Chapter Text
Sherlock: Age 5, Mycroft: Age 12
Mycroft sighed in exasperation as he heard Mother smash yet another poor wine glass against the wall in the kitchen, the horrid sound not affecting him as much as it used to.
Mother got sick of Father’s seemingly eternal silence over today’s dinner, ice cold blue eyes sharpened as she lightly slammed the forks and knifes onto the table as a warning; though his Father, the idiot he was, only blandly hummed in acknowledgement, causing his Mother to scoff cruelly and head to her room for a glass of wine, dinner forgotten.
As Mother remained frustrated and Father boring and bland as ever, him and his little brother glanced at each other at the opposite ends of the dining table, the younger quirking an eyebrow before scurrying away to his room. The older one following right after.
They both kept a slow pace as they walked up to their respective rooms. Mycroft thought that he should now be heading to boarding school soon, as he is now twelve years of age, leaving Sherlock behind to just the care of their parents. Both of them knew that Sherlock wouldn’t be treated the way he should, with no one understanding him. Mycroft honestly didn’t know how hard it was for adults to understand a child years younger than them, but it makes sense as everyone else was inferior anyways. Though Mycroft hopes that the treatment wouldn’t be too bad. Perhaps he could get rid of all of the alcohol before he leaves, though that would make Mother have more of an enraged fit, so the wine will have to stay unfortunately.
They now arrived to Sherlock’s quarters, the left end of the wooden door having small scratches that came from the claws of a bear cub that Sherlock lured into the mansion one time by using a dead pigeon when he was bored. Mycroft knows where Sherlock had gotten the dead pigeon, but he really does not want to think about it again unless he wants to get a migraine.
Mycroft closed the door to his room once they were both inside, seeing the familiar large bed in the middle of the room, the large, tall, narrow rectangular window and the pristine clean white walls. The eldest then unfolded the blankets, revealing the bedsheets, inviting Sherlock to come in.
But Sherlock stood there, his back turned to Mycroft, pinching his arms tightly with his fingers, making the skin red and swelled.
Minutes passed, Mycroft now abandoning the sheets and put one foot closer to his little brother. The shadows of the night hiding Sherlock’s expression from him.
Silence ensued between them for a few moments; but when Sherlock finally turned around, his face was neutral, though only his eyes were filled with sheer terror.
Of course, of course Sherlock would be afraid. Who would protect him? Who could he, a five year old, rely on for help when his Mother drinks? Who would keep Mother away from the alcohol? The wine, the whiskey, the gin, the brandy? Who would keep Mother from hurting herself? Who would keep Mother away from hurting someone else?
Who would care enough about Sherlock to understand?
The answer is no one. No one would be there for Sherlock. They both know this.
Mycroft then wordlessly gestured for Sherlock to come sit on the bed with him, the child begrudgingly obeyed. Once Sherlock sat down next to Mycroft, the older of the two decided that this was the right time for Sherlock to learn this trick that had helped him so many times before.
“Brother, I am going to teach you about something called a mind palace…”
Sherlock: Age 8, Mycroft: Age 15
Mycroft shut the door to his family’s mansion, the clock indicating that it was just two minutes past midnight. The whole house was dark save for the tiny specks of light from the candles hanging from the walls. Most of the servants have gone to bed at this hour, so Mycroft roamed the hallways of his house alone, wanting to check up on his brother. His arrival home from boarding school had been earlier than expected, the estimate his parents had was that he would at least spend five years there. Mother seemed to be in a more stable condition (though not quite there) and Father was non-existent as always. But Sherlock wasn’t doing so great. He overhead the maids not-so-quiety gossiping about Sherlock's change. It seemed that living with Mother had instead made him more rambunctious than disciplined. Always locking himself up in his room, bullet holes in walls with drawings scribbled all over them, and even randomly going out at 3 in the morning, doing God-knows-what.
Mycroft expected it, as Sherlock was so clearly different from other kids his age. Sherlock came up to him with little cuts and bruises, indicating that he fought with the other children at school. Mother shook her head in disappointment that her youngest son could be so weak. Father only took a glance his youngest and reminded Sherlock to not dirty the carpets from the dirt and grime Sherlock had gotten from fighting with other boys.
