CHAPTER 2 – ROPE BRIDGE.
The sound of running water in the upstairs bathroom has stopped. I glance at my pocket watch. Forty-one minutes in the shower. Soap won't rid you of your demons, Sherlock… But I am counting on you to track down those who are roaming slyly in the bowels of the city. Right under our feet. I already know who has taken the reins of the operation, when and where he is going to strike and I have come up with theories as to how he is going to proceed. I could share them with you and save you precious time for your legwork, but I prefer to leave you to your own deductions. I know you well, Sherlock. I know what you have been through in the last two years. I know what would probably happen if you didn't keep your mind busy enough.
I asked Anthea to cancel my morning meetings not because I thought you couldn't deal with the side-effects of alcohol on your own but because I fear that last night's little misfortune was only a bitter foretaste of your distress. I don't want to find you lying in some dark and sordid alley. I don't want to rummage through your pockets and find a list of words scrawled in shaky handwriting on the back of a receipt. I don't want my heart to sink a little further in my chest with each single word. I don't want to be blinded by the revolving lights of an ambulance. I don't want to spend entire nights holding your hand and wondering if I'll ever see that strange colour of your eyes again. I don't want to lose you, Sherlock.
I scan the Daily Telegraph's article on the new anti-terrorism bill in the hope of chasing away those memories which have never ceased to haunt me, but I have an irrepressible need to see you, to talk to you, to make sure you are still there. Fully alive…
Your bedroom door is open. An old habit. As a child, you never closed your door unless Mummy summoned you to. Maybe it gave you the impression to keep a link with the outside world. You have always been much less solitary than you pretend to be. Why would I have incited you to find a flatmate four years ago? The financial aspects were just a poor excuse. I didn't know at that time that it would definitely turn your life upside down…
Standing in the door frame, I watch you with your back at me, tousling your wet curls with a towel. You are wearing nothing but a pair of trousers which your belt struggles to hold steady.
If I hadn't been able to ignore your face emaciated by too many months spent pursuing Moriarty's shadows throughout hostile lands, it had been much easier so far to turn a blind eye to the more subtle marks left by your exile.
"How long you gonna stand there and stare?" You ask without turning around. "Don't you have better things to do? Portugal's prime minister must be terribly disappointed to be deprived of your company."
Under other circumstances, I would be sure to lecture you and to remind you, like I have done so many times in the past, that even when your name is Sherlock Holmes and when you take perverse pleasure to break the rules, you must show your older brother a minimum of respect. But I am not in the mood to preach at you. I don't even try to find out what gave my schedule away. My mind is somewhere else. I can't take my eyes off your back.
Haematomas. Deep cuts. Cigarette burns. Infected wounds.
"There was no need to cancel your morning appointments to play the nanny, Mycroft. I'm not a child anymore," you add in an offended tone, putting on a shirt.
A shirt. That is all you have needed to create illusion. A simple shirt. Just like the magician makes the white dove disappear behind a silk scarf, you have concealed your pain behind a simple piece of fabric. But the magician's scarf is nothing but a decoy. It is only there to distract our attention and to hide the truth. It is much easier to believe the dove magically disappeared rather than to try and understand what happened behind the scarf. I shamefully pretended to forget what was hidden behind that piece of cotton fabric.
"What's wrong? Why don't you just say something?" You ask nervously as I close the distance between us without a word. "Mycroft!"
You turn around and find yourself face to face with me. I narrow my eyes as I realise your torso has unfortunately no reason to be jealous of your back. Not a single bit of your skin seems to have been spared. With the tips of my fingers, I brush your wounds slowly. As if to become permeated with your pain. You don't flinch but you are breathing faster and I can hear every punch of your torturer resonate in my head. Oh, Sherlock. How can you stand when your entire body is nothing more than a wasteland? I had, however, promised myself that I would protect you.
"I will ask Professor McLaughlin to examine you on a regular basis," I say, putting an unconcerned tone in my voice.
The reputation of this doctor is well-established. He is regarded as the best practitioner of England and far beyond.
"Useless. I already have my own doctor," you retort.
"A doctor with rather unorthodox methods," I point out, a mocking smile on my lips.
You instinctively touch your bruised nose and glare at me.
