Chapter Text
12 hours, 7 minutes and 56 seconds. 57 seconds. 58 seconds. Mycroft Holmes lay tossing and turning in his sprawling bed, counting each second of passing agony. 12 hours, 8 minutes. That’s how long it had been since Mycroft had authorised the call to Dr Watson, and it hadn’t been off his mind since. For someone with as...flexible a moral code as he, it was disconcerting to feel this guilty, especially for such a benevolent action. John Watson was the only person who would be able to get through to Sherlock in his present state, so it only made sense to call him. Medical school nostalgia could wait, Sherlock’s life was imperative. Still, the broken expression on his little brother’s face drifted in front of his inner eye, taunting him with the depths of the cruelty he had permitted. Self loathing had, unfortunately, always been somewhat of a threat to his relative mental stability. It was no surprise that these bouts of melancholy tended to coincide with Sherlock’s ‘Danger Nights’. As went one, so did the other. Unable to stay static for a moment longer, Mycroft pulled himself out of bed, casting a sidelong glance at the clock. 3:10 am. With an exhausted sigh, Mycroft wrapped himself in a robe and stumbled, half asleep, to the kitchen to nurse a cup of hot chocolate and hopefully lure himself back to slumber.
Mycroft awoke for the second time that morning thoroughly disoriented, and with an appalling tightness in his shoulders. It seemed he had (as he was so prone to doing) fallen asleep at the table. A telltale itching around his mouth gave away the lingering chocolate residue. Mycroft allowed a few choice words to ring through the cold spaces of his house, shattering the morning silence. Grimacing at the unseemly echo, Mycroft pulled his ever-present phone from his pocket and flicked over the notifications. His eyebrows shot up as he noted the 43 messages from one Dr.John Watson, as well as the 6 missed calls. A mere quarter of an hour later, Mycroft Holmes was dressed to the nines and rushing down the stairs and out of his door, inevitably on his way to deal with whatever the day may bring. As he left his house, a bitter wind blew.
“Good morning dear, what news for me today?” Anthea looked up and was unsurprised to see Mycroft standing there. The punctuality of the man was legendary. “Nothing much, sir. Just the usual- you have an afternoon meeting with the PM.”
“I truly do despise him. Any chance of a reschedule?”
“I’ll try sir, but this meeting is overdue.” Mycroft sighed, his face settling into the terror inspiring mask nicknamed the ‘Iceman’. Crossing the spacious anteroom into his office, Mycroft’s frown deepened further upon noticing the sheaf of papers contained within a sepia folder. It did grow tiresome occasionally, the goldfish and their need for documentation. The cool grey tones of the walls highlighted the portrait of young Elizabeth, her face set in stoic lines. “For Queen and Country, I suppose. As ever.”
Mycroft sank back into his chair and began the tedious monotony that was governmental paperwork. He was a few pages in when his phone rang. Ordinarily, Mycroft would not have deigned to answer. This time, he recognised the buzz pattern. It was Sherlock. Mentally preparing himself, Mycroft answered.
“Mycroft Holmes. Hello, brother.”
“Mycroft? Oh of course you were on his speed dial, you’re always tracking him.” Mycroft’s internal diatribe screeched to a halt at the sound of the rough, East London accent. That wasn’t Sherlock- his parents would have a fit if they heard Sherlock talk like that. No, that was the voice of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft’s heart sank- if the erstwhile policeman contacted him through Sherlock’s phone, that usually meant the worst of his vices. Drugs.
“Afternoon. I take it Sherlock is once again dancing with death?”
“ ‘Ello to you too. Nah, Sherlock’s ok, but he came flying to my office and begged for a case. Like, genuinely used the word please. Got any clue what’s up?” Mycroft let out a gentle breath, relieved that there was no danger of an overdose. “I may have an inkling. Would you be so kind as to dig out a cold case for him? The double arson from 2004 should do.”
“Um, sure. Is Dr Watson in town?”
“On his way, although I foresee him being rather befuddled on his return, due to his unexpected summons. It would be a great kindness if you do not disturb him till I say so.”
