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“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?” John questioned.
His new acquaintance answered, “Girlfriend, no. Not really my area.”
“Oh right, do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.”
Sherlock shot him a look, “I know it’s fine.”
“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?”
The baritone voice never changed as he answered, “No.”
John cleared his throat, “Not looking for your soulmate then?”
There’s a slight, barely present, hitch to Sherlock’s voice as he rubbed his exposed thumb over the top of his hand covered in fingerless gloves, “No, not interested.”
John thought of his own gloved hand with the word Mary written in dark green colour and wondered how anyone could not want to find their soulmate. He shrugged it off as Sherlock draws his attention to the cab idling outside the window.
When Sherlock was born, Mycroft was seven years old and used to wearing dark black gloves over the dark blood red James that was scrawled there. Daddy liked to remind him that just because his soulmate was a boy didn’t mean Mycroft has to marry a boy. But when Sherlock was born with a bright blue Georgiana on his hand, Daddy stopped worrying about Mycroft’s soulmate because Sherlock was going to be with a girl. The summer that the remains of Daddy’s burning car were found was the same summer that Sherlock’s soulmate name faded to black. Sherlock was only five and didn’t understand why Mummy held his limp hand, sobbing for her poor boy. That summer both Sherlock and Mummy’s soulmate brand faded black because both of their soulmates died. Mycroft spent hours after that running his fingers over James’ name and begging a god he didn’t believe in that it never went black.
Mycroft had worn plain, black leather gloves to hide his soulmate brand for as long as he remembers. Sherlock was given a pair when he turned four and wore the same style as his brother until the day he turned seven and asked Mummy why he had to hide that he had some dead girl’s name on his hand. Mummy cried and wouldn’t leave her bed for a week, moaning about the end of the Holmes’ line and how Daddy was rolling in his grave. That night Mycroft took a marker and scratched over the word James, wishing his soulmate was a girl. He felt guilty only moments later and scrubbed his hand raw to remove the marker. Mycroft made a promise that he’d never wish James was someone else again.
“Sherlock!” sixteen year old Mycroft hissed at his brother, “Put your gloves on before Mummy sees.”
His younger brother, who was mixing chemicals to see which combination ate through metal faster, sneered at him, “I can’t hold the beakers properly Mycroft. Besides, Mummy wouldn’t care so much if you didn’t have a boy’s name on your hand.”
It took all of his strength not to punch his snotty younger brother, “James is my soulmate and he is perfect.”
“How would you know, you’ve never even met him? I bet he’s stupid and lazy like you,” Sherlock kicked over his chemistry set and flopped dramatically onto his bed.
Mycroft spent the rest of the afternoon in his room with his gloves off and staring at the name James, hoping that Sherlock was wrong. At dinner Mummy’s eyes were bloodshot and Sherlock kept giving Mycroft dirty looks, though the elder was relieved to see Sherlock had put his gloves on.
“Mummy,” Sherlock broke the deafening silence around them, “I’m sorry Georgiana died and I’m sorry Mycroft is gay.”
It took a month to coax Mummy out of her room after that and Sherlock never mentioned it again. The boys had long since learnt that soulmates were off limits for discussion in their house.
Mycroft spent his last year at home with girls trying to pretend he’d be happy with one of them instead of James. He pretended that the stickiness of their lip gloss didn’t make him feel sick and the soft curves of their body didn’t feel wrong when he held them beneath him. Before he left for university, Mycroft gave Sherlock a pair of fingerless gloves, (“So your test tubes don’t drop as much”). Mycroft wrote letters home, all of which were sent back unopened. He still took his gloves off at night and came with the whispered name of James on his lips, but during the days he courted women, trying to please Mummy.
Graduating school with three degrees in four years, Mycroft was offered a job with the secret services instantly. He informed them he wanted a government job in the long run and within two years he was one of the most trusted of Her Majesties employees. The letters he sent were still returned unopened each week, but he’d gotten in the habit of writing them so he continued. He hadn’t spoken to Mummy or Sherlock since he’d left but he used his connections to keep track of his younger brother. Sherlock had gotten accepted into the same school Mycroft had left behind and he watched as his brother skipped classes and ran headfirst into dangerous situations. Some nights when Mycroft would curl up in his bed frustrated that he couldn’t make things right, he wondered what it’d be like if James was there with him. He imagined James could fix things. Dear James, please will you fix it for me?