"Sherlock, we both know that even if that dear doctor was more inclined to talk rather than to punch you, you still wouldn't have a word with him about that. You wouldn't want him to know he is not the only one who suffered during the last two years. And I'm not only talking about your little scratches."
You grit your teeth. It is barely perceptible but I know you by heart and I know I am right. You have always preferred aversion to compassion.
"Does guilt taste good, brother mine?"
I knew you would try to change the subject.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," I lie, busying myself buttoning your shirt to avoid your eyes.
You smirk.
"On the contrary. You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. I wouldn't be in such a bad shape if you had intervened sooner, Mycroft."
My jaw tightens and my hands linger on the penultimate button of your shirt.
"And you know perfectly well why I didn't."
"Oh yes I know. I told you, you enjoyed watching me being tortured. You've always had a touch of sadism inside you."
I roll my eyes. If only you knew how much it devastated me. Torturing you is torturing me too, Sherlock. My wounds are not visible but they are real, believe me.
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. I had no choice."
"Hmm… It's a matter of perspective… So pray tell me, brother dear, which aroused you the most? Strangulation? Flagellation?"
"Sherlock!"
You seem as disconcerted as I am by the wrathful tone of my voice. By my hands clenched in shaky fists. I don't normally let my emotions show. I meet your eyes and the arrogant smile you were sporting vanishes just as your eyes avoid me. I am getting ready for another of your childish comments but you seem to have lost your confidence and the silence becomes oppressive.
"I wouldn't have made it out alive without you, Mycroft," you finally say, planting a gentle kiss on my cheek. "Thank you."
It takes my brain a couple of seconds to register and analyse the words which have just escaped your mouth. It takes me a couple more to search your face in vain for any sign of irony, and a couple more again to manage to articulate an answer.
"I… You know very well that Mummy would never have forgiven me if I hadn't brought you back in one piece," I mumble.
Oh, this is not a lie, but in the same way as the terrorist threat that lingers on in London, it is definitely not the main reason I took the first plane to Serbia as soon as I learnt from a reliable source that you were held captive.
"Obviously," you reply, struggling to suppress the amused smile taking over your lips.
You know. You know that your words have shaken me. You know that they have been like a typhoon in my heart. You have always been my first priority and if there is nothing I would not do for you, you have never shown me any sign of gratitude. I was used to this. I didn't expect anything else from you. You know, and I appreciate that you don't make any comment.
"Where are you going?" I ask, watching you throwing haphazardly a dozen of shirts into a large suitcase lying wide-open on the bed.
You shoot a mocking glance at me over your shoulder. "Silly question."
Of course it is a silly question. Of course I already know the answer. I'm only trying to gain composure, Sherlock.
"You haven't forgotten that John didn't live there anymore, have you?"
"So what? You'll pay the full rent to Mrs Hudson. Don't tell me John's meagre participation made any difference to you. Don't worry Mycroft, that won't deprive you of your daily supply of pastries from Maison Bertaux." (*)
"You can stay here. If you want," I venture, ignoring your mockery.
You turn around and for a short instant, look genuinely surprised by my offer.
"Why would I stay?" You ask, as if it was an inane proposition, the last idea that could have occurred to you.
I furrow my brow and offer you a cynical smile, trying to conceal my disappointment.
"Yes. Indeed. Why?" What did I expect? No matter how hard I try, I'll never bridge the gap I deliberately dug years ago. Only that fragile rope bridge built between us still leads me to the doors of your mind, but I know the wooden boards eroded by years of disagreement can break under my weight at any moment. "A cab will be there by two o'clock", I say, leaving the room.
"Mycroft!"
I turn back. You stare at me and I raise an inquisitive eyebrow to encourage you to speak.
"No need to worry yourself sick. I won't take anything."
You know me better than I thought. I'd like to be fully convinced by your promise, but I just can't dispel my fears so I simply nod.
"Don't forget to drink a lot of water to rehydrate. Brandy disagrees with you. You look terrible."
A grin lights up your weary face.
"Not as much as you do."
I smile back at you.
"Have a nice day, Sherlock."
(*) Maison Bertaux is a renowed patisserie in Greek street, London.
Thanks for reading!
Published on January 12. 2016