Mycroft now finally arrived at his brother’s room, knocking on the door twice.
“Sod off.” A muffled voice came from inside.
“Don’t be ridiculous now.” Mycroft rebutted, “I’m opening the door.”
Mycroft pushed open the door leading to his brother’s domain. The walls were still a bleak white with scribbles and bullet holes all over them. Mother and Father most likely disapprove of the mess, and they might have even reasoned with the police when they came over in concern after hearing the gunshots in the past, just then saying that their youngest son had a little loose screws. Sherlock was sitting up on his bed glaring at him, still having the bumps, bruises, and cuts he saw earlier.
“Leave me alone.” Sherlock grumbled lowly, brows furrowed, “I’m fine.”
“Sure.” Mycroft said sarcastically, “That bruise on your head is very convincing.”
Sherlock tutted at him, “It’ll heal later. Why does it matter then?”
Mycroft was about to open his mouth when Sherlock intervened, “Really, I’m fine. I’ve always handled it before.” Sherlock said, although knowing that what half of he said came out of his mouth was absolute horse shit.
Done it before? Have their parents not have noticed? No, they most certainly have. With how clear those wounds are.
Mycroft started to walk out of the room. “Come,” he ordered, “we are going to my room to grab a med kit.”
“No!” Sherlock protested.
Mycroft turned back and raised a condescending eyebrow, “Would you rather me tell the principal of your school that you are getting beaten up?”
Sherlock deflated, knowing that he lost this one. “..no.” He grumbled.
“Then come with me.”
=
After Mycroft finished wrapping Sherlock’s wounds and sent him off to bed, the eldest was walking back to his own quarters to head to sleep. Mycroft was walking along the corridor, looking at the lit candles hanging from the walls, the clean carpets lining the floor, and the overall look of the mansion when suddenly, a maid came up to him.
Mycroft halted in his steps as the maid bowed down low to him, “Sir Mycroft, the Master and Mrs. Holmes are requesting your presence in the second guest room.” After those words, the maid rushed off, leaving Mycroft to wonder what his parents wanted from him.
After a few moments, he arrived at their second guest room in the mansion. In the Holmes manor, they have multiple guest rooms ranging from one to a hundred, they do have a big mansion after all. Mycroft walked into the room, finding his parents both standing their, waiting for him.
As Mycroft stepped into the room, his Father’s low voice pierced through his ears, “Close the door, and lock it.” Mycroft was quick to obey his Father’s instructions, to having the time to comprehend that his Father just spoke.
Mycroft then sat in one of the chairs, with only him sitting down and facing his parents, making him seem very small. His Mother then heaved a faint sigh, “We both thought that at this age, you should be able to have enough responsibility to know of what we are about to tell you. But be warned, this is a major hidden part of the Holmes’ history, so you mustn’t tell anyone.”
Mycroft nodded, feeling that he should not speak until this was over, his Father started to speak, “This is about an ancestor of ours, named Shellingford Holmes, though he is known by the name Maximilien de Robespierre…”
Mycroft was then told about the actions of his ancestor, his intentions, his start, and his end. It turns out that the French Revolution was instead, just a social experiment conducted by the British Empire. A failed attempt to transform a monarchy into a free society through a forced transition. And despite the execution of the King and the entire Royal Family, it only resulted in a long period of chaos and confusion being thrown into the Kingdom of France.
His Father then showed him a big rectangular brown envelope, and Mycroft could see that it contains a couple of papers inside, “This envelope contains the most confidential information because inside are all of the documents that contain what we just told you. The documents are military letters with specific instructions that clearly state that it was the British Empire that pushed the French Revolution into motion. So if these were distributed to the public, then our enemies will have more than enough reasons to declare war on us.” Mycroft only looked on with barely hidden shock as his Father stated these things with a stern face, this being probably the most serious Mycroft ever saw his Father while Mother looked dramatically grief stricken, massaging her forehead with her fingers.
“Her Majesty considers this to be an irreversible stain on British history,” his Father continued, “and now, as Robespierre, Shellingford Holmes, had played a major part in the French Revolution, we Holmes’ gave sworn full allegiance to the British Government to redeem ourselves. Our family has to bear this punishment until the end.”
