Desperate Measures

by LittleFluffyClouds

Summary:

Mycroft watched helplessly for years as Sherlock slowly slid from experimenting with drugs to dangerous addiction. His efforts haven’t helped; they may have made the situation worse. Perhaps it was time to stop watching.

Notes:

• For Jevan.

This is not fluff. At all. But I don’t think it qualifies as angst. If you would prefer some details with spoilers before you dig in, please see the end notes.

This is a very belated Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction story for Jevan, who requested dark Mycroft.

Chapter 1: 2005-2007

2005

 

Mycroft sat in a stained armchair watching Sherlock, unconscious in a hospital bed and as pale as the sheets. The glare of the fluorescent lights somehow overpowered the sun coming in through the cheap blinds. Sherlock’s breathing was steady but shallow. The machines beeped in a surprisingly comforting rhythm, and, for the last half hour, showed an almost imperceptibly increasing heart rate. 

 

This was Sherlock’s fourth trip to hospital in as many years. After he dropped out of university, Sherlock treated his drug use as a science experiment, testing the purity, tracking the availability of different drugs through distribution networks, and experimenting on himself to discover the different effects of the particular mix. That eventually became just an excuse for another hit before he abandoned the pretence altogether, dropped out, and coasted from one seedy bed-sit to a dirty mattress in a council estate to a park bench.

 

Once Sherlock’s youthful, rebellious drug use turned into an addiction, Mycroft researched his drugs of choice. At the time, he had recently been granted access to most government databases—he reviewed police crime statistics, local and international distribution patterns, and dealers’ methods for sales. Medical information on the effect of illegal drugs and combinations of those drugs was readily available. He became an expert, laser-focused on helping address the causes of Sherlock’s dangerous needs. All that got him was anger and withdrawal—as well as rejection by his parents and the absence of any semblance of a healthy lifestyle, possibly as dependent on his need to care for his brother as Sherlock was on his drugs.

 

Seething with a mix of anger and helplessness, he glanced at the bag of filthy clothes Sherlock had worn until an unlucky nurse stripped him while he literally kicked and screamed. Mycroft’s efforts to help Sherlock had consistently backfired, pushing them further and further apart until everything Mycroft did was the subject of a bullying joke—to Sherlock he was fat, selfish, nagging, nosy, and ignorant of humanity. An annoyance to be deceived and manipulated. Or ignored.

 

Mycroft had given up active efforts to intervene and resorted to mostly hoping and supporting him for the past two years. But the start of this strategy coincided with Sherlock’s increasingly reckless behaviour. He had begun mixing heroin and cocaine with whatever else the various dealers had available. 

 

What are my options? Mycroft wondered for the ten-thousandth time. Protecting and mentoring him had long since stopped working. Ignoring him seemed to make it worse. Drug rehab or hospitalisations bored Sherlock as soon as he fully regained consciousness and mobility. Their parents pretended everything was fine—Mycroft’s involvement in Sherlock’s treatment typically meant they didn’t need to acknowledge it. 

 

He allowed his efforts over the years to float through his mind, analysing which had been more successful than others. They were all similar ways of convincing Sherlock to resist his baser compulsions. All focused on the demand side of Sherlock’s addiction. Hmmm…simple economic theory…

 

One of his several master’s degrees was in economics, which overall was a ridiculous field, full of assumptions of perfect information and rational behaviour. But the concept of supply and demand was real. The dim outline of an idea started to form…perhaps he needed to focus on the supply.

 

The speed of the beeping increased. Sherlock inhaled suddenly and cleared his throat. 

 

“Stop looking at me,” Sherlock croaked before his eyes opened.

 

“I am merely a passive observer. I am here solely to be here.”

 

His brother moaned and rolled onto his side, facing the far wall. Mycroft listened as the beeping gradually slowed back down and his breathing evened out. Unconscious again or asleep. 

 

Mycroft shifted down into the chair, resting his head against its back and closing his eyes. He had things to consider.

 

2006

 

The initial planning took time and patience. During Mycroft’s early years collaborating with the intelligence agencies, his group developed a code to use to disrupt the CCTV in an area without leaving an electronic record of the interference. Because London was one of the most surveilled cities in the world, secrecy was sometimes a requirement. It was useful for the off-the-books agency he worked for; it was especially useful for his planned extracurricular activities. 

 

Mycroft had to be careful surveilling Sherlock as long as his viewing history remained traceable, watching helplessly as Sherlock skulked in various dark corners or seedy pubs. Mycroft’s spotty access, coupled with Sherlock’s instinctive ability to hide from view, made it difficult to discern the purpose of many of these outings until he landed back in hospital. He used this time to build up his reputation as the man-who-gets-things-done, even if that meant he had to disappear and become untraceable for a few days or longer. He received added training in hand-to-hand combat, weapons, and accessing secured locations. There were benefits to being ensconced in what the Americans had started to call the “dark government.” He could wait.

 

When Mycroft finally received sufficient security clearance that his own access to the system was virtually untraceable, he frequently sat in his dimly lit home office, watching on his laptop for the beginning of his brother’s next drug-fuelled disappearance. He could have delegated some of the tasks of monitoring, but he had never fully trusted any other human—every single one of them, even the marginally competent ones, was a traitor in waiting. 

 

No doctor questioned a man at his level about a request for an occasional benzodiazepine prescription. He was cautious not to make too much of a medical record of stress or sleep issues, but in this day and age “taking care of your mental health” was accepted as a best practice. And even though Sherlock was the family chemist, it was a simple process to purify and concentrate the benzodiazepine. To mask its original, prescription source, he added some readily available adulterants. The resulting solution could be mixed into heroin to make an extraordinarily dangerous combination.

 

He idly scratched his chin, running his fingernails through the day’s stubble, as he flipped absently through still images on his laptop off the day’s CCTV feeds. His plans were helped by the fact that drug dealers were predictable—they had to be. Much like sex workers, they needed to be in the same location at the same time to develop a clientele. Mycroft had long ago arranged for Sherlock’s flat and the surrounding area to be well-monitored by cameras, so it now was a matter of waiting. Cat-and-mouse. Or fishing. He huffed in amusement at the odd mental state he found himself in. I am desperate enough to use my brother as bait. Finding no new information from the day’s feeds, he shut the laptop and, staring into the darkness, thought through another dozen scenarios to evaluate the risks.

