Disclaimer: Not mine!
Author's Note: You lovely creatures, thank you for your lovely comments and reactions...Continue to trust me alright?
This POV is another one I was afraid of, as terrified as I was of Sherlock, so let me know how i did!
Also- Stuart Shorter makes an appearance. I reread Stuart A Life Backwards for the billionth time and finished while I was writing this.
Enjoy!
Mycroft Holmes sat in his office in the bunker, his snifter of brandy long forgotten as the man found himself lost in thought, staring at the two empty chairs in front of his desk.
The memory was near the surface and it floated to him with an ease he found uncomfortable. But his memories conjured up his parents as they'd sat in his office, with Sherlock standing quietly at the other end of the office, listening to their parents confronted with the idea that their daughter was still alive. That they'd been lied to.
Sherlock's voice floated to his mind now, "he did his best."
His little brother had then proceeded to do the impossible, drawing Eurus out of her shell, getting her to communicate through the violin. The pride on his parents' face when the pair had played for them deep in the bowels of Sherrinford would forever live in his mind. He was proud so proud of his little brother, of the strength Sherlock was capable of displaying.
In his quietest and most honest moments, Mycroft could admit that even though he was intellectually superior to Sherlock, Sherlock was the strongest of the three Holmes kids. And he always would be because anyone could become an intellectual, could apply themselves and even surpass the Holmes' children in intelligence if they really wanted to. But learning to love and feel, to reciprocate emotions, was not something that could be taught or emulated.
Mycroft was sure that if Sherlock had been like him, a void in his chest cavity where his heart should've been, they would not have walked out of Sherrinford alive that night. Had it not been for sentiment, Sherlock would have killed Mycroft at their sister's behest. But his little brother was too emotionally attached, too tuned into the realm Mycroft dismissed, to pull the trigger.
"Holmes kill Holmes."
In those same quiet, hidden moments, Mycroft acknowledged that his brother was the most important thing in his life. Whatever part of him that allowed love and affection placed Sherlock in a category of importance above everyone and everything else. He of course weighed that importance against the interests of the government he served whenever it was necessary to do so, and found Sherlock wanting.
He'd always believed that his soft spot for Sherlock was born of a sense of responsibility, his failure as an older brother to protect Sherlock from the horrors of childhood trauma. He'd been outmatched by Eurus, but Mycroft should've been able to protect Sherlock, to help Sherlock preserve his identity, his emotions. That failure had led his little brother to seek succor in every crack den in London, and with every list that Mycroft added to his collection, the more his failure haunted him.
Then John Watson had come along and drawn his brother out of his shell. Every now and then, Mycroft saw flashes of his brother as the boy he'd been, peaking through the cracks. Until he'd finally allowed Molly Hooper to shatter whatever was left of his façade.
And Mycroft, until very recently, had believed that Sherlock had come to terms with his humanness, that the trauma Molly Hooper had suffered served as an anchor for that humanness, that desire to be with her, to be around her. After that agonizing phone call, after seeing her butchered, Mycroft would've thought Sherlock would never be able to leave Molly's side.
But his little brother was always capable of surprising him.
He glanced at his phone again, rereading the words of John Watson's texts:
SH is missing. Seen last MH's.
That had been five days ago.
No one had seen or heard from Sherlock since he'd left her apartment, early the day after she'd come home from hospital. According to Molly, he'd shown up after everyone had left, spent the night, helped change her bandage, and bolted. In her steely way, she'd refused to tell anyone what they'd been talking about when he'd taken off.
The tragedy had been that everyone knew what he was doing. Lestrade, John, and himself had gathered in Molly's flat to figure out where he was, listing all his bolt holes. Mycroft had glanced around the room, filled with the exceptional people that cared about Sherlock, and known from their frowns and downcast expressions that they all knew what he was doing. Just not where.
"Why not just leave him be this time?" John Watson had asked angrily, "we find him, we bring him back, clean him up and then he'll be back at it again. What's the use?"
"He'll overdose," Molly had said in a small voice from her perch on the bar stool at the kitchen counter, sitting unnaturally straight. The kindness that had always graced her face replaced with stone. In that moment, Sherlock had turned to rock the only two people capable of loving because of his flaws, not just despite them.
