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Silence was something he always valued. While working, which he did a lot, it was a blessing to have a quiet environment. What could prove his love of silence better than the existence of the Diogenes?
It was his own haven, a place to retire to, devoid of useless tittle-tattle.
Yes, silence was good. It was comfortable.
But he hated it right now. What he wouldn’t give to hear Sherlock chatter away about simply anything…
For the past half an hour or so they have been sitting on the sofa in his brother’s flat. Not talking, not moving. The only word Sherlock had gifted him had been a small ‘Hi’ when Mycroft had entered and greeted him. He had been quiet, way too quiet for months now.
“Brother… are you hungry?”
Of course, Mycroft knew the answer, and regardless of it, he would bring Sherlock something. It was good to ask, though.
“No…”
He expected it, but that didn’t mean the constant rejection wasn’t worrying him.
Mycroft stood and walked off to the kitchen to reheat the soup Miss Hudson had prepared. She was always trying to make Sherlock’s favorites or something he’d enjoy.
Both she and Doctor Watson did their best to offer support. The three of them took turns to stay with Sherlock, and occasionally even Detective Inspector Lestrade kept him company.
Once the soup was warm, he scooped some into a bowl and returned to the living room. He set it on the small coffee table in front of Sherlock and sat down again.
“Eat, brother mine. You may not feel hungry, but you need it,”
Sherlock’s eyes flitted over to the food, and he swallowed dryly before turning away.
“I don’t need it…”
Mycroft was sure about one thing: Sherlock had not lost his appetite. He had lost his will. The will to take care of himself, among other things.
“Please, for us?” he picked up the bowl and spoon, bringing it closer to Sherlock, “It will warm you up, too. You seem a little cold,”
After some gentle coaxing, Sherlock reached out for it, and Mycroft let a relieved smile grace his lips for a second.
Sherlock managed to eat a couple of spoonfuls, but he looked as if he was in pain while swallowing. It wasn’t physical pain; his mind was just telling him he shouldn’t be accepting it.
“Thank you,” Mycroft told him when Sherlock set the remaining soup down. He wasn’t going to pressure him to finish it. Getting him to eat at least a little was already good enough, “You did well,”
He wished he knew what else to say. Fortunately, at least he was aware of what not to say. That had to count for something, right?
“…You were right,” he heard Sherlock speak softly.
Oh, no. Please, not that thing I said.
“About what, brother mine?”
“Caring is not an advantage.”
There it was. It was true, to an extent. Caring left you open to the possibility of getting hurt. No person could be trusted completely; friends, family, a lover. There was always the chance of something going wrong, of a misunderstanding, an argument that leaves you wounded. But such was life.
“Forget what I said. It can be an advantage. People can go to great lengths for those they care for. Care enables them to do something they otherwise wouldn’t be able to do,”
“Like jump off a bridge just to end up resurfacing alone?”
Mycroft winced. That topic was like tearing a scab off a gash.
He didn’t know what to tell Sherlock. The body had not been found. It was possible William survived, but he didn’t want to give Sherlock false hope.
“…In this particular case, it didn’t work out quite well. I know it hurts. But that doesn’t mean you should stop caring. It’s only human to do so,”
“Says the Iceman?”
“The Iceman has been sitting here trying to feed his little brother for the past half an hour,”
Sherlock huffed with the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Have you ever regretted caring for me?”
“No. Never,”
“Even though I hadn’t been all that nice to you…”
“It’s worth it for me. I know you had your reasons. Sometimes, you were really testing my patience, but not for a second have I considered abandoning you,”
There was a lot to say to that. It could be a conversation that lasted until late at night.
Sherlock, however, decided to let it be for the time being. He only rested his head on his brother’s shoulder, whose hand came up to stroke his hair. He wanted to thank him. Really, it felt like the words were lodged in his throat and were going to suffocate him if he didn’t say them, yet he couldn’t get them out. Sentiment was not his forte.
“It’s okay, brother. I get it,”
Mycroft, bless him. Always picking up on things.
“Sleepy?”
“A bit… Can you start the fire? The cold is getting to me,”
Mycroft gladly did so, even got a blanket from the bedroom and wrapped it snugly around Sherlock. He fluffed up a pillow and prompted him to lay down on the sofa, and Sherlock drifted off to sleep soon enough.
Mycroft sat in the leather armchair opposite of him, watching him sleep peacefully. He would stay as long as it was needed or at least until the doctor returned home. The flames crackled in the fireplace, and he fed them another log.
Things weren’t going smoothly by any means.
But now the room was warm, and Sherlock was slowly healing.