Chapter Text
Seven year old Mycroft Holmes didn’t need to be as perceptive of a child as he was to know that something was very wrong. Mummy was often ill, of course, and he was used to her sporadic absence as she nursed one of her headaches. The bottle of pills, (which he must never, ever touch) that resided on her dresser was once a looming presence in her bedroom. It had troubled Mycroft at first, but with the passage of months, became almost invisible; and remained just barely out of his thoughts until the times when she retreated and closed the door behind her. Today, however, something was very, very wrong indeed. Mummy was crying, and she never cried. Not even a little bit, not even when her headaches were at their worst. Something terrible had happened, he was sure of it. Mummy was frightened.
Mycroft hung behind in the doorway, unsure of how to approach the situation. He was about to retreat when Mummy noticed him, and cleared her throat, resuming a pleasant enough mask. She reached out her arms, and Mycroft went to her, letting her embrace him. He hugged her as hard as he could manage, unable to question her. After a long while, she pulled back slightly. She wasn’t crying anymore, but the worry was still in her eyes.
“Mummy, what’s wrong?” he finally managed, looking critically into her eyes.
She cleared her throat, and forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong, love.” she replied. “In fact, I’ve got good news for you. You’re going to have a little brother soon. Or a little sister. I think it will be a brother, though.” She placed his hand over her belly. “Isn’t that nice? I think that you’ll be a wonderful big brother, don’t you?” Of all of the things that she could have said, this was something that Mycroft had not anticipated.
“Mycroft.” Her voice broke, just a bit, and she swallowed hard. “I’m going to need your help from now on.”
Not knowing exactly what she meant, Mycroft nodded sternly; because Mummy mustn’t cry.
--
Sherlock, the baby, had been born too soon, and because of this, he and Mummy stayed in hospital for what felt like an eternity. Mycroft had gazed with distaste at the tiny creature, looking like an alien with his huge head and miniscule, bony limbs, covered in veins, plastic tubes, and tape. Now that Sherlock was healthy enough to come home, Mummy had spent all of her time hovering about the bassinette, fussing over his smallest whimper, and ignoring everything else. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, he was sick of it all. The ugly little creature did nothing, in Mycroft’s opinion, to warrant praise and presents.
Resenting the peaceful expression on his sleeping brother’s face, Mycroft pulled the baby from the bassinette. “Wake up. All you ever do is laze about and whine.” Sherlock wrinkled his red face, and squinted at him. He yawned, and, maddeningly, closed his eyes again.
Everything had been much better before he’d come along, Mycroft reflected. A dull anger passed over him. How he’d like to throw his brother! It would be easy to drop him, in fact. He could say it was an accident. He could… do something worse than that. The brat deserved something rotten.
The shuffle of footsteps roused him from his jealous thoughts. “Why, Mycroft! You’re a proper big brother now, aren’t you.”
“Father!” Mycroft yelped, in surprise and delight. He hadn’t seen his father in so long! He’d been away, In Her Majesty’s Service, as he understood, since well before the baby had come.
Father knelt, and scooped him and the baby into his arms. “I can’t stay for long.” He murmured into Mycroft’s hair. “I’m so sorry.” He ran a finger across Sherlock’s cheek, and kissed Mycroft’s temple. “You’re the man of the house while I’m gone, remember. Take care of your Mummy and the baby. He’s your responsibility, you know.”
Mycroft nodded, and, oddly feeling quite different than he had a moment ago, clutched the sleeping bundle tight.
--
Other children didn’t seem to like Sherlock. That wasn’t surprising, Mycroft thought, because other children were idiots. After all, his classmates hadn’t liked him much, either. Sherlock had started to talk at a young age, and since he had, had spoken with the clarity and maturity of a young adult. Mycroft spent much of his time with Sherlock, playing games, teaching him everything he could think of, and, over time, developing a secret language which only they could understand.