“This is what we want to tell you, as we felt that it was fitting since you will become the government when you are older.” Mother said solemnly. Mycroft looked at his Father once again, the man only dismissed him with a flick of his hand, signalling that his time here was done. Mycroft nodded, stood up and went to exit the room, only for his Mother’s voice to halt him in his tracks.
“You shouldn’t tell Sherlock.” Mycroft’s back was turned to his parents, though he could sense that his Mother was sincere. “He should live his life free of this burden.”
Mycroft didn’t answer, but deep down, he agreed with her. Though Mother was lacking with showing affection, she does care for her youngest, much more than Sherlock or even Mycroft himself realises.
Mycroft only nodded wordlessly and exited the room, going to his quarters.
Though when the three were talking in the room, they all didn’t notice the little 8 year old boy sneakily standing outside, eavesdropping on them and hearing every word.
Sherlock: Age 15, Mycroft: Age 22
Mycroft headed into his government mansion in London, now an adult and out of his parent’s house.
As his servants greeted and bowed to him at his arrival, he noticed a shorter figure coming out of the huge house to greet him. A young man with a cocky smirk upon his lips.
Mycroft sighed, not bothering to greet his younger brother who is supposed to be somewhere else. Entering the mansion with his brother, Mycroft reprimanded, “Aren’t you supposed to be receiving an education right now?”
“Boring.” Sherlock whined, “I know everything they’re teaching me. So it’s irrelevant.”
“You really should put more consideration into your future, Sherly.” Mycroft drew out the nickname with a small grin, Sherlock grimaced.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the same at school,” Sherlock said with a smirk, “you definitely have.”
“Though I didn’t break out.”
“Shut up.” Sherlock tched, blue eyes showing annoyance, “You really don’t have to be such a mother hen. I’ll be fine.”
Mycroft hummed in obvious disagreement, “We shall see, Brother.” He taunted.
“Oh you-“
=
Mycroft was right, as always.
Sherlock was certainly not fine.
Mycroft contemplated this as he stood beside his brother’s hospital bed, with Sherlock awake, though looking pale and sickly from the recent overdose.
“You’re an idiot.” Mycroft snapped at him.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Silence lasted between them for a few moments, until Mycroft pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, brought them up to his mouth and lit them. Sighing in relief when the familiar smoke flooding his lungs once more. He wasn’t really a smoker, more of a wine drinker. But this was an exception.
Mycroft looked from the corner of his eye to see Sherlock staring at his cigar longingly.
“No.” Mycroft snapped.
Sherlock huffed.
A few more moments passed by before the elder broke the silence once again, “Why did you do it?”
Sherlock’s features became unreadable, impassive, cold, hardened. Just like his big brother’s.
After a moment, Sherlock answered, “I was bored.”
“Bored.” Mycroft repeatedly incredulously. Unbelievable. Really, it’s a miracle his brother survived for so long. “Do you want to die?”
“No.” Sherlock shrugged, “Just bored.”
Once again, silence ensued between them. The air between them getting more and more tense with each passing second.
“You’ve been like this ever since I’ve moved out of Mother and Father’s estate.” Mycroft pointed out shrewdly. “I assume that is a reason for your drug taking.”
Sherlock remained quiet. Mycroft looked to the side and continued to smoke his cigarette, feeling the polluted air go in and out of his lungs.
“It was empty.” Mycroft turned back to his brother. Sherlock’s face was still impassive, azure eyes turned bleak.
“Ever since you left. My mind palace. It was empty.”
Sherlock turned his head away from Mycroft's piercing gaze and mumbled, so low that Mycroft almost didn't catch it, "It doesn't have you anymore..."
Oh.
Oh.
Mycroft turned his head away, they don’t talk about this. About feelings. This was new territory for both of them. Sherlock was, for once, showing and trusting him with his true feelings and thoughts. And Mycroft appreciated it, he really did. This was a rare thing, for Sherlock to do this, for it only happens once in a blue moon.
But it makes Sherlock vulnerable.
Weak.
That can’t happen again. It just can’t.
Mycroft heaved a sigh, dropped his burnt out cigarette onto the floor and smashed it with his shoe, smearing the ashes a little on the wooden floor. He needed to tell Sherlock this.
But won’t it break him? Won’t it break you?
