A/N: So this did not turn out quite the way I expected – supposedly that is suppose to be fun – at least I've said that before. We'll see what you think. I am not sure what to think but it is about Mycroft after all.
No worries. It's not what you may be thinking from the title. Once again the letter and the word were stubborn and difficult :P The next chapter promises to be delicious!
Warnings – some swearing, but it's at Mycroft so maybe that's okay.
10. Loss
loss – noun – 1. a the act or an instance of losing; the state of being lost. b. the fact of being deprived of a person by, death, estrangement, etc. 2. a person, thing or amount lost. 3. the detriment or disadvantage resulting from losing
Sherlock sat, legs crossed, hands folded neatly, he appeared static on the outside, seething like a storm on the inside. He was a summer squall ready to deluge the island nation that was his older brother.
Mycroft sat across from him, legs equally crossed, calm on the outside, calm on the inside and only one other person besides himself would guess at the emotional upheaval his younger brother was experiencing and that other person was not present at the moment.
Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"You are wrong, Mycroft," he hissed.
Mycroft tilted his head back slightly, smirked and drawled, "No, dear brother, I do not think that I am. You are experiencing confusion. You have simply decided that John is your next thrill, your new drug of choice. You will grow weary when he becomes dull and predictable, you will ignore him, lose interest and it will end in heartbreak. Not yours of course, but his. I am, after all, just as concerned for John as I am for you."
Sherlock could feel the rage bubbling inside, almost hear the blood-red anger his brother was causing to course through his veins, his brother who did not understand, could not understand, John was not an experiment or a game, he was not the next novel thing to keep his interest and his brain engaged. John was his and he was John's. And his interfering, condescending sibling would not sully or tarnish the exquisiteness and ecstasy he was experiencing in this relationship. He needed John as much as he needed the Work.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said, a hint of contained anger, "Leave now before I take delight in throwing you down the stairs."
Mycroft stood, not in acknowledgment that Sherlock's threat held anything valid, but because he was withdrawing, assured in the tactical advantage. He, of course, had a parting shot ready.
"Sherlock. Give this up. Although I understand the draw the doctor has for you, I am baffled that you, of all people, would engage in," and scorn crept into his voice, "sexual activities. Have you really fallen so low that you would succumb to the needs of the flesh? How does any of this sordidness help you with what you do? What you thrive on? Think Sherlock. If you continue to follow this path it will end in ruination."
Mycroft tugged on his waistcoat and turned to head out of the flat, but stopped abruptly when he saw John standing there. The two had been so busy, engaged in the argument between them, neither had heard John upon the stairs nor enter the flat. John had obviously heard them, judging by the pale complexion and the angry glitter in his eyes.
Mycroft sniffed, "John," he greeted, a hint of disdain entered his otherwise impeccably polite voice.
John narrowed his eyes. "I believe Sherlock asked you to leave, Mycroft," he said softly, dangerously. There was no forgiveness or desire for explanation present in that simple statement.
Mycroft nodded sharply, swept his gaze back to his brother and left, his voice carried back up the stairs, "Think about what I said Sherlock."
John drew in a sharp breath and turned as if to go after him, but Sherlock stilled him with one word, part plea, part command, "John."
John turned back to look at the other man, his heart telling him everything he needed to know and he crossed over to Sherlock.
He stood not quite knowing what to say, understanding how deeply hurt Sherlock was that his brother had not approved of their relationship. He wasn't as much worried for himself, as he was for Sherlock and his tangle of newfound emotions. Mycroft and Sherlock may not get along but there was a deep reliance between the two and even John knew that something within Sherlock craved his brother's approval.
He elected to run a hand through the younger man's hair, brushed back the thick, curly mass and swept his hand down to the base of his skull and began massaging the tension contained there.
Sherlock's normally light coloured eyes, which usually gleamed with capriciousness and fire, were dulled and dark with suppressed emotion.
John leaned down and planted a glancing kiss upon Sherlock's temple. "He always was a git," he murmured.
Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly, but his eyes remained shuttered.
John realized Sherlock needed some space to work through and catalogue what had happened, kissed Sherlock again on top of the head and went to prepare something for dinner, all the while cursing Mycroft to hell and back for being an meddling bastard.
