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Exactly fifty yards away from 221 Baker Street the car glided to a halt next to the kerb.
“We have arrived, sir,” James announced.
“Yes, James. Thank you.” Mycroft closed the file he had been perusing, put it into his briefcase and made sure the attaché was properly locked.
His chauffeur reached to unclasp the buckle of his safety belt so he could get out of the car to open the door for Mycroft, but Mycroft stalled him with a motion of his hand. From this vantage point he had an excellent view of the premises further down the road. He remained perched in the backseat of the vehicle, scanning the windows above the awning of Speedy's.
The London night air pulsed around the car. Couples flitted by, thrown into stark relief by the light of the street lamps, to become a blurry swath of shadows as they left one pool of light to emerge in the next one a few seconds after. Behind the vehicle, the flow of traffic on the Marylebone Road was still heavy, even though it was nearly ten in the evening.
All appeared to be calm behind the windows of 221B. No light escaped through the opaque shimmer of the glass between the slats. The lace curtains hung from their rods, undisturbed by the stirrings of the flat’s sole occupant.
Once Mycroft was satisfied his sibling wasn’t inside the building he made to open the car door himself.
“Sir.” His chauffeur shot out of the reverie he’d fallen into.
“It’s all right,” Mycroft told him. “You can go home, James. Just pass me that bag.”
James picked up the Berry Bros. & Rudd bag from the front passenger seat and turned around to hand it to Mycroft.
“Careful, sir. It is heavy,” he warned.
“Yes.” Mycroft arranged his features in the bland smile he used for conveying his gratitude to personnel gyrating on the lower tiers of the intricate structure that was the British Government. This man – he’d only begun chauffeuring for Mycroft a month and a half ago – was well up to the job. He was quiet, respectful, attentive, and guided the black sedan through London’s streets at the sedate pace Mycroft preferred, as being in accordance with people’s expectations with regard to a man of his standing. Not all his minions had an innate grasp of the rules of the game, so it was always soothing to chance upon one who did.
“Good night, sir,” James said, checking Mycroft’s movements in the rear mirror.
Fresh night air invaded into the car as Mycroft threw open the door.
“I’ll expect the car at nine tomorrow morning,” he instructed while climbing out of the car.
“Yes, sir,” the man answered. With a curt nod Mycroft shut the door.
The vehicle manoeuvred away from the kerb and slid off down the street. Mycroft’s eyes followed the black shape until the gentle hum of the motor blended in with the sounds of the London night and darkness swallowed the sleek silhouette. Then he pivoted on his heels to focus on the rectangular black slab that gave entry to his brother’s lair.
In front of the doorstep Mycroft deposited his umbrella and the bags he carried on the pavement to delve into the pockets of his light summer coat. He brought out a pair of black gloves, the leather supple and soft, the silk lining a shade that could be mistaken for imperial purple. After donning them he delved into his right hand pocket again for his lock picks.
Fifteen seconds later the lock gave way. Mycroft bent for his luggage. Upon straightening, his gaze flitted over the eyesore of the doorknocker once more. It slanted to the right, tugged askew by his brother in his habitual custom of leaving a torrent of disarray in his wake.
Maybe it was a good sign and Mycroft’s apprehension was unwarranted. Perhaps he should pull the door shut, relock it, and walk away to leave his little brother to his own devices. After all, Sherlock appeared not only to have accepted the inevitability of his new living arrangements, but also to be genuinely happy for John.
But no; trusting affairs would eventually sort themselves out for the best had never been Mycroft’s way. Check, check and double-check: those were his methods. Especially when it came to anything having to do with his younger sibling.
Repressing his impulse to straighten the knocker – his hand was already halfway there – Mycroft pushed open the door instead and slipped inside. In the hallway he paused for a moment to listen to the sounds of the house. Outside a car whisked past. A hoot of drunken laughter erupted at approximately a hundred yards, from the direction of Marylebone Road. Inside, however, silence reigned.
After using the lock picks to undo his earlier handiwork, Mycroft ascended the seventeen steps to the first floor two at a time. Upstairs, Mycroft held back for a few seconds until he was certain the flat was as empty as it appeared. With the repeated aid of his burglar tools he was inside with the door locked firmly behind him again in less than half a minute. He heaved a sigh of relief. To have mastered the art of breaking and entering did have its occasional advantages, but it remained a tedious business all the same. Sherlock’s claim that the aesthetic satisfaction of a properly enacted heist was comparable to that of an exquisite rendering of Beethoven’s Frühling sonata had struck Mycroft as inappropriate when it was coined, and his recent experiences gave him no reason to reassess his opinion. The term ‘wearisome’ fit the bill better by far.
