(10 years earlier cont.d)
It was a long, late night. It was well into Boxing Day morning, in fact, by the time the police had cleared from the Holmes residence. Statements had been given, tears had been shed - Mummy's mostly - and the Holmes brothers were both sitting in the drawing room as the last police officer left them at 11am.
Mycroft turned his phone over in his hand, debating whether it was too soon to call Jerry. Maybe it would seem odd if he didn't call his husband. He scrolled down his contacts and asked Jerry to come over. Placing his phone back down on the table, he crossed the room and sat next to Sherlock. The younger man was still trembling, and he settled in to Mycroft's embrace with a long yawn. Mycroft was about to suggest that the brothers went up to bed for a few hours (Mummy had been taken to her room by a policewoman several hours ago), until he remembered that their bedroom was a no-go area. He slid an arm around Sherlock's waist and wordlessly ushered him to the guest room, covering his almost-sleeping form with a blanket before heading back downstairs to wait for Jerry.
Mycroft re-entered the drawing room and poured himself a large measure of Scotch. He took a long drink of the amber liquid, sighing as the burn spread through him. His emotions were all over the place, and he tried to organise his thoughts before his husband arrived.
Their father was dead. Their abusive father. The man who beat them regularly. This was good, Mycroft told himself. Good as long as the police didn't see the need to press on with an investigation. Mummy had been able to give a brief statement and the police seemed satisfied, but they really wouldn't be able to stand up to an intense investigation. An investigation into how the man had died. At the hands of his brother. His beautiful, lost brother.
Mycroft swallowed another mouthful of Scotch around the lump forming in his throat. His poor Sherlock. Could he ever come back from this? Mycroft hoped and prayed that he could. He would need to be there for his brother.
He jumped at the small taps on the drawing room door.
"Myc." Jerry whispered, pulling the elder Holmes into his arms and letting the man break down within them. "My poor darling Myc."
Mycroft let the tears fall as Jerry held him.
Mycroft awake at 4pm in the second guest room, his body cradled in his husband's strong arms. The afternoon sun was casting shadows on the wall, making dark shadow-trees dance across the floral paper. He awoke feeling drained and with a twist in his stomach, and it took a moment for the previous evening's events to come back to him. As he groaned at the memory, Jerry stirred, pulling him closer.
"Hey there." the Irishman rumbled, placing a soft kiss on Mycroft's cheek. "Did you get some sleep?"
Mycroft nodded, pressing his lips to his husband's. "I need to check on Sherlock." he murmured. Jerry nodded, loosening his arms and pushing himself into a sitting position. "You should."
Mycroft pulled on his trousers and t shirt and headed along the hall to the guest room where he had laid his brother down earlier that day. Finding the room empty, he slowly made his way downstairs. As he walked past the living room, a shape caught his eye. Sherlock was lying stretched out on a sofa, eyes lightly closed, head resting on the arm and fingers steepled under his chin. Mycroft was about to continue in to the kitchen when the shape spoke a single word.
"Mycroft."
Mycroft stopped. How his brother managed to fit so much into those 7 small letters, he never knew. It was like they shared an understanding; a connection; an in-depth knowledge of each other that needed no words. Mycroft nodded and turned back around, entering the living room and sitting alongside Sherlock's feet.
"Sherlock." he responded. He knew his brother needed reassurance, and he hoped he was able to give it.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at Mycroft. "We will be OK, won't we?" he asked, threading his long fingers between his brother's. Mycroft looked at their joined hands before raising his eyes to meet his brother's.
"I think so, Sherlock." he responded, letting their hands rest on Sherlock's leg and allowing his fingers to caress the soft skin beneath the folds of dressing gown. "I think so."
As Mycroft sat with his brother in the living room, Jerry quietly crept downstairs. He followed his senses, hearing the brothers' muted voices, and stood by the door for a while, listening.
He thought back over the past ten years. How he had met Mycroft and helped him cope with the traumas of childhood. He had given ten years of his life to this man, including a civil partnership and now covering up a murder. Ten years, he thought, his mind running through all the experiences they'd shared; all they had; all he knew.
The brothers' conversation fell quiet, and they slipped into a well-practised comfortable silence. Jerry nodded his head. He'd waited. He'd waited a long time. He had waited long enough.
It was time.