(10 years earlier cont.d)
Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was shock, but as Mycroft re-entered the Holmes residence, he shook. He tried to stop the involuntary movements in his hands and arms, but the more he concentrated on stilling his limbs, the more he shook.
Mummy was sitting in the drawing room and, as Mycroft passed the doorway, she looked at her watch and took another drink.
"Where've you been?" she muttered, voice slurring with the effects of too much alcohol, "Your brother was looking for you."
"Sorry, Mummy." Mycroft turned back to the drawing room and entered, sitting on the chair opposite to his mother and wrung his hands together, concentrating on calming himself.
"That nice policeman called around again." Mummy continued, standing and crossing to the drinks cabinet to pour Scotch into two crystal tumblers. "Strada or something." she continued. She passed one to Mycroft and took her seat again. Mycroft nodded his thanks and took a long drink, feeling the burn as the golden liquid slipped down his throat, instantly calming him.
"Lestrade." he corrected, swilling the amber around in the glass. He looked up at his mother and studied her reaction. "What did he want?"
Mummy shrugged. "He asked me questions about your father. His history. What he was like..." she paused to take another drink, and Mycroft dropped his eyes to his lap, giving her a moment to continue "Asked about what he was like when you boys were growing up. About his drinking. About your relationship with your brother."
Mycroft's eyes shot back up at the comment. "With Sherlock?" he asked, hoping his nerves wouldn't fail him again. Mummy shrugged a second time.
"Yeah, you know. Did you get along with each other as kids. The age gap and all that."
Mycroft nodded. Of course. Just normal family history stuff. They'd find out about the abuse, of course. But nothing more, Mycroft reassured himself.
"Where is my brother now?" he asked, using some considerable effort to keep his voice stable.
"Guest room." Mummy stood and refilled her glass again, offering the bottle to Mycroft who shook his head. She had clearly drunk a lot during the evening and had no intention of stopping any time soon. Mycroft left her to it and went upstairs to find Sherlock. They had much to discuss.
Mycroft stopped just outside the door of Sherlock's guest room, pausing a moment before deciding to go inside.
"I know you're out there, Mycroft." the baritone rumbled. Mycroft shook his head and pushed open the heavy bedroom door.
"Where did you go?" Sherlock asked, sitting himself up on the bed. He looked a mess. His dark curls were even more unruly than usual and his face was pale and tired with dark circles under his eyes.
Mycroft lowered himself down to sit alongside his brother, placing his hand in the long pale fingers.
"I had a message from Jerry." The elder Holmes' voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. It was difficult to talk about, but it needed discussing. There were serious issues at stake.
"Sherlock, Jerry isn't who we think he is."
Sherlock pulled his hand from his brother's and turned to face him, propping one knee up on the bed to get a better position. He lifted a hand and, placing it on his brother's cheek, he guided Mycroft around to face him. Their faces just inches apart, Sherlock could see a thousand emotions ripping through his brother.
"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked. It was clear that something was very wrong.
"Jerry..." Mycroft stalled, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that was trying to choke him, "Jerry is James Moriarty's son. His name is Jim."
Sherlock dropped his hand, jumped off the bed and started pacing. From bed to wardrobe; wardrobe to dresser; dresser to doorway. He pushed the door closed and stood at the end of the bed, visibly breathing heavy and panicked.
He managed to choke out only one word between stuttering breaths. "Why?"
Mycroft looked at his panicked brother and extended a hand to beckon him back down to the bed. Sherlock returned to his brother's side and sat staring at his fingers, watching them wiggle them as if they were moving of their own accord.
"Revenge, I suppose. For his own father. He blames ours for his death. He said that our..." he took hold of Sherlock's fidgeting hands, stilling them, "... our relationship wasn't part of the plan, but he was just waiting for an opportunity to be able to use my increasingly..." he paused, eyeing his brother as he chose his next words carefully, "... powerful position for his own benefit."
Sherlock sighed. He could see where this was going. "And we have now given him the perfect ammunition. Leverage over us. The ability to blackmail you for as long as it suits him?" he filled in for his brother, lifting Mycroft's hand to his cheek and leaning into the touch.
Mycroft nodded. "We have, Sherlock. He has told me that unless I ensure that he avoids detection or arrest at all times, he will go to the police and tell them everything."
Sherlock turned again to his brother, his eyes full of pity. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I really am. I know what Jerry... what your relationship meant to you. I cannot imagine..." he was cut off as Mycroft lifted a hand to stop him, closing his eyes tightly as he fought to stave off the sobs that were threatening to spill forwards at any moment.
"Sherlock," he finally said, putting his hand back in his lap and fiddling with his own fingers nervously. "There's something else Jim Moriarty wants too."