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1.
“What has happened to my beautiful daughter?” Mrs. Holmes says, distraught, fingers outstretched, reaching toward Sherlock’s newly-shorn head. All around Sherlock’s body are locks of dark hair, scattered in downy curls at her feet, caught in the dip of her collar bone. She is bare and sharp as a cutlass blade—although some small, uncharitable part of Mycroft wonders if he ought to compare her to a needle, to that blindingly sharp point that Sherlock seems to favor on her own time, anyway.
Sherlock looks up, eyes bright and full of something half manic, half exultant. “I killed her,” she says, viciously, and Mycroft wonders if he ought to have recognized the signs sooner.
2.
“Why should you care?” Sherlock demands, eyes locked on the ace bandages Mycroft has clenched in one white-knuckled fist.
“Because you are my brother,” Mycroft says forcefully. “And breaking your own ribs because you have too much pride to ask for help is disgusting.”
Sherlock is wide eyed, though if it’s at Mycroft’s use of nouns or vehemence, Mycroft isn’t quite sure.
“I’m not breaking my ribs,” Sherlock says feebly.
“Just take the damn binder, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, tiredly.
3.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Mycroft reads off the page, quirking an eyebrow, and glances up at Sherlock over his desk. “This is what you’ve settled on?”
“Problem?” Sherlock asks, eyes half lidded with boredom, mouth a thin line. The bow of his lips isn’t the only thing that’s thin, Mycroft notices, with weary dismay. He can isolate the individual lines of Sherlock’s ribs through his t-shirt without any effort on his part.
“I’m surprised you’re keeping ‘Sherlock’,” is all Mycroft says. “Seeing as it’s a girl’s name.”
“Like Mycroft is any better,” Sherlock returns nastily.
“Well. I won’t fight you there.” Mycroft reshuffles the papers on his desk, sighs lightly. “I’ll push the paperwork through as quickly as I can. However, I do wish you’d contact our mother yourself—”
But Sherlock is already out the door, coat flapping behind him without so much as a thank you. Mycroft leans back in his chair and wonders what he expected.
4.
“For god’s sake, Sherlock, are you actively trying to make my life difficult?” Mycroft looks down at his brother, dismayed and a little disgusted.
“Always,” Sherlock laughs, and it has been so long since Mycroft heard that sound that he’s almost grateful, almost willing to forgive that unnatural brightness in Sherlock’s eyes.
“You told her, then,” he says, wearily, slumping his shoulder against the door frame. Sherlock, railroad tracks bitten down his left forearm, looks up at Mycroft with an easy grin and red-rimmed eyes.
“I believe,” Sherlock says, waving a hand in the air like a pale banner of surrender, “That I don’t have a home anymore.”
“Nonsense,” Mycroft says firmly. “You have a home with me.”
Sherlock shoots Mycroft his most derisive, pitying look, and Mycroft knows—now more than ever before—that everything has completely, irrevocably changed.
5.
Gregory Lestrade, when he calls that first time, has a voice that is as tired as Mycroft’s. They’d only met once before—Mycroft hadn’t been sure he’d remember him, and it's not altogether clear yet whether he ought to feel flattered or concerned that the Detective Inspector has managed to do so.
Mycroft only hears trespassing, crime scene, and intoxicated before he leaps up from his desk to grab his coat and umbrella, all but sprinting down the stairs to his car. Expletives spring to his tongue that he does not release.
“How high is he?” he demands, voice dangerously rough, scraping a hand through his hair as he starts the car.
“Very,” Lestrade answers grimly, although there’s a note of sympathy in his voice. “You’re his brother?”
“Unfortunately,” Mycroft says. He almost means it.
“If you fill out the paperwork, I’m willing to let the charges drop,” Lestrade continues, skating over the ragged breath that shakes through Mycroft’s throat. “But we’re reaching an end to my kindness, Mr. Holmes. This can’t happen again.”
“I understand.” Mycroft clenches his hands around the steering wheel. “You’ve done more than enough already.”
“Hardly,” Lestrade snorts. Dimly, on the other end, Mycroft can hear him pouring himself what must be the fourth or fifth cup of coffee of the day. It’s a fairly reasonable bad habit, all things considered. “You’re on your way?”
