Mycroft
Please call me when you have a minute to spare
- SHERRINGFORD
One's brother requesting a phone call shouldn't be a shocking thing. It shouldn't shake you right to your very core.
And yet that's exactly what it did to Mycroft, whom, upon reading his brother's message, was so taken aback that he accidentally stumbled into the side of his car.
Why was Sherrinford texting him? Sherrinford never text-messaged anyone, so why was texting Mycroft of all people? What did he have to say? What was wrong? Was he sick? Was he dying? Was he hurt? Was Sherlock?
By the time he'd managed to tap his way out of the message bank and find the 'call' app, dread had well and truly begun to bubble up inside of Mycroft, making his stomach turn.
It couldn't be good news, after all. It seemed to be an unspoken rule amongst the Holmes family, that nobody was to call Mycroft unless the situation was dire.
The last call he'd received from Sherrinford had been to inform him that he'd be required to attend the reading of Mother's will which he'd be carrying out in his London office, oh – hadn't you known, well now you do, ten o'clock, don't be late.
The few conversations that they had shared after that were all initiated by Mycroft, and they never seemed to go anywhere.
So it was with no small amount of apprehension that he punched in the number of his brother's mobile phone and with a slightly trembling hand, pressed his own against his ear.
"That was quick," Sherrinford's drawled over the speaker, "I only just sent that blasted message."
"Yes, well, I've a free for the moment now," Mycroft replied, a little too stiffly for his liking; although he was trying to diagnose a terminal illness over mobile phone... and failing, so he felt he could be forgiven for the slip.
"Oh excellent, excellent. You're such a difficult chap to get a hold of you know?"
Frowning, Mycroft conceded that he certainly was a busy man.
"As am I Brother-Mine. Nonetheless, I have managed to get the rest of the day off today and I'm in London for the moment, so I wonder, would you like to come out for lunch with me this afternoon? It would be nice to catch up, no?"
"Certainly," Mycroft replied automatically, "Yes, that would be splendid. Well, I'm free between one and four, would that suit you?"
"That would be excellent," Sherrinford boomed, "I'll make reservations at the The Wolseley for half past one then. That's not too far out of your way is it?"
"Absolutely not," Mycroft replied, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut at the thought of the bill. "I'll see you there."
"Excellent. Cheerio then."
"Wait – Sherrinford," Mycroft called, but his brother had already hung up.
After three hours spent watching the nation's leader and his possible successor bicker like five year old boys over a toy truck, Mycroft's nerves were frayed.
On one hand, he'd managed to single-handedly circumnavigate the way around not one but three possible political scandals (including an embarrassingly petty exchange that bore far too many similarities to a 'yo Momma' battle for Mycroft's liking) that would spend days inhabiting the front pages of the Daily Mail and its ilk.
On the other hand, it also served to temporarily rob Mycroft of enough of his senses and provided him with enough time to convince himself that his brother was either dying or in some sort of equivalently unpleasant mess.
As such, it was with no little amount of trepidation that he walked in through the door's of The Wolseley and asked the waiter to direct him to the table reserved under 'Holmes'.
Sherrinford was already there. He didn't look ill, but that didn't do too much to settle Mycroft's nerves.
"Mycroft!" his brother cried, pulling him in for a firm hug.
Mycroft's heart sank. He didn't think he could ever remember Sherrinford hugging him, not even when they were kids.
Swallowing the lump that had begun forming in his throat, Mycroft returned the greeting, awkwardly patting his brother's back before being released and promptly taking his seat.
"So," Sherrinford drawled, reclining back in his chair, "How have you been little brother?"
Frowning, Mycroft measuredly replied, "I've been fine."
"Marvellous."
Deciding to bite the bullet, Mycroft took the opportunity and asked, "And you? How are you feeling?"
"Oh excellent, as always," Sherrinford flippantly replied.
Frowning, Mycroft asked, "Are you sure?"
"I trust I don't look ill," Sherrinford replied, brow quirked.
"No," murmured Mycroft, "Not at all."
"Well there you are then," Sherrinford replied, clapping his hands together, "And what has got you so concerned for my health? I know you're good Brother-Mine, but I'm not sure how even you would know that I was ill before I did."
Shaking his head, Mycroft shot his brother a tight smile.
"Unfortunately I'm not, at this moment, quite that good. I shall take note and work on it."
Sherrinford chuckled.
Considering his words very carefully, Mycroft continued, "I'm just a little confused as to the purpose of this meeting."
"Purpose?" Sherrinford mused, "Is it so unheard of for brothers to occasionally catch up when the opportunity arises?"
"We've never caught up in the past," Mycroft pointed out.
"The opportunity rarely arises."
"And that's all?" Mycroft asked, "I apologise if I come across as impertinent but this is just... very unlike you."
Sherrinford frowned.