It’s for Sherlock’s own good.
Is it really? Is this really necessary?
Sherlock can’t grow up like this, not wanting me to leave.
It’s all for Sherlock in the end.
“All lives end. All hearts are broken.” Mycroft turned to his brother on the bed, Sherlock now staring up at him.
“Caring is not an advantage, Sherly.”
Mycroft tried to hide the twinge of pain in his chest when he sensed the feeling of hurt and betrayal from his little brother, seeing his brother’s blue eyes shine with disbelief along with pain before quickly covering it up. Sherlock had trusted him with his inner thoughts, only for Sherlock to then feel as if Mycroft doesn’t care.
As if Sherlock didn’t open up his whole heart to him for a split second.
Silence passed between them, tension gone. There was instead a strange feeling in the air, though Mycroft couldn’t really put his finger on it on the spot.
“Caring is not an advantage.” Mycroft repeated, “People will take advantage of you. You will get hurt, and if you open up your heart. Then they will control you like a puppet, making you obey to their every whim before you even know it.”
The “please understand" and "I’m doing this for your own good”, went unsaid between them. Sherlock’s eyes remained bleak and unwavering, yet they held so much emotion that it made Mycroft shudder.
“You can’t rely on me forever.” Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat, "Don't get too dependent on others, it will let you down." He choked out.
The elder then turned around, not being able to look his dear little brother in the eye anymore. Now that he had so shamefully wronged him.
And just like that, Mycroft walked away from Sherlock’s hospital room.
They both couldn’t take it anymore.
Sherlock: Age 18, Mycroft: Age 25
Ah, 18. The magic number, as well as the most dreaded.
It was a dark time of night when it happened, Mycroft was looking over papers for MI6. The many documents included the military service, the stupid decisions of nobles, financial dealings for the public, all of that and more. After signing once more document, Mycroft let out a tired yawn, covering his mouth with his hand. Deciding that he needed a little tea break, he got up to do so. Though there was suddenly a knock on the door.
Mycroft quirked up an eyebrow, no-one should be here at this time of night. With both his trusty gun and pocket knife in his suit pockets. He quietly headed to his office doors, once hand already on his pistol.
But the door opened before he could get to it.
Mycroft whipped out his gun, though he quickly recognised the dark figure that stood before him. A figure that was familiar by heart.
Mycroft let out a grunt and put his pistol back into his suit pocket, facing his brother.
“What ever are you doing at this time of night, Sherlock?”
Silence, his little brother just stood there, staring at the floor. Unresponsive. Mycroft now glanced at his little brother in veiled concern, trying to squash down the ugly monster that is fear from taking over his head and heart.
Sherlock then came into the room and closed the door behind him. Mycroft turned his back and lit a candle by his desk. The small flame illuminating the otherwise dark room.
Mycroft turned back to look at his brother, “Really Sherlock, if you-“ Mycroft then cut short, because what met his eyes from the candle’s light was left him frozen.
Sherlock’s left wrist was bleeding rapidly, red blood dripping onto the carpet, staining the wool. Mycroft, for once, was speechless. He was still, it felt like his heart turned to ice, he couldn’t move. Why can’t he move?!
“Mycky,” Sherlock murmured that old nickname from so long ago, “for once, I did something stupid…”
Mycroft didn’t know whether to cry or laugh.
=
“You fucking idiot.”
“I know, I know.”
“You could’ve died from all of that blood loss you fuck!”
“Wow, is this the first time I’ve seen you this mad I really can’t tell-“
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” Sherlock (his stupid, moronic, adorable baby brother) bolted his head up in surprise to face Mycroft who was scowling at him while bandaging his wrist.
Mycroft finished bandaging and pinched between his eyebrows in equal tiredness and frustration. Sherlock kept on staring at him.
“I’m sure you know what to say to me at this point to answer all of my questions right now.”
Sherlock huffed, and he is taking this way too lightly if you ask Mycroft, “It’s really just a stupid story! It’s irrelevant.”
“Sherlock.”
“Okay! Okay! Geez…” Sherlock scratched the side of his neck before continuing.