Their relationship was a new, precious and wonderful entity and it wouldn't take much for Sherlock to close up and shut down. John felt a twinge of fear enter his heart. He had found something rare and cherished. He didn't want to lose it.
oOo
Several days later found John as he walked back home from the shops, groceries in hand, when a long, black car pulled up beside him.
He continued to trudge back to the flat, as he vainly attempted to ignore the vehicle pacing him.
He finally stopped after suffering through a block of people staring at him oddly and turned toward the car. It stopped and the door swung open as if of it's own accord.
A voice called out with authority from inside. "Get in the car Dr. Watson."
The remembered words caused a sigh to leak out of John's body. He knew there was no escape and he might as well get this over with. He hoped he could at least shout some choice words at Mycroft and maybe land a punch before the British Government had him shot, dismembered and disappeared for buggering his little brother.
John climbed into the car and pulled the door behind him. He refused to look at Mycroft and waited for the dropping of the proverbial shoe.
"I am sorry to have to speak to you like this, but it's the only way to talk to you in private. Sherlock must not know we have spoken." There was a pause as he let John digest that bit of news. "I want to apologize for what I said in your flat the other day. You were not meant to hear that."
John had been in the process of opening his mouth, an angry retort on his lips, when Mycroft's words caught up with his thoughts.
"You want…what did you say?"
"I believe you heard me, John. I do not like to repeat myself."
John mentally rolled his eyes, yeah, who's that like?
Mycroft's stare was even more piercing than his brother's and John felt himself being evaluated once again, but in a different way from the night they first met, when John had no idea who this man was.
"John, I wish to ask you something."
John hesitated and then mentally shrugged. "Alright."
"You know my brother fairly well, and no, I do not mean in the biblical sense," he caught the blush that crept up John's face at that remark. Sex was still new enough that innuendo was apparent in everything.
Mycroft cleared his throat, "What do you think my brother's reaction would be if I endorsed your relationship?'
John, already feeling like they had entered unstable territory, frowned and looked at Mycroft, "What do you mean?"
"Do you think my brother would be happy if I approved your relationship? Or do you think he would casually toss it aside, because, to prove me wrong one way or another, he felt he couldn't live up to it if it meant agreeing with me?'
John felt anger returning, "You manipulative prick. You deliberately said those things in order to make Sherlock angry with you. You don't have enough faith or trust in him to see that it's not like that. You think Sherlock would just throw all we have between us just to spite you, if you approved. You really are a heartless bastard. Stop the car. I am getting out." It was all John could do not to thoroughly punch Mycroft in the eye, nose, wherever his fist landed. Maybe both.
The car pulled up to the kerb and John got out, but before he stormed off he said one final thing to Mycroft.
"I don't necessarily have the right to say this to you, but kindly stay the hell away from us until you can stop playing these fucking mind games. I love Sherlock and I am pretty damn sure he loves me and if you think it is perverted or disgusting or…or beneath your brother then you are mightily wrong. It's more than just sex, Mycroft." And he slammed the car door.
Mycroft watch the angry line of John's shoulders, as he marched away, in the opposite direction of the flat. Mycroft surmised that John was planning on cooling off before he returned. He knew there was no hope of Sherlock not knowing something had happened, but he believed that John needed time to gather his emotions and thoughts before confronting the younger man, to tell him what his horrid brother had done this time.
Mycroft nodded slightly, satisfied once and for all that Sherlock could not be in better hands. He could see the deep commitment between the two. He had desired to reassure himself that it was as strong and lasting as he had first believed. Some might call what he was doing interfering. He saw it as protecting his baby brother. He also had John's welfare upper most in his mind.
It was worth the loss of speaking to his brother for a period of time to be reassured that all was and would be well between the two men. He had been correct in his original analysis of John Watson.
He felt a slight twinge of something else creep through his belly. He analyzed it and dismissed it. He did not have room or time to be jealous. He felt a momentary measure of regret that he had not been the one to connect with the doctor, as if he had forfeited a prize, had handed it to his little brother, not realizing it's worth until too late. He believed it would always circle through his system, to return and ache with pain, an old wound. He choose not to delete it.
He nodded to his driver and the car drove away.