He loved Sherlock more than anyone in the world, except, perhaps, Mummy; and yet his brother had the ability to make him angrier than anyone, or anything else could. Sherlock was stubborn, often bad tempered, and took stupid risks even after Mycroft had specifically forbade him to do something. It was Mycroft that bandaged skinned knees, cleaned up messes, and took the hysterical scolding from Mummy when Sherlock had broken his arm.
It was a wrench to leave Sherlock for university, but there was nothing to be done about it. Life had obligations, after all, and Mycroft’s was to his family and, he hoped someday, to Her Majesty, like his father. Still, who would look after Sherlock?
It was while he was at Oxford that Sherlock had first taken the drugs. Mycroft, infuriated, left in the midst of the term to drive the eighty-six miles home to punch Sherlock in the jaw.
Sherlock claimed that he was ‘bored’. Mycroft’s stomach knotted in sickly worry. He extracted a promise from Sherlock, along with the remainder of his stash, and uneasily resumed his life apart from his brother.
--
Mycroft had never heard what had happened between his brother and Victor Trevor directly from Sherlock, and this hurt him more than he was willing to admit; even to himself. That Sherlock should have a close friend was unusual, but what was astonishing was the effect that the rift between them had taken on his brother. Sherlock wasn’t himself when he came home that Christmas. He seemed confused, forlorn, and perhaps a bit guilty.
“You’re graduating this year.” Mycroft observed, over a mouthful of mince pie. “Why don’t you come and stay with me? I know that I can find you a rewarding position.”
Sherlock pushed away his plate and scowled. “No.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Sherlock. You need to join the real world sometime.”
“I’m not going to live a dull life like yours.” He grumbled.
“The world has enough sulking poet types, dear brother. You should put your brain to work on something important.”
“I am. I’m going to be a detective.” Sherlock’s tone was that defiant one he had used since childhood. Mycroft would have laughed if he didn’t know the genuineness of that tone.
“The police are idiots. You’re wasting your time.” Mycroft chided.
“I never said anything about the police, now did I?” Sherlock retorted.
Sherlock’s first year alone in London caused Mycroft to take up cigarettes and sleeping pills.
--
John Watson was absolutely ordinary. Mycroft watched Sherlock in confusion. What was it, exactly, that caused his brother’s obvious attraction? What made him puff up his feathers like a pleased peacock, showing off more than usual, (even for Sherlock), for this man? Sherlock was the one pressing for John to live with him, work with him, even- unheard of!
Dr. Watson would have to be interrogated; if he did not pass inspection, then Mycroft would simply ensure that he was removed from Sherlock’s life forever.
With one meeting, John Watson had won his approval and his blessing; although he was certain that the thought hadn’t occurred to Sherlock yet. His feelings about Victor Trevor, Mycroft knew, had been realized too late. Sherlock would not realize his obvious change in behavior until John Watson was such an integral fact of his existence that it would no longer be difficult for him to accept.
He worried about Sherlock less, and about John more. Somehow, the burden of his worry seemed less for being spread over two, and not one.
---
Mycroft had begged a sabbatical, which was only granted, he knew, out of pity. He found that he could no longer look his colleagues in the eye; could not even bring himself to face the Diogenes Club. He could hear, feel the accusations cut through the customary silence.
Murderer.
Traitor.
Fool.
His only redemption, as he saw it, was in John Watson; John Watson, who despised him; hated him with such quiet fury that caused him to slink away in shame from his own brother’s funeral. And so, Mycroft watched- and trailed- and protected his brother’s only friend with all of the staff and technology at his disposal.
--
The lock of Mycroft’s study had been tampered with. There, a minuscule scrape on the polished brass, there, the barrel of the deadbolt a millimeter out of line. He drew his gun and crossed the threshold.
The dark shape of Sherlock Holmes rose from the sofa, and crossed the darkened room. Mycroft lowered his gun, and waited for his brother to speak.
“Mycroft. I- I need your help.”
Mycroft closed his eyes, and took a deep, shaking breath before realizing that he had extended his hands towards his brother.
After a long moment, Sherlock returned the embrace.