 

2007

 

Mycroft returned home, exhausted from a three-hour phone call to finish the day. As soon as he laid down in bed and closed his eyes, he realised he had yet not checked on Sherlock; the thought drove off any chance of imminent sleep. Sighing, he reached for his reading glasses and turned on his laptop. Scanning through the last few hours of video, he watched as the normal cast of characters sauntered through his brother’s most recent squalid building. Sherlock’s neighbour ran out the door, late as usual for his job at Tesco; the elderly man down the hall slammed his door behind him, yelling wildly on his phone; two pop-eyed chihuahuas tussled while their owner tried to untangle their leads. 

 

He sat straighter when a new person walked down Sherlock’s hallway. Flipping to the camera in Sherlock’s flat, successfully hidden only because Sherlock was barely functioning, he watched as the man entered. He pulled a small bag from his pocket, and threw it at Sherlock, who threw back a fairly thick roll of cash, held together with an elastic. He had found his first prospect.

 

Mycroft followed him for over a fortnight by CCTV, learning his patterns and his territory. The prospect, called Rimzee, tended to fall down when the pubs closed, drunk on cheap gin and occasionally high. He lived alone and rarely took a woman to his place, protective of his stash of drugs, so a quiet entry to his flat an hour after Rimzee’s normal bedtime was the most likely time to find him asleep and the least likely time to be noticed.

 

The following Thursday, Mycroft went off the grid. He had a series of very sensitive meetings set with a Russian spy who was interested in being turned to help Mycroft’s group, which were not coincidentally set near a certain drug dealer’s flat. It was a lovely cover for a murder. 

 

The next night, he waited outside of Rimzee’s favourite pub, and the man careened out at the expected time, stumbling slightly over the threshold. Mycroft didn’t make a move to follow him, staring at his phone to confirm his return to his flat through the one functioning camera along the route. Disrupting that and several nearby cameras, Mycroft waited an hour and picked the lock on the front door to the building and to the flat, his gloved hands steady and quick. 

 

The flat was dark and silent except for some quiet snores from the bedroom. Rimzee’s hiding place for drugs was obvious to Mycroft but otherwise sensible–behind a stack of old magazines on a small bookshelf doubling as a nightstand by his bed. The rest of the shelves were filled mostly with junk–a pizza box, some old trainers, a few glasses likely filled with mould. Nothing that would be tempting for an occasional one-night-stand to rifle through, but easily and quickly accessed for a sale.

 

Mycroft pulled the inhalant that was quietly used for very off-books renditions out of his pocket and held it near the dealer’s mouth. Despite popular fiction, none of the inhaled anaesthetics administered in this way were instantaneous, but several minutes of quiet hovering should ensure that an intoxicated person would not wake from a shot in the arm. The modernised ether compound was a substance that was not tested for in any normal toxicology report. Mycroft also had the advantage that London’s police force was unlikely to devote many resources to a junkie dying in his own flat at three in the morning.

 

After a few minutes, Mycroft detected the signs that the man had slipped from sleep into unconsciousness. Reaching into the space behind the magazines, it was a simple process to add the benzodiazepine concentrate to the heroin and inject it. He left the needle sticking out of his arm to avoid any subtlety about the situation, checked around to confirm he had left no trace, and let himself out of the flat.

 

He slept well for the next few hours and felt calm and rested during his next encounter with the spy. By the time he left their outing in the park, he was confident the young woman would turn. He allowed himself a few seconds to congratulate himself for his success with her and suppressed any further analysis of his earlier efforts. 

Notes:

SPOILERS: Mycroft’s efforts to help Sherlock get sober haven’t worked, so clearly the logical next step is for him to come up with a sensible, detailed plan to murder his dealers. There’s a little touch of the Dexter series here without any graphic details.

Chapter 2: 2008-2009

2008

 

Greg was puzzled when he met Sherlock’s brother. Mostly because he didn’t know Sherlock had a brother, but also because he was an enigma who radiated power and control. Greg had never met someone who more thoroughly screamed secret services from every pore of his body. The dark car with the driver sealed the deal.

 

“What the hell was that all about?” he asked Sherlock after the car drove away from the crime scene.

 

“My brother meddles in my affairs.”

 

“Like a wizard?”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared. Laughing, Greg slapped him on the back. “Sorry, Lord of the Rings reference. I forgot you don’t do popular culture.”

 

“You are more correct than you know.”

 

“That you don’t do popular culture or that he’s a wizard?”

 

Sherlock ignored him and dropped to all fours to crawl around, for no particular reason that Greg could tell.

 

Glancing back in the direction of the car, the detective in him replayed his interaction with the strange man in the dark suit, curious about the odd powerplay that had occurred between all three of them. He wondered again what he had gotten himself into through his newfound relationship with the unhinged consulting detective.

