The Holmes brothers sat in an uncomfortable silence in the quiet surroundings of Mycroft's room at the Diogene's Club. Usually, they could spent hours just sitting in a companionable silence. No words needed. An implicit and unspoken understanding between them.
Not today though. Not in the early morning light in that office on that day. There was tension. And lots of it.
Sherlock looked again at the clock. 7am.
"What time did you say Counter Terrorism were due?" he asked his brother, knowing full well the answer but feeling, unusually, the need to put something in the deathly silence between them. Like dropping a stone into a lake that seems eerily calm. Anything to make ripple; to bring life.
"Eight." Mycroft replied. A single innocuous word that held a world of weight in the void of that room. Sherlock glanced at the clock again. Why? He had no idea. It was mere seconds since he had last looked, but the room felt as though time might have both stood still and sped up with inordinate speed, and suddenly, Sherlock had no idea what time it was again.
He closed his eyes and let out a long, controlled breath. Mycroft, as if it were contagious, did the same.
The two men both jumped as the phone rang. Mycroft raised a shaking hand to lift the receiver, almost dropping it first time as he fumbled with it in his grip.
"Mycroft Holmes." he barked, a little harsher than he intended but still more calmly than he felt.
A voice at the other end of the line cleared its throat. Female. Anthea.
"Sir," it began, nerves evident in the tone even of those three, short letters, "Sir, it's Anthea. I just thought you should know that..." a pause, Anthea swallowed hard, unsure how this news was going to be received by her boss...
"Jim Moriarty has been released." Mycroft finished for his anxious assistant. His gaze wondered across to his brother, who was sitting watching Mycroft's every move and expression. Sherlock nodded. They knew. They expected it.
"Right. Yes... Sir." Anthea confirmed. Her voice regaining confidence as it became apparent that her boss was able to deal with the revelation. "Is there anything you would like me to do?"
Mycroft chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. A nervous habit that he had tried to kick in official company but that still came out in the confines of the relative safety and security of his office.
"Thank you, Anthea." he responded swiftly, returning his brother's nod, "That will be all."
His assistant, knowing when to let things go, hung up, leaving the Holmes brothers to their thoughts.
It was several minutes before either man spoke again. The silence, once again, hanging thick between them, painting every molecule of the room with a thick, black suffocating tar that seemed to absorb all sound and all life.
"Sherlock."
Mycroft spoke first. His voice shaky and hesitant. He couldn't bring himself to look at his brother. Not knowing what the man might have to put himself through. It was bad enough knowing what he knew from ten years ago. The effect that Jim Moriarty had on him then. The devastating feeling of being unable to help his brother through the darkest of days.
But now, now he knew what was to come. He knew that whatever it was that Jim had planned for his little brother, he would make sure that it broke them apart. Broke Sherlock and, in turn, broke Mycroft.
For a brief moment, Mycroft considered telling Sherlock to forget it. To refuse Jim's requests and to hell with the consequences. Except, of course, those consequences would be Sherlock's also. After so much time had passed, was it really feasible to expect the world to believe that Sherlock killed their father in self-defence or in defence of Mycroft?
Mycroft doubted it. Sherlock could very well find himself in prison, not to mention the damage that it would do to Mycroft's own career.
Sherlock had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that whatever Jim Moriarty had in mind to dish out was preferable to the very real prospect of prison and destroying both of their lives.
Mycroft sighed and looked up at his brother who was watching him with knowing eyes.
"I know." the younger man said, standing to cross over to where his brother sat and placing his hands on the elder's shoulders. "We both know that this is the only solution, Mycroft."
Mycroft rested his cheek against his brother's hand, sighing deeply as the younger squeezed tenderly on the taut muscle.
"I know you are correct, Sherlock." he began, placing his hand atop Sherlock's, "but it does not make me feel any better about it."
Sherlock nodded. He knew his brother felt responsible for their situation. It was Mycroft that Sherlock had been trying to protect when he attacked their father, and it was Mycroft who had 'messed up' allowing Jim to be caught and leading to their current predicament.
"It is not your fault, Mycroft." Sherlock reassured, not for the first time in the last 48 hours. "This time though," he continued, his hand sliding down along his brother's bicep, a move that once again, Mycroft leant into, "this time, I am ready for what is to come. I do not intend for Jim Moriarty to break me a second time."
Mycroft stood and turned to face his brother, taking Sherlock's hands and holding them firmly, as if trying to hold him there; keep him safe; protect him.
"Sherlock, just promise me," he said, his eyes pleading to his sibling, "just promise me that you will come back to me afterwards and allow me to pick up the pieces."