"You see, we've never been close," Mycroft continued, feeling that he needed to defend his reasoning, "We don't talk often. So I'm just a little confused as to why you've decided to call me, out of the blue, to come and lunch with you if there is nothing wrong or there's nothing of importance for you to tell me."
For a long moment, Sherrinford didn't answer. He leaned over, picked up his glass of wine and took a small sip of it. Only then did he reply, "Well, I would be lying if I said there was no purpose at all to my calling a meeting with you today."
"I see," Mycroft replied, the usual triumphant thrill of being right, spoilt by dread bubbling up once more, "And what is that purpose?"
Idly swirling his wine, Sherrinford slowly replied, "Honestly? I wanted to check on you, to see how you're coping."
Mycroft stiffened.
"Is that so?"
"I was worried about you," Sherrinford confessed, "I've not heard from you since before the funeral. I was concerned you may not have been coping."
"You could have called," Mycroft levelly replied, "If you were concerned."
"I did. And then I arranged this lunch."
"I meant, you could have called before now," Mycroft snapped, before forcing himself to regain composure, "It's been two months. Surely you weren't that worried."
Sherrinford sighed.
"I owe you an apology."
He really didn't. He'd not disappointed Mycroft with his inaction after all, in fact, Mycroft had expected nothing less.
But, ever the politician, he didn't say that out loud.
Instead, he told his brother to not worry about it, "It would have made little difference anyway."
"You're still upset," Sherrinford pointed out.
"I'm not upset."
"Disappointed?"
"Certainly not," Mycroft sighed, "Forgive me, but I'm not yet accustomed to discussing my sudden demotion to widower with a smile on my face."
"I see," Sherrinford replied sympathetically. "Nonetheless, I must know, how are you coping?"
Pursing his lips, wishing that Sherringford would just let it go, Mycroft stiffly replied, "The boys and I are handling the situation fine, thank you."
"You're doing well then?" Sherrinford pressed on, a little too disbelieving for Mycroft's liking.
"As well as can be expected," Mycroft answered evenly.
Sherrinford, damn him, remained unconvinced.
"Surely the boys miss their mum?" he asked.
Mycroft flinched at that.
"Of course they miss her," he murmured, the fight steadily draining out of him as Harry and Alfie's sobbing from the night before rang in his ears, "You've no idea how much they miss her."
Sherrinford sighed.
"Why do you insist that you're all fine when you're quite obviously not?"
Mycroft, unable to hold his brother's gaze any longer, glanced out of the window they were sitting by.
He jumped slightly when he felt Sherrinford's hand gently grasp his shoulder.
"You need to talk to someone about this," he said.
"Who would I talk to Sherrinford?" Mycroft chuckled sadly, "My non-existent circle of friends? A counsellor I can't spare the money or time to see? Sherlock?"
"Me?"
"Pardon?" Mycroft chuckled, "You?"
"Yes," Sherrinford replied resolutely, "Me. I'm you're big brother Mycroft. I want to help you. I want to be here for you."
He should have stopped it there, nipped it in the bud. The mess that followed would have never come to be if he'd just diplomatically but firmly insisted then that he appreciated the offer, but he wasn't quite ready to talk yet.
In any other circumstance other than this one, that's exactly what he would have done.
And yet Mycroft didn't do that. He should have, but he didn't.
Instead, he blurted out, before he could stop himself. "Why now?"
"Pardon?"
Turning back to face Sherrinford, Mycroft, unable to completely mask the hurt behind his words, asked, "Why do you want to be here for me now? Why weren't you there for me when we found out about the cancer?"
"Mycroft?"
"Why weren't you there when I asked you to come to the funeral?" Mycroft croaked, "I needed you then. I would have been there for you, if our places had been reversed. You know I would."
"I'm sorry," Sherrinford sighed, still clutching Mycroft's shoulder, "I was busy with work. I figured – you've always been closer to Sherlock and you had him there..."
Mycroft chuckled sadly.
"He was there wasn't he?"
Sighing, Mycroft shook his head.
"He was on a case in Russia. Out of contact. He didn't find out until a week afterwards. It was just the boys and I."
Sherrinford leaned back, eyes wide and seemingly horrified.
"Jesus," he croaked, "Mycroft, brother, I'm so sorry. I, well, I didn't know."
Mycroft couldn't bring himself to answer. He couldn't say that it wasn't Sherrinford's fault, or that he didn't mind – it was and he did. Instead, he settled for staring down at the contents of his glass, rather than risk catching his brother's eye.
"But I'm here now," Sherrinford pressed on, "Please let me be here for you. Let me make it up to you Mycroft."
Mycroft sighed.
"You're my little brother," Sherrinford said, smiling sadly, "It's my job to look after you. I know I've not done it in the past, and I'm sorry for that. But I want to change that now. I think it's about time that I start acting like a good big brother to you."