By the time Sherlock was twenty four he had three close calls with cocaine overdosing. Mycroft, just into his thirties, took a week off work despite the protests of the office to help his brother through the worst of the withdrawals. Sherlock spent the first day vomiting on Mycroft’s 17th century Persian carpet, while Mycroft wiped sweat and traces of vomit off his brother’s face with a towel. By the fourth day Sherlock was screaming and swearing at Mycroft pacing through the house. He slept through all of day five and part of day six. It was then that Mycroft noticed the scars on his brother’s hand. Three gashes in a row over the name Georgiana. That night Mycroft pressed a kiss to the name James and promised himself no matter who James turned out to be, Mycroft would love him because he didn't die and leave Mycroft alone.
Sherlock finished school and Mycroft met a man named James. Mycroft never asked whose name was under James’ glove, assuming it was his with the way the other man’s eyes lit up when they were introduced. His lonely evenings were filled with theatre, dinners and late night phone calls. He’d never felt so certain that things were starting to look up. But the extra time with James meant less time keeping Sherlock busy and his brother relapsed. The Detective Inspector that Sherlock had been following the last few months called Mycroft and told him that he’d gone to consult Sherlock and found the boy with a needle in his arm, barely breathing. Mycroft rushed to his brother’s side and in his worry, didn’t notice James’ absence. It wasn’t until Sherlock was tucked away in a Swedish Rehabilitation Center that James picked the fight.
“Mycroft what happened?” James slammed his fist onto the counter, “we were getting closer and suddenly you stopped being around!”
Mycroft ran his hands soothingly across James’ arm, “I’m sorry James. But between work and Sherlock I had no free time. Surely you understand?”
James slammed Mycroft into the kitchen wall, “No Mycroft I don’t. Is your coke head brother more important than me? He’s a bloody lunatic and you’re making me suffer.”
It wasn’t the first time James’ fingers dug too tightly into Mycroft’s skin, or even the first time James had knocked him around. Mycroft barely flinched at it these days and he knew the best plan was to say nothing to not make James any angrier.
“I’m not playing second rate to that lost cause. You are picking now Mycroft, me or him,” James shook the other man for emphasis.
Pushing James off, Mycroft snarled, “I’m not picking anyone over Sherlock, ever.”
James raised his arm to hit Mycroft and it was then Mycroft noticed James wasn’t wearing his gloves; there in florescent orange was the name Clarice. The emotions that hit him hurt worse than the punch James never managed to land as Mycroft’s security team drug the enraged man out of the apartment. He should have known that James wasn’t his James, because his James didn’t break things. His James fixed things. Dear James, please will you fix it for me. Mycroft moved a week later.
Sherlock left the rehab center at the end of the year and stayed at Mycroft’s new house for a few months while he hunted down Detective Inspector Lestrade and forced the man to let him help with cases. Lestrade agreed as long as Sherlock stayed clean. When the lawyers called Mycroft to tell him Mummy had passed away in her sleep, he and Sherlock exchanged a single look in agreement that Mummy wouldn’t have wanted them at her funeral. They visited her grave a few days after the service and left flowers. That afternoon Sherlock got his own place and bought a pair of fingerless gloves. That night Mycroft ran his fingers over the name James and thanked him for still being alive.
The day John Watson entered Sherlock’s life was the same day that Mycroft first heard the name Moriarty. There had been issues with a particular terrorist cell and they had finally gotten one of their detainees to talk. At this point the man was so broken all did was rock in his cell and repeat the name over and over.
Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty.
When he and Anthea had pulled up to the crime scene, he was disturbed to watch his brother’s mouth form the word Moriarty as he spoke to Dr. Watson. Mycroft doubted Moriarty was a single man, but rather the boogeyman of the criminal world; someone to scare silence into the underlings. Nevertheless he created a Moriarty task force to find the man and hunt him down.
Jim Moriarty was fascinated with Sherlock Holmes. He’d known about Sherlock from the beginning as the little brat that knew Carl Powers didn’t die on his own. He had wanted to gather as much information about the boy as he could but came up empty almost every time. Sherlock was homeschooled and their nanny had been in the family for ages and couldn’t be bought off for information. Jim knew Sherlock had an older brother, by seven or eight years he estimated, and he knew the boy’s father was dead but other than that he found nothing. He spent his teenage years digging his teeth into the name Mycroft on his hand, wishing instead that it read Sherlock.
