Work Text:
1
”You're okay, Sherlock?”
Sherlock slowly turned his head to his flatmate. “Why wouldn't I be, John?”
The doctor shrugged. “Ah, I don't know. You just looked as if you were a million miles away.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How very daily-soap-opera-like, Watson.”
“Sorry what?” John looked confused and a tad hurt.
It was time for a deep sigh. “What exactly is your point?”
“My point is that you just almost looked catatonic.” John fumbled with his shirt collar. “Even more than you usually do, recently.”
“Please! I just solved the case of Mrs… whatever her name was!” The elderly woman with the violet hair had only left 221b a couple of minutes ago in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and with murder in her heart, and no other client had taken her place in the new and even more uncomfortable visitor's chair so far.
“Yes you did.”
“Within five minutes I might add.” Sherlock emptied his cup and grimaced at the lukewarm tea.
“Which was rather slow for you actually.” Sometimes John was a tad annoying.
“Oh, so you could have solved it quicker?”
“I didn’t say that! But normally you would have done it in less than a minute!”
“So you fear that I'm suffering from what, dementia?”
“Why are you so snappish? I just see that you're not really behaving like yourself.” John certainly was himself in his black jeans and the ugly green shirt. His short hair was stylishly ruffled up.
“That's ridiculous…”
“Oh is it? You didn’t tell her to talk faster! You didn’t roll your eyes at the easy case! You didn’t say it was boring! You even pretended to be thinking about it even though I bet you knew at once that it was the postie! You just told her and didn’t brag about it for a second! No dramatic revelation in the least!”
“So basically you're complaining that I wasn’t impolite enough to her and didn’t behave like a drama queen after telling me for years to stop both of that? Do you think you're making any sense?”
John sighed deeply. “Yeah, if you put it like that, it does sound silly. I just think you've changed a lot since Sherrinford. It wasn't only this. Since we've moved in here again… you're… different.”
“What an in-depth diagnosis, Doctor Watson. Don't you have to go to work?”
“Yeah, fine, yes. I'll leave Rosie with Molly.” He picked up the little girl, dressed in red from head to toe, from the blanket she had been playing on with her newest favourite toy – a little blue elephant named Tubby.
“She can stay with me, you know! I won't cook her or use her for an experiment!”
“You never cook. And you haven’t done any experiments since we ...”
“Alright!”
John sighed once more. “I know she's totally safe with you, Sherlock. But Molly has her day off and… she's lonely. She loves to take care of my girl.”
“No problem at all. I just wanted to make sure you know I'm fine with looking after her. If Lestrade calls with a case, I can still bring her to Mrs Hudson. Or take her to the crime scene. It's about time she gets used to bloody, disembowelled corpses.”
John chuckled. “Arsehole.”
Sherlock grinned. “You're sure you want her to hear that? Would be a nice first word…”
John blushed. “Fuck! Oops…”
They laughed a little together, and then John asked, “Will you go visiting your sister this week?”
Sherlock's face fell. “No. And I don't think I'll go there so soon again. Or at all to be precise. It doesn't make any sense, John. I've tried for weeks but I can't make a connection with her. She smiles and plays with me but she's… a million miles away…” It really fitted, this clichéd expression… Obviously John saw the same in his face when he looked at him now. Which wasn’t exactly surprising for him, not that he would admit it.
“You did your best. But I personally never thought… she would open up again. Except for… you know…”
“Creating more havoc? She gave up, I think. She played her game, she lost, and now she's… finished.” The security had been dramatically increased since that bloody day…
“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you thought you could help her and I really hoped for you that you could. But sometimes… you just have to accept that it's not possible to make a change.”
“I think so, yes.”
“But…”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But what?”
“You have one more sibling, you know. When have you spoken to him the last time?”
Sherlock pressed his lips together. He knew when it had been – when he, Mycroft and their parents had met in Sherrinford as a family for the first and last time. Mycroft had joined Mummy and Father to listen to Sherlock and Eurus playing on the violin together. Sherlock knew the older Holmes had gone to the prison a few times since then but Mycroft had not accompanied them. Neither had Sherlock, who had preferred going alone. Until he had understood that he didn’t want to do it anymore. He would never make a difference for his sister, for more than one reason. And he had even more problems with dealing with the other one… For also more than one reason.
But John couldn’t let it rest of course, even though he had never liked his brother. “You should maybe talk to him, you know. It wasn't easy for him, this day. He…”
“Go to work, John.” His old and new flatmate still worked part time at the clinic, mostly late shifts.
“Alright. In your pace. But nobody is there forever. Reach out to him before it's too late.”
Sherlock stood up. “Do you know anything that I don't? About my brother?”
John shook his head vehemently, making Rosie pat his cheek with a giggle. “No! How would I? He would never consult me, you know that. He doesn’t like me any more than I like him… I have no reason to think he could be sick! But you know his job – he lives for it. Works endless hours every day. I wonder if he ever takes any time off.”
“So you're basically saying he could drop dead off his chair any day with a heart attack or a stroke… No, John. He works out, he's fit.” They had seen the treadmill when they had gone to his house that night. An action that made him feel very tense now.
“But he's not immortal. Just saying that you should perhaps consider having a better relationship with him. You tried it with Eurus after all…” 'And she's a monster' was left unsaid.
“I highly doubt he's missing me, John.” He sounded defensive and he knew it was a lie.
“I'm not so sure about that. Anyway… See you later.”
“Yes. Bye, Rosie.”
John took her little right hand and made her wave at Sherlock, and he waved back, and then the Watsons were gone.
Sherlock stayed seated for another ten minutes. He heard the clock ticking. No client rang the doorbell. No text came in. It was too silent in this flat with the brand new carpets, the foreign-feeling furniture he and John had bought together and the walls that still smelled newly painted. And the memories he had suppressed for so long were swirling through his mind. No memories of Victor. He had made his peace with them weeks ago. But what held his mind hostage were other memories of his childhood that had gotten lost along the way as well. He had chosen to forget Eurus and Victor, supported by his brother, but he had also forgotten about said brother. In all the ways that counted.
But now the memories had all come back. Not in one rush but little by little. A word, a tune, a smell, everything could bring back another reminiscence of a long gone past – it was as if his brain (or his heart?) wanted to save itself from being flooded. They were not just memories, not just facts after all – they were linked with strong emotions. And they had painted a picture of a brotherly bond that he could hardly believe to have ever forgotten about.
They had been so close – he and Mycroft.
Sherlock knew a thing or two about a phenomenon called 'false memories' but he was sure he didn’t have any of that. Instead he remembered flashes of a time when he had been too young to being able to memorise anything, and still he knew it was all true.
He remembered how Mycroft had carried him around as a four-month-old. How he had comforted him and smiled at him. How he had taught him everything. He had literally made his first steps being held by his brother's hands. His first word had been 'Mygoff' and his brother had beamed at him and told him what a clever boy he was. He had simply lied when he had told Sherlock he had thought he was an idiot. In fact he had always been proud of Sherlock, who learned faster than any other child, except for Mycroft himself and Eurus of course.
When Sherlock allowed it to happen, he saw his early childhood in fast motion, and it was all about his big brother. He saw Eurus at the periphery as well but she hadn't counted. She had been there but all he had cared about was Mycroft and, a lot less, Victor. And that was the reason for not visiting her anymore that he had not told John. He had realised that Child Sherlock had not given a damn for her, and she knew it, too. She had always known it.
Her deadly game had been her last try to reach him, and then she had witnessed this scene between him, Mycroft and John. She had counted on the brothers having been estranged for so long, on him having forgotten about their closeness so long ago, making it easy for him to shoot him. And Sherlock knew she had wanted to punish Mycroft for being Sherlock's sun while she had been in the shadows. The ultimate punishment – being shot by the little brother he still loved more than anything in the world. But when she had seen Mycroft's sentiment in his eyes, like Sherlock had done, this expression full of understanding and acceptance, and watched Sherlock rather turning the gun to his own head than shooting his brother, she had known that their brotherly bond had never truly been broken but simply been buried under resentment and time to be still alive deep down there, and she had known his memories would come back.