Mycroft pulls up to the curb, fumbling with his seatbelt as he extricates himself from the car. “ETA forty-five seconds,” he says, twitching an almost-smile at the chuckle he drags reluctantly from Lestrade’s mouth.
“See you in a moment then,” Lestrade says, and hangs up with the barest hint of a smile in his voice. Mycroft takes a deep, calming breath and goes inside to collect his wayward brother.
6.
“If you’re trying to kill yourself,” Mycroft says, voice low, dangerous, “You are going about it in the most painful way possible.”
“You don’t understand,” Sherlock snarls, though the venom in his tone is lessened by the weakness of his voice. The IV attached to the crook of his elbow throws into sharp relief the spider bites of needle marks up and down Sherlock’s arm, betraying how weak he is, lying in the hospital bed.
“Oh?”
“You don’t know what it’s like to have your mind tear itself apart.” Sherlock turns his head away, pale throat bared. “To have your—your own skin suffocate you.”
“Don’t I,” Mycroft says flatly.
Sherlock’s sharp gaze is suddenly discerning as he narrows his eyes in Mycroft’s direction. “You’ve lost three pounds,” he notices, frowning.
“You’ve lost more,” Mycroft counters. Sherlock doesn’t have a witty reply to that.
7.
I’m going to rehab. SH
Mycroft excuses himself from his meeting with the ambassador for France and weeps in the bathroom, silently, for a good fifteen minutes.
8.
Sherlock doesn’t ask Mycroft to be there, after his first meeting with the specialist, but Mycroft shows up anyway. It’s just as well—Sherlock is in no condition to get on public transportation, not with a storm in his throat and his fists clenched so tightly Mycroft fears for his palms.
“It went that poorly?” Mycroft opens the passenger door for Sherlock.
“They’re recommending a full psychological evaluation before proceeding with testosterone,” he spits. Mycroft’s heart sinks.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and although the words are small, he fancies he catches a little relief in the way Sherlock’s shoulders crumple.
9.
Mycroft argues on the telephone until he’s hoarse, calling in several favors that he hadn’t wished to cash in yet, but he succeeds, and that, in itself, is perhaps worth the sacrifice.
“I suppose I owe you,” Sherlock says, looking at the forms with equal parts disbelief and distrust.
“You may think of it that way if you choose,” Mycroft sighs. “Repay me by staying clean.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Sherlock says, though it lacks venom, and clutches his prescription a little tighter.
10.
“He’s doing alright, then?”
Mycroft is certain Sherlock would protest vehemently had he known that Mycroft checks up on him frequently, but Lestrade seems so pleased to have someone to talk about Sherlock with that Mycroft can’t find it within himself to regret it.
“Oh, yeah,” Lestrade laughs around what Mycroft deduces is his second cigarette of the day, if not third. “Nearly engaged in fisticuffs with Anderson, but that isn’t new.”
Mycroft huffs an amused breath. “Typical,” he says, and lets Lestrade’s words and laughter wash over him in a soothing wave.
11.
It’s late in the evening when Mycroft gets the phone call. It isn’t at Lestrade’s usual time, so his heart skips unevenly in his chest—he half expects to hear that Sherlock’s drugged-out body has been found in a ditch.
“He’s got a friend,” Lestrade says in bewildered excitement. “He says colleague, but they bloody moved in with each other.”
“Hm,” Mycroft says, brow creasing. “Sherlock doesn’t do ‘friends’.”
“Yeah, yeah, Holmes dramatics, I hear you. I’ve been here since the beginning,” Lestrade reminds him somewhat petulantly.
“Apologies,” Mycroft murmurs.
“His name’s John Watson.” Mycroft can hear Lestrade chew on the end of his pen, obviously yearning for his nicotine fix. “Dr. John Watson, injured war hero. He’s different.”
Mycroft sighs, scraping a hand through his hair. “And Sherlock, as we know,” he says grimly, “Thrives on difference.”
“What are you going to do?” Lestrade asks.
“How often do you turn a blind eye to kidnapping?” Mycroft returns.
