Chapter Text
1
Mycroft Holmes had seen it coming. Waited for it, in fact. For nearly three weeks, he had been expecting the blow. Had his intestines been in turmoil. Had he been unable to find any proper sleep, and that had only partly been because of his failures that had made the Sherrinford debacle possible – like not making sure that Eurus was properly contained, or letting her talk to Moriarty, unsupervised.
Fact of the matter was, he had been busted. He had slipped, and it had not been missed. Oh, the rest of the people who had witnessed it had missed it; of that, Mycroft was sure. It was hardly surprising that Doctor Watson wasn’t the wiser. The situation had been dire, and the (not so) good doctor had been fearing for his life, after all. He was not all that bright to begin with, bless him… And sister dear, as smart as she was, had been so full of herself and her game that she had not paid much heed to nuances, as much as she had asked them for providing context. Showing her the human interaction she was so incapable of. So intelligent, and yet so tone deaf. Thankfully...
But Sherlock… Sherlock had not missed it. The world’s only consulting detective would have never been so blind. Well, of course he had been, for a very long time. Because Mycroft was the smart one. Not exactly when it came to dealing with Eurus and Moriarty, that was a given, but Mycroft didn't only know how to manipulate people into doing his bidding without even realising it, steering the world to some extent, even. He had also mastered the art of concealing his emotions to the point of letting people think he didn't even have any.
Sherlock had clearly believed that, too. Which had been as reassuring as it had been insulting. Shouldn’t baby brother know that Mycroft cared about him, no matter how many times he had lectured him about caring not being an advantage? That he wanted him safe and unharmed?
Well, Mycroft had perhaps not given him much reason to think so. He knew he had been condescending at best, had wrinkled his nose about Sherlock's choice of profession when he could have been so much more than a detective, had chided him for his drug use, his flat, his friends, you name it. But all that eyebrow-rising and head-shaking, all those countless strident remarks had been mostly for the sake of hiding what he really felt for his brother, which was on the wrong side of morality. Not that Mycroft cared that much about morals. If he had thought that his feelings might be reciprocated, he would not have given a damn for it being legal or right or whatever. But of course that had always been out of the question. Less probable than riding to work on a unicorn that was singing ‘God Save The Queen’. Sherlock despised him, and he was probably the very last person the detective would ever choose as his partner; even Molly Hooper’s chances were better… So his first priority in dealing with his brother had been to let him think that he despised emotions, because Sherlock could never know how deeply he felt for him. That task has been successful, but the price he had paid had been Sherlock's rejection. It had hurt; he admitted it. But at least Mycroft's heart had been safe.
And then Sherrinford had happened. A gun had been directed at him, when Sherlock had had to choose between him and his best friend, as if that had even been a question. Mycroft would have never thought that Sherlock would waste a single thought on shooting John. He had only wanted to make it even easier for baby brother to pull the trigger at him. But in that moment he had thought to be his last, he had shown the heart which he had, at the same time, denied to even possess.
[Well... I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me. I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but... why don’t we try for that?]
Shedding all the shields he had been upholding for so long, he had let Sherlock see his deep affection as he had thought he had truly nothing to lose anymore. In return, he had seen a brief flicker of confusion on his brother’s face, followed by an even briefer ‘aha-moment-expression’, and he had known that his honesty had not gone amiss. Sherlock had seen what he had hidden for so long – the exact way he was feeling for him.
And then, to Mycroft's everlasting horror, baby brother had turned the gun at himself instead. Had threatened to end his fascinating life full of adventures then and there. What Mycroft had understood only later, he had of course not planned to actually do that; he had been playing Eurus. Had counted on her to interrupt his countdown and show her hand. It had worked. All of them had come out of that cell alive; well, except for the governor... Oh, and John had, a little later, taken an involuntary bath on the ground of a well, in the company of poor little Victor’s rotten bones.
In the ruins of Musgrave, Sherlock had played nice with sister dear, the pathological criminal, to save his best friend – successfully. And Mycroft? He had woken up in Eurus’ old cell, unharmed but dizzy, not knowing what had happened to his brother. He had seen him being shot with that tiny dart, before taking one himself, but who could have known what Eurus’ insane mind had come up with afterwards? The two hours until he had been freed by the police had been the longest of his life. Well, at least until the realisation had set in that he had shown Sherlock what he felt for him and neither of them was dead… Naturally, he had been very happy that Sherlock was unharmed, obviously, but he might have thought that he wouldn’t have minded if Sherlock had shot him instead of learning that Mycroft loved him in all the wrong ways...