Mycroft deposited his bags and umbrella next to the chair that had been ‘John’s chair’ and should now probably be relabelled ‘the guest chair’, and gazed around the room. Thanks to the light from the streetlamps seeping through the windows, the outlines of the furniture and the objects cluttering the table or heaped on the floor were distinct enough for him to fulfil the task he’d set for himself without having to flick on the lights.
Reaching inside his coat pocket for his multitool, the air dust blower ball and the plastic bag filled with dust, he turned his attention to the headphones stuck on the bison skull first. They proved to be empty. Mycroft rearranged the half-globes on the skull, lightly blew some dust over them and walked over to the stack of Guns & Ammo magazines next to the door. It was hollowed out, something Mycroft had long suspected. It was also blessedly free of anything even remotely recreational. Mycroft peered at the desiccated cadavers of a family of mice, which had obviously given up the ghost a long time ago; perhaps during the time Sherlock was busy dismantling the remnants of Moriarty’s network. True, when it came to chasing his highs his brother was endlessly creative, but Mycroft still considered it unlikely Sherlock would have found a means to end up on cloud nine through inhaling or injecting himself with a dose of crushed mouse.
Mycroft ignored the skull and the Persian slipper. The cigarettes in those evident hiding places served no other purpose than to provoke John, Mrs Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, or any other person ludicrous enough to care about Sherlock’s wellbeing, into a flurry of indignation – while masking the hidey-holes where the real poison was stashed.
On a whim Mycroft opened the door of the microwave, intrigued by the stench emanating from it. The next second he pressed his handkerchief against his nose, grateful for having dabbed the linen with orange blossom water only that morning. Had Sherlock forgot all about the reheated portion of leftover risotto, or had Mycroft inadvertently unearthed an experiment? Either way, no doubt Sherlock would consider the colour and texture of the mould blossoming on the rich feeding ground of the rice fascinating. Mycroft banged the door shut and breathed into his handkerchief for another few seconds. When he deemed the air quality in the kitchen fit for human consumption again, Mycroft checked the butter dish, which contained an assortment of nail clippings – toenails mostly by the look of it – but nothing else, and made his way to the bathroom.
Here, he flicked on the light after pulling the door shut. Both the bottle of Sherlock’s shampoo and that of his body wash did contain a small inner flask. Mycroft shook them over the sink. A few drops fell from the flask that had been inside the shampoo bottle. Mycroft sniffed, took off a glove, swiped his forefinger through the bowl and tasted. Sure enough it was cocaine, diluted to Sherlock’s preferred seven-percent solution. However, the amount left in the bottle hardly sufficed to fulfil his brother’s usual needs, so Mycroft pulled on his glove again, reassembled the bottles, used a swathe of toilet paper to dry the sink and flushed the paper down the toilet.
The bath mat’s appearance was innocuous enough. After a moment’s hesitation Mycroft conceded it probably wouldn’t burn a hole in the wool of his trousers if he knelt down upon it. Sherlock might be sloth personified a propos anything to do with housekeeping, but he was infinitely fussy regarding his personal hygiene. No doubt Mrs Hudson had changed the bath mat only that morning, together with Sherlock’s sheets, never mind she had had to prepare for John’s wedding as well.
Mycroft sank to his knees and started tapping the tiles beneath the sink. His smart little brother had glued a piece of foamed plastic behind the loose tile, but, in his usual disdain for the observational powers of others, he'd been sloppy, not bothering with re-filling the seams around the tile. They were indeed hard to detect – to anyone who wasn’t Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes. The Leatherman provided Mycroft with the tool to wriggle the tile loose and have it land in his other hand as it fell out of the wall. The space behind it, he was relieved to find, was free from illegal substances.
In Sherlock’s bedroom Mycroft made a beeline for the Goethe statue to discover it had been replaced by one that hadn’t been tampered with… yet. Ah yes, now Mycroft remembered Sherlock had thrown a tantrum when Mrs Hudson broke the previous statue in a fit of too enthusiastic dusting three months ago. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson was an expert at ignoring Sherlock’s histrionics. She might not be his housekeeper, but she was a model citizen and thus determined to prevent 221B from turning into a biohazard likely to threaten the health and safety of the innocuous fellow-Londoners inhabiting the NW1 area.