 

~~~~

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s new dealer. His hair stuck up on the side of his head, he wore a dirty vest and pants and spewed curses in a very creative use of Urban British English. Unfortunately, the man had not been asleep as expected when Mycroft broke into his flat; he leapt out of bed in the tiny bedsit when the lock clicked, and looked Mycroft up and down. He was shorter than Mycroft, but showed some signs of experience in fighting, or at least in protecting his drugs.

 

Mycroft intellectually understood that dealers worried more about break-ins than most people, but he had not yet been forced to handle this situation. The man growled and stepped forward to wildly swing his fist at Mycroft’s face. Grateful for his hand-to-hand combat training, Mycroft kicked his legs out from under him and fell on him, pinning him. Working the inhalant out of his pocket, he held it over his face. After several minutes of struggling, the man underneath him finally stilled. When Mycroft was certain he had lost consciousness, he stood, surveying the room.

 

They had made some suspicious noises for several minutes, and the downstairs neighbors would have heard sounds of a struggle if they were home and awake. Given that it was nearly three in the morning, it was unlikely. Regardless, he needed to hurry.

 

The man lay on his back, mouth open, helpless, with some sort of thorned-vine tattoo peeking out of his vest from his chest to his neck. He could be someone’s brother; he was certainly someone’s son or friend. Mycroft sighed; this was a very inopportune time to develop a conscience. He pulled out the pre-loaded syringe from its case. There would soon be one less threat to Sherlock’s life, but he obviously needed to rethink his technique.

 

Less than a month later, Sherlock left his dismal flat before midnight, right as Mycroft was considering shutting down for the evening. He watched his brother stumble and nearly fall, catching himself against a graffiti-covered brick wall. Sherlock barely held himself upright, swaying for a full minute before pushing off the wall and continuing on his errand. He had purchased three days worth of heroin two-and-a-half days ago from his new dealer. It was time for a refill. And afterwards it was time for Mycroft to take some action.

 

After days of surveillance, Mycoft was almost looking forward to the evening. The man had escaped sex trafficking charges twice. He was likely responsible, at least in part, for distributing adulterated heroin that killed three teenagers a few years ago. One difficulty was that he had flatmates, so Mycroft would have to implement an untested technique.

 

A few hours later, in a dark alley and well away from any cameras, Mycroft once again struggled with his target. This one proved resistant to the injected tranquiliser Mycroft had decided to try. Were it not for the gloves and long sleeves, Mycroft could have been scratched, the marks potentially evidence of something.

 

Thankfully, few people were totally immune to ketamine, and the drug quickly took effect, the slight chokehold helping. Mycroft didn’t want to leave a bruise. This would be an overdose, plain and simple. No reason for the results of any autopsy to question a neck injection site; no one other than the dealer, his god-of-choice, and Mycroft needed to know that the overdose was not accidental. The flailing hands slowed. Mycroft waited another minute to release him and inject him with the slower-acting but fatal dose, leaving the needle sticking out of his arm. It had become somewhat of a trademark.

 

He stared at the man on the pavement who was seizing a bit, displaying some signs of a cardiac event. What am I doing? I have a meeting with the Prime Minister in the morning, he thought. After the remaining signs of life ceased, he turned on his heel to try to get a few hours of sleep.

 

~~~~

 

Greg watched the elder Holmes rise effortlessly out of the back of another car, unfolding like a praying mantis. He was intrigued by the man’s movements—no energy wasted, no expression unplanned. Even the blustery wind seemed to die down as he approached. He had watched Sherlock pull an actual emotion from him a few times, although he quickly hid that flash of humanity. But seeing the cracks in the facade because of Sherlock made him curious what else was hidden.

 

The man in question approached him slowly, his umbrella tapping as he walked across the pavement.

 

“Good evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

“Good evening to you, Mr Holmes,” he intoned, thinking that both men should be wearing hats to tip. “What brings you here on this fine evening?” As Greg spoke, a gust of wind blew and he wrapped his arms around his sides against the chill.

 

“Sherlock is not answering his phone.” Somehow the wind failed to ruffle the man’s hair or coat.

 

Greg glanced around, wondering if he had somehow missed Sherlock’s presence on the scene.

 

It was possible that Mycroft huffed a bit from Greg’s reaction. “I’m not suggesting he is here, Detective Inspector. I’m merely attempting to locate him and hoped you would have a suggestion.”

 

“He says you monitor him. I don’t. This is a smash-and-grab at an off-licence shop.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t planning to call him in.”

 

“I would appreciate it if you would contact me when you next hear from him.”

 

Greg watched him for a moment, wondering what exactly was going on. He decided to call his bluff. “I can just text him now, if you’d like.”

 

“No—“ Mycroft responded, a touch too quickly. He paused. “He’ll realise that I asked you to. You may call me when you speak with him next.”

 

“Yeah, sure, but I don’t have your number.”

 

The other man smiled slightly—nothing more than a crooked twist to his lips. “Yes, you do.” He turned and walked away. Greg resisted the urge to check his phone, but was quite sure he now had a second contact by the name of Holmes.

 

2009

 

Sometimes, a relocation was advisable, depending on the habits of the dealer. The warehouse he had found felt comforting to Mycroft. He recognized that he had moved well beyond any moral ambiguity, although he still clung to his sense of being a protective spirit to Sherlock. The concept of “vigilante” was also passing quickly out of sight in his rear view mirror. He disliked the other term that applied to him by this point—it seemed so shallow, lacking any form of respect for his mission.

 

This one had seemed to enjoy sexual assault as part of his business plan, which was readily apparent with some straightforward surveillance techniques. He hung the hose back on its hook and turned to inspect the concrete floor and its drain. Everything looked orderly, tidy even, with the exception of a few bin bags near the car. Walking to the cabinet, he removed the spray bottle of luminol and tested around the area in question with his UV light. A very slight glow, marking vague remnants of blood, was the only indication of any activity for the evening. Making another pass through the area with the oxy cleaner, he tested again. He smiled when it ran clear. London was simply better off without a few of its inhabitants. Good enough for government work, he thought as he opened the boot to load the bags.

 

A few hours later, he sat in the family’s country home, his feet stretched out before him in front of the fire. The property was rarely visited by his parents, and it presented an opportunity he lacked in constant swirls of London’s population. It was quiet, remote, and large. And private. His particular security needs demanded extensive surveillance of entrances and exits, as well as the boundaries of the property, but absolutely no cameras or microphones anywhere else. Secret work and all. Being in charge of most of the surveillance in the UK had its advantages.

 

His eyes flicked along the walls, covered with portraits selected by his mother or some other ancestor, left untouched by him despite his frequent visits. The heirloom chess board had been untouched since he and Sherlock played last—left in an eternal stalemate. The whole house was frozen in time, much like a child’s room after the child has moved out. He’d always felt like a ghost here, quietly watching, but not quite belonging.

 

Now the solitude and privacy of the house might serve a different function. He ran through the merits of utilising a location outside of the crowds of London and the constant risk of having someone cross his path at a very inopportune time. The Thames had served as a dumping ground once when he was called in to handle an emergency he couldn’t avoid. But when the remains washed up downstream, there was a little too much media attention for his liking. As well as the attention of a certain detective inspector. Lestrade was handsome in the photograph accompanying the story in The Guardian, and Mycroft had resisted the urge to cut it out and save it.

