Chapter Text
It was, when all was said and done, a matter of pride. The face he would show to the outside world would never reveal the difficulties which he experienced at home, which were after all his own fault. Having applied the concealer with his usual deftness Mycroft carefully surveyed the result. Good, good, he thought, no one will know that I was stupid enough to upset him again.
Standing up Mycroft winced slightly, he had spent too long in the cold and the bruised muscles of his torso had stiffened up in protest but David had said that he must leave the house so that he might have some respite from his incessant stupidity and Mycroft had done as he was asked, he owed that much to David to make up for his unacceptable behaviour. Working quickly and carefully and above all neatly Mycroft put away his effects, making sure that everything was where it should be and as it should be. In the end it was a simple thing that brought Mycroft's world crashing down around his ears; as he turned around, his trailing hand caught a small decorative vase that was kept on the dressing table. Mycroft’s petrified, whispered oath could not be heard above the roar of rage from the next room. Despite himself Mycroft cowered even though he knew it infuriated David.
After the first four blows he lost consciousness.
It had been an ordinary morning right up until John went to answer the door and found Anthea (or whatever she was called this morning) there.
“Hello,” he said the confusion clear in his voice, “come in. What does Mycroft want?” when she didn’t immediately reply he began to feel a degree of nervousness, “Has something happened to Mycroft?” Anthea didn’t reply directly,
“Is his brother here?”
“Yes, he isn’t up yet but come in and I’ll roust him out of bed.”
It took some considerable shouting on John’s behalf, Sherlock just off a case was in the process of catching up his sleep, and in the end he had to risk life and sanity by going into Sherlock’s room to wake him, but in ten minutes, Sherlock was up and if not dressed then at least covered. When he saw Anthea he reached the same conclusion that John had,
“What’s happened to Mycroft?”
“I don’t even know if anything has but he has missed two important appointments already today and I couldn’t get any answer at the house. I wondered if you knew anything.”
“Have you spoken to David?” John could hear the distaste in Sherlock’s voice and was sure it was mirrored in his own expression as well as in Anthea’s,
“He said that he had no idea where Mycroft might be. I was disinclined to believe him.”
Despite David’s assurances that Mycroft was not at the house between them they decided that it was the only sensible place to start looking. Anthea had expressed the opinion that perhaps they should make this official, Mycroft after all was a potential security nightmare and if he’d been kidnapped then there were steps which needed to be taken. She allowed herself to be dissuaded quite easily though, especially when John pointed out (more gently than Sherlock would have done) that David’s apparent unconcern that Mycroft was missing almost certainly meant that he knew where Mycroft was and why he was not at work.
While they discussed this Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, almost abstracted John thought.
“Are you all right, Sherlock?” John asked as they approached the house, “Are you really that worried about him?” Anthea and Sherlock spoke simultaneously,
“He never misses an appointment. It must be something serious.” The two of them scowled at each other.
They got the driver to park three or four blocks from the house Mycroft shared with his partner and Sherlock made a visible effort to pull himself together,
“When we get there, John, you go up to the house, David’s only seen you the once and you can be fairly nondescript when you try.”
“Cheers for that,” John answered with a tight grin,
“If we’re lucky Mycroft will answer the door and all we’ll have left to do is make his life a misery about the missed appointments,” Sherlock continued,
“And what if we’re unlucky?” Anthea asked,
“Well then John gives the signal and we break in!” Sherlock grinned wolfishly.
It almost seemed anticlimactic when no one answered the door despite John’s repeated and loud hammering. He gave the signal, a loud wolf whistle and Sherlock and Anthea scurried around the corner of the hedge and up the drive.
“That was the signal?” Anthea asked while Sherlock got to work on the large number of locks on the door, “subtle, you two, very subtle.”
“We tried subtle,” John grinned, “it never really worked for us.”
“What added security systems are there that we need to know about?” Sherlock asked, addressing Anthea.
“Well,” she replied, “you did the locks in the right order, when you get inside you absolutely must wipe your feet,”
“Typical Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered,
“And then it’s just the alarm code, which I think I know,” Anthea finished.
“Right then,” Sherlock said, gathering the three of them together with a glance he pushed open the door.