The statue, and in fact the whole cabinet it rested upon, had been subjected to a thorough swipe with Domestos yesterday afternoon at the latest. Mycroft made a mental note to phone Mrs Hudson sometime tomorrow, to apprise her of the toxic risotto festering in her tenant’s microwave. Clearly, her sense of smell had adapted itself a bit too well to the noxious milieu of the flat. While Mycroft was at it he might as well inform her of the mouse burial plot he’d uncovered. And maybe Mycroft should talk her into installing a poisonous fumes detector in the kitchen. Unbeknownst to Sherlock preferably, and at Mycroft’s costs, obviously. Anything to prevent the possibility of Mycroft entering the flat one day, only to discover the remains of his brother and Mrs Hudson, languishing in their chairs on either side of the fireplace, having succumbed to the poisonous emissions of yet another of Sherlock’s experiments.
A meticulous row of suits arranged by colour, and an equally well-ordered row of shirts greeted him when he opened the doors of Sherlock’s wardrobe; perfect proof of a handsome man’s vanity. To the left hung a new shirt in a distinct lilac, a shade bound to coax the gold flecks out of blue eyes often shaded by the grey of storm clouds gathering in the skies. Mycroft fingered the material, envying the leather sheathing his fingertips the sensation his skin would have loved to indulge in. The risk of detection withheld him. Oils, particles, smell; the human hide was such a traitor, intent on giving away what one would rather hide. With a sigh inaudible even to himself, Mycroft let his hand drop. Ultimately, his forte lay not in his ability to lay down the law for others, but in his willingness to lay it down for himself, in a vastly more rigorous manner.
The shoes rested in their boxes, stacked tidily on the bottom of the cupboard. Mycroft withdrew the boxes in the right-hand corner and built them into a pile at his side. Then he searched for the small trapdoor set into the back panel. It gave way under the press of his fingertips. Mycroft shone into the exposed hole with the flashlight of his Leatherman, but even this cavity – the most secret of his brother’s secret hiding places – glowed gloriously empty in the strong beam of the light.
Thank God.
Mycroft sat back on his heels for a moment, to better savour the relief sweeping through his body. The lack of any kind of drugs (those few drops in the shampoo bottle didn’t count) in the flat was a boon he hadn’t dared hope for. Should Mycroft have unearthed a hidden stash of cocaine, he would have left it where he found it – it wouldn’t do for Sherlock to know Mycroft had been prying.
However, to find his younger brother hadn’t felt the need to prepare for this night by stockpiling a supply of his choice drug felt sweeter than the triumph he’d enjoyed earlier that week. It had taken him a full month of all-out trench warfare, but in the end the incompetent imbeciles who hadn’t prevented a number of files marked ‘TOP SECRET’ from falling into the hands of Parliament's Intelligence and Security Committee had been sacked. The world was Mycroft’s oyster once more, and with this evidence of his sibling’s equilibrium he had just extracted an exquisite baroque pearl from the shell.
Smiling inwardly, because, right now, he was so proud of Sherlock – yes, proud, that was the appropriate term – Mycroft reached for the top shoebox to his right. In the semi-darkness of the shadow that darkened the floorboards behind the open wardrobe door, his hand missed the box and skittered against it. The box tumbled down, the lid flying off as it ended up on the floor. Mycroft’s hand was already reaching over the box for the lid when it stilled, hovering in mid-air over the box’s contents.
He swallowed. The movement of his thorax was thick and painful in his throat.
Instead of the expected sleek pair of handcrafted shoes the box contained a carefully folded jumper in a striped pattern. Faded dark blue and a greyish white, a colour palette achieved by too much washing with a cheap detergent. The odour – a travesty of an attempt at a crispy sea-breeze, mingled with the artificial musk of an inexpensive deodorant and a faint trace of sweat – wafted up to cloy Mycroft’s nostrils and obliterate the memory of Sherlock’s scent, nearly making him gag.
His fingers curled to grab, and snatch, and tear up the offensive object. To rip it into the smallest shreds until nothing remained but the individual artificial fibres, to which he would then set fire so he could watch the garish heap perish in the flames.
Through a tremendous effort he managed to ball his hand into a fist that remained suspended above the box for what Mycroft knew were thirty seconds, for he counted them in his head. Through the thin leather of the glove he felt his nails digging into the flesh of his palm. He waited another sixty beats, gritting his teeth against the pain, before he loosened his fingers, slowly unfurling them one by one. Mycroft spread them and stretched them until he felt the blood return to his fingertips. Then he lifted the lid, closed the box, put it back in the wardrobe, and piled the others on top.
