Chapter Text
No one, except perhaps Sherlock, suspected. Mycroft’s carefully honed taste in alcohol drinks caught attention of some dignitaries who owed him a favour two and hence the endless stream of gifts followed. His cabinet was now nearly full, filled with fine liquor that even his father looked at enviously when he had a chance. And it seemed like a good idea to take a few sips out of one of the clear bottles when he was under great pressure and his stress level started sprawling out of control, just to calm himself down. Just a little buzz in his head, and a little hopeful, and naïve assurance to himself with the aid of alcohol that everything would be alright.
Everything seemed under control for a while. Mycroft was a hedonist at heart after all. A man was allowed to keep a few vices, he thought, and after giving up on the night snacks, due to a nearly introduced diet(by his doctor and in part Sherlock) he felt more deserving of the few sips of wine before going to bed.
A few sips turned into a few glasses. He also started spending more time at the Diogenes with a meticulously maintained office at the far end of the isle. He also had full access to the club’s large drink collection and traditionally trained butlers ready to bring him any drink he desired on a silver plate. Of course he indulged himself, whenever there was a frustrating idiot on the other end of the line begging for his assistance in Mandarin, or Anthea told him Sherlock got himself almost killed by some sadistic serial killer yet again, he touched his drink like a habit. Just a sip, just a glass.
It was unfortunate that one day Sherlock got almost shot at when he was rather drunk. It was only half past 4pm and there were stacks of agendas required his attention on his desk and on his computer. Anthea anxiously waited outside of his office, too afraid to knock on the door in case he was in a foul mood. She’d seen him in this state before, refusing to talk or respond or work but simply locking himself in the office for hours, just drinking. He would come out of his own shells eventually but it would cost them nearly 24 hours, usually. But the stress was sometimes too much. He often felt the strong, overwhelming urge to just give up and do a runner from the responsibilities.
He didn’t see himself working for the government for the rest of his life anyway; he was in fact carefully constructing a pension plan to live out his life in somewhere remote and discreet. And he would take the cabinet with himself, a souvenir that symbolized his own success as a consultant. And yes, that was how he thought of himself. A consultant as simple as. Unlike Sherlock, he didn’t need to add anything to his title to flaunt his abilities World’s first consulting criminal detective. That git.
Eventually Anthea had to nearly shout her words, trying to grab his attention in the haze of the tipsiness, away from the amber liquid glowing in the crystal glass he had been holding all afternoon: “Sherlock’s tripped into the Thames and the police are still searching for him, sir!” And it did work.
“What?”
“The suspect tried to shot him apparently, and Sherlock had to jump into the Thames in order to avoid the shot, according to the witnesses.”
He got into his car, holding Anthea’s hand tightly in order to stand and walk properly. Her worried eyes followed his wobbling movements but both knew that they couldn’t just sit back and wait in the comfort of his office—it was Sherlock they were talking about. Their greatest fear came in the form of a death of a certain consulting detective. Drunk or not, Mycroft needed to be there, as close to his brother as possible. Anthea quietly closed the door after he seated himself and took the front seat for herself, instructing the driver to drive as fast as he could and ignore the traffic lights on the way.
When they got there, the whole messy situation was already wrapped up more or less. Detective Inspector Lestrade was chatting amicably to the uniforms securing the scene. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. But it was obvious to Mycroft that he was somewhat safe somewhere. The medics were about to leave, smiling and joking good-heartedly. There were only a couple of police cars still at the scene that were about to leave as well.
“Mr Holmes?” Lestrade waived his hand, having recognized his face despite the fact that they never formally met each other apart from the few glances from a distance in the past.
“Sherlock’s safe,” Mycroft told Anthea under his breath.
“Then we should leave, sir,” Anthea said rather urgently, looking at the detective’s approaching form with a frown. She even tugged on his coat sleeve to catch his attention when he didn’t respond.
Something flared inside of his chest, something quite akin to anger.
“You just missed him,” Lestrade said, out of breath. “Sherlock just left and went back to his place. Apart from a couple of mouthful of the toxic water in his stomach, he will be alright. He’s a good swimmer, isn’t he?” The detective’s obvious attempt to make light of the situation added fuel to the fire.
“You.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “You… You dragged Sherlock into this mess and nearly killed him.” At that Lestrade looked at him sharply in surprise, eyes round.
“Sir…” Anthea grabbed his shoulder, trying to turn his attention back to their idling car waiting for him to get in. Mycroft didn’t actually mind her manhandling. He appreciated her concern, almost. But he didn’t, couldn’t, give up throwing more words in before his back was completely turned against Lestrade.