And they had, and that's why she had only smiled sadly at him when he had come to her cell and still hadn't said a word, silently letting him know it made no sense. And how could he really try to bond with her now that he was aware that she had really wanted Mycroft to die at his hands in the stupid, selfish attempt to win him over? Knowing it would have destroyed him? He had not understood at once, especially after she had let Mycroft live afterwards, but then he had realised why… He had not shot him, and the only revenge she could still have was that he either wouldn’t remember against all odds, or that he wouldn't act on these memories, leaving his brother in his life-long loneliness.
'I'm not lonely, Sherlock!'
But yes, he was.
The memories had come back and he had no idea what to do with them but he knew he couldn’t ignore them. He had to at least try to make things better between him and big brother Mycroft.
But how? Call Mycroft, tell him he remembered how he had taught Sherlock to ride a bicycle? How he had let him snuggle up with him when he'd had a nightmare? Or just tell him it was about time to bury the hatchet and be good brothers again? After about thirty years of pushing Mycroft away, mocking him, rejecting him, banning him from his life? Their estrangement wasn't a one way street after all. Mycroft had become colder and more reptilian- like with every year. The higher he had climbed the ladder of power, the less approachable he had become. He had despised Sherlock for his drug use and told him more than once that he abhorred any sentimental nonsense.
'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock!'
'Is that sentiment talking?'
And he didn’t have to say it anyway. His entire appearance oozed coldness and an arrogance towards everybody, even Sherlock. Beneath all this, Sherlock was sure his brother still loved him, still cared for him. But the Iceman was doing a good job at hiding it. Most of the times…
It was simply impossible to reach out to him so easily. Sherlock knew he wasn’t any better at expressing feelings than his brother was – and Sherrinford had proven that his brother did feel a lot for him. Probably this situation was the reason that he kept ignoring Sherlock now. Not only had he messed up Eurus' containment, or so he certainly thought, he had tried to give his life for John so Sherlock wouldn’t have to lose another friend. Of course he was feeling embarrassed and emotionally exposed now, and he would never allow Sherlock – let alone anyone else as Sherlock was sure – to see him that vulnerable ever again.
Of course, there had been two situations before when he had let down his guards.
'I was there for you before, I'll be there for you again – I'll always be there for you.'
'Your loss would break my heart.'
And how had Sherlock reacted to these so rare displays of emotion? He didn’t even want to think about that anymore… Or the moment when he had twisted Mycroft's arm and pushed him against the wall. Sedating him and stealing his laptop, on Christmas above all. All the jokes about his diet. The contemptuous looks…
In short, the situation was as fucked up as it could get, and Sherlock had no idea how to make it better.
Sending Lestrade to Mycroft after Sherrinford had also not been a very wise idea… The DI had told Sherlock that Mycroft had just given him an indifferent smile and told him he was absolutely fine, even though everybody could have seen that he wasn't. And what had Sherlock done with this information? Nothing. He had been busy with the build-up of 221b, repairing his not much less fucked up relationship with John and wasting time with Eurus and, of course, he had taken care of some interesting cases. And step by step and totally unwanted, he had remembered what he had chosen to forget – that Mycroft had been the most important human in his life.
He buried his face in his hands. He didn’t have a clue what he should do about it. He imagined Mycroft, sitting in his office or working on a scheme with someone. Always busy, always in control – as long as Sherlock wasn't involved. Would Mycroft even want to go back, have Sherlock back as his close little brother? Or was he grateful for the silence between them? But then, it had always been Mycroft to break this silence. Asking for Sherlock's help on cases he could have solved himself in twenty seconds. Pretending to need to talk about Mummy. He had always reached out to Sherlock, and Sherlock had always rejected him, and he didn’t even know why. A cruel habit, born of resentment for Mycroft's revolting way of admonishing him for his life choices again and again? Regression into his teenage years when he had pushed everyone away, just on principle?
In any way Mycroft seemed to not want to see him or even talk to him anymore, if out of shame for Sherrinford or because of Sherlock's wish to bond with Eurus or just because he simply had enough of him, Sherlock didn’t know. But now it was him who didn’t want this distance anymore.
He shook his head, knowing he wouldn’t get any closer to a solution than he had been the last couple of weeks. He couldn’t just text Mycroft and ask him how he was doing. Well, of course he could but…
Impatiently he got up to get his laptop from his bedroom. He needed to distract himself. Investigating something, digging up a case, finding inspiration for an experiment, playing some stupid game, anything to distract himself, preferably on a bigger screen than the one his smartphone provided. And then he saw John's laptop lying on the table. Even better. Sparing him a long walk to his room.
He put it on his lap and started it. John had long stopped using a password as Sherlock had figured it out every time, and of course their server was as secure as it could get - a gift from Mycroft many years ago. Sherlock was opening the browser in no time. It showed the last page John had accessed, and it wasn't his blog – and not any embarrassing pornography site either. It was a website called 'Ask A Friend!'
Sherlock glanced over it curiously. Apparently it was a place for people to ask strangers, not friends, about her opinion about all imaginable matters. It didn’t take him long to find out that John had really posted something there in the morning. He had used the name of Rosie's toy elephant... Sherlock rolled his eyes at the silly sentimentality of this choice. Of course it was rather… cute though…
TUBBY66 10:11 Sister-Daughter-Problem Hello! I need some advice, if you are so kind. My sister, Carrie, is an alcoholic. She wants to have more contact with my daughter, but as much as I care for her, I'm hesitant to leave my girl with her. She doesn’t have a mother anymore and I think it would be good for her to be around women more. And Carrie doesn't drink anymore and my daughter is a quiet, nice child but what if…
Sherlock shook his head. Did John really believe anybody could give him advice on how to deal with his own family problems? He had not come to him with them. Or had he and Sherlock had just ignored him? No, he would recall that. He was a little hurt but then he remembered that he hadn't spoken with John about the memories of him and Mycroft and his struggles about how to deal with his brother now. But that was normal for him, wasn't it, but not normal for John! John didn’t like Mycroft; he had just said it again. Sherlock had hardly ever met John's sister and didn’t have any opinion about her. But then… what would he have told his friend? He couldn’t think of any solution for John's problem right now. He was used to solving puzzles, not annoying emotions. He still shuddered when he thought about this forced 'I love you' for Molly… They hadn't spoken about it. Not once. He knew John had explained the situation in Sherrinford to her the next day. When he met Molly now, she blushed and smiled wryly and was obviously not keen on discussing it with him, thank God… Eurus had really known how to wind people up…
But now… Had anybody helped John? He looked at the replies without bothering to read the doctor's question to the end.
TAMMY FAYE 10:24 Hello Tubby! Oh, I KNOW what you mean! My brother drinks as well and I keep telling him…
Sherlock sighed. Very helpful… Answering someone's question with whining about their own problems…
CLARISSA67 10:57 Hello! Welcome to our little family! It's an interesting question, you know. I remember…
Sherlock sighed. What a bloody waste of time. There were a few more answers from people with names like FLOWERPOWERGIRL and MISTERSPOCKY but he doubted they had offered any better advice…
He grabbed for his phone hectically when it vibrated with an incoming call. “Lestrade! Tell me you've got a case!”
“I do, it might not be the most interesting one but…”
“On my way!”
No matter how boring it would be, it was still better than to sit here and brood or read this nonsense…
2
“How was your appointment?” Mycroft leaned back in his chair. His eyes were tired from staring at the screen without a break for way too long.
Anthea gave him a wry smile and tapped against her face. “Ghastly. This dentist needs a tax inspection very badly…”
Mycroft grinned. “That can be arranged anytime. If you don't feel like working, you can go home; it's late enough anyway.”
“Thank you, sir, but there are a few things I want to finish today. And you still have your appointment with the PM in half an hour and I thought I'd better come back to remind you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have forgotten about that!”
They shared a look and both of them grinned, Anthea with a rather swollen left cheek.