“I’m not sure I like your tone, Mr Holmes. He’s a good one, Dr Watson. Apart from me, the only friend Sherlock has. Don’t mess it up.”
“Duly noted, Detective Inspector. I’m afraid I must take your leave now. Till next time.” Before Lestrade had a chance to respond, Mycroft hung up. Damn it all, he’d said far more than he’d intended. Sherlock had no doubt been in the room. With a growing sense of unease, Mycroft mulled over the next few hours, playing out the infinite different scenarios that could take place. He’d never been good with emotions, least of all regarding his brother. Sherlock was one of the only blind spots in his near omniscience, so dealing with him was somewhat akin to treading on eggshells. Never being completely certain, afraid that one wrong move would upset the delicate balance Mycroft worked so hard to create. Mycroft drifted, lost in rumination, reclining with his feet on the comforting mahogany of his desk. All of a sudden, he was startled by the intensely irritating sound of an alarm, announcing that it was time for his meeting with the Prime Minister. Drat. Reluctantly, Mycroft righted himself and strode out of his office, resigning himself to a few hours of ennui.
A short while later, Mycroft’s patience was wearing precariously thin. The longer the meeting went on, the more he wanted to scream. Or start a war. Preferably both. Grinding his teeth, he called on all of his considerable resolve to stop himself from punching the Prime Minister in the face. When would this man finally get to the godforsaken point? They’d gone from talking about the situation in the Middle East to the PM’s wife- they might as well have a 47 year old, beer bellied bloke from down the pub running the country. Trying desperately to distract himself from his own (violent) musings, he pounced on his phone the moment it rang, gasping for a way out of the meeting.
“Mycroft Holmes, afternoon.”
“Hi Mycroft, John here. Just made it back to London, is Sherlock at home?” Showtime.
“I’m afraid not, he’s currently working on a cold case for the DI. Do make yourself comfortable, we shan’t be long.” Leaving the call on that slightly ominous note, Mycroft hung up. Almost beside himself with relief at an escape, he turned to the PM, a patently false smile (almost a grimace, really) on his face.
“My apologies,something of utmost importance requires my immediate attention. Might we reschedule?”
“Of course, Holmes. Give my regards to your brother.”
“Anthea will notify you when it is most suitable for me. Good day.” Smartly, Mycroft got up and strode out of the room, leaving a bewildered and put out Prime Minister behind him.
In all it’s years of existence, there had surely never been a more awkward silence in 221B Baker Street. John and Mycroft sat across from each other, both with steaming cups of tea next to them. The silence stretched on, forming into an almost living sense of discomfort. Eventually, John, the more social of the pair, had had enough.
“Mycroft, as much as I appreciate the tea, in, um, my own flat, why are you here?” Mycroft let out a breath through his nose. Here we go, he thought.
“John, you’ve been a close companion to my brother for a while now.”
“Yeah, I have.”
“With that in mind, please tread gently over the next few hours.”
“Sure, but do you mind giving me a little more information? We’re not all Holmeses, you know.” Mycroft chuckled wryly, wondering just how much easier life would be if everyone had the capabilities of a Holmes.
“As of this moment, I’m afraid I must keep you in the dark. Worry not, all will be revealed.” Radiating unease, but not willing to pressure Mycroft for more, John sank back into the cushions, resigned to waiting for Sherlock. Not a moment after he completed the thought, he heard the sound of rushing footsteps up the stairs, and then the door flew open to reveal a vaguely panicked looking Sherlock.
“Hello John. Lovely to have you back. Mycroft, can I talk to you?” In one fluid motion, Sherlock offered John a grimacing smile and dragged Mycroft into the kitchen.
“Mycroft why is he here he's not meant tobehere,” hissed Sherlock, stumbling over his words in a fluster. “Honestly Sherlock, you really must be slipping. I obviously invited him.” He watched as his brother’s face twisted into an irritated snarl. “You know perfectly well what I meant, you insufferable windbag! Now answer me. Why. Is. He. Here?”
