Chapter Text
June 16th, 2012
Mycroft can remember the first time Sherlock called him ‘daddy.’
As he sat silently in Diogenes club, newspaper held in a deceptively calm grip, the Alpha found himself hating his perfect recall.
Sherlock was one, and having learned to speak early as all Holmes children tended to do, proceeded to refuse to ever fall silent again. The Alpha had been as patient as an eight year old could be, helping the pup eat his homemade squash baby food, as he recorded pertinent information from the business section into his day journal. It was a familiar scene. With a family full of high profile, in demand members, the two youngest Holmes pups were often left alone. Siger Holmes, ever a man dedicated to his craft (despite the fact that he was supposedly 'retired' at forty-two), was away for work again – a month in Nice this time – and Mummy rarely made it home before ten o'clock. Even Sherrinford was away at boarding school.
Mycroft had found it somewhat annoying. He had better things to do, even if he had only been eight, besides toting his clingy brother around and letting him gum up his favorite shirts' collars. But he couldn't quite bring himself to leave Sherlock alone, either. Besides. It was his duty as both an Alpha and the eldest Holmes' boy in the house too look after him.
The tiny pup chewed slowly, the gooey stuff slowly spilling from his mouth, head cocked to the side as if considering something as he watched Mycroft read the newspaper. The older boy ignored him mostly, off-handedly using the baby spoon to catch dripping food and shovel it back up into Sherlock’s mouth. But then the baby had begun to steadfastly refuse the spoon entrance, letting out annoyed little huffing sounds as he bobbed up and down in an attempt to escape the older Alpha's instance.
After a few more failures, Mycroft had finally set the paper down, turning his full attention to his brother with a frown, far from in the mood to deal with a fussy one year old. Sherlock had pointed a dirty, grubby little fist in his direction and despite the fact that he was a toddler there had been a confident authority behind the movements.
“Dadda.”
Mycroft mouth had dropped, eyes wide in a rare sign of surprise as he stared at the tiny boy. He knew it shouldn't have, really. After all their parents were rarely home and Mycroft did spend most of his time with Sherlock. He helped Nan feed and bathe him more often than not, picked him up from daycare after school and always put the little one to bed at night. It was only logical that the pup would assume…it didn’t mean anything, really.
But Mycroft had felt something warm and undeniable bloom in his chest, a vice that had locked itself around his heart and only grown tighter and tighter as Sherlock had matured into brilliance. He’d felt it for both of his younger siblings, but the love he had for Sherlock – for the first child he had raised – was all encompassing.
He was a Holmes, and they were not known for encouraging attachments, but Mycroft had clung to those he had with a fierceness that bordered on obsessive. And so despite everything that had happen; the rebellion, the drugs, the younger Alpha’s resentment, Mycroft loved his little brother with every inch of his being.
And now…
He would never see Sherlock again. Never argue with him. Never hear his brother tell him how much he hated him. Sherlock. His brave, brilliant, lonely, broken, little brother was gone. And it was Mycroft's own fault.
He had failed Sherlock.
Just like he had failed Sherrinford.
His brothers were dead.
In the silence of the room, the Alpha allowed himself a deep breath. Only the slightest twitch, a subtle pull around his eyes, gave any truth to the hurt that seemed to cut into his very soul. This place had become his only respite. Only here, in the unbudging privacy that the silence brought, did Mycroft feel he could grieve.
He sat there for too long. Until they began to shut the lights off and an usher stood off to the side, searching for a polite way to ask him to leave. It was only then that Mycroft stood, gathering his hat and overcoat, tucking an umbrella under his arm before stepping out into the London air. He walked home. Something that the busy Alpha never did, yet had done every evening for the last four nights.
It took him almost two hours to reach his home. Anthea waiting for him outside, her face perfectly composed but Mycroft did not miss the echo of worry behind her grey eyes. He gave her a nod, but could not manage a smile and took the portfolio she offered before stepping into his house.
The foyer was dark, but Mycroft didn’t move to turn the light on. He hung up his cap and coat, slid his umbrella into the holder. Everything was methodical. Every move precise. He felt terribly remote from his own body, as if he was floating away yet was kept grounded by his grief and guilt. For a long moment he simply stared at his front door before making himself turn, fully intending to go into his library and crack open a 1864 whiskey he’d been saving and froze.
A scent – an impossible, illogical scent and – there, standing in the shadows and backlit by the light streaming into his study, was Sherlock.
For a moment, the Alpha thought he was hallucinating, but then Sherlock gave him that same half-cocked, blasted smile he always did when he knew he’d done something very naughty, and greeted him with a soft, “Surprised?”
The tone he spoke with was overly casual, but the lines around his face were tight, his light eyes serious. He was nervous. The younger man looked like hell; skin an unhealthy white dotted with dark, browning bruising that crept up the side of Sherlock's neck and chin and graced his forehead like a tarnished crown.
Mycroft took a long inhale in through his nose, holding the scent of his brother deep in his lungs before letting it out just as slowly. He crossed the distance between the two of them in three short strides and the younger Alpha stiffened, muscles tensing as if preparing for a strike. But Mycroft only yanked him forward by his lapels. The tall body fell into his own awkwardly, the size difference causing a moment of in-cohesion as Mycroft attempted to hold Sherlock like he had when he was still a young pup; all lanky limbs and a deadly bark with no bite.
The eldest Holmes pressed his forehead against the younger's shoulder, both hands greedy in their grip as he pressed Sherlock against him. Mycroft took another deep inhale, allowing himself to relish in Sherlock's own personal smell, only slightly embittered by the London air and injury.
Sherlock’s own hands came up to his shoulders jerkily, as if unsure, which Mycroft was sure he was. They hadn’t touched each other on a personal level since Sherlock had been a boy. He was acting completely and utterly outside of the realm of his normal behavior. This had not been what Sherlock expected. But the Alpha didn’t care.
Because Sherlock was alive.
Alive.
Here.
With Mycroft.
His pup.
“Mycroft,” his brother mumbled, his voice carrying the wilted tone of uncertainty, of apology, “I should have told you before I-”
“Be quiet.” Mycroft ordered, his own voice heavy with emotion. “It was…do you have any idea what…you were dead, Shirley.” Sherlock let out a sharp exhale at the childhood nickname, flinching in the older Alpha's arms as if he’d been struck. “You were dead, and I…”
He broke off, unwilling to carry on when his voice was so obviously compromised by emotion, and suddenly Mycroft was being held back just as fiercely. They stood like that, wrapped tightly around each other, soaking in the comfort of the other’s existence, for far longer than either would ever care to admit.