It wasn’t until Sherlock was in university that Jim was able to keep track of the man. He’d sent out spies to lure Sherlock into drugs and was dismayed when the man succumbed. Jim knew the way that the boredom ate at your brain; how lonely it was being brilliant. He never expected Sherlock to choose drugs as way out when there were intricate crimes to orchestrate, but he was further disappointed when the older brother swooped in and got Sherlock clean. Jim’s network had grown while Sherlock was playing good student and Jim used him to test the strength of his plans. He’d created intricate schemes and dropped enough clues that Sherlock would notice and solve it. Jim could determine the success of those plans, when made large scale and incorporated into his network, by how long it took Sherlock to figure it out.
The unhealthy fascination Jim had with Sherlock increased when he noticed the man never look twice at a man or woman. Jim started grooming people into what he imagined was Sherlock’s type, but each time Sherlock glanced once and never again. He wanted to see what was under those ratty gloves the man wore. When Sherlock relapsed the second time Jim paid off the doctor to find the name. Jim knew the name couldn’t be his, as his name was on some Mycroft’s hand, but he couldn’t help the anger when he was told of the scars making the name unreadable. He gave AK47s to a third world country at civil war that day just to soothe his rage.
The day John Watson shoots his cabby was the same day that Jim first heard the name Mycroft Holmes. He spent the full day laughing at himself for discounting the older brother. It was brilliant; the older brother was his soulmate, surely as smart as Sherlock and now Jim could play with both of them. When his men couldn’t find information on the man except for his name and minor role in government, Jim realized his soulmate played for the institution and played by the rules, or perhaps was the institution and was the rules. That didn’t stop Jim from running his tongue over the deep red Mycroft engraved in his hand.
“Sir,” Anthea appeared at his door, “Review of the CCTV footage shows Dr. Watson being kidnapped and taken to a pool, Sherlock following shortly behind, two unknown persons leaving the pool after about twenty minutes and now Dr. Watson has called the police informing them they need a bomb squad at the pool.”
Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh before answering with an even tone, “Have a car ready to take me to Baker Street.”
That is how Mycroft found himself sitting in his brother’s chair when his younger brother and Dr. Watson come stumbling through the door, giggling the entire way. If Mycroft wasn’t upset with his brother, he might be charmed that the two men found comfort in each other. Instead he raised an eyebrow and motioned for Sherlock to sit.
“What is it now Mycroft?” the younger Holmes groaned, picking at his gloves.
Mycroft gave a tight smile, “Do I need a reason to stop in and visit my little brother? Because I do have several; one of which being the bomb found in a pool and another being the consulting criminal you’ve made friends with.”
“As you can very well see we’re both fine and Jim Moriarty got away so I can’t help you,” Sherlock picked up his violin.
Jim Moriarty.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft raised his voice, “Jim Moriarty was the man at the pool? We will need you and Dr. Watson to give detailed descriptions and-”
Sherlock cuts him off, “Don’t bother. He’s been working at Bart’s for the last few months. Your spy cameras have been getting pictures of him the entire time.”
As Mycroft leaves he hears John Watson say to Sherlock, “But can you believe it? Consulting criminal really now. Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me? Sick, it’s just sick.”
That night Mycroft found himself flipping through dozens of pictures of Jim Moriarty. He had spilt wine on gloves earlier that evening so each time he picked up a picture he saw the name James written on his skin. It made him wonder what kind of a soulmate Moriarty must have. For the first time in his life, Mycroft was grateful Sherlock had the blackened name of a dead little girl etched onto his skin. Mycroft couldn’t imagine the horror story that would become of Moriarty being soulmates with someone as recklessly brilliant as his little brother. Nightmares kept Mycroft awake most of the night until he fell asleep, tracing the name James over and over with his fingertips.
It takes seven months and the destruction of years’ worth of planning with the MOD before they bring in Moriarty. He sits still while subjected to hours the more underhanded forms of interrogation. Mycroft doesn’t deal with the Moriarty situation now that he’s helped bring the man in; he never was one to enjoy torture. But after weeks of being told Moriarty will only speak with him, Mycroft succumbs.
Moriarty sat across from him, cheekbones adorned with bruises and his lip is split down the middle, “Mr. Moriarty, I wasn’t aware you knew of me until I received an unfortunate text earlier in the year. And now you’re refusing to speak to anyone but me. What did I do to receive such an honor?”