“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” With a serene half-smile on his face, Mycroft drifted imperiously back into the sitting room, pointedly ignoring the muttered death threats from his brother.
As they sat back down, John piped up again.
“Do you think I could have a shred of context here? Not that I’m not used to being in the dark around you two, but Sherlock seems...off. That’s never a good thing.” Mycroft smiled internally. Oh yes, his brother had picked an interesting one. “You see, John, today has been a long time coming.”
“Mycroft, I’m warning you…” Sherlock looked like he was seconds away from killing his brother, consequences be damned.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to tell him yourself, brother mine.” Though he looked calm on the outside, inside Mycroft was a mess of nerves, hoping that nothing would backfire.
“Tell me what?” The confusion was evident on John’s face, his usually warm blue eyes suffused with uncertainty. Spinning around to face John, Sherlock rolled up his sleeves in preparation, before realising what he had done. He looked up, begging silently that John wouldn’t have seen. Please, please let him not have seen. The startled intake of breath was enough to shatter any lingering hope.
“Sherlock...your arms.” A miserable whisper was all Sherlock could manage in response.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out.” At that, John exploded. Two years of being by Sherlock’s side, protecting him from countless dangers (including himself), and Sherlock didn’t think he was trustworthy enough to tell when he started using again?
“Sherlock, why? Can you just tell me why?”
Sherlock looked at the floor, avoiding John’s eyes lest he read the truth in them.
“I can’t, John. I’m sorry.” Mycroft watched the exchange with almost a perverse pleasure. There was a reason he was one of the best diplomats in the world. People were so malleable. Having watched for long enough, Mycroft decided to intervene.
“Sherlock. Either you tell him, or I will.”
Sherlock whipped round, terrified at the ultimatum.
“Go on, Sherlock. Tell me why.” He had no way out. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sherlock began to speak.
“John, I’ve started using again because… because I love you. I know, I know you’re not gay, and I know I can’t have you, but I love you. And if I couldn’t have you, at least I had the drugs. Please, don’t be angry?”
“Sherlock, what the fuck? Are you insane? That’s fucking disgusting.”
Mycroft flinched, the words hitting a little too close for comfort. It seemed that he’d grossly misjudged Dr Watson’s reaction. There was nothing he could do now except watch the fallout.
Sherlock reached forward desperately, trying to save the only good friendship in his miserably solitary life.
“I’m sorry John, please don’t do this. I’ll stop, I swear’ You’ll never have to hear about it again.” Tears chased each other down his face, almost icy against his burning face. How, how could he have allowed this to happen? He was Sherlock, used to keeping emotions locked away in a fortress in his head. John watched in open repulsion, glaring at Sherlock with a frightening hatred.
“No, Sherlock. We’re done here. I’m going out for a while- I need some air. Don’t expect me back tonight. If you so much as text me while I’m gone I swear you’ll never see me again. Jesus.” With that acidic remark, John turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.
Sherlock was destroyed. In the space of an hour, he’d somehow revealed his best kept secret and lost his only friend. Sobbing now, Sherlock crumpled to the floor, the weight of his sorrow crushing something deep inside him. Looking up from the floor, Sherlock gazed with red-rimmed eyes at his older brother.
“Sherlock, I truly believed he was better than that. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” Sherlock let out a little noise of anguish, crying harder. He didn’t, couldn’t believe that John would do that. And yet he had. Slowly gathering the pieces of his heart and locking them in the deepest depths of his soul, Sherlock got up.
“Listen, Sherlock, I’m sure he’ll come back-”
“Mycroft. I don’t care anymore. I’m done. Done with being a pawn in your mind games, done with wanting things I cannot have. Spare us both the agony, would you please? Oh, and do make yourself at home, I don’t expect I’ll be having company for a while.” A bitter laugh rang through the air as Sherlock left the room, soon followed by muffled screaming into a pillow and choked off sobs. To the sound of a broken heart, Mycroft sat on the sofa and put his head into his arms, wondering how everything could have gone so tragically wrong. Two long cold cups of tea still sat on the table before him.