Chapter Text
A Half-Windsor. Perfect. Not too formal, but just elegant enough to complement the tuxedo. Dipping a hand into the pomade to smooth back his hair, Mycroft pulled in a deep breath, smelling the notes of apple and citrus- a nod to the cream’s original recipe. With his tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration, he slicked back his hair. Mycroft Holmes was not a vain man, but had long held the belief that a put together appearance was like a suit of armour- protection against the judgment of people. Tonight however, he would take a risk, and expose a vulnerability in his chainmail, via a green carnation boutonniere. Only those who he wanted to know would guess, the rest of the goldfish would just drift obliviously by. Adjusting the flower nervously (uncharacteristically so) he re-considered the choice for the fifth time that evening. ‘Mycroft Holmes- get over yourself’ nagged the little voice in his head. He knew it was right- the flower was the epitome of subtlety. The chances of the goldfish guessing were close to zero. He would allow one night of self expression, and then he would lock it right back up and continue onwards. One night- that was all. Strengthening his resolve, Mycroft shrugged on his grey wool overcoat and left his house, shutting the door resolutely behind him.
The gravel crunched beneath his feet as Mycroft walked up the driveway, choosing to leave the threatening black sedan parked at the far end. The imposing stone facade of the Holmes family house loomed over him, and it was with slight reluctance that he lifted the brass knocker and let it fall, sending an echoing boom through the house. Ten seconds later, the door opened to reveal a short, severe, quintessentially English woman standing behind it. Mother. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft spoke.
“Hello Mother. How nice to see you again. May I come in?”
“Mycroft! Please do, everyone else is already here.” His Mother ushered him in and shut the door behind them, sealing his fate for the night. The annual Holmes Christmas Dinner was the centre of attention year after year, with half the village turning up to the mansion-like house to celebrate the holiday. Mycroft hated it every time. Hours of socialising, pleasantries and etiquette- essentially a working day sans payment. Usually, the only enjoyable point was the food. His Mother may not have been the best parent, but god she could cook. This year, however, there would hopefully be another reason for attendance, if his parents managed to catch on in time. The large sitting room looked surprisingly cosy, only occupied with family members, the main hall being used for public entertainment. His father was standing by the fire, deep in conversation with-with Uncle Rudy! The one person this event was worth coming to for. Mycroft made his way across the room to the pair, and waited for a lull in conversation. Soon enough, Father paused to take a sip of his mulled wine and Rudy looked up to see Mycroft standing there.
“Mycroft my boy! Gosh, it’s been ages since I’ve last seen you.” Mycroft beamed. It had, in fact, been exactly a year to the day since they had last met, at the previous year’s Christmas party.
“Uncle, I've missed you. I have so much to tell you.”
“I look forward to it dear one.” Uncle Rudy had long since been one of the only people who had been able to engage Mycroft in conversation. “I see they’ve finally started paying you enough to purchase clothing from Savile Row. I must put you in contact with one of my tailors there, Leo, he’s a marvel.” As with all Holmeses, Rudy shared the deductive powers the family possessed. As a result, Mycroft found him to be the family member he trusted and loved most, and they’d been close for as long as he could remember. The inevitable cheeriness of Christmas started to settle in the room, and slowly Mycroft began to find himself enjoying the evening. Conversation and drinks flowed easily, and soon Mycroft was at the lovely warm fuzzy point in between sober and tipsy. He only ever allowed himself to go this far with family. Pleasantly relaxed, Mycroft allowed his guard to drop for a while, and then his Mother struck.
“Mycie?” Mycroft winced. He hated when his name was shortened. Apart from making him sound like an uncouth builder, it usually heralded some request.
“Yes Mother?”