After they had gone through the procedures Anthea had outlined, excepting the alarm code which had not been activated in the first place, they stood in the hall.
“So,” John whispered, “do we go through the house?” Sherlock shook his head and instead merely bellowed,
“Mycroft, are you here?” and then paused with his head on one side to listen. They all heard the faint moan coming from upstairs. John looked round before he pulled his browning from where it nestled in the back of his waist band. Anthea nodded her approval and Sherlock gestured for John to go first as they went up the stairs.
They found Mycroft in the bathroom.
It’s because he’s incoherent, Sherlock thought as he fought to discipline his mind enough to work out what had happened to Mycroft, he ought to be rational, he’s always rational. Sherlock and Anthea had watched in silence while John knelt without apparently even noticing the blood soaking into his trousers to assess the state Mycroft was in. He’d kept up a running commentary as he’d checked Mycroft out, broken ribs, cuts where heavy blows had broken the skin, concussion, contusions and abrasions, and the formal medical terms had allowed Sherlock to keep a detached emotional distance from what had happened, but when Mycroft had begun to speak and to weep and hadn’t been able to be coherent, Sherlock’s detachment and his deductive faculties had taken a back seat to the overwhelming desire to end the person or persons who had done this. It was startling to feel this for Mycroft after all this time; the reversion to child hood was disconcerting to say the least. Then he hadn’t been able to protect Mycroft, he’d been too small, too weak and when he’d finally made the attempt everything had been such a mess, this time he was determined that he would. John’s voice snapped him back to reality,
“Sherlock, give me a hand to get Mycroft up, Anthea, have you called the police?” Sherlock moved on the order, some part of him glad to have direction, something to focus on beyond the burning desire for violence, but was brought up short by another order, this time from Mycroft,
“Anthea, do not ring the police.” Mycroft’s voice was still shaky but the note of command was unmistakeable,
“Why the hell not?” John asked, “You’ve clearly been thumped by someone, this needs sorting out.”
“No police,” Mycroft insisted, “David would never forgive me if I outsiders were brought into this. It was my own fault; I should not have been so clumsy.”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock snapped, “Why would David not want the police involved, Mycroft you’re not making any sense.”
“I will not have the police called.” Mycroft insisted mulishly, “Doctor Watson has been good enough to tend to my wounds. I will not have my situation become a source of gossip and innuendo. David would never forgive me.”
“What would David have to forgive?” asked Anthea, gently.
“I cannot and will not have policemen traipsing through my, our home.” Mycroft snapped.
Considering the fact that the conclusion was obvious, Sherlock was astonished and disgusted at himself that it took until that point for him to realise that it must have been David who had done this. Mycroft even through his concussion saw the moment Sherlock worked it out and the look of pleading he shot Sherlock for once had the desired effect. Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth. How could I have missed this he wondered. It’s because it’s Mycroft, the one who’s always in control. Oh, fuck, has this been going on for years and I missed seeing it? Sherlock was pulled out of his contemplation by John demanding again that he help him get Mycroft to his feet. John was speaking,
“...you are definitely going to have to go to the hospital; I’m not even having the argument,”
“I will not,” Mycroft replied with a note of petulance in his voice. Sherlock caught his eye and the threat in his look would have been obvious to someone a lot less bright than Mycroft, It’s the hospital or I tell everyone what I’ve worked out. Mycroft shut up, stopped protesting but whether that was because he realised he would have to be checked over or because the simple act of getting to his feet was causing so much pain that he couldn’t spare the effort to speak.
It was clear that getting into the car was going to be difficult verging on the impossible for Mycroft and in the end they sent the driver away and Sherlock hailed a cab leaving John wondering how the hell it was that cabs miraculously appeared whenever Sherlock needed one. It was a brief enough distraction, by the time they got to Bart’s Mycroft was pale even by his high standards of pale and sweating, clearly in a vast amount of pain, although he had made the effort to rebutton his shirt and jacket.
Once in casualty Sherlock handed over the terse details asked for by the receptionist, while John left Mycroft with Anthea to go and pull what strings he could to get him seen right away. When a nurse came to get Mycroft, Anthea, John and Sherlock all stood up to go with him. Mycroft passed a hand over his face at their reaction before saying quietly,
“I will be fine; you do not need to accompany me.” Sherlock and Anthea both tried to interrupt him at the same time, but John took charge,
“Right, Sherlock, Anthea, sit down. I’ll go with Mycroft.” Unspoken in his command was the understanding that he was a doctor, bound by the Hippocratic Oath and required to respect patient confidentiality.
