Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 8: Damage control

When they pulled into the circular drive in front of Mycroft's house in Hampstead, Sherlock sat stubbornly in his seat with his arms folded. "Take me to Baker Street."

Mycroft shook his head as the driver opened his door. "Come in when you get cold." He opened his umbrella and stepped out of the car. Sherlock tried to ignore him, but he saw out of the corner of his eye that Mycroft had pulled his phone out of his pocket and was looking at it, so he must have received a text. And judging by the sidelong glance Mycroft gave him, it was about Sherlock. He had already texted Molly (who would no doubt tell John), so it must be Lestrade. He could see that Mycroft was typing a reply.

Sherlock abandoned his attempt to force the driver to take him to Baker Street (he knew it was pointless anyway), clambered out of the car, and picked his way across the gravel in his useless hospital slippers after Mycroft. "I'm not talking to Lestrade," he said crossly when he had caught up with his brother.

Mycroft tucked his phone into his pocket and increased his pace a bit so Sherlock had to hurry to keep up. "Oh? Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"Eloquent as ever, little brother." They had reached the door, which opened for them without Mycroft even touching it. As Mycroft shook the droplets of water off his brolly, he said, "Does this have anything to do with the reason he asked for your baby picture a few days ago?"

'He did?" Dammit, Lestrade! Or rather, Dammit, Sally Donovan, since this was apparently her case. Sherlock followed Mycroft into the house without wiping his feet. It gave him a small sense of satisfaction to track mud onto Mycroft's pristine tile entryway. "You didn't give it to him, I trust."

"I did." Mycroft picked up a newspaper off the entryway table and glanced at it.

"Mycroft!" What an idiot! Sherlock wondered what he had ever done to deserve such an imbecile for a brother. Imagine simply sending off a potentially embarrassing photograph without knowing what it would be used for!

"Why did he want it?" Mycroft asked unconcernedly, eyes on the paper. Sherlock didn't answer that, just stood with his arms folded, staring daggers at Mycroft who was completely ignoring him. Finally Mycroft looked up. "Sherlock? Why did he want it?"

When the only answer was a snarl and averted eyes, Mycroft folded the paper in his hands and sighed. "I had Elenor lay out some clothes for you in the guest bedroom. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're not. Eat anyway."

"No." Sherlock turned and stomped off down the hallway as best he could on his bandaged feet and slippers. It didn't quite have the effect that he had hoped, but at least he was able to leave a trail of wet footprints on the carpet. Mycroft may be able to keep him prisoner here, as he had no phone or wallet, but he couldn't make him wipe his feet, and he certainly couldn't make him eat sodding steak and kidney pie.

Mycroft forced himself to walk calmly to his bedroom with the newspaper tucked under his arm. He didn't even notice that he too was leaving a line of muddy footprints on the carpet. At the moment, the headline which had been splashed across the front page of the paper was taking up most of his mental processing power. When he reached his room, he carefully closed the door behind him, slipped off his shoes and lined them up perfectly in the space inside his closet, and sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. His heart was pounding, but he refused to let his emotions control his reaction. At least not outwardly. There was nothing he could do about his autonomic functions at the moment, so he didn't bother to try.

As soon as he had seen the headline and the first few details in the article (green blazer with gold crest? It was probably still hanging in the closet of his childhood bedroom), he knew immediately what this was all about. Why Lestrade had requested the photo (which Mycroft had stupidly supplied), why both the Inspector and John had called him to say Sherlock was avoiding them, why Sherlock was falling apart, everything. And he also knew that he couldn't allow his mother to see that headline, not before he had done what he needed to do next. He knew that he would have to tell her eventually, but he preferred to do so later rather than sooner. He could only deal with so much drama at a time. Attempting to broach the subject with Sherlock would be drama enough for one day.

Mycroft pulled his phone out of his pocket and found his father's phone number in his contacts. He sincerely hoped his father would answer, as oftentimes he misplaced his mobile, or didn't hear it ringing. But he needn't have worried, because his father picked up on the second ring.

"Mycroft? How's my boy?"

"Fine, Dad—"

"Good, good. I was just thinking about you boys. Everything all right then?"

"Yes, Dad. I'd like you to take Mummy to Tobago."

"What? Oh, good Lord, Mycroft, what government have you destabilized this time?"

"None. I just need her out of the country for a while."

"What shall I tell her?"

"Tell her you won the lottery."

"She doesn't know I still play. She wouldn't approve. Something about statistics. I didn't understand it all."

"Then tell her it was a gift from me. Go tonight, Dad. I'll arrange the tickets."

"All right, Myc. I'll do it. You're not in danger, are you? Or Sherlock?"