 

He had been able to time that particular project during an unexpected trip by Sherlock to Florida, so thankfully Lestrade wasn’t able to call in his consulting detective. And the body of a junkie didn’t warrant many of London’s resources. The press almost immediately moved on to yet another celebrity phone-hacking scandal, which may or may not have been planted by Mycroft’s team. He would never tell.

 

Lestrade was an interesting addition to the sibling mix. Their periodic drinks or dinners together were…refreshing in a way he couldn’t entirely pinpoint. Although they spoke about Sherlock frequently, Lestrade didn’t seem to actually want anything from Mycroft other than some form of companionship. And Sherlock was consistently more sober than before the man put him to work.

 

Sherlock was better—he was in danger in different ways than before, but the risks he took seemed more productive, more…appropriate. He could hardly fault Sherlock for trying to use his skills to help the police solve cold cases and active crimes. As much as he wanted to keep Sherlock safe, at some point, he had to allow him to live his life.

 

He rose and poured another glass of port, staring out the window at the drizzle on this cold, winter day. Am I getting reckless with this? He stood for a few moments, letting that thought seep into his mind. Worse yet, am I trying to taunt Sherlock? He shuddered at the thought.

 

His peers, and even Anthea, often suggested that he needed to focus more on a “hobby” and his “work-life balance.” Perhaps it was time to consider focusing more on his work and less on his hobby. Before something happened that he couldn’t explain away. Before he had to stop pretending this was only about helping Sherlock.

 

~~~~

 

“Sherlock!” Greg yelled at the quickly disappearing man in front of him. He turned to Anderson and barked, “What the hell did you tell him?”

 

Anderson shrugged, a guilty expression on his face. “I read him the victim’s address off his driving license.”

 

“Shit! Give me that!” Greg grabbed the license as he called dispatch to see if any panda car could beat him to it. Luckily, the flat was over a mile away.

 

He hung up a few moments later, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “Donovan! You’re in charge of this scene. I’m following Sherlock.”

 

Donovan simply rolled her eyes and walked to where Anderson was still crouched in front of the body.

 

Dashing to his car, he pulled out into traffic, narrowly avoiding a delivery van. Not for the first time, he wished he drove a marked car or one with a siren. He’d just have to coast through the stream of traffic, markedly slower than a tall man hell-bent on his destination.

 

About ten minutes later, he got a call from the officer on scene, confirming Sherlock was in the back of their car. He raised a fist to celebrate and then had to grab the wheel to avoid a scooter with a meal delivery.

 

He pulled up to the building, catching a glimpse of a dark figure in the back of a car with a sergeant leaning against the door. Motioning for the officer to open the door, he slid into the back seat, hip-checking Sherlock to move over.

 

“What the fuck was that?” he yelled as soon as the door closed behind him.

 

Sherlock instinctively flinched at the raised voice but otherwise ignored him. Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. He opened them again to watch the other man, looking for danger signs. And they were there. The closest hand to Greg shook a little, resting on his knee. He was strung as tight as a bow, his muscles clenched, even his jaw.

 

Greg slouched back in the seat as much as the cramped car would allow. “You’re high, aren’t you?”

 

“Congratulations, detective. Your years of training have paid off.”

 

“Why were you on my crime scene?”

 

“Why don’t you care about solving this?”

 

“We’ve had this discussion. I have to prove it in court and not get sacked. You don’t have to worry about any of those things.”

 

Sherlock made a few efforts to breathe and relax his muscles, likely still reacting to his adrenaline, mile-long run, and the mix-of-the-day.

 

“I need you sober to be on these scenes. You know that, and you know I have to call your brother to get you into rehab. Again.”

 

Sherlock turned his head to look at Greg, his weird, grey eyes almost obscured by huge pupils. “You’ll cheer him up. He’ll have a new project to take care of.”

 

Greg opened the door to step out, his phone in hand. “Seems like the same project to me.”

 

He thought he heard Sherlock snort as he slammed the door, already pulling up the other Holmes’ number.

 

~~~~

 

Mycroft had been called to a last-minute meeting in Geneva that morning and had no time to check in on Sherlock. He also refused to spend time looking for him on less secure lines on the plane or at the hotel conference center.

 

Shortly after the French group decided to take a short break from their negotiations, he pulled his silenced phone from his pocket and noticed three missed calls from Detective Inspector Lestrade in as many hours, followed by a text from him:

Greg:Got SH on my sofa. He’s going to stay with me for a couple days. I’d handcuff him to the plumbing but I’m afraid for the pipes.

He nodded to Anthea as she handed him another report. Sherlock was in good hands and any response to Greg could wait. He scanned through the reports Anthea had updated with the last set of concessions and found himself glancing at his phone. Pausing, he let himself analyze the source of the distraction—a sense of social obligation to respond to the man helping his brother. Perhaps it would be good to have someone else who seemed dedicated to keeping Sherlock alive. The temptation to respond overrode his normal self-control and he gave in, reaching for the phone.

Mycroft:As mentioned, I appreciate the information. MH

The phone buzzed again before he even set it down on the desk.

Greg:NP. Don’t mind helping him. GTG

What in the world? This was why he hated texting. People abbreviated and included smiling faces and butchered the English language. His thumbs hovered over the surface of his phone while he debated a response until another text popped up.

Greg:We should meet and talk about him soon.

He was startled by three quick knocks on the door of his temporary office—Anthea’s signal that the other delegation was emerging from their private conference room. Rather than over-analyze a simple response, he replied:

Mycroft:I should return by Friday evening. Anthea will arrange a meeting place and time with you. MH

Lestrade’s response again came almost immediately:

Greg:Do I need to know a secret handshake? Shake off anyone tailing me?

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. Few people spoke to him that way, and most of them seemed to think sarcasm was an effective way to establish dominance. They were incorrect. However, Lestrade didn’t seem to play any games in his communications. And he was the only person in almost a decade who seemed to have some ability to reach Sherlock. Deciding to cooperate with the teasing, he answered:

Mycroft:Yes.