“Thank you,” Mycroft responded almost too quietly to be heard. Sherlock and Anthea managed identical disgruntled looks before sinking back into the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.
“OK, Mr Holmes, could you take off your jacket and shirt?” the doctor asked, “and tell me what happened.” Mycroft began to shrug off his jacket and winced from the pain as he moved his left shoulder.
“Here, I’ll help,” John said, stepping forward and as gently as possible he eased Mycroft’s jacket off his shoulders and then off each arm in turn. It was still painful but at least slightly easier. The shirt, being closer fitting was more difficult and Mycroft was sweating again by the time it was removed.
As soon as John and the harassed casualty doctor got a look at Mycroft’s injuries it was clear that he could see what had happened. When Mycroft’s torso was uncovered a clear footprint bruise could be seen to the left of his sternum with other fresh bruises some surrounding tears and abrasions all over his torso. And worse, beneath the recent damage there were other, fading bruises. Both medical men were used to keeping their own reactions to a minimum when presented with injuries but the casualty doctor couldn’t help but suck in a breath through his teeth, before standing up straighter and addressing John,
“Sorry, can I just ask what your connection is with Mister Holmes?” John and Mycroft both realised the conclusions the man had jumped to at the same time, Mycroft was after all mildly concussed.
“No, doctor,” he answered, “Dr Watson is not responsible for my injuries. He is a friend of my brother’s and is here since it was my brother and my assistant who found me.”
John almost felt that he ought to applaud as Mycroft strove to manage his usual urbane, in control persona, whilst sat, shirtless, bruised and bloody in a busy casualty department. The doctor however looked dubious and was still regarding John with suspicion,
“If you don’t mind, I would rather examine Mr Holmes on his own.”
John nodded; it was standard operating procedure, the doctor needed to make sure that he was getting the full story from Mycroft without an abusive partner cueing him as to his rehearsed excuses and explanations. It was just a shame that the doctor didn’t know that he was likely to get more honest answers with John there,
“I’ll be out with Sherlock and Anthea if you need us.”
Sherlock stood up abruptly when John came back into the waiting room, a brief, soon covered up look of panic on his face before his posture relaxed to a casual almost slouch that fooled no one,
“How is he?”
“Not sure yet,” John replied, running a harassed hand over his face and through his hair, “the doctor wanted to see him on his own, in case it was me who did this to him.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Sherlock exclaimed,
“No, no it isn’t,” came John’s tired reply, “it’s quite common for an abuser to bring their victim to casualty and to seem solicitous and caring, I’ve seen it myself and I really didn’t spend that much time working in casualty, I’ve even seen it at the surgery.” John paused, looking carefully at Sherlock, “Are you OK?”
“Of course I am, why would I not be?” Sherlock said, bristling apparently at the idea that any of this might bother him. John held his gaze until Sherlock finally looked away and muttered, “I will be when I know Mycroft’s all right, when I deal with whoever...”
It was a small noise from Anthea that interrupted him. Both men turned to look at her, focussed apparently as she always was on her Blackberry. As far as Sherlock was concerned it was as though she had made an accusation,
“Yes, I am aware that it was David who did this, I’m not an imbecile.” John wished that he didn’t also know this; it would be so much easier on everyone involved if this had been a random aggravated burglary, if David was here to comfort Mycroft and make him feel better. John did know however that he had to prevent Sherlock from doing anything rash with regards to his brother’s partner,
“We don’t know that for sure,” John paused to take in Sherlock’s beyond sceptical expression, “and we do know that Mycroft didn’t even want us to know this had happened. You can’t just wade in two footed, Sherlock. David’s already taken a lot of his self-respect away from him, made him into a victim, if you ‘deal with this’ then you will be continuing David’s wonderful work.”
“How long has this been going on?” Sherlock asked.
“I’m sorry, love, but I’m still a doctor, I’m not going to break confidentiality for you, I...” John was interrupted by a quiet voice from Anthea,
“I’m not a doctor, although I may get fired for this. It’s been going on almost from the start.”