“I was in my flat. It was way too quiet, so obviously I got bored. I kind of went insane just a tad bit, I shot some bullets at the wall with my gun, my neighbour complained but whatever; I also did try to find my drugs but since you took them away from me I can’t use them. So I then found a razor, played with it, and then thought that I felt too numb so I used it on my wrist for what ever the reason, and the end.” Sherlock cocked his head in contemplation, “That was really stupid, huh.” Sherlock questioned, though it was more of a statement.
Mycroft massaged his forehead in order not to get a migraine. “Obviously.”
Sherlock looked up at his brother as Mycroft stood up from his crouching position. “What? You worried about me?” He joked with a sarcastic grin.
“In your dreams, little brother.”
Mycroft looked down at the boy. “So, I take it that you nearly bled out and died because you supposedly accidentally cut close to your wrist."
"Yes," Sherlock huffed, "it's the truth. Not my fault if you don't believe it."
"Sherlock, whether you believe it or not, I am actually quite serious here." Mycroft said softly, catching his brother by surprise. Sherlock continued to observe his elder brother, hesitating whether or not he should tell the truth. Especially with what happened the last time he did so.
"You may think that I am lying," Sherlock said slowly, eyes facing the ground and voice low, "but I really didn't mean to cut that close to my pulse point. It was a miscalculation."
The lack of hostility in Sherlock's voice did nothing to soothe the ache in Mycroft's chest. As he now knew that Sherlock's trust in him had broken, now only leaving between them a thin thread representing their only bond, which was only Sherlock and Mycroft being cut from the same cloth. Nothing more, nothing less. Now, looking back, Mycroft wishes to head back to the time where they only had each other in this lonely, hostile world. Where eyes turned bitter and the world was dull. Mycroft remembered when they only relied on one another in their own house. When Mother drank, when Father and Mother had constant shouting matches, with the never-ending tension in the air, and with the Holmes mansion seeming enormous, but only acted as a cage for the two Holmes brothers.
And one of them flew away too early, leaving the other behind.
"You can go," Sherlock whispered, hands now heading to his head and pulling on dark locks, knees curling up against his chest, eyes still trained on the ground, "I fucked up, again." Sherlock let out a bitter laugh, "You have proved your eternal superiority, dear brother, it is done." The venomous tone coated in Sherlock's voice made Mycroft flinch a little. "Now go."
The once dull ache in Mycroft's chest became a stabbing pain. "Sherlock-"
"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted, the hands pulling on dark locks stressed even more. "You don't need to shame me any further! You've proven your Goddamn point! Please, just go..." Sherlock's voice weakened, tense shoulders slumped in defeat, hands now limp against his head. Sherlock never pleaded before, at least not where Mycroft could see. Though he now does, with a bandage along his wrist where blood once spilled out, physical proof of the avoidance of death. And Mycroft predicts, that Sherlock isn't too thrilled about that.
Mycroft ran his calculating gaze over the boy, the boy that he had raised alone, and analysed him. Though later realising with a horrified heart, that he had failed.
Now for the first in either in years or in his life, Mycroft looked down at his little brother and saw what was made of the mask of cocky smirks, teasing grins, and boisterous laughter. He saw opium, cocaine, morphine, heroin, Mother's drunken rage, Mother and Father's shouting matches, the betrayal at being abandoned (though he has never been left behind, never has), the agony, the self-hatred, the shame, and the loneliness. Mycroft saw what had shaped the mold his baby brother fit into, and he does not like it at all.
So with words turning into dust in his throat, and as Mycroft quietly walked away from the room where Sherlock was. He realised with a bitter heart, that his parents, his aunts, his uncles, his grandfather, his grandmother, and he himself. Had failed.
Though he desperately, hopelessly, and awfully, just wanted to say 'I'm sorry.' Because he cares, more than Sherlock realises.
Sherlock: Age 20, Mycroft: Age 27
Where Mycroft now stood was in front of a wooden black coloured door with the golden numbers, 221B, engraved on the top of it. He had been standing there for a few seconds now, not even attempting to knock on the door, as he fears what lays behind it. It had been two years since he and Sherlock saw each other after all, with not even the slightest bit of contact from each other. Until Mycroft received a letter to his office from a 'Miss Hudson', directing him to 221B Baker Street where his little brother was staying, informing him that Sherlock was safe and well, and that Sherlock had wished for her to send the letter herself.