"He's also a security risk," Mycroft had added, "as I've said before, a high Sherlock is dangerous on the loose. We must find him, for national security's sake if not his."
Molly hadn't said anything, not agreeing to help or look for him. She'd sat there, indifferent.
Sherlock had succeeded, as he always did. Except his success was his biggest failure yet. He'd lost the love and respect of a good woman. A woman that most men would chop off essential body parts to be around.
When Mycroft's phone had rung scarcely an hour ago, he'd answered it expecting one of his feelers to be telling him that Sherlock was dead. Overdosed at some doss house.
But it hadn't. The phone call had been from Anathema, telling him they'd found Sherlock, and were en route. He'd informed John Watson immediately, who'd agreed to be driven to the bunker.
He walked in now, his mouth set in a grim line, looking around the office, "where is he then?"
"In transit," Mycroft sat up straighter, adopting the façade of the benevolent government official and tossing aside the visor of the terrified brother who'd been imagining his little brother's funeral moments ago. "He was found in the company of a gentleman named Stuart Clive Shorter, also known as Psycho, aka the Lunatic on Level D aka the Crazy Fucker. All his nicknames include the general presupposition that he is mentally unstable, with a criminal record so checkered and extensive that he requires his own drawer in the county prosecutor's filing cabinet. He is categorized as a 'chaotic'."
John was rubbing his eyes as he dropped into the chair once occupied by Mycroft's outraged father. "Jesus," Watson muttered, "he really knows how to find them. And how did you find him?"
"I recruited members of his homeless network to look for Shezza," Mycroft told him, "and they located him within ten hours."
"I feel like a parent," John Watson laughed on an explosion of breath, "trying to figure out what in hell to do with my problem teenager."
Mycroft didn't get a chance to response as Sherlock slammed the door to the office open with such force that it banged against the wall, bouncing and leaving an impression of the door handle into the wall. "What is so terribly important you had to pull me away from my research?" he yelled, dropping into the empty chair. He was wearing dirty sweatpants, his hood hiding his dirty hair, his beard matted and unkempt, his eyes wild. He looked like someone who was best friends with a man nicknamed Psycho. "Oh, hello John, what are you doing here?" he looked back at Mycroft with those unhinged eyes, "I know for a fact that Interpol picked up Leonardo and he's awaiting extradition back to the Netherlands for trial but the attorneys are struggling over who has jurisdiction. The country he started in, the aforementioned Netherlands, with a body count of five, including his own sister. The US, where he perfected his technique as the Chesapeake Ripper while acting as an FBI informant, body count six. Italy 3, 2 here. I volunteered to be judge, jury, and executioner but you, brother mine, said no. So unless this has to do with another matter worth my time, I'd like to return to Stuart. He has the most fascinating stories and perspective on life and the government. You should really hire him as a PA or something, oh," he paused for a breath, reaching into his pocket, "here," he put a folded piece of paper on the desk. He turned his attention to John, "where's Rosie?"
"With Mrs. Hudson," John answered as Mycroft took the paper, "we've been staying at Baker street, in case you turned up."
Mycroft read the list and practically threw it back at Sherlock, as if it was a poisoned piece of paper, a viper ready to strike, "Oh Sherlock," he rubbed his forehead, unable to meet his brother's erratic gaze.
Watson picked up the paper, his expression melting from anger to a kind of despair that could be contained or put into human terms. "How are you not dead?"
"Almost did," he answered rather cheerfully, "that's how I met Stuart."
"We need to get you to a hospital," John carefully folded the piece of paper, frowning at it, "but what's the use? Something else will happen. You'll act like a total git, and we'll all be back here again. There's no use is there. No bloody use in trying. I thought you'd finally let Molly in. That you finally understood what I'd been trying to tell you but you don't want to it's not that you don't, it's that you don't want to feel. It's too easy to carry on like a robot."
John's quiet tone had gotten Sherlock's attention and held it. Mycroft watched his brother quietly, with a hopelessness that he'd never felt before. Not even when he'd walked through crack dens to find him, or infiltrated terrorist cells for him, or watching him murder Magnussen.
