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For once, Sherlock was on time. He rubbed his icy hands together as he stepped into the dimly lit pub, glad to be out of the frigid December weather. It was early evening, and the place was bustling with the post-work crowd. He scanned the pub, but did not see his brother. Faintly surprised he arrived first, Sherlock made for an empty table towards the back.
He ignored the bartender as he passed by the long, ornate bar. Mycroft wanted the meeting, so Mycroft could get the drinks.
Sherlock took a chair facing the door, not wanting to give his brother the advantage of surprise. Plus, he needed to see him walk in, no…he needed to observe. To get as much information as he could, since he had no idea why Mycroft wanted to meet in the first place.
He strummed his fingers on the battered old table, stopping every so often to run his hand over the scratches and gouges in the wood. It was oddly soothing and a decent distraction from the animated conversations and clinking glasses around him.
He needed a cigarette, badly.
Glancing at his watch, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the time. Mycroft was late. He was never late, considered it the height of rudeness. Sherlock tucked that away, happy to have something to throw in his brother’s face. He knew Mycroft didn’t want to see him just to exchange pleasantries, so any bit of ammunition—petty though it may be—would be useful.
It had been four months since they’d last seen each other. Four months since Mycroft dragged Sherlock out of a doss house in Finsbury Park after Sherlock rang him. He was wrecked out of his mind on a variety of drugs and barely coherent, but even then his brother was the only person he trusted to ask for help.
It was the second time over the past year.
To say Mycroft was livid was an understatement. Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his brother so angry, most certainly never at him, even after the many (many) arguments they’d had after the first time. Sherlock had made promises he had no intention of keeping, not that he remembered any of them as he lay shaking and sweating on yet another stained mattress in yet another dark and drafty room.
He was too high this time to recognize the fear under Mycroft’s rage, although flashes of it came back to him long after.
Their trip to A&E was silent but filled with an almost unbearable tension. Once he’d ascertained that Sherlock would be fine, Mycroft left Sherlock’s hospital bedside without a word and refused his calls ever since.
Sherlock told himself he didn’t care. That it was perfectly fine Mycroft ignored him, because it was time the interfering arsehole left him alone and let him live his own life. He told himself that each time his calls to Mycroft went unanswered.
It was (wasn’t) fine. He was (wasn’t) fine. His brother was a git and could find someone else to lord it over. He didn't still crave his brother's attention, he didn't.
When Mycroft called two nights earlier and asked to meet, Sherlock was wary. And not a little relieved, not that he would admit that under threat of torture. Half tempted to tell his brother to piss off, he instead agreed. Only out of curiosity. Really. But still...
For all he was loath to admit it, Sherlock’s first—and for a very long time, his best—friend was Mycroft.
From the start, Sherlock couldn’t get enough of his big brother. He watched Mycroft intently as soon as he could focus, mimicking his every gesture as soon as he gained control of his hands. He became his brother’s constant little shadow as soon he took his first steps.
Once Sherlock found his words, he asked questions of anyone who would listen (and even those who wouldn’t); Mycroft was the one person who never tired of hearing them. Despite their seven-year age difference, Mycroft displayed a great patience with his little brother that both amazed their parents and gave them much needed respite from their youngest’s insatiable curiosity.
In short, he adored Mycroft, wholeheartedly and without reservation, and his affection was returned in kind.
And then Mycroft went to university, and Sherlock lost his primary audience and closest friend.
Mycroft was too focused on his studies, too enamoured with the new connections he was making and the power he found himself on the not-too-distant edges of. He didn’t come home often and when he did, he was too consumed with his own interests to entertain much—if any—of Sherlock’s.
Sherlock didn’t understand this new Mycroft, and Mycroft made no attempts to bridge the widening gap between them. Their relationship disintegrated.
And then Sherlock went to university himself and discovered drugs, and his relationship with his brother truly went to shit.
The door opened, and the sounds of evening commuters and traffic outside the pub filtered in, jolting Sherlock out of his head and back into the present. He blinked, then realized he was about to have company.
Mycroft wove his way through the tables to where Sherlock sat in uneasy anticipation. He nodded at Sherlock as he removed his coat and sat down. He smoothed the line of his pinstriped trousers and clasped his hands together on top of the table. Eyes narrowed, he took Sherlock in but said nothing.
Sherlock, disconcerted as always when his brother turned his own powers of observation on him, stared back. His own deductions were troubling. Mycroft looked markedly older than his 30 years. His face was pale, and both the lines on his forehead and bags under his eyes were more pronounced. He was impeccably put together, per his usual standards, but Sherlock noticed a small coffee stain on his left cuff.
His brother was not all right, and he was letting Sherlock see that. Unsettled, Sherlock broke first. “It’s rude not to say hello, you know.”
Mycroft stared for a beat longer, then shook his head. “Hello, Sherlock.”
“Hello, dear brother.” Sherlock’s wide grin didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been an age!”
Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s false cheer. “I’d say you look well, but at least you look clean. And sober.”