They had met just two times since then – in the presence of their rightfully horrified parents. Harsh words had been uttered when they had assembled in his office the day after. Mycroft knew he had sort of deserved them, even if he had not been the one that had decided to fake Eurus’ death and lock her up for good. That had been Uncle Rudy when Mycroft himself had only been a boy. But Mycroft had continued the charade as there had really been no other reasonable option – there had never been the chance of releasing his murderous sister so she could dance around the Christmas tree with them before burning the next house down… If that made him an ‘idiot boy’ all at once, so be it. And that Sherlock, who had taken every drug under the sun since his early teens, had suddenly ‘always been the grown-up’, well, Mummy, be my guest… It was not fair, it was actually ridiculous, but Mycroft didn't care much about it. Mummy would calm down eventually. She had even taken his hand when the entire family had gathered in Sherrinford, Sherlock and Eurus playing a duet on their violins included. It had been an insane little scene, so domestic, yet so unbelievable. Eurus was a monster. She had always been a monster, and there was no hope for her. Sherlock had requested the helicopter to the prison five times since then, but not for the past few days. Perhaps he had already understood that playing ‘big brother’ for a woman who felt nothing but wrath and jealousy was a waste of time…
And now…
Now he was calling him. Not Anthea, as he had done when he had sought to organise his trips to the forsaken island. Him.
For how long had the phone been signalling the call already, as Mycroft was staring at it in terror, thoughts whirling, his mouth dry as toast, his hand shaking? Would Sherlock give up when he didn't answer?
Apparently not… The unnerving tone went on and on.
Closing his eyes, he summoned all his courage and finally took the call. “Good morning, Sherlock.” His voice sounded raspy and shaky to his own ears.
There was no answer. But he could hear his brother breathe.
Mycroft, feeling now confused on top of being terrified and out of his depth, cleared his throat. “I trust that you are okay? How is Doctor Watson?”
Why was he even asking that? He hated that nasty little man. Why he had called him a ‘fine man in many respects’ in Sherrinford was beyond him. Fine, he had saved Sherlock’s life at least twice, but the second time, it had been him who had been the reason for Sherlock to be hospitalised and almost murdered by a serial killer in the first place… Mycroft would never forgive him for his violence against his brother – or himself for rummaging in Sherlock's belongings like a fool while his brother had been in grave danger – and he would also not forgive his wife for shooting him. Which he had not known before Mrs Watson had bitten the dust, otherwise she would have done so much sooner… The story of Sherlock and the Watsons was an insane one – and still Sherlock saw John as ‘family’… Would the widowed doctor now move back into 221B, with his child in tow this time, whatever its name was? It sounded like a bad idea – what if the little brat hurt itself thanks to the hazardous environment the ever-experimenting detective created? John would lash out again, hurt him once more, possibly worse than ever, and then Mycroft would have to finally kill him...
Anyway… Sherlock had still not said a word.
Mycroft grew cold as he figured that his brother had called to accuse him of having improper feelings for him and was just not finding the words to do so.
Hastily, he started to talk again. “Would you like to see Eurus? I can arrange – …”
“No.”
Mycroft winced when Sherlock finally spoke. But of course he was not unhappy to hear that his brother did not plan to resume his visits to the prison, at least not right now. “Okay, fine. Do you need money?” He winced again when Sherlock actually chuckled at that.
“No,” the detective said then. “I have to go. Laters.”
“Have a good day.” Mycroft stared at the phone in his hand. The line had gone dead, and he was none the wiser.
What had that been now? Why had Sherlock called him and then said basically nothing?
And why had his brother just sounded as if he had not used his voice for days on end?
2
Sherlock didn't contact him for three days. By then, Mycroft had come to the conclusion that that weird call had meant nothing. He had imagined things, clearly. Sherlock had probably forgotten that meaningful exchange during the ordeal in Sherrinford. How silly of him to assume otherwise. In all probability, Sherlock had just been bored, and when he had heard his dull older brother speak, he had obviously remembered how much he despised him, the old borer, slave of the Queen. Mycroft could go on with his life, knowing that Sherlock didn't care about his feelings – and why would he, all of a sudden? Nothing had changed. Same old, same old. It should not be weighing him down, but it did.