“You watch over Sherlock better next time because otherwise I will finish your career.”
He felt the swell of pride in the fact that he didn’t stutter or slur his words despite his drunkenness. Anthea pushed his back forcefully as he turned his head for the last time to sneak a glance at the look on Lestrade’s face: He looked alarmed but not scared. Unfortunately.
“Sir, we will drive you home. I will check up on Sherlock while you are resting.”
Mycroft only nodded, having exhausted all energy to talk after that. The allure of a sleep was too tempting that he gave up thinking about the whole situation again, and fell asleep in his car.
*
When he woke up the next morning, everything came back in stark clarity in a rush. Mycroft blinked several times, asking the question: “Did I actually do it?”
He phoned Anthea as soon as he found his mobile lying next to his face on the bed, and asked more questions about the circumstance the other night: Sherlock was safe. Quite well and healthy. Might catch the flu but Anthea seemed to think Sherlock at least deserved it.
“I should apologize to the Detective Inspector, shouldn’t I?”
“Would you like to visit his office today sir?”
Mycroft was surprised by Anthea’s suggestion. He intended to apologize for his behaviour last night of course, but didn’t think of visiting him in person. He was thinking of fetching a card with a handwritten apology which would be undoubtedly thrown out in the bin and he would be able to send someone to destroy the evidence of it if needed. If visited him in the office, there would be witnesses; most of them wouldn’t be aware of his role in the government or who he was but he was already acquainted with the Superintendent and the man feared him and he made sure of it and…and...
“Officially, Sherlock was a major witness to the case, sir. You are his brother,” Anthea continued, interrupting his train of thoughts efficiently.
“I am just a concerned brother, aren’t I?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Fetch a car within the hour. I will be ready for a quick visit.” Mycroft hung up the phone and lied in bed for a few minutes, thinking back to the scandalized look on Lestrade’s face and his insults. He must have looked like a clown to him. Red face, slurred words (and to think he thought he didn’t sound drunk at all) and worse, Anthea had to manhandle him so he wouldn’t fall on his face on his wobbling legs. What a memorable first introduction.
He arrived at the New Scotland Yard building with just enough pride and self-confidence that he was able to keep his head high but it was just that. He easily found Lestrade’s office as soon as he got off the lift. All glass walls after all. Whoever came up with the idea of those wretched things was just wicked and cruel, Mycroft thought, taking each step toward his office with firm determination.
Before he could knock on the door, Lestrade noticed his approaching, having looked up from the pile of documents on his desk.
“Good morning, Detective Inspector.”
“Greg, please. How are you feeling, Mr Holmes?” And there was a surprising trace of teasing in his tone and for a moment, Mycroft felt dumbfounded.
“I am… quite well, thank you.” Apart from the pounding headache, of course.
“Well, I called Sherlock this morning, just checked up on him and he sounds perfectly well. Have you talked to him yet?”
“No. I haven’t…I am not here to discuss Sherlock’s well-being, Inspector.” Mycroft purposefully didn’t look at Lestrade. His curious eyes were somehow too much.
“It’s Greg. Is there something I can help?”
“It’s about my behaviour yesterday, of course.” And Mycroft realised he used the tone, that he used to his staff members without realising it.
Lestrade simply smiled at it, as if he understood what was going on at all. Which he didn’t of course.
“I was rather inebriate, to put it rather bluntly, when I was informed that Sherlock got himself almost murdered last night.” It was painful to pull each word out of his mouth, to admit that he was the one in the wrong in this particular incident, as obvious as it was.
“Mr Holmes.”
“Mycroft, please. That would be my father.”
“Mycroft, it’s okay. I understand. It was a bad timing and all. I’ve been working in the force for nearly 20 years now. Your behaviour was completely understandable under the circumstance. God knows what I’d do if one of my family was in that kind of situation and I was drunk… “ Lestrade chuckled, as if they were sharing an in-joke already, as if he understood Mycroft…
“Thank you for accepting my apology.”
“No problem. Are you here just for the apology? Because I know you are quite a busy man, Mycroft. According to Sherlock, you are…”
“I occupy a minor position in the government, yes.”
“Yes, that.” Lestrade’s eyes crinkled.
“I wanted to apologize in person, that’s all. If you need any help in future in relation to any case Sherlock consults, please don’t hesitate to contact me anytime.” With that, Mycroft produced his name card from his inner pocket—he almost never used them, but he nonetheless wanted to be prepared. On the name card it read: Mycroft Holmes. General Counsel. Department of Transport.
When Mycroft left the building, the pounding headache somehow subsided, for some unknown reason.