As always, thank you to She Steps On Cracks for brit-picking :)
I went through John's blog and started working out an approximate timeline of when everything happened in the show and when my stories need to happen to fill the time until Sherlock comes back. I've got a surprising number of story stubs started (now I just need to finish then -_-; )
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
With new information in hand, Mycroft set himself to do something he had not done in many, many years. He went for a walk. The park was old, but the grass was still as green and well cared for as it had been when he had been a boy. Teenager, really. Sherlock had been the one with boundless energy, bouncing about the house until Mummy had ordered him outside (and Mycroft with him to keep an eye on him).
He couldn't be settled with just running around the park with the rest of the children like any other 5 year old. Not that Mycroft had ever really expected him to but it would have been nice to be able to just sit under the tree and read while his little brother wore himself out.
Instead, Mycroft had been reduced to... playing.
Pirates, spies, hide and seek. The games were the usual type but the rules far too complex for any of the other children to understand.
The hand signals had been developed for their spy game (something Mycroft was surprised Sherlock hadn't long deleted).
Captain Sherlock of the HMS Schrodinger summons First Mate Mycroft to the pirate port at Mother's park.
An interesting choice of ship name: a scientist who was known for his cat that was simultaneously dead and alive at the same time.
"Spare change, sir?" a teenager asked as he rattled a mostly empty cup.
Mycroft eyed him, taking in all the little details he needed and cross-referencing others he needed to draw his conclusions. The boy was far too young to be Sherlock, even his little brother wasn't this good at disguising himself, but this was definitely one of Sherlock's homeless network.
Because Mycroft knew that scarf.
It had been twenty-some years since Mycroft had last seen it wrapped around Sherlock's neck, clean and well cared for but worn from use. It was faded and dirty now, the once deep crimson turned muddied brown, but Mycroft would recognize it anywhere. He had been the one to give it to Sherlock, after all.
"That is an interesting scarf," the older man commented, reaching into the inside jacket of his coat for his wallet. It wasn't often that he carried cash but he had expected something like this.
"Given to me by an old friend. He said you might know him," the teen told him after pointedly shaking the cup that Mycroft had yet to put any money in.
"Where might I find this old friend?" A fifty pound note made its way from Mycroft's wallet to the cracking plastic cup.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Several hours and nearly a thousand pounds later found Mycroft Holmes back in the park he'd initially started in. The boy was still there, sitting on a bench and holding his plastic cup (no longer containing the large note) out to any who passed him.
The elder Holmes moved to stand directly in front of him. As he glared at the young blond boy, he saw the way's his dear brother's disguise had fallen short. Apparently not short enough, however, as he had managed to fool Mycroft.
"Was the wild goose chase absolutely necessary?" he demanded.
"I dunno what you're talking about, mister. I just told you what our old friend told me to."
"Get in the car," Mycroft drawled as a black sedan drove up behind him. He allowed his face to contort with the frustration only Sherlock ever managed to bring out in him. Intent on keeping up the charade of the young blond boy, Sherlock bolted into the open door of the car with an almost fearful expression on his face, even going to far as to fidget nervously while he watched Mycroft take the seat across from him.
All pretenses dropped as soon as the door was closed.
"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted in his own deep baritone rather than the higher pitch of the young boy, unraveling the dirty scarf from his neck and dumping it unceremoniously on the seat next to him.
"Do get out of those vile clothes, Sherlock," Mycroft answered, indicating a clean pile of clothes with a minute flicker of his eyes.
It spoke of how eager the younger Holmes was to get into clean clothes that he didn't even put of a token protest against his brother. The tatty, thin jacket quickly joined the scarf. As did the trainers on his feet (he wore no socks). The hesitation to remove his shirt was minuscule, the tiniest flash of unease shot in Mycroft's direction.
"I have seen you naked before, Sherlock," Mycroft commented boredly, but alarm bells were ringing in his head. There was only one thing Sherlock would hide from him. "I did used to help Mummy bathe you after all."
As expected, Sherlock had ripped the shirt off with a glare at his older brother and replaced it with the clean one in the time it took to bat an eyelid. Mycroft couldn't help but frown.