Mycroft really didn’t know what he'd do without her. She didn’t just organise his day and reminded him of all the annoying appointments he tended to forget about over working on matters of real importance. She also understood him like nobody else did. This conversation was the limit of getting personal with each other though. They never spoke about anything private. Which was easy enough as Mycroft didn't have any private life and Anthea didn’t talk about hers. He did know that Anthea was in a long-term-relationship with a woman she had met at university; everybody who worked in this environment had to be open about their family status and their partner's records and lives were screened thoroughly.
They were not friends, as Mycroft didn’t have any friends, but probably she was the closest he would ever come to having such a thing. She knew him to some extent, and their working relationship based on trust, respect and the same dry sense of humour and the contempt for a few people in this building. Probably more than a few… Mycroft was surrounded by goldfish but Anthea was none of them.
The meeting with the PM required all the patience Mycroft Holmes didn’t have, and when he stalked back to his office, his face hurting from the false smile he had forced onto it, his blood pressure was only slowly going down. He was surprised to see Anthea still sitting at her desk. He took a glimpse at the screen while he was approaching her and realised this wasn’t work related.
She only heard him coming now and turned to him. “Sorry, sir, I'm finished and…”
“Not a problem.” But he was surprised about the website. From glancing over it, it seemed to be a hotspot for people who liked to brag about their personal problems, and he wouldn’t have expected Anthea to participate in this.
“My… girlfriend has launched this site,” she explained even though he hadn't asked for an explanation.
“Oh, I see. Looks as if it's sought after a lot.”
“Yes. It's not my cup of tea but… she's a psychologist and it's apparently very interesting for that matter.”
“I don't doubt that at all…”
“Oh, your mother called.”
When Mycroft was in a meeting, his phone calls were forwarded to his PA. “Did she?”
“Yes. She and your father want to see your sister tomorrow. I arranged everything, as usual.”
“Thank you.” He gave her a smile and turned to go to his office.
“Your brother on the other hand…”
He turned back quickly. “Yes?” Had Sherlock really called, too?
“He hasn’t asked for that for two weeks.”
Mycroft didn’t show his disappointment. But had he really expected something else? Why would Sherlock call him? He never did. But still – this was interesting… “He didn't?” Mycroft knew his little brother had gone to Sherrinford regularly, at least twice a week.
Anthea shook her head. “No. He solved a case for DI Lestrade a few hours ago.” Meaning Sherlock was doing fine. Not that Mycroft wouldn’t have been informed if he wasn't. His brother and the doctor had always been under surveillance. Not always very successfully (Adler, Magnussen…) but Mycroft would know if something was seriously wrong with his brother, let alone for two weeks.
He didn’t react to it. “I'll be off in ten minutes.”
“I've prepared the Hasselton-contract for signing. It's on your desk.”
“Thank you.” He would take care of that even though it would have had time until the next morning and glance over his emails and then he would be off after another long day in the Cabinet Office. And he doubted he would think of anything else than his brother, like every evening.
*****
Mycroft knew he had to be looking like a cliché. The cliché of a wealthy, hard-working man, rid of his duties for the day. He was sitting in his armchair, a glass of fine brandy in his right hand, clothed in silken pyjamas with a purple dressing gown over them. A man of the world, having retreated from the worries of the world for now.
He had taken a long, hot shower and shaved off the stubble of the day, had eaten a light dinner and now he was simply relaxing, or so it would have appeared to anyone who watched him. But nobody was there of course. This huge house he had bought fifteen years ago had never harboured any guests. Sherlock had hardly ever been here, and Mycroft would have loved to be able to forget the last time his brother and his dear friend Doctor Watson had paid him a visit, along with two scary people…
Of course he would never forget that. Not because he had made a complete fool out of himself that night, being scared of their schemes but because it had led to the little adventure in Sherrinford that had shaken him to his very core.
Weeks had gone by and he had not forgiven himself for bringing Sherlock and even John Watson into danger like this. What if Eurus had not interfered after his brother had pointed the gun at his own head? What if she had let him shoot himself? And Mycroft didn’t doubt that he would have done it, just like he would have been willing to die to save Sherlock and to save him from losing another friend.
Why had Sherlock not shot him? Because he didn’t like to be told what to do? Because he didn’t want to be calculable? Because he, deep inside, liked him? The last explanation was the one that was the hardest to believe. Sherlock had forgotten. Forgotten everything about their past. But he had started to remember Eurus and Victor. Had he also recalled what he had forgotten about himself and Mycroft?
Mycroft had dared hope that for two days. And then Sherlock had started visiting his sister. It had been like a punch. He could have forbidden it, of course. Could have said it was too risky. But naturally, he had not. It was not his to decide whether Sherlock may be in contact with Eurus. His little brother hadn't understood. He hadn't realised that Eurus had seriously wanted Mycroft to die, but only from Sherlock's hands. It wouldn't have suited her to do it herself. Still she had won, he had thought. Sherlock had gone there time after time to get to know her, to be a brother for her. It had almost killed Mycroft but he had not shown it. He had even joined Sherlock and their parents once. Which had been a good idea because Mummy and Father had forgiven him for lying to them and making them believe Eurus was dead. But if he could avoid it, he would never go there again.
And now Sherlock had stopped going there, too. Why? Because she still didn’t talk? Because he couldn’t make the connection with her he had sought after? Or had he, in the end, understood what her game had really been about - winning him over and make him kill the brother who had taken Sherlock away from her?
He sipped at the brandy that was burning nicely in his throat. He had watched Sherlock forget their closeness, had even supported it like he had supported him forgetting about Eurus and his unlucky friend, Victor. Everything to make Sherlock's soul heal.
And when Sherlock had become older, Mycroft had been grateful for his brother's rejection and nastiness and hostility and had even provoked it again and again, for reasons he hadn't even admitted to himself for a very long time. His road had demons, too, and his worst demon was the love he had developed for his teenage brother; a love that had nothing to do with brotherly care. It was way better that Sherlock despised him than that he realised what he meant to him.
But then – Sherrinford. Mycroft had really thought, seriously expected Sherlock would shoot him when he hadn't had a way out, or so it had seemed. He had known that Sherlock would never kill his best friend so it hadn't been a question for him. And for the first time since these days of Sherlock's early childhood, he had lowered his shields and shown him his love.
He had done it before, once or twice. But he had either been drugged, and thanks very much, Sherlock, or he had been in a state of shock like when he'd had to send Sherlock away, fearing he would never see him again even though he'd had a plan up his sleeve, just to get him back so quickly when Moriarty had appeared on the screens.
Sherlock was his weak spot, always had been, the only one who could rip such a reaction out of him, even though adult Sherlock had never asked for that or answered it with anything else but contempt.
But Mycroft knew he couldn’t pretend he didn’t care for him at all anymore. He had avoided meeting his brother, hoping to regain his composure, but he knew it was gone for good. He knew when they met again, Sherlock would, if he really remembered everything about his childhood now, see through any mask and realise Mycroft's feelings – the feelings of love that had never changed, which would be fine, but what if he was able to also see the feelings of desire he had shut away for so long?
They had come back with full force when he had watched Sherlock in Sherrinford. His cleverness, in the end surpassing Mycroft's and even Eurus', his wrath when he had destroyed this coffin. And if he was honest, the worst part of this horrible day had been when he'd had been forced to hear his brother confess his love for someone else.
He didn’t know if Sherlock really loved Molly Hooper; if this had been an epiphany for him, or if he had just convincingly lied. Mycroft could deduce everybody and everything but this was his blind spot. He really couldn’t say. And he had refrained from observing the pathologist, not wanting to find out if she and Sherlock had met afterwards. He knew it would be horrible for him, like Sherlock's inexplicable fondness of Irene Adler had hit him like a rock. He knew his brother had saved her, oh yes. He also knew she had never returned to England, and that they had never met again. But Molly Hooper was there and reachable and Mycroft couldn’t do anything against it if they got together. Well, of course he could have done something but this was out of the question. He would never stand in the way of Sherlock's happiness. He knew Sherlock wasn't happy, had never been, just like him. Sherlock had always struggled with his life and he was rather sure that not even Sherlock himself really knew why. Was it really just his large brain, in need of being either permanently occupied or silenced with drugs? Or had his buried memories led him down this path? Mycroft didn’t really want to think it was the latter, as it would have been his fault alone then… Perhaps Miss Hooper could make him happy after all. It would kill him, Mycroft, but he would never interfere.