Sherlock may have not attempted to contact him, nor Mycroft either. But Mycroft would always look at his little brother no matter the cost, he had ordered his agents for the last two years to get as much tracings of Sherlock as they possibly could. They brought back photographs, showing Sherlock's condition. The drugs were still clearly there, even with the horrid quality of the photos as well as the monotone colours, Mycroft could see that Sherlock looked thinner, ill, worser than when he saw him last (all thanks to him). Suddenly, the photos stopped coming after the 1st year of tracking Sherlock down. A secretary of his informed him that the last they had saw of Sherlock was at Baker Street, now in the building 221B. And never coming out of there. Why? They don't know. Though Mycroft speculates that Sherlock is either doing this out of spite for every wrongdoing done to him, or just had enough of Mycroft's spies stalking him and only showed himself for Mycroft to not go insane.
And then came the letter, one year later.
It was short and snappy, though it was enough for Mycroft to nearly collapse where he stood in his office.
And that very later lead him here, in front of the door, the only barrier between him and seeing Sherlock again. His dear baby brother.
He couldn't get the thought out of his head, what would meet him behind the door? Is Sherlock really doing as well as Miss Hudson stated in the letter? Is his brother still a horrid drug addict? Or even worse, now a stranger to him? Mycroft shuddered at the thought.
But as he thought that he stood here long enough, and people were starting to look at him like he was crazy for standing there for approximately 15 minutes already, unmoving. He finally knocked on the door firmly three times.
It was a short wait, thought it felt like forever, and a shorter lady with orange hair up in a bun with green eyes wearing a bright pink dress greeted him. A small smile went on the lady's face, "Hello! I assume that you are Mycroft. Sherlock's older brother?"
Mycroft nodded his head lightly, "Correct." He says as he steps inside of the building, placing his hat on top of the coat hanger. "And I assume that you are Miss Hudson, I have received your letter. Thank you for sending it to me."
Miss Hudson waved the thanks off with a polite smile, "It's alright. Sherlock wanted me to send it anyhow." She turned to him, already walking up the stairs, "Follow me. Sherlock's in his room."
Mycroft tried to stay calm as he moved closer to Sherlock's door to his room. The stairs and the corridor looked clean, no mess to be found. As they got closer to Sherlock's door, Mycroft could smell the small scent of chemicals and cigarettes in the air. But there was no scent of opium, no nicotine, no heroin. No drugs.
Miss Hudson opened the door for him and gestured him to come inside with a small and grateful smile, staying by the door. Mycroft took a deep breath and took the first step in Sherlock's room.
No disaster came, no earth-shattering events, no tears or anguish, no bitter and spiteful words thrown at him. The walls had some bullet holes in them, the floor did need some cleaning, there were some evidence of spilled substances on the carpet from experiments, there were some test tubes and paper on the table, a fireplace, three chairs, two for guests, and one accompanying a desk littered with books, newspapers and paperwork, and one large sofa. Mycroft couldn't care less for how the room looked, or how it smelled, felt, or anything or the sort. The only thing he cared about was Sherlock.
His baby brother. His stupid, moronic, idiotic, lovable, adorable Sherly. Sherlock was sitting in one of the chairs, wearing a black coat and pants, dark shoes, a white button down, along with a skull ring on his finger and his dark locks tied up in a pony tail with some strands rebelliously sticking out. A washed, fed, nervous, fidgeting, sober Sherlock.
It was a small scene in an equally quite small room. But all of that filled Mycroft's heart. Making something fluffy and warm bubble up inside of him. (Mycroft will never admit what he was feeling at that moment was love until he was pushing up daises.)
Sherlock fidgeted with his long sleeves from his white button down until Miss Hudson came up to him, and smacked him upside the head. "Ow, woman! That hurt!"
Miss Hudson huffed, hands on her hips, "You know what hurts? Me seeing this awkward air between you two! It's like I'm watching a dramatic soap opera! Now go on and greet your brother." At the last sentence, Sherlock startled and looked up at Mycroft. Both of their eyes connecting for the first time in two years. Mycroft breathed as he finally, finally, got to see those lively blue eyes again.