Chapter 3: Early 2010

Mycroft stared at the man approaching in his second-favourite warehouse, examining his body language. The plans for tonight were different given his quarry. He wanted to observe him in person and tempt him with disloyalty. If Dr Watson needed to disappear from Sherlock’s life, it would be because he received an impossible-to-turn-down offer to serve as a civilian consultant for the armed forces or with a prestigious medical department. Somewhere outside of London.

 

The doctor was surprisingly calm for someone who had essentially been kidnapped following a display of technical control over London’s CCTV system. An interesting package—his usual frumpy jumper, unassuming air, and small build hid a reckless adrenaline junkie with a well-developed sense of honour and loyalty. He could as easily provide a strange kind of support for Sherlock as hurl them both over a cliff, figuratively or literally.

 

His cane was clearly the result of a psychosomatic limp—his medical records were superficial and often inaccurate, but still managed to raise questions about it. Sherlock would quickly clear up that limitation so that it didn’t slow him down.

 

Even as Mycroft blustered a bit to test the doctor’s reactions, Sherlock interfered with the questioning by incessantly texting. Pretending to review his notes, Mycroft confronted the doctor on his intermittent hand tremor, revealing confidential medical information he had no business having. But the man was distracted—he was more interested in running off to help Sherlock than in Mycroft’s dominance game.

 

Given that Sherlock had been dedicated for at least a decade to some variation of balancing on one foot, while high, on the edge of that cliff, Mycroft decided to wait and watch. He wandered idly off to a back corner where he’d stored his laptop, planning to monitor Dr Watson and Sherlock’s moves for the remainder of the evening.

 

Less than an hour later, he sat back in his chair, astounded at the behaviour of both men.

 

~~~~

 

Greg had seen Mr Holmes on the scene the night everything went to hell but waited until the next day to text him for some plausible deniability.

Greg:This would be a good time to meet again.

He didn’t receive a response for several hours. Greg realised he could hardly be among the man’s top priorities.

Mycroft:Are you available tomorrow at 7? MH

Greg:Can you have your fancy car pick me up again?

The response was immediate.

Mycroft:Yes. MH

The next day, Greg opened the door to Holmes’ club of choice, knowing now to point and nod at the host instead of saying anything. He was escorted back to Mycroft’s suite and shook his head at himself as he was tempted to tiptoe pointedly behind the man. He walked in, following a quiet knock to announce him, and Mycroft turned, glass in hand, at the bar cart. He quietly added an enormous ice cube to a second glass and poured something. Greg didn’t really care what it was at this point.

 

“Cheers,” Greg held up the glass.

 

“To the confusion of our enemies,” Holmes responded and clinked.

 

“I haven’t heard that one before.” Greg huffed. “I bet we have a few of the same enemies. Do you know what we need to talk about?”

 

“I believe I do.” He gestured to Greg to sit on the sofa as he sat on the armchair next to it, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle.

 

Greg paused for a moment before he followed suit. He placed his glass on the coaster on the end table, removed his jacket, and draped it across the back of the sofa, dropping into a controlled slouch as he sat. He was rewarded with a raised eyebrow.

 

“This has been a bastard of a week. Don’t judge me.” He took a near-impolite swig of his drink, which was some form of light-bodied scotch.

 

“I judge everyone. It’s a peril of the job.”

 

“Like Sherlock.”

 

“Not exactly like him, but a similar concept. He is obsessed with minutiae to a greater degree than I am.”

 

“I saw you talk to him two nights ago.”

 

Holmes nodded, almost imperceptibly.

 

“What do you think of his new best friend?”

 

“I believe the proper expression is ‘the jury is still out,’” Holmes hesitated slightly. “May I ask in what capacity you are here this evening?”

 

“Let’s just say that I’m not too interested in having a lot of people in my department spend their days tracking down who killed a serial killer. Does that make me a bad cop?”

 

Greg thought he detected a slight smirk.

 

“I cannot disagree with you on your decision to effectively allocate your resources, Detective Inspector. Or your priorities.”

 

“Please call me Greg. Forensics has a preliminary report back, and it was a standard service-issued firearm, probably a Sig Sauer.”

 

“Indeed?”

 

“If you have any concerns about Sherlock's safety, will you tell me?”

 

“I always have concerns about his safety,” Holmes’ voice was tight.

 

“Yeah, that’s a point. Any new concerns…”

 

“At the moment, and as strange as it seems, Sherlock may be safer mentally and physically than he has been in years.”

 

“I know you help him in lots of ways he doesn’t appreciate.”

 

Holmes smiled slightly. “You’re an observant man.”

 

Greg raised his empty glass. “That’s my job, Mr Holmes.”

 

“Another?” Holmes stood without waiting on a response and took his glass. “And it’s Mycroft.”

 

~~~~

 

Mycroft managed to walk through the halls of his club without stumbling, exhausted from working for close to thirty-six hours. Even he could barely function on two meals and a half-hour nap at his desk in that length of time. All he wanted was a quiet meal and a drink, followed by a night’s sleep in the small bedroom in his suite.

 

As he walked through the door, he froze. Sighing and dropping his head, he closed his eyes for a moment. “Sherlock, this is not a good evening for a chat.”

 

His brother sat in Mycroft’s favourite armchair, waiting for him silently, hands steepled in his ridiculous “thinking” pose.

 

”Good lord,” Mycroft muttered, walking over to his bar cart. He poured himself a drink and then called in his dinner order—grilled fish and a salad. For one.

 

Setting his drink down on the end table, he unbuttoned his jacket and removed it, hanging it neatly on the valet stand. Sherlock despised Mycroft’s sleeve garters, so they might help cut Sherlock’s visit short.

 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to them, and then met Mycroft’s gaze. Too tired to battle with his brother, Mycroft walked to his desk and picked up today’s paper. He was happy to ignore Sherlock as long as need be. Returning to the sofa, he sipped his whisky and skimmed over the front page.

 

“I’ve been sober for almost a year now,” Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth.