After levering himself up from the floor Mycroft dusted his knees and set his gaze raking over the rest of the bedroom. Various objects looked back at him, either mocking him or daring him to search them as well. His eyes rested for a moment on the foil which marked Sherlock’s first win at the Camford Sports Society in 1996. Sherlock had been so delighted that day, just as any other nineteen-year-old would have been. The picture of his sibling in the immaculate white outfit, standing rigidly at attention during the small awarding ceremony, flashed before Mycroft’s eyes. His clever, elegant, valiant younger brother.
Satisfied at last that the bedroom contained no further hiding places, Mycroft made his way back to the living room. There he peeled off his gloves and stuck them into the pockets of his summer coat. Next, Mycroft divested himself of this garment and hung it over the back of the guest chair.
That afternoon Mycroft had resolved he would slip out of the flat and go home, should his rummage through his brother’s possessions bring no illegal stimulants to light. After all, the inhabitants of the house wouldn’t have been any the wiser and it was always best to let sleeping dogs lie. His discovery of that jumper – nicked out of the Watson-Morstan household’s laundry basket three and a half weeks ago at the latest by the smell of it – had thrown a spanner in the works. There might be no evidence of drugs in the flat but that didn’t mean its – now sole – inhabitant wasn’t in need of them. Mycroft saw no alternative but to wait for his brother’s return to see for himself how the land lay.
Thankfully, his first appointment tomorrow morning was with the members of the European Scrutiny Committee. He could probably get away with sleeping through that one if he managed to alternate between nodding gravely and snorting dismissively every three minutes or so.
Mycroft reached for the Berry Bros. & Rudd bag and lifted first the bottle of Laphroaig, then the pair of tumblers, wrapped in soft tissue paper, onto the mantelpiece. He unwrapped the glasses, swiped them with the paper and placed one of them on the table next to Sherlock’s chair, the other next to the bottle. He poured himself a generous amount of Scotch and took a small sip. It burned most gratifyingly down his throat. Mycroft closed his eyes to better savour the sensation. After opening them again he didn’t regard his reflection in the mirror that hung over the fireplace, but slid his gaze aside, fixing it on the skull.
He picked up the plastic bag, folded it with long deliberate strokes and stashed it into his briefcase. Then he arranged himself in the guest chair and settled down to wait.
***
It turned out Mycroft didn’t have to wait long. The level of his Scotch had dropped by no more than a quarter inch when he heard the front door fall shut. Mycroft took another sip. The stairs creaked under a tread that was unmistakeably Sherlock’s, even without its usual boisterous vigour.
A glance at his watch confirmed it was still early, just eighteen minutes past midnight.
Mycroft slung his left leg over his knee and wobbled his foot up and down. He was, as ever, perfectly at ease and in control, only paying a casual visit to his dear younger brother, who so often happened to be neither at ease nor in control. Besides, his sibling had called earlier that day in what had clearly been a fit of barely suppressed panic, so it was only logical that Mycroft – dutiful, ever-vigilant elder brother that he was – should have chosen to check whether Sherlock had made it through what must have been one of the most harrowing days of his life.
The door to the flat was flung open with the dramatic grandiosity Sherlock had patented sometime during his adolescence. Mycroft blinked quickly several times as the ceiling lamp was flicked on.
“Oh, it’s you,” Sherlock growled. “What are you doing here?”
His face stood out shockingly pale in the sudden splash of light. Lines of tiredness crisscrossed the usually smooth planes of his face. Among the rough tracks his eyes shone with the eerie glitter of the moonlight reflected in the obsidian surface of a lake, stretching away without beginning or end.
Inside his chest a hand of ice curled around Mycroft’s heart and squeezed it, hard.
He was too late.
Sherlock, realising he had nothing at the flat, had already seen to his needs at one of his usual haunts. The actual venues might change on an almost daily basis, but thanks to his underground network, Sherlock kept a close tab on the movements and ever-shifting hierarchies of the most reputable sellers. He was such a well-known figure in this shady side of London there was little chance of him running into any danger of physical assault in a crack house.
Two seconds later Mycroft scolded himself for his overemotional reaction. Sherlock’s pupils might be dilated, but that could be explained by assuming he had been walking in the dark. Knowing his brother, Sherlock had probably ordered his cab to stop on the other side of Regent’s Park and taken a leisurely stroll through it, never mind the park was closed to the public at night. In all probability Mycroft’s pupils were blown equally wide after sitting in the murky interior of the living room for almost an hour.
“A good evening to you too, brother dear,” he answered in his blandest tone. “I trust it is. How can it not be, after your supreme effort to ensure today was indeed the happiest of John’s life?”