“What?” both men asked at the same time,
“I said,” Anthea replied with a long suffering sigh, “it’s been going on almost from when he met David. I believe the first time that David struck him was the second time that David stayed the night with Mycroft. It has continued with greater or lesser frequency since then.”
Sherlock slumped down onto the same seat that he had risen from and then leaned forward with his head in his hands but John continued to stare at Anthea,
“Did you say anything?” he asked.
“I’ve tried more than once and had it made more than clear to me that it was none of my business. I suspect he’ll fire me just for contacting the two of you when he didn’t get to his appointments this morning, so I’ve nothing to lose now,” She smiled at that, and John thought it was probably for once a genuine smile, “To be honest it’ll be a relief, I’ve hated watching him cover up for that creep, seeing him wince from the pain when he thinks I’m not looking. How bad is it, really, Dr Watson?”
“It’s nothing life-threatening at the moment,” John replied as he sat down, “but it could easily be life-threatening if it happens again before he’s fully healed. He came close to a proper flail injury and with that much damage to the rib cage any further violence could land him with a punctured lung.” John looked across at Sherlock and realised that he’d said too much. Sherlock confirmed this with his next question,
“The swine stamped on him?”
There was no dodging the question and, after all he wasn’t Mycroft’s doctor as such,
“It looked like it. I’m sorry.”
Sherlock took a couple of slow, deep breaths before he spoke again,
“You should know, John, Anthea, I’m going to kill him,” it was said calmly and with deliberation but as John looked at him he could see the lost look in Sherlock’s eyes, “and then I’m going to kill Mycroft for letting himself be treated like that, he of all people should have known better.”
“It happens to a lot of people, you know,” John said gently, “it’s not something that people bring on themselves.”
“That’s immaterial,” Sherlock snapped, “Mycroft should have known better.”
John got up and swapped seats so that he was sat next to Sherlock, pulling Sherlock’s arm towards him until he could link hands with him and they sat like that with Sherlock staring at the wall.
It was half an hour later when a nurse came towards them and asked Sherlock to come with her to Mycroft. Sherlock looked surprised, and then looked round at John,
“No, sir, he asked to just see you,” the nurse said and Sherlock got up and followed her back towards the curtained off cubicles.
Sherlock was unused to not having complete control over his apparent emotions and certainly in the normal run of events would have expected to have been able to school himself into a good semblance of any emotion with this much warning but by the time he was ushered into Mycroft’s cubicle he was horribly aware of the fact that he still wasn’t under control. When Mycroft smiled at him in an attempt at reassurance, all he could do was slump into the chair with his head in his hands fighting not to give into tears.
“Hush, Sherlock, hush, I’m fine,” murmured Mycroft and Sherlock felt a hand gently stroking his hair, just as Mycroft had done when he was small, when he was learning to feign emotions. Not trusting himself to speak for the moment, Sherlock accepted his brother’s caresses and comfort.
Eventually he sat up and began to look at Mycroft analytically, taking in the extent of his injuries almost reaching out to touch the now much clearer bruises on his face but restraining himself at the last moment.
“You were using concealer?” he asked and Mycroft answered with a simple nod of his head. Finally having looked his fill Sherlock asked the question that had been straining through him since they’d found Mycroft semi-conscious in his bathroom, “Why? You of all people should have known better Mycroft!” There was almost a plea in Sherlock’s voice and Mycroft didn’t even try to pretend that he didn’t understand everything that Sherlock was asking,
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t see that it was the same, he was always so sorry afterwards and at first it wasn’t so ... much, I just kept doing things that annoyed him, no matter how much I tried not to...” his voice faltered, “it never occurred to me that it must have seemed that way to her also. He said he was sorry, he said he loved me and I forgave him. I... I didn’t want to be without him, I’d been on my own for such a long time... It wasn’t until I saw myself as I must seem to you and to John that I realised.” Mycroft’s breathing hitched slightly and Sherlock realised that he was crying. The last time Sherlock had seen him cry had been that last time, the time when he’d tried to help for all the good that had done anyone.
Sherlock got up and put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder,
“I will help this time.”
“You always helped.”