Author's note: Now I can admit it: when I thought about what to do to Mycroft (I am evil, I know) I couldn't picture anything more shocking than him not wearing a suit and carrying an umbrella. Can you honestly tell me him being a cocaine addict too would have shocked you more than this picture? Well, maybe it would have. I'm weird that way. And rambling once again.
I still don't own anything, and please review.
The interior of the house seems to be unaltered, at least, so this whole situation isn't as confusing as it could be.
Once you get over what Mycroft is wearing, that is.
Sherlock can't remember his brother ever not wearing a suit. Even when they were children, Mummy would make sure that Mycroft always had little suits tailored for him. The only thing Sherlock ever saw him in that wasn't a suit was a hoodie he had to put on over it over ten years ago because a foreign agent had bled all over his shirt. And even then, annoying posh git that he is, he wouldn't stop complaining.
But, now, he seems quite comfortable in the t-shirt and the pair of jeans and – oh my God, are those sneakers?
And where is his umbrella? There weren't any in the stand next to the door, and Mycroft isn't carrying one. And he had a special umbrella for every suit he owned.
Which was quite a large number.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and follows Mycroft through the long corridor in the dining room.
There, his brother turns around for the first time, but not before laying the picture carefully on the table.
"So, you actually came to my house, just to speak with me. I assume it is important."
Sherlock clears his throat, and is suddenly feeling very self-conscious. Trying to see Mrs. Hudson, telling an alcoholic DI who was his friend in another life his story, that was one thing. But convincing his brother, who is – Sherlock only admits it while grinding his teeth – smarter than him, that's different. And, suddenly, he, who was so convinced he was right just a minute ago, is very unsure.
Mycroft seems to feel – who's he kidding, really, he probably knew before Sherlock knew – his hesitation and apparently wants to make a snappish remark, when his eyes land on the picture again and he thinks the better of it.
"Sherlock... Do you want something to eat?"
He can't say no to that. True, the breakfast he had at Greg's has helped a bit, but his body needs real nourishment. So he nods.
Mycroft nods too and says "Well, then, I will prepare something. It is time for lunch anyway. Just... make yourself comfortable."
Sherlock, of course hears the unspoken I'm ready whenever you are so please tell me what's going on, and uses the time his brother spends in the kitchen – again, Mycroft's always cooked for himself and never trusted any kitchen staff – to gather his thoughts.
He doesn't know how to explain what happened, because he simple doesn't know what happened. He only knows what he remembers, his real life, not this pathetic, awful, "crackhead" life he woke up to this morning. Mycroft has to believe him, there is no other way.
It feels like he has been stabbed in the back of his head, all of a sudden, he gasps for air, and –
The room with the white ceiling again, and why is he lying down? And then there's the tap tap tap of an umbrella on the floor, and he doesn't know what's going on, but he would recognize this voice anywhere. "Have there been any changes?" Of course, Mycroft would be there, now of all times.
Someone's shaking his shoulder, and who could it be but his older brother. "Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice sounds worried, and he's kneeling on the floor again – if only this hallucinations would stop.
"I'm fine" he manages to croak out eventually, and Mycroft lets go of his shoulder as soon as he utters the line, and his eyes turn even harder than they were when he opened the door as he answers "The cocaine finally getting to you?" and Sherlock can't stand it, and he might not always have seen eye-to-eye with his brother, but this, this –
He really wishes he didn't have to kill both of them. Really, why didn't the brothers-turned-into-human- trafficking-bosses simply leave the country? Or, at least, decide that one death in the family was quite enough? No, they had to die together, because they were brothers, and as strongly bound in affection as in blood, and Sherlock hates it, hates the fact that he has to spill blood, and this time, he can't use a gun, because he hasn't yet found out where best to an unregistered one in this country, so he'll have to cut their throats, and how they beg not to have to see their brother die, and he loathes what he has become, but it's his only chance of ever getting home, really, why, oh why, didn't they let themselves get arrested...
"Sherlock!" This time, his brother really sounds worried, and he knows why. Mycroft, of course, knows all about repressed memories, conversations he never should have witnessed, things he wishes he should never have to do at all. He knows the look in his little brother's eyes, knows it from his own mirror. Now or never, he can make him believe the truth. Sherlock shakes himself out of his mind palace and into this – semblance of real life.
"Like I said, I am fine. Don't worry. What I came to talk to you about..." his stomach growls. "But, first, what is for lunch?"
Mycroft actually chuckles at that, and puts the plate in front of him. As usual, his brother's cooked rather well, and as Sherlock devours the food, he figures that the one other thing he observed about him will be just as good an opening as anything else, so he says, between two bites, "You have lost weight".
Mycroft frowns. "I would have thought you had paid more intention when you stole my wallet a few weeks back... I know we haven't seen each other for quite a while, but I have been as fit and slim as you see me for a few years now."
Sherlock almost snorts, but manages to keep his countenance. "Not as I remember it."
"Sherlock..." Mycroft seems to use his name today quite often, interesting, as he usually only used it sporadically, preferring "brother mine" because he knew it would annoy him, "I think it's safe to say that your memory has been somewhat compromised. I hope you don't think so insultingly low of me as to believe I wouldn't notice that you are under the influence of drugs right now?"
Sherlock swallows another bite. "Just so I can think, the withdrawal symptoms are rather unpleasant."