“Yes, couldn’t be better. Go away.” Sherlock turned his back on Mycroft and began to tug his coat from his shoulders. His movements, normally so fluid and graceful, were clumsy and uncoordinated.
Mycroft raised himself from his chair and seized the bottle of whisky. “Care for a glass of Scotch?” he asked. “It’s Laphroaig, twenty-five years old.”
“If you insist on staying.”
Mycroft filled Sherlock’s glass with two fingers of the red-gold fluid. “Earlier today you appeared to be quite desperate for my company,” he said. “In obliging you now I’m only responding to your request.”
“Oh yes, I forgot intervening after the major event has taken place is your new specialty. How stupid of me.”
Mycroft winced. The remark was way below the belt. At the same time it was clear Sherlock didn’t consider it such. He was still angry at Mycroft then, for the beating he had endured in Mycroft’s presence. As if Mycroft would derive the smallest shred of enjoyment from witnessing such a scene. Had Sherlock still not taken in how much Mycroft’s hands had itched to grasp that sadistic Serbian blockhead by the throat and throttle the troglodyte? Down in that dank cellar he would have liked to lock his hands around the creature’s ugly neck and start squashing, pressing his thumbs down on that bobbing Adam’s apple until he could feel it give way under the pressure and crack. He’d imagined the brute’s tongue lolling out of his trap, opened wide in his mug, struggling, gasping for the breath denied him. Because he’d dared to injure Sherlock, Mycroft’s little brother, his…
Gathering his composure, Mycroft smirked. “My absence from the wedding will have been regarded as a better gift than the one I actually presented the happy couple with. Besides, the lunch with the French ambassador…”
“Yes, I understand you’d rather stuff yourself with foie gras than the humble fare we were served,” snapped Sherlock. By now he had shed his topcoat and waistcoat, not caring where they dropped as they fell from his shoulders, and his fingers were tugging impatiently at his tie. “Bloody stupid thing,” he scolded. “It’s been stifling me all day, oh…”
With a last fierce yank the tie came loose. Sherlock slung it across the room. The strip of artificial silk landed on the edge of the sofa and slithered down to pool in a graceless heap on the floor.
Meanwhile Sherlock had flung himself down into his chair and toed off his dress shoes. His hand went up to undo the top two buttons of his shirt. Out of the sharp shadows thrown by the stiff collar under the merciless light of the ceiling lamp, the incandescent column of his throat waxed, alluringly pale. He stretched himself out with the feline grace of a jaguar preparing for an extensive rest and extended his arm in Mycroft’s direction with fingers gesticulating imperiously for his whisky.
Mycroft handed him the glass. For a second he contemplated clinking his own tumbler against Sherlock’s, but decided it was better to refrain from the impulse. “Cheers, brother,” he said instead. Deliberately not looking at Sherlock over the rim of his glass Mycroft sipped his Scotch and re-seated himself in the guest chair.
“So,” he drawled, once he trusted his voice would convey the proper extent of barely suppressed ennui, “seeing as you’re in one piece and not bleeding from any gun wounds I surmise you managed to deliver your speech without insulting the guests, the vicar, the bridesmaids, and last but not least, the happy couple themselves?”
“Not quite. I solved a murder attempt though, and an actual murder. Well, it had already been committed.”
“Really?” Mycroft lifted his right eyebrow to indicate both his disbelief and his disinterest in Sherlock’s story. Swirling his tumbler in his hand he looked down at it, pretending to admire the opaque amber film that clung to the glass and melded into thick drops, which clutched the crystal walls with all their might before commencing their slow but inevitable course back to the bottom. “How riveting.”
“More of a challenge than your Underground terrorist attack,” gloated Sherlock.
“By flicking that switch just in time you saved hundreds of lives,” Mycroft admonished. “And democracy itself.”
“I wish you would stop blaming me for doing so.”
“And you should stop shooting the messenger, Sherlock,” Mycroft tutted. “I would have you know I was instructed by my superiors to offer you that knighthood, even though I advised them against it.”
Sherlock snorted. “I may be your younger brother but I’m not stupid, Mycroft. Even his Majesty the King of England himself wouldn’t dare order you around.”
“We have a Queen, Sherlock. You were born during her reign. We celebrated her Diamond Jubilee only last year.”
“Well, I couldn’t have known that. Of course you don’t care to remember, but I happened to be a bit preoccupied at the time.”
“And all the years before that one.”
“Exactly.”
They each took a sip of their whisky. Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft noticed Sherlock giving the liquid an appreciative once-over before lowering the glass with a habitual sneer of disdain etched onto his features.