12.
John Watson isn’t a bad man. Mycroft turns that thought over and over in his head, and he cannot make sense of it; the words ‘good’ and ‘affiliated with Sherlock Holmes’ rarely intersect. Mycroft prays his judgment of character hasn’t deteriorated in recent times.
13.
“Do you plan on telling him?” Mycroft asks, once he’s cajoled Sherlock into getting into his car.
“I don’t see why I should.” Sherlock gazes out the window, pads of his fingers dragging down the glass. “Nor why it’s any of your business, for that matter.”
Mycroft stifles the urge to roll his eyes.
“Whatever you care to think, little brother,” he sighs, Sherlock’s glare both expected and aggravating.
14.
Mycroft watches the way John watches Sherlock and narrows his eyes, worrying his lower lip between his teeth over and over again.
15.
“Well, I checked up on your brother like you asked me to,” Lestrade says, fondly exasperated. Mycroft can hear the muffled sound of the radio over the phone in the background, but he can’t place the song. Or even the genre.
“And?”
“He’s a bit over his head,” Lestrade admits. “I’m going to stick around. There’s something dirty about this Baskerville business, but I couldn’t tell you what it is.”
“Keep me updated,” Mycroft requests.
“Yeah, ‘course,” Lestrade says, as though it’s obvious.
Mycroft almost hangs up, but pauses, the silence stretching between them for a moment. “What music is that?” he asks curiously.
Lestrade laughs a little uncomfortably. “The Clash,” he answers with a small awkward chuckle. “Not really your style, I’d wager.”
Mycroft smiles faintly. “Perhaps it’s time I expand my palette,” he suggests, just to hear Lestrade give him a real laugh before they hang up.
16.
Moriarty, with his mouth full of shrapnel, could crush Sherlock where he stands if he so desires. For the first time since childhood, Mycroft is terrified—Lestrade, weary and grey, is just as frightened; Mycroft wonders if it’s problematic that he finds this so comforting.
17.
Lazarus is go. SH
18.
Lestrade smashes the glass in his hand to the ground, head bowed as though someone has cut the electrical feed to his spine. The medical photographs clutched in his hands, courtesy of Molly Hooper, are striking, Mycroft has to admit—the thin scars on Sherlock’s chest stand out in sharp contrast to his pale skin, the old faded marks on his forearms all but invisible. Easy to overlook when half of his skull is smashed in.
Mycroft manages, with Lestrade’s help, to keep the photographs from John.
19.
“Your brother,” John says, voice rough from suppressed emotion.
“I know,” Mycroft answers.
“Christ, he was such a bastard,” John spits, scraping a hand through his hair.
Mycroft bites back the present tense that threatens to spill out of his mouth.
“Did you love him, Doctor Watson?” he asks. John appears alarmed at the bluntness of his question.
“I—that’s—”
“I put my brother in his grave,” Mycroft says, tilting his chin upward ever so slightly. “Don’t you think it would be better to air every ghost?”
John swallows tightly. “Mycroft,” he says, Mycroft’s name catching in his throat. “I’m sure you have ghosts you’d rather keep locked up.”
“Well.” Mycroft taps a finger against the armrest of his chair. “Perhaps you have a point.”
20.
Mycroft can’t find it within himself to protest when Lestrade, still in the early stinging-bright stage of grief, falls asleep on the couch in Mycroft’s apartment. He doesn’t say a word when it happens the next night, and the night after that, and then for the weeks following.
Mycroft makes coffee in the morning and decides to enjoy the companionable silence that blooms between them like ink in water.
“We’re friends, right?” Lestrade asks, rubbing the heel of his hand underneath his eyes as he yawns.
“I assumed you would be the expert in this area,” Mycroft replies a little uncomfortably.
“It’s just that I’ve kind of moved in,” Lestrade notes, glancing at the toothbrush in the cup next to Mycroft’s.
“Hm,” Mycroft says, ever so slightly bemused. “So you have.”
“Do you mind?” Lestrade sounds worried, almost, the arch of one bare foot rubbing against his other leg in a nervous fidget.