“ Would you like to play us a little piano? Maybe a Chopin etude, or a Bach Partita?” Sighing, Mycroft crossed the room to the baby grand piano sitting in the corner. He’d adored music since the age of 3, when he climbed up onto the piano stool and thumped on the keys, sending a clashing discord ringing through the house. With years of practice, and no small amount of talent, Mycroft was now an excellent pianist, as well as a cellist. He let his hands rest on the keys and shut his eyes, feeling the gaze of the room on him. Taking a breath, Mycroft drew out the first, gentle notes of the piece and then launched into the rush of notes that was Chopin’s Etude Op.25 No.11, Winter Wind. For four breathless minutes, Mycroft played, glad to see that his eidetic memory had no problem recalling the complex sheet music. His fingers flew across the keys, coaxing out an intricate and dramatic melody. When Mycroft opened his eyes as the last chord reverberated around the room, everyone seemed to be still. Then the room broke into applause, and the spell was broken. Mycroft rose from the piano and walked back to his seat, taking a long draught of his mulled wine and relaxing once more.
Just as he drained the dregs of his glass, the doorbell rang, shortly followed by the rattling of keys in the door. ‘Oh Lord, Sherlock’s here’ Mycroft thought. No one else would announce their arrival so ostentatiously if they had keys. The door of the sitting room opened wide and Sherlock strode in, coattails flapping.
“Sherlock. Brother dear, do sit down. It’s been so long”
“Not long enough,” Sherlock scoffed, his trademark calculating stare sweeping over Mycroft. Mycroft swallowed as he was scrutinised, a jolt of anxiety shooting up his spine when he noticed his brother’s lingering stare on his boutonniere. Sherlock raised an arch eyebrow, asking a question. Mycroft nodded almost imperceptibly and Sherlock’s face broke into a delighted grin at having successfully deduced his older brother.
“Merry Christmas, Mycroft! Here’s to you looking less like a mince pie next year.” Mummy’s eyebrows knitted together in disappointment. After years, all hope of companionship between the two had disappeared, but they knew better than to openly insult each other in front of relatives.
“Manners, William.” she hissed. Sherlock flinched at the use of his Christian name, a reminder of a pretentious and lonely childhood. Sensing his discomfort, Mycroft decided to intervene, and once again prove his admirable (if cultivated) social skills.
“Sherlock, do go and greet Uncle Rudy, it's been ever such a long time since he last saw us.” Sherlock’s lip curled in a disdainful sneer. Through his childhood, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that Mycroft was the favourite nephew (as if Rudy could ever have favourites between the two), and Sherlock had felt neglected by the extravagant man.
“Rudy, how nice to see you.”
“Ah, Sherlock, I was beginning to think you would never arrive. How’s London? Your- blogger? Partner? Dare I say paramour?”
“No Uncle, you may not. John is my closest and only friend- nothing more.” Even as he uttered the words, a pained and longing expression came over Sherlock's face, which Rudy was able to correctly read as his feelings for the doctor. Turning a knowing smile in Sherlock’s direction, Uncle Rudy was just about to question Sherlock further when he was interrupted by Mummy Holmes.
“On the subject of paramours, I believe it is Mycroft we should be finding a girl for.” Mycroft blanched. He hadn’t anticipated this. Personal discussions with Mummy were uncomfortable at best and excruciating at worst- this was sure to be on the latter end of the scale. Desperately scrambling for a solution, Mycroft managed to stutter out “No, honestly, I prefer to stay unattached.”
“Nonsense Mycroft, I’m sure there are plenty of girls who’ll fall over themselves for you.” The irony of the moment was not lost on Mycroft. Indeed, many of his aides (prior to Anthea) had been quite taken by him. Wincing, Mycroft opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by an irate Sherlock.
“Oh for the love of- Mother!”
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“How could you be so blind? It's written across his face.”
“Whatever do you mean Sherlock?” Sensing the impending disaster, Mycroft tried to intervene. Not this, anything but this, not like this please.
“It’s nothing Mother, Sherlock is simply being obtuse agai-” He was silenced by an icy, loathing stare from Sherlock.
“Mycroft, you utter coward. Mother, what Mycroft has been trying to convey the entire evening, with the help of a rather unsubtle boutonniere, is that he is gay. We both are.” Silence. Resounding, cavernous silence. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees- the cosy space suddenly foreign and hostile. Mycroft’s breath was rushing in his ears, his heart beating out a frantic rhythm. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not this, not any of it, why was this happening?! A chilling calm had settled over Mummy Holmses’ face, and when she spoke it was in frigid tones.