“Why are you here, anyway?” he demanded. “You came to search for drugs, didn’t you? I could have told you to save yourself the bother, brother. I’m not using. I haven’t for the past few months and I won’t start now.”
Mycroft watched Sherlock melt even further into his chair, every muscle in his frame taut with suspension. “So you’ve assured me before,” he said, redirecting his gaze to his whisky.
“Yes, well, this time it is true.”
“I’m gratified to hear you say so.” Mycroft took another languid sip of Scotch. “Though we both know, unfortunately,” he continued, “you’ve often told me the same in the past. Pray tell me, do you have any idea of the number of times you’ve broken your promise?”
“I haven’t been keeping a list, Mycroft. No doubt you have, complete with dates and places. You should call your PA for the particulars so you can give me a proper hiding.” Deriving great satisfaction from the depth of his temerity Sherlock smirked at him out of the safety of his chair, burrowing deeper into the cushions.
“She is enjoying a free evening. A rare enough instance so I’d rather not disturb her…”
“So she does keep a list,” Sherlock interrupted, his free hand flying up in a gesture signifying his disgust, or even worse, his contempt. “You’re even worse than I reckoned.”
“… besides, I don’t have to,” Mycroft overrode him. “Eighteen times, Sherlock. Eighteen relapses. Quite a number of those triggered by events less momentous than today’s.”
A sound rose out of the chair opposite Mycroft’s. After a moment of bewilderment he was able to interpret it as the valiant attempt at a snort it obviously was. What it actually resembled was the yelp of a distressed animal backed into a corner by a hunter. Before Mycroft knew what was happening Sherlock reared out of his chair to loom over him, fangs bared, whisky sloshing over the rim of his glass as it landed with a thud on the mantelpiece.
“What the hell are you implying?” Sherlock snarled.
Mycroft stared up at his brother, locking his gaze with Sherlock’s. His brother’s pupils were much smaller now than when he walked into the flat, so he wasn’t high then, definitely not high. Inwardly, Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief. He kept looking at Sherlock’s eyes. Between the thick lashes the different colours of Sherlock’s irises were swirling in a maelstrom of fury and despair. And hurt. A hurt that, sadly, Mycroft recognised all too well.
Above him, Sherlock panted. His warm breath ghosted over Mycroft’s brow, moist and raw from the whisky. Slowly, deliberately, Mycroft raised his free hand and laid it against his brother’s heaving chest with splayed fingers. Unlike the rest of Sherlock’s attire the shirt wasn’t rented but one of his own. The brush of the luscious Egyptian cotton under the pads of his fingertips sent a tingle of electricity through Mycroft’s arm and down his spine. Mycroft pushed.
“Cut the dramatics and sit down, Sherlock,” he said, grateful to hear his voice walked the thin line between disinterest and displeasure with effortless elegance. Above him, Sherlock growled, emotion buried inside for hours – nay, longer, for years – bubbling up in his chest and clawing itself a way to the surface, out of his throat. Mycroft pushed a little harder. Even if Sherlock’s ribcage had been covered with nothing but the thinnest layer of adipose tissue his fingers would have been digging deep into his brother’s flesh. As it was all they encountered was a sheer impenetrable layer of muscle, more resilient than Kevlar, stretched taut over the bones that protected his brother’s loudly thumping heart. Mycroft felt the insistent rhythm reverberating against his fingers, each beat a thunderclap intent on rending Mycroft’s world asunder.
Damn John Watson for hobbling into Sherlock’s life one day with the aid of that bloody cane. Damn himself for not recognising the man’s capacity for capturing a lonely heart, and doing away with John before he’d been able to inflict the damage. That garage would have provided Mycroft with a perfect opportunity. It was remote, empty. A quick snap of the neck and Sherlock would be sitting in front of the kitchen table now, fiddling contentedly with one of his experiments – doing unspeakable things to a hapless pair of eyeballs in the name of so-called science –after having annoyed the hell out of half of Scotland Yard. Like he should be.
“You let yourself become involved, brother dear. Remind me, what exactly was it I warned you against?” Mycroft strained the muscles in his arm and gave a sudden violent shove against the body resting against his hand.
Sherlock fell backwards, surprise and outrage flitting over his face. He was halfway to the floor when he recovered himself and steadied his fall, morphing the motion into a languid drop, even managing to snatch his tumbler from the mantel, so he could dangle it graciously from long fingers.
“Envy, such a despicable emotion, wouldn’t you say?” he drawled, to all appearances perfectly recomposed.