 

”Mmm…Yes, I’m grateful for that.” The below-the-fold story was the product of a well-placed and completely false tip to a reporter; one of the ministers of state would be very relieved.

 

“I have a deal to propose to you.”

 

Sighing again, Mycroft lowered the paper. “I’m quite sure I do not want to have this conversation now.”

 

“John and Lestrade helped me get sober. Not you.”

 

“I will not argue with you. I’m the pocketbook for your rehabilitation, and nothing more.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth curved into a hard smile. “We both know that’s not true.”

 

Mycroft’s years of training in interrogation techniques kicked in. He stilled his heart rate and breathing. He would have fooled most sophisticated questioners, but not his brother. They stared at each other for over a minute while Mycroft emptied his mind of any thoughts other than the present moment—the feel of the soft leather cushion against his back, the newspaper in his hand, his brother’s grey eyes boring into him.

 

Lowering his hands to his knees, Sherlock leaned forward. Mycroft resisted the instinctive urge to mirror his brother’s posture and waited. Finally, Sherlock added, “Lestrade was not very interested in investigating the murder of Mr Hope, my least favourite cabbie.”

 

Mycroft also forced a false smile. ”Oh? I’m sure he’s doing his best.” He managed to respond in a normal voice, despite feeling a tightness in his throat and an increasing awareness of his shoulder muscles clenching.

 

”He was doing almost nothing, and you know it. His DCI agreed that Lestrade should focus on other priorities and reassigned it to the newest DI.”

 

”And?”

 

”She is trying to solve it to prove herself.”

 

“Her parents must be very proud of her.” He turned slightly to pick up his glass, mostly to allow his shoulders to relax through the rote motions.

 

”Shut up, Mycroft. She needs to prove herself on a different case. Any other case. And you know why.”

 

Not a muscle on his face twitched as he processed that acknowledgement. ”So my half of the ‘deal’ is to arrange for the Met to drop it. Dare I ask what your half of the deal is?”

 

”I was just given three cold cases.”

 

“You hate cold cases.”

 

“I knew two of the men killed.”

 

Oh. “Oh?” he managed.

 

“They were my dealers. There was a period in which the dealers I engaged with died at a statistically improbable rate.”

 

“Was there?”

 

“There are other cold cases I could work on. As I recall, one unsolved case is the murder of my dealer who was unfortunately found in the Thames while I was in Florida.”

 

Yes, that particular evening was unfortunate. “I believe I recall that one. He was discovered by a man and his dog on an early morning walk south of London. Nasty business.”

 

“It was.” Sherlock’s expression gave nothing away.

 

“And, again, your half of the deal is what?”

 

“I may not have time to work on them. They may remain cold cases.”

 

Interesting. “If?”

 

“If the cabbie case is dropped.”

 

“I assume the murderers in the cases will be very relieved by the inaction.”

 

“I assume you are correct.”

 

A quiet knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” Mycroft called quietly.

 

The waiter wheeled in a dinner cart and proceeded to set up Mycroft’s meal on the small dining table. Both brothers stared at each other in silence. The waiter may have been used to the quiet, but he certainly could feel the tension.

 

After he left, Mycroft stood up and extended his hand. Sherlock rose and glared at his hand. “You will also stop interfering with my life.”

 

“I just…want you alive, Sherlock.”

 

“I’m alive. I have a life and a flatmate. We solve crimes. This is what I’ve wanted to do for years.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Yet you are suggesting you won’t solve some crimes.”

 

Sherlock smiled. “I’ve already solved them.” He reached out to offer Mycroft his hand and they shook, once. Sherlock stormed out, shutting the door far too loudly for the club’s etiquette. By the time Mycroft recovered enough to move, he stared at his cold fish until his lips twitched with a small smile. He and Sherlock had stalemated again. They had played to a draw, and finished their game. Perhaps they were both free.

Chapter 4: Later in 2010

Greg walked into Mycroft’s club late on a Wednesday. He was a regular now and was beginning to adjust to the pleasures of having access to a private suite, food-on-demand, and an exceptional bar. He had received an unexpected promotion in his social status about a month ago when the concierge whispered to him that he no longer needed to be escorted on the premises.

 

With some pangs of nervousness, he quietly knocked and entered Mycroft’s rooms. He’d put off asking a difficult question until he could see Mycroft in person again, which was made more challenging by the fact that the other man had been travelling for over a week.

 

Mycroft was seated at his desk and clicked a few times on his laptop before he shut it and stood. “Good evening.”

 

He hesitated about the proper greeting. Greg still hadn’t overcome the other man’s instinctively reserved and cautious nature; Mycroft could be almost skittish, like a feral animal. Or like a man who hadn’t been able to trust anyone in decades.

 

Greg stopped in front of him, running his hand up Mycroft’s lapel to rest on his shoulder. He’d learned to wait to see if Mycroft was ready for any physical affection. Mycroft raised his hands to rest on Greg’s waist. They were warm through his shirt.

 

“You’re concerned about something,” Mycroft whispered. “I don’t want to casually greet you and pretend I don’t know that.”

 

Greg shook his head. “I should be used to that by now.” Mycroft simply watched him and waited. “I saw an envelope for a drug rehab facility on your worktop when I left last week. Is Sherlock using again?”

 

Mycroft’s eyebrows twitched in surprise. “Thankfully, no. The letter was from a facility I’m…supporting.”

 

“Oh? Is it one that helped Sherlock?”

 

“No, it's new.”

 

Greg pulled back, frowning. “What do you mean ‘supporting’?”

 

“Merely financially, as a donor. That was not some veiled admission that I’m a client.”

 

Greg exhaled, his tense shoulders dropping. “Thank god.”

 

“You may hear more about Harbor Recovery House. It will soon work with the Met to provide a halfway house and support for addicts who’ve been charged with or convicted of distributing. Most facilities won’t assist them.”

 

“I’m glad that’s not my division, but it’s a good cause.”

 

“You should also know that I’m a significant financial backer.”

 

“Hey,” his thumb massaged Mycroft’s shoulder. “Sherlock’s addiction wasn’t your fault. You did your best for years.”