Sherlock, after a few seconds, looked back to his hands, "Hi, I guess..." Sherlock said lowly, the low voice knocking air back into the elder's lungs for what felt like the first time in eternity.
In response, Mycroft smiled genuinely for the first time in God-knows-how-long, "Hello, Sherly." Sherlock scoffed at the adoring nickname, looking away. Though Mycroft could see the slight turning up of his lips, almost making it into a smile.
“You look well.” Mycroft commented as he sat down in the chair opposite of his brother. Miss Hudson smiled and excused herself to make tea for the both of them, exiting the room.
“I am.” Sherlock agreed. “I haven’t taken any drugs in the last two months." Sherlock nodded over to the cigarette tray next to him, "Well, except cigarettes though." Sherlock added on, expression a tiny bit sheepish, "But I got that from you so who's to blame here?" Sherlock quickly said, plastering a smirk onto his face.
Mycroft scanned his brother; hands were steady, pupils were normal sized, eyes didn’t look glazed or bloodshot, skin looked fine, minimal eye baggage, and weight seemed to be normal.
“I see.” Mycroft nodded, “Now, what were you up to these days?”
“Well,” Sherlock straightened up and looked into his brother’s eyes, “I seem to have found a profession.”
“Oh?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“A detective.” A familiar grin crossed his brother’s face, “A consulting detective, the only one in the world.”
“A consulting detective.” Mycroft repeated, the cheeky smile still on Sherlock’s face.
“Yes, I do believe that I have mentioned that already. Or are you becoming slow?” Sherlock teased.
“He’s a very good detective, Mr. Holmes.” Miss Hudson interjected as she entered the room again, this time with a tray with two cups of tea for both of them and set them down on the table.
“He had helped Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard with a few cases before, and he had solved them very quickly.”
Sherlock huffed. “Of course.” Sherlock added with exaggerated pride coated in his voice, “Those officers at Scotland Yard couldn’t even catch up. They will never admit it but if I wasn’t there then they would be in the dust right now, still looking for clues.”
“And I assume that you gave them the credit regardless.” Mycroft said as he sipped on his cup of tea, the warm liquid going down his throat.
“Of course, I did.” Sherlock snapped. “As long as I have some fun then I don’t care about credit.”
“And the best part of this is that I’m doing it on my own.” Sherlock added with a quick glance at Mycroft, “Because I can finish it. I know I can.”
Mycroft hummed, watching his brother, who was analysing his every move, blue eyes became steeled and hardened as if waiting for a disaster to occur. It was then that Mycroft realised that Sherlock genuinely wanted to do this by himself, with Mycroft not interfering with anything. Just sitting by and watching him do all the work. Sherlock was announcing that he is now independent, and that he now doesn’t rely on him anymore.
You cannot rely on me forever. Don't get too dependent on others, it will let you down.
All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherly.
Sherlock was showing that he finally listened to what he said to him all those years ago, but still does things his own way, that he paved his own path for himself. Well, that’s not surprising, since this was Sherlock after all. He would never let someone make him bow down to their every wish, even if it was his own blood. Sherlock was never destined to become a pawn.
“Well, I suppose that you have made quite a name for yourself in Scotland Yard. With all of the chaos you most probably brought into the poor building.” Mycroft teased, and Sherlock rolled his eyes though Mycroft saw Sherlock’s shoulders slump a little in relief.
“I can’t say that’s incorrect.” Sherlock smirked, “They certainly had it coming after all. The first case they showed me was about a criminal gang who had planned on planting a bomb on a railway…”, Sherlock began the story of his first case with Miss Hudson interjecting once in a while to mostly complain who Sherlock was either ’too rowdy’ or ‘lacking manners’ during his interactions with other Scotland Yard officers.
While they were talking, Mycroft saw Sherlock’s changes. He definitely laughed more, talked more, was more comfortable showing his true feelings and opinions, not caring what any others thought, he also showed more emotion, and he seemed a lot more free. It was like the Sherlock he saw two years ago grew into a whole different person. Mycroft could see that Sherlock was now more comfortable and confident with himself, and if Mycroft was the reason that Sherlock did not become like this sooner, then he will never forgive himself for holding Sherlock back.
So Mycroft just listened to the story, not pushing for any answers or for more information. Just content sitting there with his tea and with his brother.