He emptied his glass. Was that it? Would he have to stay away from his little brother forever now? He knew he couldn’t endure that. He had to lock away his abnormal feelings again and try to maintain what passed as a normal relationship with his brother. He would have to steel himself and go to him with a case soon. Sherlock would reject him like he had always done and he would admonish him and threaten him and in the end Sherlock would help him behind his back. Business as usual. But perhaps he would ask Sherlock why he didn’t go to Sherrinford anymore. Perhaps Sherlock would say that he… No. He wouldn’t. If he had really recalled their past days of brotherly love, and if he cared about that, he would have reached out to him by now.
They were both complicated men with a very complicated past, and of course their relationship had to be complicated. But he would give everything for being close to his brother again, just as a big brother, not even daring hoping for more, just be there for him and be accepted as he was. He felt he had to reach out to him now, and he just didn’t dare do it. Sherlock might not have killed him, but he still didn’t like him… And he would just die if Sherlock read his real feelings in his eyes and condemn him for them, or worse, mock him. And Mycroft had tried to get rid of these feelings for more than twenty years, and it had never worked. He loved his brother in all the right and all the wrong ways, and nothing would change it.
He got up to go to bed. A good night's sleep was the best he could hope for.
3
Sherlock knew he was dreaming. He always did. His brain needed the release that dreams provided, just like everybody's brain did, and probably even a lot more. His brain was under constant fire all day and in every wake minute, taking information, thinking and turning everything around, and dreaming was bringing at least a little peace to it. Despite his brilliance, he couldn’t direct or control his dreams, as stupid, confusing and annoying they mostly were, but he was aware that they weren't real, in opposite to normal people.
So he couldn’t get out of this situation – seeing his brother lying in the bloody coffin from Sherrinford - but he knew it wasn’t really happening. Which didn’t really make it any better…
'See – I told you that you should reconcile with him before it's too late!' Dream John said accusingly, his forefinger pointing at Sherlock. For some reason, he had a bloody nose. 'Now he's dead and it's too late!'
Dream Sherlock didn’t pay attention to him. He slowly walked towards the open coffin, which was surrounded by black roses and black candles above all, his eyes not leaving his brother's wax-like face for a single second. Blinking wasn't necessary in dreaming apparently.
The blue eyes of the Iceman, piercing and threatening in life, were closed. His long, curved nose wasn't taking in any breath. His lips were a bit parted. His skin was pale. A stray curl of his fine, black hair was sticking to the bullet hole in his forehead. His expression was far from being peaceful – it was pained even in death.
Finally Sherlock's gaze moved away from his features. Mycroft was wearing his 'uniform' – an expensive three-piece-suit, grey, with a silvery shimmer. The waistcoat beneath the open jacket was red. A bright red fabric Mycroft would have never worn, and coloured from the blood, still illogically pouring from the obscenely wide-opened bullet hole in his chest, right over his heart, which Sherlock could see. It wasn't beating anymore, but Sherlock could see how huge it was.
'I don't imagine it's much of a target, but why don't we try for that?'
So Dream Sherlock had shot both into his brain and his heart, one as big as the other.
He just stood there, staring at his dead brother, killed by his shivering hands, and then something hit his shoulder. He turned to see John standing next to him with the coffin lid, pointing silently at the inscription he knew all too well.
'I love you'.
And then Sherlock woke up with these words on his lips, and he knew they were true. For both of them. And somehow he had to get his senses together and deal with this fact.
*****
He could see John was curious why he was that quiet during breakfast, but he didn’t ask Sherlock. He just cleared his throat when Sherlock took out his phone to send a text.
Hello. How's the British Government doing? SH
He knew that wasn't a very original question. It even sounded like mocking. But it had taken him hours to even come up with this, and to gather enough courage to send it out.
Two minutes later, he got a reply.
Fine. The kingdom won't fall today. MH
Great… Just like he had expected…
“I'm going out a bit with Rosie,” John said. “Want to come with us?”
“No, thank you. I want to… work on an experiment.”
John seemed to be surprised but he just said, “Fine then. We won't be long.”
Fifteen minutes later the kitchen was tidied up and the Watson's left the building. And Sherlock grabbed John's laptop.
He had mused about for a long time who could give him any advice regarding Mycroft. Molly? No way. She might have been able to but he just couldn’t imagine talking to her about any personal matter. Not with this darn sentence hanging between them. Mrs Hudson? He knew she had called Mycroft a 'reptile'. Which might be true or not but he doubted very much that she would be very amenable to help him getting things better between them. And he had never spoken to her about anything personal, either… Their parents? They didn’t know Mycroft any better than he did. Mummy would just be worried and Father would be helpless. And John had ruled out himself by asking the people in this forum for help instead of turning to him. And obviously he also hadn't spoken with Molly or their landlady. Men didn’t ask for help. At least not anyone they knew…
He quickly accessed the website again and saw that John had received a few more answers. And some of them even sounded reasonable. John had thanked the people for their help and written that he would think about everything.
Should he try it, too? He didn’t have anything to lose, did he? He trusted that John wouldn’t dig any further in this forum, focusing on the answers he had gotten. Perhaps he wouldn’t even go back there at all.
He hesitated for a few more minutes before he sighed and set up an account.
*****
Mycroft read the last paragraph again. He hadn't memorised anything of it. In fact he could have read a recipe for German Sauerbraten instead and would have probably not noticed.
Sherlock had texted him not even half an hour ago. He had no idea what to make of this question. 'How's the British Government doing?'
He recalled that Sherlock had told John he was the British government many years ago. Was asking how he was doing too intimate for him? Had he just mocked him? Mycroft knew his answer had not been exactly kind. But he just couldn’t deal with his brother. He hadn't been able to for thirty years after all…
To his surprise he heard Anthea giggle from her office next to his one. He got up and walked over. “What's so funny?” he asked with a smile. Anything to distract him…
“Oh, sorry, sir. I thought I make a break after…”
“No, it's alright.” He shrugged and turned to leave again.
“It was my partner's website, sir. A funny question about how to get one's mother-in-law to move out…”
Mycroft grinned. “I see.”
“I'm just checking it to see if something has to be deleted. Christina can't go online at the moment as she's visiting her mum, and so I'm playing admin for a while. It looks as if Doctor Watson has also posted something there.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. I can't be sure as he uses a pseudonym of course but… he does have a daughter and a sister that had problems with alcohol addiction, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. Would you send me the link to this site?”
“Of course. Done!”
Mycroft thanked her and walked back to his desk. John Watson had asked for help… He would have a look. What concerned John Watson concerned Sherlock Holmes. And what concerned Sherlock Holmes…
A few minutes later he had read John's heart-warming question and the seven more or less helpful answers he had gotten. He had rolled his eyes so often that he feared they would go on by themselves.
But John seemed to be happy with the result, and Mycroft was about to close the site, content that John's problems were really just John's problems, when he saw a new post coming in. And the nickname this person was using immediately caught his attention - SLOOP REVENGE. It was the name of Blackbeard the Pirate's first ship.
He took a deep breath. This couldn’t be Sherlock, could it? He had no way to find out because he had provided his brother and Doctor Watson with an un-hackable server. Of course, if he investigated on this, he would know if it was such a server. Then he realised he was just procrastinating, and he started to read and his heart-rate increased tremendously already at the subject of this post.
SLOOP REVENGE 9:06 Brother-Brother-Problem Hello. Well, I don't know how to start or what I'm doing here actually. I'm not someone who asks people for advice. But I need some, and I can't go to any of my friends for it. Anyway. I have an older brother. We have never been very close. I thought. We have a rather difficult relationship. But only recently I found out that it wasn't always like this. I won't go into any detail about how I found out but it was a surprise.
Mycroft realised his hands were shivering. Sherlock had regained all or at least many of his childhood memories. He had hoped for it. And feared it.