There were no track marks on Sherlock's arms. No bruising, no injuries. Besides being (more than) a bit thin, there was nothing worth hiding. Certainly nothing Sherlock, of all people, would deem so.
Mycroft severely disliked not knowing why.
"Why did you hesitate?"
Sherlock's scoff would have been believable if he hadn't crossed his arms over his chest and sunk back into the seat. A defensive posture as well as pulling away from what he interpreted as a threat.
"I didn't," Sherlock snapped, but his eyes flicked with a deeply buried sadness to the empty seat on his right.
"Ah."
Of course, the good doctor had taken it upon himself to see that Sherlock got around to eating. Mycroft had seen more than one recording of John yelling at his younger brother for skipping an unhealthy number of meals in a row. Sherlock had obviously grown accustomed to his concern.
The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes dangerously, not liking that Mycroft was about to pick it out. "What took you so long? I would have thought you'd be here days ago," Sherlock answered. It was the tone he usually used to ask how Mycroft's diet was going.
"Dr. Watson didn't deem it necessary to inform us that he'd seen a sniper following him around," Mycroft said, carefully watching his brother's reaction. "Did it occur to you, brother dear, that if the protection detail you specifically asked me to put on Doctor Watson had spotted you, they would have shot you?"
"They weren't going to."
"You cannot be certain of that!" Mycroft snapped. The annoyance flashed on his face for only a moment before he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and wiped it from his face and mind. He sighed tiredly, his little brother tended to have that effect on people.
"Yes, I can," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "The blond one whose wife just left him was on duty that day-"
"Aled Brown," Mycroft supplied.
"Useless. Deleted," Sherlock informed him with dismissive wave of his hand. The elder Holmes' lips pursed but he refrained from pointing out that one day Sherlock would delete something he actually needed. "He was on the surveillance team you had on John and I when John first moved in. He's been around John long enough to know where he subconsciously watches for danger and trusts that he will spot anything in those areas and react accordingly. John always checks the second story corner windows therefore your surveillance guy does not."
"You've managed to maintain the premise of being dead for nearly six months. Why are you coming to me now?" Mycroft asked. He expected some kind of acerbic retort from his younger brother. Instead he was surprised (though it didn't show on his face) when Sherlock merely finished buttoning the clean trousers before turning to gaze at the empty spot beside him once more.
"Moriarty's network is vast. I have to leave London. I've done all I can here," Sherlock told him and Mycroft's brain immediately began pulling up every unsolved and cold case that had passed his desk over the last 6 months. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him but if he was looking it would be much harder.
"And pointing the gun at John?"
"It wasn't loaded, the firing mechanism had been removed, and the barrel was packed with dirt," the younger man answer with confidence. And, of course, Mycroft understood what his brother wasn't saying (couldn't say, refused to say), I would rather the gun blew up in my own face then risk injuring John. "And it will remind him to keep an eye out for danger. He's started carrying his gun again, hasn't he?"
This was said with surety. The same surety an ordinary person would say, The sun will rise tomorrow, won't it?
And Mycroft had to admit, John had indeed begun to carry his gun again.
"What do you need from me?"
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
It was only late that night sitting in front of the fireplace alone that Mycroft finally allowed the more than a trickle of relief to flood his chest. In his lap sat the crimson scarf, clean now but still worn from age.
He had not even realized he wanted the scarf until he'd come home to find it sitting on his entryway table. It had been a pleasant surprise after he had ordered all the dirty clothes burned. This was no doubt the actions of his assistant (Eleanor, Sophia, Tabby, or whatever her name happened to be at the moment).
And, though he found himself grateful she had been able to predict his uncharacteristic attachment to a random article of clothing he'd given his brother nearly two decades ago, Mycroft realized he would need to remind her that he did not appreciate her spying on him.
With that thought in his head (and about a dozen others), he finished off the amber liquid in his tumbler and dragged himself to his feet. He barely noticed that he'd carried the scarf with him to his room and set it on a chair.
In fact, it was only the next morning as he walked out the door and his housekeeper commented on his lovely new scarf that he realized the scarf hadn't left his presence since he'd come home and found it.
It would seem he'd subconsciously associated the scarf with the reminder that Sherlock was still alive.
How ordinarily quaint.