“What are you blathering about now?” From his lofty position Mycroft looked down on his sibling, who tipped his chin up in gesture of defiance.
“Do you hate me, I wonder?” he said, an insidious smile curling around his lips.
“Envy, hate,” Mycroft let the words drop with a hint of fatigue. “Such tired clichés. I don’t do emotions, Sherlock.” He let the last syllable of his brother’s name ring through the room. “You started with those and look where they got you. Choosing to leave the wedding early.”
The little colour that had returned to Sherlock’s face with the aid of the whisky drained away, rendering his skin nearly as white as the collar of his shirt.
“That was low,” he grumbled.
“Merely an observation. Strange as this may sound to you, I’m here to help you.”
“By raiding my flat for drugs.”
Mycroft shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s no use trying to talk an idea, however absurd, out of your head so I won’t even endeavour to do so. Search for the evidence.”
“I will do so. First thing tomorrow morning.”
“Good.” Mycroft smiled. “Feel free to report back to me once you’re finished.” He eyed his brother, who glared back at him, and fortified himself with a sip of Scotch for his next words.
“Mummy and Daddy do worry about you. And you were abominably rude to them during their last visit.”
A scowl of distaste flitted over his brother’s face. “Oh, don’t drag them up, please. You loathe them every inch as much as I do.”
“I don’t loathe them, Sherlock. And neither do you. They love us. A nuisance, I admit, but that is how these things work with ordinary people. They can’t help being who they are and they had a hard time raising us.”
“That’s still no reason to forgive them. We weren’t asked whether we would like to be born. At least, I wasn’t and I don’t intend to be grateful to them, and to Mummy in particular.”
“She did what she thought was best, Sherlock.”
“Stop it!” Wildly, his brother pushed himself up in his chair again, but thankfully he decided to remain seated this time. “Why do you always have to defend her? Caring is not an advantage, that’s what you’re always telling me. Then why do you care about her? What she did was low and mean…”
“She wanted to save you from the pain.”
“By not telling me and having him put down behind my back, while I was in school!” Sherlock shouted. He banged the whisky onto the small table beside his chair and sprang to his feet. Mycroft braced himself for another near-assault but Sherlock turned away sharply and began pacing the living room, tugging at the curls on top of his head with his right hand.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, “you were ten years old at the time. She thought you wouldn’t understand.”
“And you let her!” Pivoting on his heel Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at Mycroft. “You could have stopped her, but you didn’t because you always hated him for preferring me. A dog, Mycroft. He was just a stupid dog but I loved him and he chose me over you and you couldn’t stand that. You were jealous!”
“Must you be this ridiculous?” On purpose, Mycroft didn’t look at Sherlock but directed his gaze at the fireplace, staring at it with intensity, as if it held the answer to all the secrets of the universe. Oh, if only it did. Every word Sherlock hurled in his direction slashed at his soul with the ferocity of a blunt knife hacking away at wounds that had been dealt a long time in the past, only to have them opened anew time and again.
In that moment Mycroft once more sincerely regretted every action he’d undertaken as a child with regard to his brother. On occasion Mycroft had told himself off for being too harsh with himself, reminding himself he had been nothing but a little boy as well, and such a lost and lonely child at that. He remembered the huge wave of relief that had coursed through his veins when, at the age of nine, he understood the questions his tiring little brother was battering him with all day were in fact extraordinarily bright for a toddler. He’d taken it upon himself to teach the child everything he knew. Some days, when their overbearing mother was particularly tiring, he felt he knew more than all the grownups around him. Their parents, their family, the housefriends, their teachers, they all were so horribly mundane.
Little Sherlock trailed after him everywhere, with huge, enquiring eyes and inquisitively probing fingers, starting every sentence he directed at Mycroft with an interrogative. The looks of admiration he threw Mycroft were addictive, especially when the ones he got from his schoolfellows, his masters and even at times his own family were full of distrust, ridicule, and, occasionally, fear.
Redbeard had been acquired as a present for Mycroft when Sherlock was born, but Mycroft had always felt a faint distaste for the animal. He did his duties by the animal, walking him, feeding and watering him, even playing with him. However, he twitched with horror whenever the setter licked his face, recoiling as the wet, raspy tongue dragged over his cheek. The smell of the beast’s maw nearly made him gag, and he’d push the dog away. The stupid dog would think he was initiating a game and bark and jump at him again until Mycroft would flee to his room and lock himself in there, with Redbeard dancing and barking in front of his door until Mummy would yell for Mycroft to stop it.
Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock had loved the dog almost as much as he loved Mycroft. Redbeard from the first was uncommonly gentle with him, not caring whether Sherlock tugged at his tail or pulled his ears. He’d allow Sherlock to ride his back and Sherlock would wave his little pirate sword and glance with a roving eye from the heights of the warhorse he’d conquered in battle. Later, he’d eagerly taken over Mycroft’s tasks and Redbeard had redirected his affections accordingly. It was then Sherlock’s face which got licked at the most inopportune moments, but unlike Mycroft he would giggle and fall on his back and let the dog lick him all over. He’d even slithered his own tongue along Redbeard’s fur once, and spluttered with a mouth full of dog hair afterwards.
One day, when Mycroft had just turned seventeen, Redbeard refused to stand up in the morning. Sherlock tried to coax him out of his corner with water and a bone but the dog just looked at him and closed his eyes.
“What’s wrong with him?” Sherlock asked.
“I don’t know,” Mycroft answered, truthfully. “He’s not that young anymore.”
“We’ll take him to the vet, Sherlock,” Mummy said. “Now you hurry, you’re already late for school as it is.”
“Can’t I come to the vet too? I want to be with Redbeard.”
Their mother hadn’t even deigned to grace that question with an answer. Mycroft accompanied her to the vet, carrying the dog that hung as limp as a sack filled with loose bones from his arms. The vet’s diagnosis was swift, and equally swift was Mummy’s decision to have the animal put down.
“No,” Mycroft protested. “Not now. You can’t do that. We must take Redbeard home so Sherlock can say goodbye to him properly. He left for school this morning in the expectation Redbeard would be up and well again. We must prepare him.”
“Nonsense,” Mummy determined. “We’re here now and in dragging the beast home we’ll just prolong his suffering. Taking leave of the dog will only increase Sherlock’s agonies.” Her face grew thoughtful for a moment. “No,” she decided. “Better have it done and over with. Poor Redbeard has to die anyway. We’ll buy Sherlock a new dog.”
“Sherlock won’t be placated by getting him a new dog. We really should take Redbeard home. Or leave him here and I can take Sherlock after school to take his leave of him.”
“He has his violin lesson this afternoon. Look, Mycroft, I’m very sorry, but you’re not being very practical.”
Mycroft pleaded and cajoled with his mother, resorting to every rhetorical device he’d taught himself through his reading of Cicero, but Mummy had never been one to philander with and half an hour later Redbeard was put out of his misery. Mrs Holmes paid extra for a cremation, declaring loudly she considered the custom of burying animals in gardens highly unhygienic. Mycroft was so angry he refused to ride back home in the car with her. Instead, he walked into town and bought Sherlock the nicest chemistry set he could find.
Even while the shop assistant was wrapping up the huge box in fancy paper, Mycroft had somehow known the gift wouldn’t suffice to help Sherlock accept Redbeard’s sudden demise, nor make him forgive Mycroft for not preventing the deed.
“Oh, so now I’m ridiculous, am I?” Sherlock wheeled round. “What are you doing here then, wasting your precious time? Go play with your other goldfish, Mycroft. There must be some who appreciate it.”
A retort lay on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue but a glance in Sherlock’s direction informed him it would get him nowhere. Not with the current state his brother was in. Which was - highly agitated, certainly, but nowhere near that dangerous border of ennui and weariness Mycroft had feared when he first set foot in the flat and even more so after his discovery of that odious jumper. The coast was most probably clear now. Sherlock would top off his whisky and crawl into bed. Not in the best of moods, obviously, but he’d fall asleep and wake up to a new day, with new challenges and new crimes to solve and this night of danger would have passed.
That, in the end, was all Mycroft had wanted out of this evening so he should consider it a success.
“If such is your wish,” he sighed, levered himself up out of John’s chair and collected his attaché and his umbrella. “You can keep the Scotch.”
“Alcohol is the bigger menace to society, Mycroft. Surely that fact must be in one of your reports.”
“No doubt. But, as you once so modestly put it, you’re not the Commonwealth.”
That made Sherlock snort in approval, or so Mycroft gathered. “Good night,” Mycroft said.
“Sweet dreams, Mycroft.”
Mycroft pulled the door to the flat closed behind him. The ceiling light on the landing was still on. Once Mycroft had descended the stairs he flicked it off. He abhorred wastefulness.
Outside he walked to the Marylebone Road to hail himself a cab. To his dismay he found his hands were shaking. Adopting the same method he’d used when he discovered John’s jumper he started counting in his head. By the count of twenty his hands were steady again.