In fact we were very close, a long time ago. He never stopped caring about me, I've always known that, but still I was absolutely ghastly to him. I had my reasons. Now they just seem stupid. I know what you think – talk to him! Let him know! But… my brother is not the easiest man to handle. Neither am I. I can't just go to him and say, 'hey, let's forget the last thirty years and be friends'. I wouldn’t work. I texted him to test the waters and he seemed rather annoyed.
Mycroft would have loved to throw his phone against the wall. Why had he answered Sherlock like this? The smart one? Not today…
He's very smart, my brother. Very important. Nobody except for an exclusive circle has ever heard his name but believe me, he's very, well, important. Has no time for anything but his job. But he always has time for me. I know I mean something to him. But he thinks I hate him. I don't. I didn’t before, he just drove me mental. Probably still would if I still had any real contact with him. Something happened and he's been avoiding me ever since. He probably feels guilty or embarrassed, which is stupid. It wasn't his fault.
Mycroft fumbled with his tie. It was too tight all at once. But when he had impatiently loosened it, his throat still felt as if it was under pressure. Not from the outside apparently… No. He wouldn’t sit at his desk in the middle of a work day and cry.
Sherlock thought the Eurus debacle wasn't his fault. He didn’t hate Mycroft. He wanted to reach out to him.
And then he wondered if someone else had written this. Anthea? Would she do that, to help him reconcile with Sherlock? Stupid. She wouldn't, and she couldn't have known he would ever look up this site. But then… She had laughed and drawn his attention to it. She could have prepared this text and posted it when she had known he was reading John Watson's post.
He saw that there were answers coming in. And he saw SLOOP REVENGE reply to them. He got up and stepped into Anthea's office. She wasn't there. Her phone was on the desk.
“Oh, do you need anything?” he heard from behind.
“Um, tea would be nice.”
She smiled, and it looked totally relaxed. “Of course, in fact I just took care of that. Will be ready in a minute.”
No. It wasn't her. It was Sherlock.
He thanked her and stumbled back into his office to go on reading, ignoring the conversation under the post for now.
Basically I have no idea how to let him know that I would like to have a better relationship with him. I'm… afraid he could laugh at me. Tell me I was sentimental and stupid. He's very sarcastic. Well… Any ideas? Thanks in advance.
It was like a punch in the gut. Sherlock had not refrained from reaching out to him because he didn’t care or because he thought it was past and gone and unimportant. He feared Mycroft could reject him… mock him… What sort of a rubbish big brother had he become?
He buried his face in his hands. And cringed when Anthea asked, “Sir, are you alright?”
“Yes,” he croaked. “I'm fine. Thanks for the tea.”
He lifted the cup, almost letting it drop as his hand was unsteady. He read what people suggested Sherlock. Dinner. A letter. Gifts. They asked what he liked, and Sherlock wrote 'cake'.
He could have called his brother now. He knew everything he needed to know. Where was the problem to suggest a meeting? Not mentioning that he had read this cry for help of course. And hiding what sort of feelings he also had for Sherlock. He had hidden them for so long. Why would he fail at hiding them now? But he knew why the danger was a lot higher now. Because now Sherlock was an adult. Now he wouldn’t ignore him anymore, would try to figure out how Mycroft was feeling about him after all that had gone wrong between them. He would watch him a lot closer than he had before. But damn, Mycroft was smart. He could ban these feelings again if he tried even harder than he had before. And of course Sherlock wouldn’t expect them. He didn’t have any romantic experiences Mycroft was sure. If Sherlock had been really involved with Molly Hooper now, he wouldn't have written this post. He would have asked her… He was still a virgin… So there was a good chance that Sherlock wouldn’t notice how Mycroft was feeling about him.
But what if this wasn't Sherlock after all? He didn’t have a proof, did he? Neither that 'TUBBY66' was really John Watson nor that this man, if it was a man at all, was really his brother. He would have to be sure. He was sure but only 99 %.
A wild thought captured his brain. No… He couldn’t do that… Or could he? Write Sherlock like the others did? What if Anthea read it? Chances were good that she would… But then… He knew she wouldn’t say anything. And she was well used to the eccentricity of both him and Sherlock and nobody could be more loyal than she was. He had even suspected she had made this up to bring them closer together after all. Well, of course not in the wrong way… But that couldn’t happen anyway. He could never bring this up.
He saw more answers coming in, and he read Sherlock's responses that sounded slightly annoyed and as if he hadn't really expected any useful suggestions, and then he set up an account of his own, quickly deciding to choose a name that would draw Sherlock's attention for sure. What he would write him was another question, and he hoped for an inspiration.
4
Sherlock sighed, glancing over more answers to his post. He wondered if these people just waited for some poor sod to come up with a problem. Didn’t they have to work? Probably there were all just bored old people or women with little children. Nothing they suggested appealed to him. 'Just talk to him'. Great… Hadn't he written it wasn't that easy? 'Write him a letter'. It was a better suggestion but… Sherlock would fail bitterly at putting his thoughts into words. Bake a cake for his brother? Please! Even if Sherlock was able to do that, Mycroft would probably just throw it in his face… No, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t do that. Mycroft didn’t tend to be violent. Not like Sherlock had been to him… Mycroft would just be embarrassed and think he wanted to mock him with his weight… Like Sherlock had done for ages even though nothing was wrong with his brother's body…
With a groan he was about to log out and never visit this site again when another answer came in. He would have probably ignored it, not expecting to read anything that would help him, if the person hadn't used such a nickname. 'MAYNARD' – the Lieutenant who had commandeered the bunch of soldiers who had killed the famous pirate Blackbeard and some of his men.
Whoever this was had either known what Sherlock's pseudonym meant or looked it up. And he had chosen a very controversial name, which had to get Sherlock's attention. It was easy to find out that he had never written anything before – it was his first post. Sherlock looked at the text.
[reply to SLOOP REVENGE] MAYNARD 9:33 Hello. Your brother seems to be a very difficult man indeed. It's hard to suggest something without knowing more. You said something happened recently. A traumatic situation? Which made you remember the better times? I'm sure you just surprised him with your text. And I don't think he would turn you away if you reached out to him. I have similar problems with my little brother. We've been estranged for way too long. It's hard to make the first step.
Sherlock stared at this text for a few minutes until he realised what was bothering him. He had not written that he had remembered the better times. He had written that he had found out about them. Which didn’t have to be a memory – he could have been told or discovered photographs. Perhaps he was seeing ghosts now. But his eyes were glued to the part of the 'little brother'.
It took him a moment, and then he wrote back.
[reply to MAYNARD] SLOOP REVENGE 9.40 What happened was quite traumatic, yes. It involved another family member. My brother obviously blames himself for it which I already mentioned he shouldn’t. Since then I remembered that we were rather close for the first seven years of my life. Then I chose to forget it. But now it's back and… he should know that I don't want this… hostility anymore.
[reply to SLOOP REVENGE] MAYNARD 9:45 Yes, I know what you mean. It was the same with my little brother. I used to take care of him when he was little. And I read pirate stories for him before he fell asleep. I even made one up myself for him. He was a very sweet child. It would be so nice to have him back. I might not tell him bedtime stories anymore but it would be very much to my liking to just be able to talk to him again without feeling like his worst enemy. I never wanted to be anything else but his big brother. And his friend. He has other friends now. But he has only one brother. And a sister he tried to bond with.
Sherlock swallowed. He remembered the story now. Pirate Crooked Croddy and his bunch of funny fellows. He had loved hearing it. Another chapter every evening. Mycroft had been a chubby child and he had snuggled against his warm, comforting body when he talked, trying to speak deep and croaky, making Sherlock giggle and listen to him in awe.
Was he really exchanging messages with his brother in a public forum? How had Mycroft found him there? Surveillance? But Mycroft had never interfered like this, never shown up online. Of course Sherlock had never before written anything like this.
It didn’t matter now. He had gotten a chance he wouldn’t miss. He didn’t want to ask this person if he was really his brother. Probably Mycroft was doing the same – testing the waters, trying to figure out if SLOOP REVENGE was Sherlock.