Years later, Mycroft would think himself foolish for doing it, for listening to his brother, for believing him, for thinking he cared.
But at the time, he'd be tired, more than a little overwhelmed and feeling so incredibly alone. And there was Sherrinford, offering him a helping hand, a shoulder to lean on – and in his desperation Mycroft had grabbed a hold of it like a lifeline and poured out his soul.
He'd confided in Sherrinford just how much he missed Iris, how sometimes her absence would physically ache. He'd confided in him how worried he was about the boys. He'd talked about how the twins simply refused to face the reality of the situation and how Basil was trying just as desperately as Mycroft himself, to take care of everyone and in doing so, trying to force himself to grow up. He'd confessed his fears that they were all heading for one, big emotional catastrophe because each one of them were avoiding the issue like their life depended on it.
Worst of all, he admitted that he simply had no idea what he was supposed to do.
"You need a break," Sherrinford chuckled sadly.
Mycroft laughed.
"What a lovely thought," he murmured, "Unfortunately, not a realistic one though."
"Oh?"
"Sherlock and his colleague, Dr. Watson, only just had them last week whilst I took care of an emergency at work. It would hardly be fair of me to ask them to care for the boys again simply because I'm tired."
"Well you do have other resources at hand brother," Sherrinford pointed out.
"Are you aware how much babysitters cost?" scoffed Mycroft.
Chuckling, Sherrinford replied, "I meant me Mycroft. I don't know how many times we need to go over this."
Mycroft feared that he must have looked somewhat, what's the term, bug-eyed at that.
"You?"
"Should it really come as such a shock?" Sherrinford chuckled, "Lydia and I have the room. For goodness sake – we have the whole bloody house thanks to Mummy. There's more than enough room for them. And Lydia's reached that stage where she wants to smother everything under the age of thirteen with affection – so they would be spoilt rotten by the end of the weekend I'm afraid, although, I have it on good authority that children quite like that. And, like I said already – I want to be here for you, you and the boys, and if that means taking care of my nephews for the weekend than I would gladly do so."
"I-uh, that's...really generous of you Sherrinford."
"The least I can do I assure you," Sherrinford replied, "It really wouldn't be any bother Mycroft. What do you say?"
Fortunately, the waiter arrived that moment to deliver the starters Sherrinford had ordered before Mycroft's arrival, providing Mycroft with a little time to think it over.
The problem was, he didn't know what to think of it. He was torn.
Though it certainly seemed that Sherrinford had turned over a new leaf, Mycroft couldn't quite bring himself to trust it just yet. He would love to be proven wrong and discover that Sherrinford had actually decided to finally become the big brother he'd always wanted him to be, but just then – it just all seemed a little too sudden and far too drastic a change to be a real one. This Sherrinford was just too far removed from the brother who wouldn't lift a finger to help him back when he was being bullied from pillar to post at school or when he was struggling during Iris' final days,
He couldn't help but fear that there was some sort of ulterior motive behind it all.
But, for the life of him, Mycroft couldn't think of what it could be. What could he possibly have to gain from taking care of the boys for a couple of days for goodness sake?
He might try and demand money or favours down the track. Mycroft could live with that. God knows he was merely waiting for Sherlock to come knocking to demand compensation for or the aid he'd provided in the past few weeks.
Or maybe he would simply rub it in his face that once again, he'd not been able to cope on his own, that he'd needed Sherrinford's help. Again, Mycroft was just waiting for it from Sherlock and it really wouldn't be all that out of the ordinary from Sherrinford's normal attitude towards him.
No matter how hard he thought about it, Mycroft simply couldn't think of a con dire enough to outweigh all of the pros.
He was absolutely exhausted after all, and a weekend on his own, would be marvellous. He'd be able to sort out and get on top of things again, rather than trotting behind like he had been for months now.
And the boys would get to spend time with their Aunt and Uncle and no doubt be doted on all weekend, which was more than Mycroft seemed to be able to offer them.
Not to mention, it looked like he'd have to spend all of Saturday, probably a bit of Sunday too, fixing the Mayor's latest mess, they'd just be stuck at home, miserable with some babysitter anyway, simply because Mycroft didn't like the idea of them being somewhere else. It wouldn't be fair of him to deny them the opportunity to possibly have a little fun for once for no good reason.
"Anyway, as I was saying," Sherrinford drawled, finished with the waiter, "What's you opinion on the matter Mycroft?"
With a small sigh, Mycroft replied, "I'd have to talk it over with the boys."
"Of course."
"But, I don't see it being a problem," he continued, "I'll call you tonight though. Once we've discussed it."
"Marvellous," Sherrinford said, a grin spreading across his face.
"I really do appreciate it."
"Think nothing of it," Sherrinford replied, before insisting that it was time to 'Tuck in."