So when he had stepped out of the shower after another long day at the office, dried himself off and listlessly went about the tedious business of brushing his teeth, ready to go to bed and get some hours of sleep before it was time to step into the treadmill of dealing with idiots and saving the kingdom again, the phone going off on the sink almost gave him a heart attack. There was no special ringtone for Sherlock, no fascinating melody, symbolising his clever and oh-so-handsome little brother, but Mycroft knew instantly that this was not Sir Edwin with some stupid request. Maybe he simply hoped it would be Sherlock. Even though he had no reason to do so.
He was reminded of that fact when Sherlock said nothing after he had taken the call, spitting out the toothpaste in the same moment.
“I, uh, just showered. Now I’m brushing my teeth.” God, he sounded like an imbecile… Sherlock clearly did that to him these days. He was like a toddler boasting about his newfound abilities…
Sherlock did not answer. Well, it had not been exactly a great start for a conversation, had it…
Mycroft realised that he was still fully naked, his hair damp, his mouth tasting of strong peppermint. What would Sherlock say if he could see him like this? So… vulnerable. Reduced to basic humanity. Yes, even Mycroft Holmes had to clean off the dirt of the day. He even used the toilet. Thank god Sherlock had not called him while doing that…
“So, how was your day?” A question might spark an answer, no? Staying on some banal and innocuous topic would surely be okay? Just some brotherly small talk, for a change?
There was silence. Just breathing, again.
Mycroft was standing in his clean, cool bathroom, his feet were getting cold, and remains of toothpaste were drying on his chin. He felt like a dolt, helpless, even frightened. He had no idea what Sherlock's aim was. Was this some kind of torture? Would the clown and the dwarf appear again any moment now, screaming ‘boo!’ and running around him, cackling? Was Doctor Watson sitting next to Sherlock, biting his fist so he wouldn’t burst out laughing?
This was ridiculous. He should hang up and go about his business. Get dressed, have a drink – and fuck having just brushed his teeth! – and go to bed, reading a good book. And tomorrow, he should start over anew. Go out more, enjoy life. Hell, maybe there even was some male who was not a total imbecile out there! Maybe among the millions of men in this beautiful kingdom, there was someone who was worth spending time with. Who was entertaining and smart and handsome – like baby brother… But not a forbidden fruit. Not out for making his life a living hell. Just some nice company to have dinner with, and perhaps something more… He could go on holiday for a change with that mysterious person. To some nice island maybe, where two men in love would not eyed with disgust. He didn't actually know if this was even the case in London these days. He did remember it happening in his early days of knowing that he was homosexual, before he realised that he had the hots for nobody else but his baby brother. He had not been in love, but he’d gone through a short period of dating, and he had experienced unfriendly side glances. Nobody had attacked him or anything. But he had been feeling uncomfortable. But perhaps he had just felt like that because he had been with the wrong guys.
That didn't mean there wasn’t someone for him. He could get out of this situation. Easily. Well, hanging up would be easy. Everything else he had just fantasised about would lead him way out of his comfort zone…
The fact of the matter was – he did not want anybody else. He didn't want some easygoing stud to have fun with. The concept of having fun was foreign to him anyway… He had not felt good with the few men he had spent some time with two decades ago, and he doubted very much that it would be any different with any man he could possibly see now. Given the contempt he harboured for humanity, it would probably be much, much worse...
And he had still not hung up. He was still listening to his brother breathing quietly into the phone.
Then the phone almost slipped from his hand when a well-known baritone husked, “Good night, brother mine.”
He stood there, naked and cold, several more minutes before he put the phone away; the line had gone dead immediately after Sherlock's words. He had no idea how to feel about this.
Or how to beat down that tiny bit of hope that had dared raise its head in his heart.
3
Mycroft – like most people, certainly – had never been truly able to understand how a rabbit was feeling when confronted by a hungry snake. Since Lady Smallwood had first lured him into having a drink with her, he knew it… He had agreed to it, foolishly, naively, without thinking too much about it. He had, if at all, expected it to be a casual gathering of long-time colleagues, enjoying some downtime together, tattling about all the imbeciles at the office, the PM obviously being on top of that list. They would chuckle and toast to each other and then part amicably, feeling relaxed and at ease with one another.