Jim smirked, “Well little Sherlie’s been poking around at my business and since you follow him like a shadow I couldn’t help but notice.”
“And what kind of a business do you run?” Mycroft coaxed.
“Ah ah ah Mycroft Holmes, I don’t want to say anything incriminating, do I?”
Leaning back in his chair Mycroft sealed his fate, “Will an exchange of goods interest you?”
“Now you’re speaking my language Mycroft. For every hour you spend with me here, telling me stories of your childhood and all that good stuff, I will tell you names of people.”
“Names?”
“Yes names. Like Fredrick Scharf who sold me the missile plans before Sherlie ever entered the little pool,” Moriarty drawls.
When Mycroft went home the next morning after spending nine hours with Moriarty he collapsed, exhausted, into his bed. The only thought on his mind was the way Moriarty purred his name whenever he addressed him. Mycroft slept soundly for eleven hours before he changed clothes and made his way back to Moriarty’s holding room.
After two weeks of retelling his life to Moriarty, Mycroft realized he had close to one hundred names but no more stories to tell, “It seems we have reached the present in the retelling of my life.”
“Hmmm, it appears you are correct. I guess we’ll need to make a new arrangement won’t we, Mycroft?” Jim was leaning forward against his restraints, his head inches from Mycroft’s.
He refused to be goaded and waited for Moriarty to present his next offer.
“Show me your soulmate hand and I’ll give you something great,” Jim’s tongue flicked out for the briefest of moments.
Mycroft felt himself recoil at the request. Moriarty had plenty of personal information about him, why did he need to see the one thing that Mycroft omitted from the reciting of his past. Soulmate marks were the most intimate part of a human. He knew his superiors were watching; expecting him to do this out of duty. So Mycroft slowly pulled off his glove and presented the blood coloured name on his hand.
James.
Jim looked feral at the sight with his eyes dilated and the snap of his teeth into a Cheshire grin, “uncuff my left hand and I’ll let you see mine, an eye for an eye kind of deal.”
Mycroft drew the key from his pocket and unlocked the wristband securing Jim’s left hand to the chair. Jim waited for him to sit back in his own chair before lifting his hand onto the table and holding it out for Mycroft to remove the glove.
There surrounded by the scars of teeth marks was a name printed in deep red.
Mycroft.
“So soulmate,” Jim hummed, “am I giving up a life of crime and being your kept boy or are you going to break me out of here and join me?”
He couldn’t answer as he stared at his name on Moriarty’s flesh. All he needed to do was reach out and run his fingers along Jim’s, no James’, skin to activate the bond. His mind raced through possible outcomes, all ending messier and more dangerous than the last. Without his consent, Mycroft’s fingers intertwined with Moriarty’s. Lines of electricity shot through their skin and when the mindstopping numbness of the bind dissolved they found themselves kissing frantically.
“James,” Mycroft gasped against his lips, “I promised I’d love you no matter who you turned out to be.”
Jim used his available hand to thread through Mycroft’s hair and pull him back in for another demanding kiss. When he pulled away and rested his forehead against Mycroft, panting for air, he smiled.
“Well then Mycroft, it’s a good thing I’ll be whoever you need me to be.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?” Irene questioned.
The man across from her answered, “Girlfriend, no. Not really my area.”
“Do you have a soulmate?”
Sherlock shot her a look, “Still not really my area.”
Irene pulled one of the elbow length gloves off her arm to reveal a black Georgiana on her hand, “Mine either Mr. Holmes. Let’s have dinner.”
“Why?”
“You might be hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
Sherlock’s voice lowered to a whisper as she placed her still gloved hand over his, “Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?”
Their faces were inches apart, “Mr. Holmes, if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?”
He ignored her question, “There was a girl, and she was eight, with a different name on each hand. The children at her school tormented her over this and-”
Irene interrupted, “And she threw herself into the ocean from the top of a cliff so she wouldn’t have to listen to them anymore. Yes, I know the story Mr. Holmes. I was seven.”
Sherlock lifted his fingers to hover over Irene’s cheek, “And the two names on her hands were Irene and Sherlock.”
He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth ignoring that sparks of the bond to watch as the black Georgiana on Irene’s hand returned to the sky blue it had been when they were born.