 

Mycroft smiled tightly. “I have much to atone for. Helping start the House is a small step.”

 

Greg tugged him closer, holding him loosely. “Can I help?”

 

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered, “You help every day.”

 

“I don’t know what happened, and you don’t have to tell me. But you’ve spent your whole life protecting this country and Sherlock. It’s time someone took care of you.”

 

Mycroft buried his face in Greg’s neck, and they held each other, rocking slightly from side to side. After a few moments, Mycroft pulled away to look at him. “I don’t deserve you.”

 

Greg shrugged. “Fine.”

 

Mycroft’s brows shot up. “What?”

 

“What’d you expect me to say? Fine, I’m settling for you.”

 

Mycroft stared at him blankly and then started laughing. “You are incorrigible.”

 

”You need to trust me.”

 

“I—I—” Mycroft stammered. Greg gazed calmly up at him. “I’ll…keep trying. It’s difficult for me.”

 

“That’s all I can ask.”

 

~~~~

 

A few weeks later, Greg watched the man unfold from the backseat of the car for what felt like the hundredth time. Mycroft’s umbrella and his leather shoes clicked on the pavement as he approached on the quiet street. He tried to quell the flutters of nervousness in his stomach. “You’re late, Holmes.”

 

“I beg your forgiveness.” Mycroft stopped mere inches away, the toes of their shoes almost touching.

 

He was close enough for Greg to catch the remnants of the day’s cologne and something else—a hint of wool and starch from his suit and shirt, a touch of sweat, and…Mycroft. Greg resisted the urge to kiss him in the middle of the sidewalk. “Ready for dinner?”

 

“You were very adamant that we meet tonight. Are you going to tell me what the occasion is?”

 

“Let’s go sit down, and I’ll tell you.” Greg grinned. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned to open the door. He gestured for Greg to precede him into the little Italian restaurant. Only one table was empty—it was a Friday night—but they were seated immediately at the table for two marked “reserved” near the small, lit fireplace. Greg nodded to the waiter, who nodded back and then scurried off into the kitchen. Only a few more minutes now.

 

“I am starting to be concerned that I've missed something significant. We began seeing each other about six months ago. Neither of our birthdays are for several months…” Mycroft stopped when two waiters returned with champagne flutes, a bucket with ice, and a bottle.

 

Greg whispered, ”Be patient.”

 

The waiter performed the usual ceremony of showing Greg the bottle and label, opening it carefully, and pouring him a taste. “‘S good.” Greg glanced at Mycroft and watched an eyebrow inch up.

 

When the waiter left them with two full glasses, Greg lifted his to toast. “To two whole years.”

 

“What?” Mycroft jerked his hand back, almost spilling. “Two years ago I’d just met…Oh.”

 

Pleased he’d managed to surprise Mycroft, he grinned. ”Yeah, I met you two years ago today.”

 

”Good lord, even I didn’t remember that.” They reached forward to clink. “How did you happen to mark the date?”

 

“It’s a bit of a cheat.” Greg said after sipping. “Today’s my sister’s birthday and we usually try to get together. Two years ago today, I went out for drinks with her and told her about Sherlock helping me on a case. And meeting you.”

 

“And you chose to have dinner with me tonight instead of her.” Mycroft shifted in his seat and looked into the fire, possibly a bit paler than when they walked in. “I’m sensing a need for a dramatic presentation this evening.” Mycroft gestured to encompass the setting. “Thus, the fireplace and the pre-ordered champagne.” 

 

Greg felt flutters again in his stomach. I can do this, he told himself a few times, hesitating. “I’m not trying to put you on the spot…” Greg’s courage escaped him. It was his turn to glance away, searching the restaurant for their waiter. Maybe getting menus would be good right about now. He sighed. “I had a plan for the dinner, but not really how to ask you this…” 

 

Inhaling deeply, he reached out for his glass and saw his hand trembling slightly. He finished his drink and the waiter reappeared immediately, refilling both glasses, but without menus. Mycroft watched silently, irritatingly skilled at waiting for a response during a difficult conversation.

 

“I hope you know…” Greg finally added, giving in to the interrogation strategy. “I really like where we are now, so if this is what you want, I’m good with this. But…” He glanced up, trying to read Mycroft’s stony expression. “We haven’t really talked about what we want. I’d like to…be with you more.”

 

Mycroft continued to stare at him.

 

“Oh, god, I’ve fucked this up.” Greg buried his face in his palm as an icy feeling poured through him. Shit, shit, shit.

 

“Greg,” a hand shook his forearm lightly. “You haven’t ‘fucked this up’ other than possibly by panicking. What are you trying to tell me?”

 

“I want to spend the weekends together. Or be there in your bed at two in the morning when you get back from wherever-you-are.” The words poured out of him—he hoped he managed to say that without sounding too needy. Damn all the rules for what men can think but not say.

 

Greg glanced up as the waiter approached, finally bringing the menus and a wine list. “We have a few off the menu items tonight, if you’re interested?”

 

“No, thank you,” both men responded at the same time. 

 

The waiter huffed in amusement and poured some more champagne, nearly finishing the bottle. “I’ll be back in a bit for your orders,” he said, resting the bottle back in the melting ice and turning on his heel.

 

Greg watched him walk away. “How do they always manage to do that?”

 

“It’s certainly an argument against coincidences.”

 

They both scanned their menus for a few moments. Greg resisted the urge to peek at Mycroft to scan for hints in his body language. He was, in equal parts, eager and concerned to hear Mycroft’s answer so he tried to focus instead on selecting his dinner. Caesar salad. Check. Ravioli con something. Check. 

 

“Should we get a different drink with the meals?” Greg asked. “You’re in charge of that.” Mycroft flipped open the wine list and made his decision as quickly as Greg had. They efficiently placed their orders and turned back towards each other. Greg fiddled with his water glass just to give himself something to do with his hands, while Mycroft adjusted his cuff. 

 

“I have also been considering our next steps recently,” Mycroft quietly announced. “I greatly value our time together. But I have concerns we should discuss.”

 

“Of course,” Greg nodded. “I have a pretty good idea about what some of those concerns are.”

 

“May we discuss this in private? Come to my house after dinner. I’ll even acquiesce to a shared dessert before we leave here.”

 

“If you’re inviting me back, that means you don’t have anything terrible to say.”

 

“I promise you,” Mycroft held up his nearly empty flute, “that I won’t say anything terrible.” They clinked and finished their drinks, and Greg reached for the bottle in the bucket. This was going to be a long evening.

 

