Author's note: So many reviews. Thank you.
I don't own anything.
Sherlock and Mycroft didn't say anything until John came into the dining room carrying a tea tray, but it wasn't the silence Sherlock was used to. Normally, if he and Mycroft didn't talk, the space between them was filled with unspoken accusations or insults. This time, though –
This time, Mycroft simply kept staring at the table, apparently wondering what was going on, and he didn't spare Sherlock a glance – normally, his brother made sure that he wasn't trying to steal his phone or looking for government secrets behind his back. But this Mycroft, this strange Mycroft, trusted him – his body language told him so – trusted him enough to let him sit and talk and walk around in his house, trusted him enough to let a man he didn't know make him tea simply because Sherlock had told him he was a friend.
The whole situation was strange, to say the least.
Mycroft had trusted him once, when they had both been children, he didn't doubt that; but, once his brother had gone to university, had barely contacted him for years and finally found him to be an addict, trying to talk sense into him, subsequently forcing him to stay in his house after he had gone through withdrawal –
Mycroft had never trusted him afterwards, not like this, not ready to believe that anyone Sherlock brought with him was allowed to make tea in his kitchen.
Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to think logically.
Mycroft had (although he didn't like to admit it) always been better at deduction than Sherlock; and yet – he didn't look at people like he was deducing them , ever since he had received the electrical shock. Instead, he seemed to be trusting them instinctively, as if he wanted to see the best in them – which his secretive, controlling brother would never have done.
And then Sherlock understood.
If Mycroft believed he hadn't left Sherlock behind – had taken him with him – had raised him – if he thought he had a regular "job" (although he still had to find out what Mycroft believed his "work" to be) he might not be a consulting detective, the consulting detective, at all in Mycroft's mind. He would have looked after him, made sure he made his degree, and therefore there would have been no reason to deduce people like they had done when they were children. Sherlock might have grown up to be a philosopher or a scientist, who knew. And Mycroft might just believe that this had happened – he wouldn't be as good as he was at the science of deduction. He wouldn't know John, of course, because there would have been no reason for Sherlock to find someone to share a flat with.
In some ways, Sherlock had to admit, it wasn't awful to imagine himself living with Mycroft, finishing his decree, being recognizes for his work without being questioned about his merits. But, in the end –
He still preferred the life he was leading right now to the one Mycroft obviously thought he had lived for the last twenty years.
He had to make Mycroft remember, even though a part of him – his annoyingly human part – wished he could just as simply forget about Moriarty as his brother had apparently done. The idea was tempting; he wouldn't have spent three years alone, would never have realized how human he was after all –
And yet, in the end, the three years had been an experience that had taught him certain things about his own heart (even though he detested using such an expression; emotions were created in the brain, not in the heart) he wouldn't have thought possible before – before everything.
Mycroft and he had grown what John would call "closer" after his experience; they didn't get on as well as they had when they were children – they probably never would – but they talked without insulting one another, and Mycroft didn't force him to take boring cases anymore.
Strangely, Sherlock found the thought that Mycroft had forgotten all about this progress in their relationship – even if he believed them to be closer than they had ever been – rather disquieting. This Mycroft didn't seem to belong into his world, it was as simple as that.
With this thought, he decided to wait for John and the tea. Thankfully the doctor came into the dining room a few minutes later. Carrying a tray.
Mycroft thanked him politely and happily took the offered cup, and Sherlock tried to ignore the understanding look John shot him. Mycroft would remember soon enough; he knew his brother.
"So" the elder Holmes began after having taken a sip and hummed contently, "explain to me – you think I left you behind all those years ago? And you're living with John? I admit I don't understand yet how our house could have changed that much during a few short hours..." he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ""Just tell me what you remember about our lives".
Sherlock told him.
He listened patiently, sometimes frowning, sometimes shocked (he almost grasped Sherlock's hand when he talked about his cocaine addiction, but thought better of it). John studied him closely, pretending that he wasn't looking at Sherlock, making sure he was alright, through the corner of his eye in the meantime.
He didn't tell him everything. He stopped talking when he had come to the point of John moving in with him. Mycroft had enough to swallow without reminding him of his role in Sherlock's disappearance or Moriarty.
Sherlock had hoped, expected even, that the tale would remind Mycroft of the truth, but it didn't seem to work. His brother was silent after he had stopped talking. At first. After several minutes of staring at the table, he finally asked quietly, "Just how empty is my life, then?"
Sherlock couldn't have predicted such a reaction. Mycroft recognizing Anthea and his driver proved he was still the British Government in his mind; and the brother he knew would never consider a life full of work "empty". True, he had and Sherlock weren't living together, and they certainly didn't spend as much time together as he believed; but he was always busy. He had no reason to consider his life anything other than fulfilling.