“Mycroft, Sherlock, Father, Rudy- we shall speak in the drawing room.” As they filed out of the room, Mycroft thoughts whirled, spinning out a thousand different scenarios, each more horrific than the last. Curse his younger brother, curse his flair for dramatics, curse his own appreciation of subtlety, curse whatever force in the universe that had filled this one infinitesimal moment with unbearable agony and he couldn’t take it he was going to break- the door shut behind him with a crash. All of a sudden he was alone in a room with the people he called family- they had never felt more like strangers.
The tension in the room stretched and grew, filling the silence with uncomfortable anticipation. Sherlock and Mother seemed to be trying to out stare each other, Father was looking obliquely unaware, and Uncle Rudy and Mycroft were making a point of looking anywhere but each other. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of torturous wait, Mother spoke.
“I suppose I must ask- is it true, Mycroft? Does your carnation truly have meaning? Are you-ahem- that way inclined?” Oh Good Lord. The moment he’d been dreading most of all, the thought that frightened him so much he himself hadn’t put it into words. In the depths of self reflection, some months ago, he’d seemed to dredge out this want, this desire, for his own. And yet, it still disgusted him, some dark part of him he’d taken pains to lock away, that whispered to him in his worst moments. It whispered to him the lengths of his perversity, his atrociousness, his disgrace. How could he, Mycroft Holmes, like men? It was this part now that seized him, slowly strangling rational thought from his brain as he contemplated the words he would have to say.
“I- I am. I always have been-um-of the Oscar Wilde sort.”
“For heaven's sake Mycroft,”scoffed Sherlock, irritated by his brother’s self-loathing, “Just say you’re gay. If Mother has a problem with it then it’s not due to us.” Mother was standing, stock still, her face impassive and unreadable. The very air in the room seemed to ripple with fear, the unsaid words hanging heavy between them. Hesitantly, Rudy tried to diffuse the situation.
“Violet, come now. Be reasonable. You’ve never had a problem with my- inclination. Why should it be any different for your two?”
“Brother, don’t tell me how to parent my children. You think I’m ok with you being as you are? Of course not. I’m simply adept at hiding it.” Uncle Rudy felt as if he had been slapped. His older sister, disgusted by him? Suddenly, the old doubts and hatred came rushing back. His heartbeat sped up and he could feel his hands going clammy. ‘Panic attack’ supplied a part of his brain. Rudy sank down the wall onto the floor, trying frantically to regain control.
“Uncle, are you ok?” Mycroft couldn’t deal with much else going wrong now. He was skating dangerously close to the edge.
“He’s fine Mycroft. No need to concern yourself.” Incredulously, Mycroft turned to face his Mother, but stopped dead at the look of contempt on her face. “Mo-Mother?”
“Hush Mycroft. You have until tomorrow morning. Sort yourself out and go. I despise you- I no longer want you here. Sherlock, you too. I never thought it would come to this. Just be thankful I’m not disowning the both of you. Disgusting.” With that, Mummy Holmes turned on her heel and walked out of the room, closely followed by father. “Mycroft, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, I just thought-”
“Don’t Sherlock. Just go.” With an apologetic glance behind him, Sherlock left the room.
Mycroft felt nothing. He vaguely registered tears dripping onto the floor. Sinking down beside his Uncle, Mycroft curled into his side and there they sat. Shaking, sobbing, breaking apart. Many hours later, when the manor was silent and cold, Uncle Rudy and Mycroft were still sitting side by side on the cold stone floor, wondering how everything could have gone so wrong. As the night turned into day, Mycroft’s unshed tears seemed to crystallise, to freeze. They became a barricade, an unshakable wall. Lying there, Mycroft could feel a change taking place. No longer was he Mycroft, big brother, eldest son. Now, he was Mr Holmes, codename Antarctica, the brains behind MI6. A man with a heart as cold as ice.