~~~~

 

They managed to have a pleasant dinner, somewhat to Mycroft’s surprise. He was able to fill much of the time sharing stories about his last trip to Paris and the mild outbreak of food poisoning that swept through the conference. There were several awkward hours before the attendees appreciated the extent of the problem. Thankfully, Mycroft had received an emergency call and missed most of the lunch that caused the outbreak.

 

Even with the rest of their conversation earmarked for later, he enjoyed the way Greg’s casual air made him comfortable. Admittedly, their frequent talks were usually about surface issues—Mycroft’s efforts to appease petty bureaucrats, Greg’s never-ending struggles with petty criminals, and Sherlock. They had rarely discussed their relationship after acknowledging their mutual attraction. Mycroft suppressed a smile as he recalled that was done almost non-verbally. 

 

Do I turn away his request for “more” because of my past choices? Mycroft wondered as they strolled in companionable silence to his house. He’d struggled with this question for much of this year, since he first realised Greg might also be interested in more than a professional relationship. Continually promising himself that “just a little more” of Greg wouldn’t hurt him, he had sometimes felt like a diabetic convincing himself that he could try the dessert.

 

He had no remaining rationalisations about his actions being appropriate to protect his brother or even that they helped the cause of sobriety for any extended time. And he had no intention of continuing that project or any similar project.

 

It had slowly dawned on him during his long overdue introspection that he’d spent most of his life and his energy invested in others—his family, his work, and his country. He started his project to help Sherlock with very little thought about himself, other than avoiding being caught. It had never crossed his mind how he would move on with his life if Sherlock got sober.

 

They settled on opposite ends of the sofa in Mycroft’s study after their walk, opting for tea instead of more alcohol. Greg kicked off his shoes; the tip of one toe showed through the pair of black socks Mycroft could not convince him to donate or discard.

 

Greg watched him, sipping tea, using Mycroft’s silent tactic against him. His eyes were shadowed by dark circles; he looked tired, but calm and hopeful. Finally, Mycroft relented. “Greg, there are so many things in my life you can never know. I’m concerned that the more time you spend with me, the more you’ll come to resent that.”

 

“Do you think you can’t have a relationship if you have secrets? Hell, I have some.”

 

“I may already know a fairly high percentage of your secrets.”

 

Greg snorted. “Yeah. Probably.” He shrugged. “But you don’t know everything.”

 

Mycroft considered. Greg really was an open book, and he was also not particularly subtle. “I can tell where you’re going with this. I know everything I need to know about you. I don’t believe the reverse is true.”

 

“Maybe,” Greg shrugged as he finished his tea and leaned forward to set his cup on the coffee table. He swiveled his body and put his feet up on the cushion next to Mycroft, tucking his toes under Mycroft’s thigh. He felt his toes wiggle. 

 

“Greg—“ He was unsure what else to say. Thoughts swirled about what the other man was implying, but surely it had to be something simple. That he was insecure about his weight. That he detested cauliflower and the squeak of styrofoam. 

 

“You know that I wasn’t actually investigating Hope’s murder,” Greg said quietly.

 

Of course he did. Greg had all but told him that. ”I do.”

 

“No one gains anything from prosecuting…that person. He killed a murderer before he could kill Sherlock. I haven’t lost any sleep over that decision. Does that make me a bad person? 

 

“No. It’s very logical. Mr Hope killed a number of people. It’s reasonable to believe Sherlock would have been included in that tally. It helps nothing to prosecute his murderer, given the motivation and the improbability that a similar situation will arise.”

 

“Knock wood when you say that last bit.”

 

Mycroft huffed but turned to tap his closed fist on the end table.

 

Greg’s toes wiggled again, and Mycroft’s eyes caught his. “So…are you going to turn me in for dereliction of duty?”

 

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “I am slightly insulted that you would ask me that.”

 

“And if you had to make the same kind of decision, either because of something for your work or for Sherlock, I’d feel the same way. Sometimes your decisions help. Sometimes they probably go sideways. D’you think I’d treat you differently than John? I’d just met him.”

 

Mycroft stared at Greg, trying to control his breathing. The man clearly knew something but his normally expressive eyes hid his secrets. He wasn’t bluffing, but…he couldn’t possibly…

 

Greg slowly edged closer to Mycroft on the sofa until he reached out to grab his far shoulder. Swinging his leg over Mycroft’s lap, he straddled him, with a knee on either side of Mycroft’s thighs. “Let me in,” he whispered.

 

Mycroft needed Greg in his life—to help him remember he was an actual person with wants and emotions. To help him recover and make amends. He had always made sacrifices and always would, but Greg wouldn’t be one of them.

 

Mycroft moaned and kissed him, hard.

 

 

Notes:

I struggled with how to end this. Having Mycroft walk away from Greg so as to avoid exposing his past or living with a huge secret seemed like a let down. And, c'mon, this is fan fic, we need something positive at the end. I worked on a draft that ended with Greg having figured it out, and letting Mycroft know he'd accepted it, which was out of character for Greg. So this seemed like a middle ground. Maybe if Greg figures it out some day--or Sherlock opens his big mouth--Greg will reconsider. But for now there's a path forward.

In rewrites, I also made the drug dealers increasingly bad to (sort of) ease the reaction to Mycroft's acts. At the end, it occurred to me that perhaps Sherlock figured it out fairly early and chose as dealers some of the bad actors who had evaded the law. I'm not sure about that, so you be the judge.

Thanks to Trillian_jdc and Raechem for their help, as well as to Lav and Mouse9 (and Trillian) for some great brainstorming, given that this was outside my normal wheelhouse.

Jevan- thanks for the prompt and pushing me to get out an idea that had been floating around in my head. Hope this was dark enough for you. ;)