"The logic of addiction." Mycroft's gaze is calculating right now, deducing even, and then, just for a short moment, there is this... shadow across his eyes, the one he already saw when he talked to Greg, but then it's gone. "But, I must admit, you seem much more lucid than you were the last few times we spoke to one another. May I ask what brought you here now, you have, after all, finished your lunch."
It's true, too; he has eaten so quickly it would most likely make John proud.
John... The thought gives him the courage he needs.
"Mycroft, I am aware this may sound crazy and seem impossible. But I need you to listen to me. Do you promise to listen?"
His brother raises an eyebrow. "You haven't asked me a question like that since we were children. But, if only for the sake of old times, I will listen to you." This may not be a very encouraging reaction, but Sherlock knows Mycroft and he realizes how his eyes linger on the picture on the table for a moment, so he's sure the British Government will listen for as long as it takes him to explain everything.
And explain he does. Or tries to, at least; tries to make Mycroft see that they counted on one another, sort of, that they helped one another, again, sort of, that everything got better once he met John, that it changes, in a way, when he returned from the dead, because they decided to try to be brothers, to start from a "clean slate". He explains all this and more: How he quit the seven percent solution for everything, his career, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, how he met John, their first case, every case really, it's just a relief to talk to someone who understands what he say, because, as helpful and... nice as Greg was, it was rather obvious he didn't understand one word in five, and then he arrives at the Irene Adler case and...
Suddenly, Mycroft presses his lips together and turns his head, and it's as close as Sherlock has ever seen to his brother being angry, so he asks "Mycroft? Is... is everything alright?"
"I didn't know you'd heard about it, though I thought you would find out, one day" his brother answers bitterly.
Now Sherlock is confused. "What do you mean?"
"Irene Adler. The Woman. Who blackmailed the Royals and through them, naturally, the British Government. She had her phone, and she had the help of Moriarty. And she won. She had to be bought and given a new identity... in the Witness Protection Programme of the FBI, of all places. You can deduce who took the blame, I imagine."
And, just like that, everything made sense. "They... they kicked you out? The forced you to retire? Is that why you're not at the Diogenes Club or at work? That is why you are wearing... this and why there are no security cameras?"
Mycroft smiles humourlessly. "Correct. I just don't see why I should still take the trouble of dressing up, when I'm not going anywhere. And with no secrets to protect... why a security system? And before you ask about the umbrella... you must have been aware it was a weapon, cleverly hidden in a disguise no one would take seriously. So, no need for that either. Though I wasn't aware you even knew of the existence of the Club..."
"Of course I did. Even John was there a couple of times."
Mycroft sends him a strange look, a mixture of exasperation and... pity? "Ah, John. Your..."
Sherlock jumps up from the chair. "Don't you dare say "imaginary friend", Mycroft. I remember him. I know he exists."
Mycroft takes a deep breath. "Sherlock, hallucinations can appear quite real to the one hallucinating. You've been taking cocaine for years..." "No, I haven't!" Sherlock snaps, interrupting him. "Just let me finish..."
And he tells Mycroft everything, the case in Baskerville ("I couldn't possibly have gotten you into the laboratory by this point, Sherlock, remember, I don't have any power anymore") and the... the last case before his disappearance. What he did during these three years. How it affected everyone when he returned – and, at his explanation of how Mycroft reacted when he came back, his brother does seem genuinely touched. "To be honest, that does sound like how I would react... But, Sherlock, I can assure you Moriarty is not dead. I may not "be the British Government" anymore, as you so eloquently put it, but I still keep an eye open for certain... developments, and he's alive and well, and, by now, I imagine, responsible for almost every crime committed in our city."
That feels like a punch to the gut. Of course, Sherlock had entertained the possibility that Moriarty may be alive in this reality, but to actually hear it –
The room, the white ceiling, the voice of his brother, "Doctor Watson! Come quickly! Something is happening" and running steps outside –
He shakes his head, willing himself not to have another almost-panic attack.
"Mycroft... Do you believe me at all?"
His brother hesitates, to his credit, and tries to form a diplomatic answer, as always.
"wait for a moment, please." The he leaves the room, abruptly, and Sherlock doesn't know what's going on. His brother returns very soon, a pack of papers in his hand. "There. Blood tests. Discharge papers from various hospitals. You have been a cocaine addict ever since you turned twenty, Sherlock. You never helped the police, you never solved any crimes. You never had any friends. You never even went to America, where you think you met this Mrs... Hudson. I offered you a ticket, but you declined. You wanted to get high instead."
There is so much Sherlock wants to say, but as he looks through the papers, sees his name not only on hospital discharge documents, but also on various arrest forms (Mycroft most likely dealt with that, while he still had any influence), it's easy to pierce his life together.
The life of a failure.
The life of an addict.
The life of a man who never had any friends, solved any crimes or ever did anything productive in his whole life.
Author's note: I'm a bad, bad person, I know, but it's been a while since the last cliffhanger, right? And it just seemed right to end the chapter there... I am aware that Mycroft's reactions may be a bit unrealistic, but considering the character, and feeling my own bigsisterness (yes, I invent words, when I feel like it), I was sure he wouldn't just let Sherlock stand in the cold like that.
Btw, if you're interested, the way I picture their reunion is told in my story "Sometimes You Don't Need Forgiveness" (advertisement over).
I hope you liked it, and please review – don't get me wrong, I'm always happy if you favourite or follow my stories, I would just like to know why.