He had to go on with this conversation as long as it lasted. If this was really Mycroft, he would have to go soon. He was indeed a busy man.
[reply to MAYNARD] SLOOP REVENGE 9.51 It sounds as if you were very nice to your baby brother. You should by all means try to get back to this relationship. I'm sure he regrets that he made you feel like you were an enemy. And if he was nasty to you, he will regret that now as well. And I have a sister, too. She's… dangerous. And I won't visit her anymore. I wonder why I ever did. I felt guilty, maybe. Thought I had to be a brother for her. But she tried to make me do something unforgivable. Because she was jealous. It took me a while to realise that she doesn’t deserve my efforts. She knows it, too. I do want to be a good brother for my brother though. He never deserved the way I treated him. Won't happen again. I also have found friends. But they are friends. They are almost family. But my brother is still my brother.
It sounded so clumsy. He had known he couldn’t put his feelings in words… He could only hope that Mycroft wouldn’t roll his eyes and log out…
[reply to SLOOP REVENGE] KANGAROO 887 9:53 It's great that you found someone who can help you. Just to let you know – you can go into a private chat room, look at the right side of the page. Makes it easier to write back and forth! J
Sherlock searched for it and immediately entered a chatroom, inviting MAYNARD, and he accepted at once.
*****
SLOOP REVENGE Well, hello.
MAYNARD Hello. It's better like this.
SLOOP REVENGE Yes. Nobody can read this. Not that anyone knows who we are.
MAYNARD True. But still… Well… I'm sure your brother will be pleased to hear that you don't want to see your sister anymore, if she is really so evil.
SLOOP REVENGE I think so. My parents might not understand. But they have missed a few things obviously…
MAYNARD They never want to see the bad side of their children. They will accept it I'm sure. And your brother will certainly like to hear from you.
SLOOP REVENGE Thanks for your support. I'm sure I'm keeping you from working though.
MAYNARD I told my PA I want to be undisturbed.
SLOOP REVENGE So you are an important man as well?
MAYNARD You could say that. But really I'm just a slave to the kingdom.
SLOOP REVENGE Not much time for a private life then?
MAYNARD Not really. But I'm not that compatible with… people anyway. That doesn’t include my brother. Even though he might think that.
SLOOP REVENGE I'm sure he knows you care about him. How is he?
MAYNARD Oh, very smart. His brain is huge. He helps people despite claiming he's a sociopath. He's very talented in so many ways. Plays the violin beautifully. He is fascinating to other people I'm sure.
SLOOP REVENGE Is he now?
MAYNARD I've thought for a long time he cares way more about these people than about me.
SLOOP REVENGE I'm very sure that's not true. He might have shut himself up towards you because… I don't know. Perhaps you were a bit… overprotective, and not in a nice way.
MAYNARD Yes, I guess that's true. He did a few very silly things though and I thought I had to protect him from himself. But I think I was too intrusive.
SLOOP REVENGE Seems it's the same with all big brothers. Mine even kidnapped my flatmate to see if he's okay.
MAYNARD I'm sure he only did this to protect you…
SLOOP REVENGE I know he did. It annoyed me back then but now… It's crazy to have all those memories back. I thought he was the best and wisest and most fascinating big brother of all when I was a child. And now I think he really was. And still is…
MAYNARD Oh… Wow… I'm sure he would be very pleased to hear that. And I'm convinced he's proud of you now. What are you doing for a living?
SLOOP REVENGE I'm a freelancer you could say. I help people who have interesting problems. Sometimes I also help the police.
MAYNARD That must be very rewarding and challenging.
SLOOP REVENGE It can be. It passes the time. My brother is very powerful. People fear him. He has a rather nasty nickname. They call him 'The Iceman'.
MAYNARD No wonder you don't dare tell him about your feelings. Sounds like he's a bastard.
SLOOP REVENGE Not at all. He can be very tough if necessary. But I think he's just a softie really.
MAYNARD A softie?! Well… Perhaps when it comes to you.
SLOOP REVENGE Only when it comes to me. He doesn't like people. Not that I'm so different in that regard. Most people annoy me beyond words. But I found some friends I trust even though it was not easy with them lately. He doesn't have any friends. He's lonely although he claims otherwise.
MAYNARD Not everybody needs people around them to be happy.
SLOOP REVENGE But he is not happy.
MAYNARD Maybe because he misses you. He needs you more than you need him.
SLOOP REVENGE I'm sure he thinks that. But now that I have all those memories back, I realised how much I really need him. And like him. He was so cuddly back then.
MAYNARD Sorry what?
SLOOP REVENGE I used to snuggle up to him when he was reading bedtime stories for me. He was so warm and a bit… chubby. He isn't anymore. I used to mock him with his weight but in fact he's been slim for a long time. And he is very tall.
MAYNARD Alright… Well… He probably doesn’t cuddle anymore. From how you describe him I guess there is nobody he would like to do that with. But… Perhaps…
SLOOP REVENGE He would do it with me?
MAYNARD Perhaps… Would you like that?
SLOOP REVENGE I don't know. I never cuddle with anyone. Well, sometimes I do with my flatmate's young daughter. I'm sure though his face and hands would be less sticky and he wouldn’t poke his forefinger into my nose.
MAYNARD I should hope so! So he's tall and slim. Appealing?
SLOOP REVENGE Well… Yes. He's my brother! Of course he looks good!
MAYNARD So you look good, too?
SLOOP REVENGE Well, I don't think I'm ugly. I look a bit strange with my unusually shaped eyes and my high cheekbones. But some women find me attractive.
MAYNARD I'm sure they do…
SLOOP REVENGE But I don't find them attractive. They might be but not to me. There was one woman who thought she had won me over but I just found her intellect and her cunningness appealing. And another one is just a good friend.
MAYNARD So you are not into women?
SLOOP REVENGE Quite literally not.
MAYNARD That was ghastly. You like men better then?
SLOOP REVENGE I used to not 'like' anyone. Not this way. I don't want to brag but I'm a lot smarter than most of the people out there. Actually everybody except for my evil sister. And my brother. He's the smart one. He keeps telling me and it's true in many ways. But yes, I think it's safe to say that my orientation is 'gay'.
MAYNARD But there is nobody who could be your equal, in any way. Who is handsome and smart enough. And a male.
SLOOP REVENGE Yes. Nobody but…
Sherlock was panting now. He had never felt this confused. How had this happened? They had started going down a road he had never considered. And still he could feel Mycroft's body pressed against his one. How innocent this had been. But this conversation had left the path of innocence. He imagined being cuddled up with him now. His long body pressed against his. The thought made him tingle in places that had never tingled before.
Mycroft was staring at the screen. Wondering what was happening here. He had just typed along, realising how easy it was to communicate with his brother like this, even admitting he was missing him, since they both pretended to not know who the other one was. And then he had almost given everything away. His incestuous feelings were nearly on display. They were flirting, he and Sherlock – and there was absolutely no doubt anymore that this was Sherlock, and Sherlock had shown very clearly now that he knew whom he was talking to. They were playing with fire. If he misjudged this situation and went on like this against Sherlock's will, he would lose his brother forever. But then… His eyes opened wide when the next message appeared.
SLOOP REVENGE Nobody but my brother. But I don't know if he likes me this way.
Sherlock looked at his shivering hands as if they were foreign objects. He had written it. Without time to think it through and analyse his feelings, he had overstepped the mark. Because he knew it had to be him to make this final step. Mycroft would never do it. He remembered Sherrinford once more. How Mycroft had looked at him, smiled at him, willing to die for him. Sherlock had seen love and now he understood this love had not been just brotherly.
He waited for the reply with bated breath.
MAYNARD He does. He has for a very long time. That's why he wasn't even that unhappy that you retreated from him. His secret was safe like this.
Sherlock's head was spinning severely now. This was crazy. It was forbidden. It could end with Mycroft's ruin. They could end up in prison if it went really bad. He had no romantic or sexual experience whatsoever.
And still he knew he wanted this. Sod being forbidden, sod being dangerous. If the Holmes boys couldn’t fool everybody, who could?