“Well, if you’re moving in,” Mycroft points out, swirling his coffee in his mug, “You may as well use the bed.”
Lestrade looks as if he had attempted to swallow an electrical charge. “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed,” he says, voice slightly strangled.
Mycroft looks at him over his coffee cup. “That wasn’t what I was suggesting,” he says, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles.
“Well,” Lestrade says softly, eyes as wide as saucer plates. “I think I could probably work with that.”
21.
Mycroft looks at Sherlock’s bloodied, whip-bitten skin, bile rising in his throat. He has never been so furious before, never felt this sort of rage sting through his veins and make his toes curl in his shoes.
“Time to come home,” he murmurs in Sherlock’s ear, and watches Sherlock’s bloodied lips curl into a smile with dismay panging in his heart.
22.
“He still doesn’t know?” Mycroft asks, leaning slightly on his umbrella as he and Sherlock watch John walk out of 221b with bloody knuckles. Sherlock wipes his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand, scowling an answer.
He’ll forgive you, Mycroft doesn’t say. I forgive you, he doesn’t say either. “I warned you it was too late. He’s getting married now,” is what he does say, and pretends the noise of pain that gets tangled in Sherlock’s throat is from the punch to his face.
23.
Mycroft receives the invitation to the wedding, but sends his regrets with only the barest moment’s hesitation.
“You’re not going?” Lestrade asks, frowning, as he lets Mycroft help him with his rather ugly tie.
“I have better things to do than watch my brother make a fool of himself in front of the man he’s in love with,” he says, pulling the tie snugly against Lestrade’s throat.
Lestrade squeezes Mycroft’s hand once. “I think you underestimate him.”
“And I think you do the opposite,” Mycroft sighs, patting Lestrade’s lapel gently.
24.
“Relapse,” Lestrade says, defeated, without preamble. Mycroft clutches the phone a little tighter to his ear and squeezes his eyes shut.
25.
“This woman,” Mycroft says, eyeing the contact picture in Sherlock’s phone under her name with distaste. “Don’t tell me you intend to affiliate yourself with her in the hope to make John jealous.”
Sherlock shoots him an acid look. “Hardly,” he says coolly. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten,” Mycroft says, sliding a sly sort of glance in Sherlock’s direction. “You’re married to your work. Fitting you should date for it.”
“Like you can talk,” Sherlock snarls. “Lestrade? Really?”
Mycroft takes a tense breath. “Don’t,” he says shortly, regretting he’d ever brought the subject up.
“Sleeping with Lestrade,” Sherlock says, tasting the words on his tongue with relish. “I rather thought you weren’t interested in that sort of sordid affair.”
“I’m not,” Mycroft says sharply, feeling off-kilter and at a disadvantage. “And we aren’t.”
Sherlock looks at him, bewildered. “He’s living with you.”
“And we’re happy,” Mycroft says firmly, gripping the top of his umbrella a little tighter. “But we aren’t—that."
“He’s sleeping in your bed,” Sherlock says, exasperated, as though Mycroft’s entire person is an offense to him personally.
“Just sleeping,” Mycroft says, a touch defensively, and realizes Sherlock has successfully navigated the conversation away from Janine. He isn’t quite sure how he feels about Sherlock knowing his pressure points so intimately.
26.
“Well, it’s final,” Lestrade says, dragging a hand over his face before he smiles up at Mycroft. “Look for yourself. All signed and sealed.”
Mycroft touches the papers with his fingertips and a frown. “Hm.”
“You only make that noise when you’re worried about something,” Lestrade points out, quirking an eyebrow. Mycroft smiles faintly.
“Divorced,” he says, watching Lestrade in his peripheral vision. “You’re a free man, then."
“Well.” Lestrade grins up at him. “Free from her, maybe.” He presses a kiss to one of Mycroft’s cheekbones as he gets up to refill his coffee cup and leaves Mycroft in a state of pleasant bafflement.
27.
Sherlock is, once again, in a hospital bed, and Mycroft stands with John while they watch him sleep.
"The scars," John says, eyeing Sherlock's chest covered by the sheet. "How did he...?"
"I'm afraid that isn't my story to tell," Mycroft says smoothly. John nods, chagrined.