“Unfortunately, given the circumstances, completely so. Speaking of, considering your objections over my…indulgences, I’m surprised you wanted to meet at a pub, of all places.”
“Drinking isn’t your problem,” said Mycroft. “At least, not as far as I am aware.”
“I was thinking of making it one just to get through this.”
A ghost of a smile this time. “Hmm, well. It is much nicer than the last place we met. Fewer needles, anyway.”
Sherlock stifled a laugh. “True. Smells a lot better here, too.”
“That it does. Maybe I’m the one who needs a drink. In fact, I know I do.” He stood. “Any requests?’
“Nope.”
“Figured as much. Do try not to run away while I’m gone.”
Now it was Sherlock who rolled his eyes at Mycroft, who smirked as he turned and walked over to the bar.
A short while later, Mycroft returned and put two tumblers on the table. “Macallan 12. I presume you approve.”
Sherlock picked one up and sniffed the amber liquid in it. “Thanks.”
Mycroft nodded, then picked up his own glass. He took a sip and nodded to himself, seemingly pleased.
“Uncle Rudy poured me my first whisky when I was 14. Macallan then as well, if I rightly recall.” He swirled his glass, a slight smile on his face. “He was concerned I hadn’t ‘the talk’ yet and thought we both needed the liquid courage. I told him I’d known how babies were made from the time I was six, but that didn’t dissuade him from giving me a lecture anyway.”
“Dear god, please don’t tell me that’s why we’re here.”
Still focused on his drink, Mycroft snorted. “Hardly. We both know there’s no danger of you ever getting anyone pregnant.”
“Hah.”
Mycroft looked back up at Sherlock, no longer smiling, and took a deep breath. “I know you’re wondering why I asked to meet.”
“It might have crossed my mind.”
“I know you’ve not been happy with me of late and well, you know how I feel about what you’ve been up to.”
“The point, Mycroft. Get to it.”
“The point. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I have some things to say to you.”
“Is this where you tell me, once again, what a fuck up I am? How I’m throwing my precious life away?”
“Have I ever used those words, ‘fuck up’ or ‘throwing your life away’?”
Sherlock shifted in his seat. “It was rather implied,” he said.
“You’ve made it clear that you will do what you want, when you want, regardless of the consequences. Two times now, I have removed you from rather dire situations. Two. Times.” He paused. “The last time, I thought I might be too late.”
“I was fine,” Sherlock protested weakly.
Mycroft ignored him and went on. “Frankly, I had no idea what to do. You called me because you needed me, and I couldn’t help you. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
Sherlock lowered his head, unable to look at Mycroft.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so powerless. You couldn’t tell me what you’d taken, let alone how much. All I could do was get you to hospital and hope they could figure out how to make it better.” Mycroft took another sip of whisky. “Thank god they did.”
“Mycroft…” Sherlock began.
“Listen to me, Sherlock. I know you see me as an overbearing nag, and I don’t deny that I am one. I only want you to be happy, and when you are so clearly not, it’s difficult for me to not get involved. You don’t see it as caring, but I do. I always have.”
“I called you, didn’t I?“ Sherlock replied, sullenly. He still wouldn’t look his brother in the eye.
“For which I will forever be thankful. Will you look at me, please?”
Sherlock hesitated. While he had long ago knocked his brother off the pedestal he’d constructed in childhood, he still didn’t want to see disappointment in Mycroft’s eyes. He flattened his still-tapping fingers on the table and looked up. He saw no disappointment, only weary affection.
“From here on out, Sherlock, I have one small request, Sherlock. Just one. All I ask, all I need from you, is for you to make a list. Write down what you’ve taken and keep it on you. That way I know what to do the next time it happens.”
Sherlock flinched. Next time. Not if.
“Will you do this for me, Sherlock? Will you make a list?” Mycroft, sounding clogged. His eyes glistened.
Sherlock inhaled sharply at the blunt display of his brother’s emotions. “Myc…”
“Promise me this, Sherlock. You promise. If this is what you are determined to do, then I need this from you. It’s clear you are going to do what you want, regardless of what I say. I don’t agree with the choices you’re making, but I have to let it go.”
“Okay, Myc, okay. I promise,” said Sherlock, stunned. He couldn’t remember the last time his brother had spilled his feelings so freely, other than to berate Sherlock for one perceived bad choice or another. It was too much to take in. “Maybe calm down a little, yeah?”
Mycroft laughed softly. “Yeah…” He swallowed down the last of his whisky. “That’s me sorted. Thank you for coming, Sherlock.” He stood and put on his coat.
“Are you going to take my calls now?” Sherlock stood as well.
“Not if you’re asking for money. Walk me out?” Mycroft nodded towards the door.
Outside of the pub, Mycroft turned to Sherlock and stuck out his hand. Sherlock took it, gripping his brother’s hand tightly. They stood silently as a long overdue understanding passed between them.
Mycroft reached up with his free hand and cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Do keep trying, brother mine,” he said, voice cracking. He released Sherlock and turned away.
Sherlock, still feeling the heat from Mycroft’s hand, didn’t move. He watched his brother until he passed out of sight.