Mycroft felt as if he was close to suffering a heart attack. He had finally exposed his feelings. The feelings that had struck him one day when he had come home from uni, seeing a brother he hardly recognised anymore. In the year he hadn't met Sherlock, he had become a man. Still a teenager, he had been looking divine. Tall, long-limbed, with his black curls framing the face of a man with these fantastic eyes and these lips. And his voice, oh God, his voice… Sherlock had hardly looked at him, let alone spoken with him, but Mycroft had been lost. He had tried to pretend nothing had changed but it had been pointless. And he had lost his brother more and more – to his resentments, deserved or not, and to the drugs, and then to John Watson. And now he had reached out to him in a way Mycroft would have never expected. All this time his feelings hadn't changed and all at once Sherlock was returning them.
SLOOP REVENGE I think… my brother and I should meet. Today.
Mycroft closed his eyes. And smiled.
MAYNARD I agree. He might be awaiting you in his house at 7.30.
SLOOP REVENGE I will be there.
MAYNARD I can't wait, Sherlock.
SLOOP REVENGE Neither can I, Mycroft.
MAYNARD I think I need to return to my duties now.
SLOOP REVENGE My phone vibrated. I think I've got a case. See you later?
MAYNARD Yes. Take care and be in time.
SLOOP REVENGE I will. Bye.
MAYNARD Bye.
Mycroft sat at his desk for several minutes after logging out. This was madness. This was a dream come true. Sherlock…
He winced when Anthea knocked.
“Sir, the PM asked for you.”
“I'll call him at once.”
She smiled and turned to leave.
“Kangaroo?” he asked.
She looked over her shoulder. “I've always liked them.”
Mycroft smiled and nodded. Then he leaned back in his chair.
Sherlock…
It took him all his effort to focus on the unavoidable phone call. And when it was finally over, all he thought of for the rest of the day was Sherlock.
5
Sherlock was shivering. From head to toe. He was sure nobody would have noticed. He looked good. Better than ever, he liked to think. Dressed in one of his black suits, his best Belstaff over it, his hair not quite as unruly as usual. Clean shaven. Teeth scrubbed, his body as well.
John had come back soon after he had finished his chat with Mycroft. Sherlock had stored the laptop already, pretending to read a science book. But all he had thought of was his brother and what would happen tonight. And now he was there, right in front of his huge house. It was 7.25.
Was he mad? Finally become sane? How should this work? How could it not work? Would he be able to give himself to Mycroft? Would he ever let go of him again?
With a quick movement, he hastened forward and rang the doorbell. It was loud in his ears.
He didn’t have to wait long. Mycroft opened up, dressed in a light-blue suit – thank God not a grey one; Sherlock remembered his dream all-too-well…
“Yes, Sherlock? What can I do for you?” his brother asked with an indifferent smile, and Sherlock made a step back, his heart stopping in terror.
And then Mycroft hurried to grab his arm and pull him into the house. “Sorry, I thought this little joke would leaven the atmosphere,” he apologised with a wry smile.
“You almost killed me!”
“Apologies, little brother. I was so nervous.” He closed the door and locked it.
“Ask me…” Sherlock slipped out of his coat and hung it up. He shouldn’t have fallen for it, idiot that he was! They had called each other by their names in the end! It just proved how shaken he was…
Then they just stood in the hallway, looking at each other.
“You look good,” they said simultaneously, and they shared a grin.
And Sherlock saw the love in his brother's eyes, the care and the devotion, and the awkwardness disappeared. He made a step, and so did Mycroft, and then his arms were around his brother's neck, and he shuddered when Mycroft's arms closed around his waist.
Without anything having happened between them, he knew this was where he belonged.
And when Mycroft's face slowly closed the distance between them, he shut his eyes and his lips opened for his first real kiss, and the softness of his brother's mouth made him go weak in the knees like the virgin that he was. Mycroft's grip got stronger and he whispered, “I have you, little brother.”
“Always?”
“Always. Do you want to eat something?”
“Later?”
Mycroft smiled. “Later is fine.”
*****
There was so much they had to talk about, and they undoubtedly would, but now was neither the time for having dinner (as a matter of prudence, Mycroft had just prepared something cold but nonetheless delicious) nor for having this unavoidable 'We-will-have-to-be-so-careful' talk (even though Mycroft didn’t doubt that Sherlock was very aware of that).
Instead he just took Sherlock's hand and guided him upstairs. He could feel Sherlock right-out vibrating next to him, but he didn’t sense any insecurity. He was nervous, just like Mycroft was, but no matter how spontaneous this development had been for him, he'd had hours to think about it – and Mycroft had feared he would not show up or text him he should forget it, oh yes – and still he was here, certainly having his feelings analysed to the last bit by now. He wanted it, as miraculous as this was, and Mycroft had wanted it for about twenty years and there was no way he would back away now.
He knew that this could have dire consequences. It would turn his world upside down, in a very positive way for sure, and in the opposite way if it ever came out. He would do everything in his power to avoid that, but if it happened, he would first negotiate and then do everything necessary to protect Sherlock and himself – by using the false papers he'd owned for years. Knowing Sherlock could get into trouble anytime, he had made a set for him, and he would have used it to get him out of Eastern Europe if Eurus hadn't been so kind to let Moriarty show up again. And even though he had not believed he would ever need it, he had taken care of a way out for himself as well. He was prepared for Plan B. But his and Sherlock's cleverness would guarantee that it wouldn’t be needed. They had to talk about it and act upon it, but he wouldn’t allow it to spoil what they were about to have.
He smiled when Sherlock impatiently wiggled out of his jacket and let his shoes fly through his generous bedroom with the huge bed.
“A waterbed, brother? I'm impressed!”
Mycroft grinned. “Just to make it more comfortable for my poor old back, I can assure you. But now…”
“Oh yes… Now!” Sherlock threw himself onto the bed, bouncing up and down for a moment, and reached out for him. It was obvious that he was almost dying from flurry but also from excitement.
Mycroft took off his jacket and his waistcoat, catching a good natured eye-rolling from his brother for putting on his usual armour in the first place but answering to it only with a raised eyebrow. The sleeve garters followed, then his shoes, and then he was lying next to his brother, allowing himself to be pulled in and kissed.
Sherlock clearly had no experience in kissing but his abilities improved with every second, just as expected.
Mycroft melted into the kiss and into his brother's unique scent and taste, and it wasn't long before they were both fumbling with the other one's shirt buttons, and soon trouser buttons and zippers were being attacked as well. After mere seconds they were both naked, and Mycroft debauched in his brother's almost perfect beauty. All smooth, pale skin, just a little hair on his toned chest, his cock generously proportioned and standing to full attention against the ripped stomach. His looks would have made a Greek God jealous, the only flaw the scar near his heart from the shotgun wound that had almost killed him. It didn’t destroy his beauty, instead it showed his vulnerability and stressed his otherwise immaculate glory.
He was well aware what Sherlock was seeing. A rather slim but middle-aged body, covered in black hair, his stomach too soft and not exactly flat. His big nipples were stiff from arousal, poking through the massive chest hair. And his cock, middle aged as it was, was not a bit less hard than Sherlock's and about two inches longer. He looked into Sherlock's eyes to see any hint of distress but all he saw was hunger and desire.
“You're beautiful,” Sherlock said quietly. “And bloody huge!” He reached out with his right hand, looking at Mycroft as if to ask for permission.
Mycroft smiled and nodded. “It's all yours. I'd say I know how to use my… slightly oversized tool but that would be a lie. I haven't used it for years, and even then it was very rare.”
“I'd rather you haven't used it at all,” Sherlock mumbled. He didn’t grab Mycroft's cock, slightly touching his chest instead, which let goosebumps break out, invisible under the fur.
“Too late for that, little brother. But it never meant anything.”
“Just boys?” A forefinger probed at one of his nipples and he groaned quietly when the little pearl got even stiffer.
