was going to leave you!" A shooting pain through his heart made Mycroft wince. He turned abruptly to look his father in the eye. "She was going to leave you," he repeated with a strained calmness, "and you stopped her. You and Monaghan lied, told everyone that she was ill with Spanish Flu. Not the most inspired cover up, but nobody was going to question a grieving widower or an acclaimed doctor."
Mr Holmes searched his son's face, then, softly, "I didn't kill her."
"It's your fault she died."
"I never meant... it wasn't supposed-"
"It is irrelevant."
"I did it for you. For you and your brother."
"No." Mycroft held up a shaking finger. "You will not put this on us. It was your fault, through your failings that our mother is dead and I swear to you that should you ever attempt to interfere with me or Sherlock, every newspaper in the country and every contact you have ever made will know you for what you are."
Mr Holmes listened impassively, unmoved Mycroft's threats. "I wonder," he said serenely, "were your mother still alive, would you be so keen to defend her? Would she still be the deity you and your brother have made her into? She only ever cared for herself, Mycroft. She gave no thought to you or to Sherlock when she made the decision-"
He was cut off mid-sentence by a forearm to the chest and a hand to the throat as he was slammed up against the wall, too startled by the sudden attack to put up any sort of defence.
"And if you ever speak of my mother in such a way again," Mycroft snarled, nose barely an inch shy of his father's, "be assured that I will kill you myself. Do I make myself clear?"
Dazed, Mr Holmes opened his mouth to reply but the hand curled around his neck made any attempt at speech impossible. He gave a quick, desperate nod as the fingers tightened at the lack of response.
With a curl of the lip Mycroft released his father roughly, as though it repulsed him to have any physical contact at all.
Mr Holmes staggered slightly, struggling to regain his breath, glaring up at his attacker with equal loathing as the young man turned his back and walked languidly away. "It's a dangerous game, the one you're playing, Mycroft."
Mycroft decided it was not worth dignifying that with a response.
Sherlock sat up as soon as the door to his dormitory was opened, blue eyes fixed expectantly on his brother, significantly more receptive than he had been an hour ago. "Well?"
Mycroft barely glanced at him, critical gaze sweeping across Sherlock's section with a slight frown. Then, quietly, "Pack up your things, Sherlock, I'm taking you home."
"What?" Sherlock slid off the bed, confusion flickering across his features. "Why? I thought you were going to sort everything out? What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Mycroft bit back, sharper than he had intended. He averted his eyes quickly, turning his attention to the books stacked on his brother's desk; the crease between Sherlock's eyes had already deepened with suspicion and he was in no mood for conversation. "Do as I ask please."
"My-"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock immediately froze at his brother's tone – Mycroft's secret weapon and only to be deployed in emergencies. It was the signal for Sherlock to stop and remember their hierarchy; that Mycroft was older and wiser than he would ever be and that it was in his best interest to bear that in mind. It was the agreement between the brothers that Mycroft would only use it when absolutely necessary and in return Sherlock would always obey when he did.
It was a tone that many had tried and failed to imitate.
As Sherlock bustled around throwing the few possessions he kept at school into two small suitcases, Mycroft took a moment to regain his composure; the tension that had been gradually tightening its hold on him was now starting to ease and the fog of emotion that had been clouding rationality and reason was clearing. He shrugged on his overcoat and hooked his umbrella over his arm with a sigh that could almost be mistaken for relief as he began to feel himself once more.
Sherlock watched his brother out of the corner of his eye as he worked, careful not to let Mycroft notice. If he had been in his normal state of mind he would have noticed in an instant. Only their father could trigger such a reaction from the older Holmes brother, it was obvious that their paths had crossed, but there was definitely something more... Sherlock could not recall a time when he had seen Mycroft as upset as he seemed now. There was nothing to compare it to, no clue to unearth, and there was no point asking questions now...
Snapping the clasps of his violin case shut, Sherlock stood and looked over at his brother with a tentativeness he rarely felt the need to exercise, "You okay?"
Grey eyes narrowed at once. "Yes, of course."
The quirk of an eyebrow.
The slight inclination of the head.
Sherlock smiled to himself and bent to pick up a suitcase, handing it to Mycroft before loading himself with the second case and his violin. "Good. Let's go."