"You're my best friend, and I'll always be there for you," John continued in that same quiet resolve, "you're a git but you're the same git that helped Mary and I stay together. That threw himself into a bon fire to help me. Spent 2 years tracking down terrorists to keep them from harming your loved ones. You're a flawed man, but you're an incredibly good man. I love you, Sherlock, and I'll always love you. But I'm done fighting for you when you won't even lift a finger."
Sherlock frowned, "that's…exactly what Molly said."
John nodded, lifting himself out of the chair, "I know. She told me," he walked to the door with the shadow of a limp in his gait, "I saw you waiting outside her flat that night by the way, when she got home," he walked out, closing the door behind him with a resolute click. It would've been so much better if he'd slammed it behind him.
"She's all right," Mycroft said after a few moments, correctly guess Sherlock's next question. "She's started seeing a therapist that I've thoroughly checked out. Her mother visits every day to help cook and clean but Molly insists on sleeping alone. Mrs. Hudson checks on her on a daily basis, and she even bought Molly a cat named Lucifer. She also had a check-up with her doctor. The sutures are healing nicely as are her ribs. She is going to start physical therapy next month to increase her mobility but she has already started doing light Pilates. She is a strong, strong person Sherlock. Astounding."
Sherlock was looking down at his feet, "you sound as if you are genuinely fond of her."
"I am comfortable in telling you frankly that I am," Mycroft intertwined his fingers together in front of him, "mum's even visited her for tea, twice now."
"Since when do you agree on anything with mother?" Sherlock asked.
"She's got a wonderful sense for people," Mycroft pointed out, "I've always trusted that about her."
Sherlock chuckled then, an unexpected, mirthless sound that conveyed no joy no amusement, "if my actions these past few months have led you to believe that a deficiency exists with Molly Hooper and not me, you have absolutely no sense in people, brother mine."
"I have reached this point in this road by concluding that even my little brother has faults. And whatever blinders I've bound myself with when it comes to you have been more detrimental to you than I ever wished to acknowledge. Perhaps I coddled you too much, insulated you so well that now, you are throwing away a chance at happiness without even knowing why you're doing it."
Sherlock tried to scoff at his brother's words but all he ended up doing was expelling breath through his nostrils, "what happiness are you ranting about? Stop being a martyr."
"Molly Hooper. For you, Molly Hooper is nothing but happiness contained in an awkward, mousey, unassuming pathologist with the heart of a lioness," Mycroft told him, "and I'm done being a martyr for you, brother mine. I've spent so many years making excuses for you, for everything you've ever done. I've convinced myself countless times that everything you do, all the hurt you create for yourself, is my failing. Maybe if I'd told you the truth about Redbeard, about our sister, maybe…" Mycroft interrupted himself with a shrug, "but everything is out in the open now. Your memories have resurfaced, and you've walked away from Molly Hooper."
Sherlock sat in silence then, looking at his shoes as if the dirty white sneakers were somehow the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. He was still sitting upright but somehow, he was retreating into himself, compartmentalizing himself physically.
He swallowed, clearing his throat before he broke the silence, "it's…it's too easy," Sherlock cleared his throat again, "I've taken enough drugs to finally voice it out loud…it's too damn easy to fall into her arms, into her love. She has such tremendous control over me, and I don't know what to do about it. It's terrifying to think that my life is not my own, my heart, my emotions don't belong to me anymore."
"Brother mine," Mycroft leaned forward, "why do you think that 'love' is bad? That feelings are a thing to be avoided? Sherlock," he sighed now, rubbing his eyes, fighting off an exhaustion unlike anything he'd ever felt before, "Eurus and I…don't have use for it not because we're better than you, but because we're not strong enough to deal with them. Whatever romantic ideas have been attached to the chemical reaction we've termed love, it is essential. Invaluable. This concept of love is a weakness you should be proud of little brother, the only weakness to take pride in."
Not long after that, Sherlock was put in a car and driven back to Baker street, where he sat in the darkness for hours, turning his brother's words over and over in his mind, Rosie's teddy bear clutched in his hands.