John didn't know what to say either; he kept looking between Sherlock and Mycroft, finally deciding that it would be best to leave the brothers alone for a while, and announced that "he would look what the kitchen had to offer".
Sherlock followed John with his eyes as he left the room; he understood only too well what the doctor was thinking. He was convinced (and perhaps rightfully so) that Mycroft would talk more freely in front of his brother than in front of someone he perceived as a stranger. Plus, the whole situation couldn't be easy for John either. He had sworn to help anyone who might be sick or injured, but he had never forgiven Mycroft for telling Moriarty Sherlock's life story, and Sherlock knew why. John was the most loyal man he had ever met; the thought of betraying a friend or family member had most likely never crossed his head. He wasn't able or willing to understand what had made Mycroft do exactly that. And now Mycroft didn't remember and John must feel that he had to act like he didn't, either, because he didn't want to make Mycroft uncomfortable while he wasn't himself.
"I must admit I rather like your friend" Mycroft said, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts, "even if his attempts to be subtle ar far from that".
Sherlock nodded, not reacting to Mycroft's smile, and the elder Holmes grew serious again.
"Sherlock..." he continued, reaching for his brother's hand, "I know you believe I've lost my mind, I know that the house supports your story – you would never have lived in such a room" Sherlock smirked against his will "But trust me, please. I remember that you lived with me; that you graduated from university; I remember that you became a scientist".
Scientist it was, then. Sherlock had always known it would have been an option if he hadn't left university; nonetheless, it was strange to hear Mycroft talk about his career which he proceeded to do at some length. Apparently he was proud of Sherlock.
Just when the consulting detective had thought the situation couldn't get weirder.
Mycroft was so open, so trusting, so vulnerable – he simply didn't know what to say. He finally settled on "I believe you. I believe that you remember all of this. But, Mycroft – the evidence makes it clear that you are delusional. You have to see it".
"I know what happened all these years ago, Sherlock; trust me".
Sherlock trusted Mycroft, he always had. Perhaps not too much – he hadn't really been surprised when he realized who had given Moriarty the information – but enough to nod, and Mycroft smiled.
Neither of them knew how to recommence the conversation after this, though – both knew they were right, and each of them knew his brother was too stubborn to accept what he had to say.
Sherlock needed a cigarette.
"I need some fresh air" he said brusquely and stood up, already taking the cigarette he kept in his pocket for emergencies and John pretended eh didn't know about out of his suit as he left the dining room, ignoring Mycroft's inquiry where he was going.
John, who was just entering the dining room to tell them what he had found in the kitchen and ask them what they wanted to eat, knew immediately what he was doing, of course. He could allow him to smoke this time, though, he decided. Mycroft was confused and possibly hurt, and Sherlock didn't know what top do.
It must be incredibly frustrating for his best friend.
"Don't worry" he said, and Mycroft turned around, the worry evident in his face, "he'll be back in a few minutes".
Mycroft frowned. "He really shouldn't be smoking, especially if he's convinced that he used to be addicted to cocaine". He sighed. "Well, I must say this day has been a rather challenging one so far." He gave John a weak smile. "So, John, you have been looking after my brother?"
At least the inquiring tone in his voice and the look he gave him were familiar, and John nodded.
Mycroft cleared his throat. "And you two are..."
"Friends" John hastened to answer, "best friends". He was rather glad Mycroft had decided to ask him about it and not Sherlock.
Mycroft shrugged, giving him another half-smile. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. The brother I remember is asexual, at least I'm reasonably certain of that, but seeing how much has changed, I wanted to make sure..."
John nodded again. Mycroft apologizing for making people uncomfortable. He would probably tell him any minute now that he had decided to never carry another umbrella around with him again. "Don't worry about it".
Mycroft gave him a real smile this time, and it was strange to see his face so open, see him being so – so nice, without any ulterior motive. Maybe, John supposed, raising a small genius would have made him more human; he would have had to comfort Sherlock when he was sad, make him lunch and dinner – he wouldn't have been able to simply sit in front of a monitor, watching his little brother.
"Thank you" Mycroft suddenly said, and John looked at him, confused.
"For looking after him".
"You're welcome" John answered, sitting down opposite of Mycroft, and they were silent until Sherlock returned. John didn't mention the slight smell of smoke that was clinging to his suit.
Mycroft suddenly seemed to remember something and asked, "What about Jim?"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock demanded, and John had a strange suspicion. No – he couldn't mean – he wouldn't ask –
"Jim Moriarty, Sherlock. Your best friend" Mycroft explained patiently. "Where is he?"
Sherlock let himself fall in the chair next to Mycroft, and John realized he wouldn't have to make something to eat after all. Both he and Sherlock had certainly just lost any appetite they might have had.
Author's note: We are spending more time than I thought in the BBC universe. But I figured why not.
I hope you liked it, please review.