Instead, he had been feeling like prey. When she had approached him, he had seen a glimmer of determination in the lady’s eyes he had clearly missed before. There had been a scrawny hand with dark-red nail polish on his knee! Red lips had been licked in anticipation. A voice had been lowered to seductive whispering.
And Mycroft had wanted to jump up and run away. Actually – that was exactly what he had done. Panicking, he had fumbled for his phone and pretended to get a call, almost dropping it onto the floor. Had made up a matter of urgency so he could flee; a clumsy way out of an awful situation, surely, but it had been the best he could do, being completely out of his depth. In his haste, he had forgotten his umbrella; thankfully, it had not been one of his special ones. He had never gotten it back. When he had sent his driver to collect it a day later, the man had been told there had not been a brolly to be found. He guessed someone had taken it with them and destroyed it in fury...
For months after that disastrous encounter, Elizabeth had treated him with barely suppressed contempt, only meeting him if it was strictly necessary, and that had been more than fine with him. That woman scared him. He had no intention to end up on her plate, so to speak.
Lately, though, she had resumed dropping by for some clearly made-up reason or other. He had feigned, mostly truthfully, to be too busy to spend any time with her that exceeded wishing each other a good evening. But tonight, after another arduous day at the office – and somehow, he had been barely able to concentrate properly on his tasks – she had popped up after Anthea had left, bringing a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
He had not dared ask what the occasion was, but she had blathered on about a mission that had gone exceptionally well, a mission he had not even been involved in. In fact, he had not even heard anything about it, so who could say if it had even really happened? Not that it mattered...
Sitting on his chair in agony, his balls trying to retreat into his body, his hands boring into the armrests of the chair, he had been about to conjure up an excuse for not being able to stay for any more minute, when his phone rang for real.
It was Sherlock.
“Oh, I must take this,” he told the lady, and she rolled her eyes.
“What a surprise,” she mumbled, but Mycroft paid her no heed.
“Hello, Sherlock. How are you? Can I be of help?”
There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. At least this time, Sherlock didn't choose to stay silent.“Let me guess. You are still at the office, and you are not alone. Your visitor isn’t a welcome one. You sound as if you’re in complete panic.”
“Yes. You are right. We should really talk about Mummy’s birthday party.” God, what was he even talking about? But he could hardly tell Sherlock about the situation while it was still ongoing, could he?!
“That was lame. It’s that old woman – Smallwood?”
“Right again. It’s… difficult.”
“I bet. She’s had the hots for you for quite some time now, hasn’t she?”
“And right once more…” Help me, Sherlock!
“Not interested, right?”
“No chance in hell.” I’m only interested in you… And you know it. That’s why you are calling, right? But what do you want to hear? An apology? A clarification? What do you want? And how am I supposed to know it?
Emotions are not my area. Not because I don’t have any. But because I have never acted on them. I want to, now, but what if you are only waiting for me to blurt out my love for you, just to throw it into my face? Perhaps you are not sure if what you saw in that room was more than the brotherly affection I never really showed you either, for as long as we’ve both been adults? I guess you’ve forgotten how close we were when you were a child.
Mycroft suddenly realised that he had been silent for too long. And Sherlock had not spoken again, either. He also just noticed that he was alone in his office. The lady had gone. She had left the champagne, though…
A part of him wanted to ask his brother if he should come to him, bringing the bottle so they could share it.
I want to drink it from your mouth. I want to lick it off your body. I want it to run from your cock so I can catch it with my tongue…
For a brief moment, he thought he had said it out loud, and he started to shiver. Was he losing his mind? After all those years of repressing his desires quite successfully, had they now finally taken control of him? Would he get his cock out and start beating off, right here in his office?
But he had obviously not said anything. And he could hear that Sherlock was still on the line. “Sherlock?” His voice sounded frail and shaky.
“Is she gone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So long, brother mine.” And with this, Sherlock ended the connection.
And Mycroft stared at the phone in his hand, knowing that even if he had not gone insane yet, he would most definitely reach that point in no time at all if things continued like this.
Maybe that was Sherlock's plan? Pushing him over the edge, making him curl into a ball and sob for eternity? But what for? What would he gain from his older brother being committed to a lunatic asylum or whatever these places were called these days?
Sighing, Mycroft leaned back in his chair. This was not the end of this challenging situation. In fact, he was sure it had only just begun.