"No, Dad, everything's fine."

"I'll take your word for that then. Take care of Sherlock, please."

"I always do."

As soon as he had disconnected the call, Mycroft texted Anthea and asked her to arrange for his parents to fly to Tobago that evening, the sooner the better. Mummy would be happy to have the holiday, and hopefully not ask too many questions. After he had pressed send, he tucked the phone back into his pocket and attempted to stand up to get ready for dinner, but his legs were not in the mood to obey, so he lay back on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly and took careful, even breaths. Getting his parents out of the country would buy him time for the next step, which obviously was to call Inspector Lestrade and give him the name of their mystery suspect. That could wait until morning. He always felt better in the morning.

Mycroft hadn't allowed himself to think about that man in a long time. It was all neatly locked away; not inaccessible-he still remembered everything—but under control. It didn't affect him because he didn't allow it to. As for Sherlock. . . Mycroft had always hoped he had been spared. Sherlock had never mentioned anything, and of course Mycroft had never asked him about it. Even the very idea was far too embarrassing to ever contemplate. But now, it appeared that his hope had been in vain and Sherlock had been affected far worse than he had imagined.

Mycroft is fourteen, all wrists and ankles sticking out from trousers and shirtsleeves that are suddenly too short, finally home from school on summer holiday. He hasn't seen his family for over nine months, since he elected not to come home for Christmas. Mummy and Daddy met him at the door, but his brother was conspicuously absent. Now he stands outside his brother's room listening to the strains of a violin, and he feels a spike of anxiety at the sound. When his mother walks by with a basket of washing, he follows her.

"I didn't know Wills was taking violin. Who is his teacher?"

"The same one you had. Mr Lindt." His mother shifts the basket to her hip and starts down the stairs. "He's lucky he didn't develop an allergy like you did. No hives. He's doing quite well, isn't he?"

Mycroft gets in front of her and blocks her way down the stairs. "You have to find him a different teacher."

His mother frowns. "Why? He's learning quickly. We're quite pleased."

"No! Mummy, you have to take him to someone different! Mr Lindt is rubbish!"

"Mycroft! Just because it didn't work out for you doesn't mean it won't for your brother. Now please move out of the way. Or better yet, make yourself useful and carry this basket down to the laundry room for me."

"Just do it, Mummy. A boy on my floor is the son of the conductor of the London Philharmonic. I'm sure he can connect you with a suitable instructor."

"Don't be silly, Mykie."

"Yes, Mother, just do as I say!"

His mother pushes him out of the way with the basket and passes him on the stairs. "My goodness, Mycroft Alistair Holmes! You'll do well to remember that I am your parent and not the other way around." She looks him up and down. "And put those trousers on my sewing table so I can let them out. You are literally getting too big for your britches, young man."

She continues down the stairs, leaving Mycroft watching after her. The sounds of the violin continue from his brother's room, pulling Mycroft toward the door. He recognizes Mozart's violin concerto number 5. Such a beautiful piece, and his brother is playing it with amazing skill for someone so young.

Mycroft knocks on the closed door, but opens it without waiting for a response. His little brother, wearing gray shorts and a green school jumper, is standing facing the window. He has stopped playing but still holds the violin in position under his chin.

"Hullo, Wills."

"I'm called Sherlock."

"I don't understand why you would choose that name. You had two other perfectly good options."

"Mummy says I can be called whatever I want. Now go away."

"Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"I just wondered. . ." Mycroft hesitates. He can't say the words that are on the tip of his tongue. They won't come out, so he says something else instead. "If there's something wrong, you can tell me."

Sherlock's thin shoulders hunch. "Nothing's wrong. And I wouldn't tell you if there were." He starts putting his violin into its case without turning around. He is taking exaggerated care with the task.

"Sherlock. . ."

"Go away."

Mycroft stands awkwardly in the doorway, very conscious of the gulf between himself and his brother. It is the same gulf that seems to exist between himself and everyone. He is aware that somehow he is creating that gulf, that unspannable chasm, but he doesn't know how NOT to. His schoolmates always seem to be able to build such close relationships, with each other, with their families, but to him it is a foreign language, one that he can't learn, even though he wants to, so he has given up on it, pretends it doesn't matter. Pretends he doesn't care.

Sherlock takes up a pillow and throws it at his brother, hitting him in the stomach. "Go away, fatso."

So Mycroft does what he knows how to do. He leaves. He walks out without saying the words that are burning a hole in his chest. He leaves his baby brother to face it alone. And for that, he will never forgive himself.

Author's note: I wrote this with my own two paws (ok, yes, sevenpercent helped me quite a bit). I think you should review it!