"Sorry."
"Make your wife apologize," Mycroft says, with a sharp bite to his voice that he hadn't planned on expressing. "She is the one who put him here, after all."
John hangs his head, ashamed, fingers curling into fists by his sides. Mycroft sees, for perhaps the first time, that Sherlock is not the only one with painful love bowing his spine. "I know," John says quietly, agonized. "Christ, I know."
Mycroft takes a few breaths to calm the anger that threatens to fill his lungs. "You and he have cooperated on the ruination of both your lives," he says, surprisingly evenly. "But it's too late for regrets. I hope you're happy."
"He was dead." John's hand curls around Sherlock's. "He was dead."
Mycroft watches John's wedding band press against one of Sherlock's fingers as their hands lay intertwined on the bed. Mycroft finds he has nothing left to say above the screaming of his heart.
28.
Mycroft watches Sherlock shoot the gun at Magnussen and screams the order to hold fire from his place in the helicopter. Sherlock is so small, so in love, and John is watching him with disbelief and anguish twisting his face into something fragile and strange.
"Oh, my brother," Mycroft breathes, despairingly. "Oh, my brother."
29.
"You don't have to do this, you realize," Mycroft murmurs. "There is always another option."
"What do I have left to live for?" Sherlock asks dully, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. They walk toward John slowly, and when Sherlock turns to Mycroft, his heart so very brittle in his eyes, Mycroft almost calls the entire thing off. "May I have a moment to speak to John alone?" he asks, and Mycroft knows this is a mistake, but he backs off anyway, staying within earshot because he cannot let Sherlock do this alone. His phone buzzes briefly.
I'm sorry, Mycroft. GL
Mycroft shoves his phone into his pocket without a further glance.
"Before I go," Sherlock is saying. "There's something you ought to know."
"Yeah?" John glances briefly over his shoulder to where Mary is standing.
"If this is truly the last time..." Sherlock laughs, once, the sound unsteady. "I only ask that you hear me out."
"Don't talk like that," John says sharply. Sherlock ducks his head, chagrined, and John's face softens. "Of course I'll hear you out, Sherlock."
Sherlock takes a deep breath that seems to smooth out the crease between his brows and lend him a sort of courage Mycroft has never seen him wear before. "Sherlock is a girl's name," he says, the tremor in his spine all but unseeable to those who do not know him the way Mycroft does. John's eyes widen comically.
"You mean—?"
"You saw the scars. You're a medical man, John, put the pieces together." Sherlock scrapes a hand through his curls, shoulders taut once more.
John sucks in a surprised breath before reaching out to pull Sherlock into a tight embrace. Mycroft has to look away before they break apart.
As am I, Gregory. As am I. MH
30.
The plane turns around. Mycroft sees Mary's hand slip out of John's and exhales the breath he hasn't realized he's been holding.
31.
"Well, your secret's out," Mycroft says, inspecting his fingernails while Sherlock lies back in his chair, plucking aimlessly at his violin. "Relieved?"
"How's Gavin?" Sherlock counters, eyes half-lidded, though if it's from boredom or something else, Mycroft can't tell.
"Have it your way," Mycroft sighs, reaching for his umbrella. "I'll be off, then. Do give John my warmest regards."
Sherlock lets him get to the door before interrupting. "You're not altogether the worst person I've met," he calls out reluctantly, and Mycroft is so surprised he nearly tumbles down the stairs.
"Beg pardon?" he asks, whirling around to stare at Sherlock.
"I detest repeating myself," Sherlock sneers, and the moment is broken. "Go home to Geoff where you're wanted."
Mycroft blinks, takes a shuddery sort of breath, and does, smiling a trifle foolishly as he walks down the stairs, out the door, and gets into the car Anthea has waiting for him.
"What's happened to the somber man of yesteryear?" she asks him, arching a brow even as she shoots a rare glance upward from her Blackberry. Mycroft can't stop smiling. It's possibly quite alarming to her.
"I killed him," Mycroft says, victoriously, and slides his phone out of his pocket to text Lestrade a witty reply to a remark both of them has yet to make.