“Sorry? Oh. Yes, of course! Somehow… the few of them… all looked just a bit like you.” Of course neither of them had been able to live up to his little brother. But sometimes the resemblance was big enough to imagine… And still he had never met them more than about five times. He hadn't wanted a relationship, and how could they have coped with him. Goldfish, all of them…
“Oh, I see.” Sherlock let his hand slide through the hair on his belly, and he instinctively tensed his sadly underdeveloped abdominal muscles. “Don't do that,” Sherlock said with a wink.
“Comparing us, I'm not on the winning side. Or rather, you are not.”
“Silence, brother. Do you hear me complaining? I bet your – nearly flat, as I might stress! – stomach is a fine pillow to rest my head on.”
Mycroft was about to tell him he could use him as a cushion anytime when finally Sherlock's long, masculine fingers closed around his shaft and all words left his head. He panted, gazing at the hand moving up and down on him. Sherlock had obviously had a little practice with himself…
“Do you like that? Oh, you start dripping.”
“Which should answer your question.” How could this be so easy? No guilty feelings, not at all. But then – he'd been dealing with them for so long and now they seemed just pointless. Sherlock didn’t do anything he didn’t want. But…
“This is not… you know…”
Sherlock looked into his eyes, easily deducing him. “An experiment? A mood?” He shook his head. “No, brother. It came as a surprise today, I admit it, but I had time enough to think it over. When I waited outside, I almost dropped dead from anxiety as this is so new to me and well, it's about you! But it was gone with the first kiss. I wouldn’t risk this just for a thrill. I want this. And not only for tonight.”
“I'm so glad. Sorry for doubting it.”
“I really don't blame you… After all that happened…”
Yes, there was a lot they would have to talk about. Not just the logistics.
Sherlock smiled, deducing his thoughts once more. “We will talk. Later. But for now – can you forgive me how I treated you? After forgetting how close we once were?”
Mycroft recalled it all. The jokes, the contempt, the vicious twisting of his arm during the Magnussen case, the sedating, the betrayal… “There's nothing to forgive. And if there was, it's done already. Can you forgive me my overprotective behaviour and what you had to see as condescension?”
“It was just for my benefit. But if it makes you feel better – it's forgiven.”
It wouldn’t be so easy. The resentments of the past would not just vanish over the emotional and physical pleasures they were about to experience, and they both knew it. But this was a damn good start as far as Mycroft was concerned. Especially as Sherlock was continuing to stroke his leaking prick with a look of reverence in his eyes.
“May I touch you now as well, brother mine?” he softly asked.
“My almost perfect body is yours to devour.”
A really good start…
*****
Sherlock had always been about thinking. Brain, no emotion. Over the past years, he had allowed a few emotions to not control him but motivate him. John had become such an integral part of his life. He had trusted him unconditionally. This had changed over the course of Mary's death and John's rejection and violence against him. Without ever talking about it, they had reconciled, but he had so far not returned to feeling for the doctor what he had felt before – the unconditional love of a friend.
But he experienced this now, and way stronger than he had ever felt for John. His brain had almost completely shut down as it seemed, the emotions taking over. He tasted and smelled and felt his brother, inhaling and memorising him, knowing a full floor of his Mind Palace, if not all of it, would be filled with these observations. The taste of his lips, the warmth of his hairy skin, the velvety texture of his genitals and the soft globes of his bottom – Sherlock was devouring it all, storing it to never forget it again.
He had always thought sex was something primitive and nasty, something sticky and disgusting. But this was just bliss. In his brother's arms he recalled the old times of being close to him, not in this way but in the same intensity of love and trust, and the sexual desire, mutual without a doubt, added to this feeling of brotherly love, encompassing him, completing him like nobody else would have ever been able to do. This was the full circle. The first man he had ever been close to and definitely the last who would be allowed to possess him like this.
They kissed greedily and tenderly, their hands full of the other one's skin, rubbing, pulling, teasing each other, and Sherlock died for going all the way. He knew he needed it.
When Mycroft quietly excused himself to get some water for them, he reached into the pocket of his jacket to grab a little bottle he had bought on the way. His brother made wide eyes when he came back with a bottle and two glasses.
“No, Sherlock. It's too early for that.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I want it. I want you. In me. Tonight. Sealing our commitment.” He had foregone bringing condoms, knowing his brother would have always protected himself with strangers, also knowing the government would know his medical status; and he was absolutely sure Mycroft would never do anything to endanger him.
Mycroft swallowed but Sherlock could see how the thought was turning him on. He just nodded and provided them both with water, and they drank together, cuddled up on the bed, and then Mycroft took the glass from his hand and asked him to lie down, his legs bent, if he was really sure about it.
Sherlock was very sure, and he put a pillow under his arse to ease Mycroft's way. He wanted them to be ultimately connected. No way back. The proof that this was meant completely seriously.
With closed eyes he relaxed his body as well as he could while Mycroft lubed him up thoroughly and so very carefully eased one finger into his virgin canal. It felt strange and a little disturbing but Sherlock just urged his brother to go on when Mycroft asked him if he was okay. Another finger later he could feel his opening loosen up just a bit, and then Mycroft was resting on his hands above him and he was guiding his wet, engorged head towards his entrance.
It hurt more than he had expected but Mycroft stilled at once after breaching the first ring of muscles, giving him time to adjust to him. Sherlock knew his brother would retreat at once if he showed any sign of distress, so he smiled encouragingly and put one foot on Mycroft's butt, grateful for his flexibility, a silent demand to go on claiming him.
It took minutes until Mycroft was fully seated in him, and he let his body down to kiss Sherlock while he was very carefully starting to move. Sherlock's almost burning cock was trapped between their bodies, and when Mycroft fucked him slowly, the friction made him groan as much as the increasing arousal in his penetrated arse. If he had felt completed before, it was a million times stronger now; he and Mycroft becoming one – the same flesh, the same brain, the same love, all connected in the most intimate way. When he had woken up this morning, he would have never imagined to be in this place now, in his brother's bed, in his arms, taking his large cock up his arse, but there was no doubt that it had been meant to be like this.
Sherlock had never believed in destiny, but how else had this happened? Mycroft on this website the moment he had posted about him, answering him just before Sherlock had been about to log off. Coincidence? He smiled when he thought of the old mantra: 'The universe is rarely so lazy'.
Every last coherent thought left his brain when Mycroft shifted his weight and slid in and almost out in a different angle, hitting a spot inside him he had heard about but had never tried to access. He started to moan excessively, sweat broke out on his back and his forehead, and Mycroft buried his face in his neck, whispering 'I love you' when Sherlock climaxed with a cry, and he groaned when Mycroft followed him, flooding him with hot semen, and then collapsed on him.
They stayed like this for minutes, panting and kissing, and then Sherlock felt Mycroft pull out of him, wetness following him, but neither of them cared.
Mycroft rolled over and pulled him all over his body so Sherlock could rest his head on his chest, and he pulled the duvet over them to keep them warm. He stroked Sherlock's damp curls, and Sherlock listened to his heart beating under his ear. He was feeling sore and he knew this would last for a while but he was completely at ease. At peace. This was where he wanted to be.
It would be hard. Nobody around them might know anything about it. There was nobody Sherlock trusted enough to share this secret with them. They wouldn’t be able to meet as often as they would like, but whenever they would be together, it would be like this.
“Are you hungry now?” Mycroft asked him, his voice raspy.
“A bit. But let's wait some more. Tell me something.”
“What should I tell you?”
“Where did we stop? Where were they?”
“Oh… I think Crooked Croddy and his fearless men stranded on this little island.”
Sherlock smiled. “Where hungry, nasty cannibals were waiting for them.”
“I don't recall this story being quite as gory.”
Sherlock pinched his side. “Humour me.”
Mycroft chuckled and stroked his neck. “Alright then. Hear the story of Crooked Croddy and his pirates on Monster-Munch-Island.”
Sherlock lifted his head to kiss his dimpled chin. “I love you, Mygoff.”
“God, yes, that's how you called me. I loved it. And I loved you. And I'll never stop.”
And they kissed and then Mycroft told him another chapter of this silly story and Sherlock knew this was the beginning of something unique, wonderful and beautiful.
The End