sh (humanerror) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2017-12-24 15:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, mycroft holmes (bbc), sherlock holmes (bbc) |
WHO: Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes.
WHAT: Sherlock discovers evidence that his brother actually has a heart, which may be fragile at the moment. So he's determined to help. A little.
WHEN: Sunday, December 3.
WHERE: Baker Street.
WARNINGS: None! Just their usual snarkiness.
STATUS: Complete.
Sherlock had already promised not to break into Mycroft's flat again. That made the plan of sneaking his brother treats a bit of a problem, because he knew that Mycroft's threat of moving out was a real one — particularly now, when he was most vulnerable. (And didn't that thought chafe, the idea that his immovable brother was experiencing something akin to heartbreak.) So Sherlock went with the next best thing: he climbed the fire escape, and slipped little, wiggling Beatrice through Mycroft's sitting room window before he retreated, hoping she'd keep him occupied long enough for Sherlock to finish baking. Then, the smell wafting up through the hall would hopefully entice his brother to venture out. It was his favorite, after all. Sherlock did know some things.
Mycroft was actually in the sitting room … doing what else? Sitting. In the dark. Sulking. Because after all, he was a Holmes, and he was more similar to his little brother than he cared to admit, and melodrama was in their blood. He was about to reach for another cigarette, when he heard movement out on the fire escape, the sound of the window sliding open. Turning his head in that direction with narrowed eyes, he remained perfectly silent and motionless, curious but not yet alarmed. If Sherlock spotted Mycroft he made no indication, and Mycroft’s scowl deepened. What was that idiot doing?
Through the gap, he watched the puppy come through, then the window was shut again, leaving a confused Beatrice sniffing around as her long ears grazed the floor; she’d never been in this flat before - Mycroft wouldn’t allow it - and once Mycroft realized that this was what Sherlock meant by sending a visitor, he rolled his eyes and heaved a longsuffering sigh. He waited until Sherlock retreated, letting him think he was clever in his ploy, before rising from his chair and approaching the beast.
Beatrice knew Mycroft from when he visited Sherlock, and her little tail immediately began wagging as she looked up at him, while Mycroft remained looming over her in his dressing gown. “Your master is an insufferable fool.” Beatrice replied with a Yip. “I’m glad you agree,” he replied. “What am I going to do with you, hrm? Shall I call Sherlock to take you back? Or is that what he wants? A way for me to invite him into my apartment after I’ve explicitly told him no.” Beatrice only bounced on her front legs, excited to be held, and gave out another Yip.
Sighing once more, he gave in and bent over to pick her up. Beatrice was very well behaved and calm, not the annoying sort of dog that would immediately start pawing and licking your face with smelly, dirty dog kisses. She remained comfortable, cradled in Mycroft’s arms, and despite his melancholy mood, he began to feel the sort of unconditional love and acceptance that only a dog could give. Without anybody to watch him, Mycroft used his index finger to rub underneath Beatrice’s neck, which she enjoyed by closing her eyes, wagging her tail, and tilting her head up to give better access for more rubs. “Perhaps I shall keep you hostage for a while,” he told the puppy, bringing her over to his sulking chair, where he was significantly less sulky now.
Many neck and belly rubs later, the scent of freshly baked good wafted up to Mycroft’s apartment, stimulating his appetite. Ever since he was a boy, he had a voracious sweet tooth, which he kept on a tight rein so as to stay fit, but Sherlock was aware his weakness. “Damn you,” he muttered, knowing exactly what his brother was doing, but his tone of voice had no bite. He then directly addressed the puppy. “If he thinks he can get to me, he’ll be terribly disappointed.”
Mycroft’s keen nose was able to identify the flavors that was being used, and he made a reasonable deduction what it was that Sherlock was baking. Against his will, his mouth started watering, and then he decided, “It’s time you went home, beast.”
Exchanging his dressing robe for a jacket, he scooped up Beatrice and went down the stairs, into Sherlock’s apartment (the door of which was wide open in anticipation to welcome him), and into the kitchen where he spoke to his brother. “Somehow, your animal got into my flat.” The stress on the word suggested that he knew exactly how Beatrice got there, but Mycroft choose to be sarcastic instead of directly confrontational. “She was whining from being abandoned and shed hair all over; I’ll send you my cleaning bill.” Mycroft convinced himself that the baked good had nothing to do with him loitering, because to do otherwise would mean that Sherlock’s scheme was working, and that would never do.
As much as Mycroft kicked up a fuss about animals, Sherlock possessed incontrovertible evidence that his brother had a weakness for dogs. Redbeard. Their family pet, a beautiful Irish Setter who crawled his way into all of their hearts, even the self-proclaimed dog hater, who was now descending the stairs like a member of the royal family with all his airs of superiority. He was still baking when Mycroft finally appeared in the doorway, and Sherlock took one look at the two before turning back to check on his creation in the oven. "I see you've taken the liberty of avoiding further shedding by carrying her," the detective shot back, a very light attempt at teasing considering how vitriolic their conversations were wont to get. But Mycroft was still holding Beatrice.
Sherlock took out the baking tins a moment later; fresh kouign-amann, buttery and flakey, just like they used to have on their summer trips to visit family in France. He didn't used to indulge nostalgic dishes such as these — or baking at all, for that matter — but he'd started cooking more often lately, at least when it became clear John enjoyed his efforts. The detective left the muffin tin tray out on the table to cool and proceeded to fix them both tea, fully convinced that Mycroft would be staying to eat. He'd shown up, which meant he'd linger and probably critique his work, and that would be enough.
“What would you have had me do?” Mycroft haughtily defended his decision to carry Beatrice from his rooms. “Place her inside a basket and toss he down the stairs?” That’s when he realized that he’d been absent mindedly scratching the top of the puppy’s head, and so decided to bend over and place her on the floor with the instruction, “There you are, now go piddle in your master’s slippers.”
The arrival of baked goods made Mycroft freeze for a moment, staring at his favorite pastry with longing, before ‘coming to his senses’ with a sniff of feigned indifference. “Congratulations, they look very well made. I daresay, worthy of a Paul Hollywood handshake. But I know what you’re doing and it’s not worth your bother. Tea would be welcome, however,” he added, seeing that’s what Sherlock was preparing next.
But oh, those pastries were tempting.
Sherlock made no comment about Mycroft's affection toward Beatrice, but he did look a bit smug when his brother finally bent to return her to the floor. She shook out her fur and proceeded to trot off into the sitting room, likely to lay claim to the couch, her usual spot during midday. The sun patch would be too tempting an opportunity to pass up. For once, Sherlock felt ... oddly content. It was a bizarre concept for someone with a life such as his, fraught with chaos and intrigue at every turn, but he rather liked the moments of domesticity now that he had it. Who knew the great detective wouldn't actually mind puttering around his apartment with little to do but attempt to cheer his brother up?
"High praise coming from you," he said in response to Mycroft's assessment. "But you haven't tried it yet." That would be the true test: particularly whether Sherlock added too much butter or didn't achieve enough layers in the recipe. He fixed Mycroft's tea, though, and set two mugs onto the kitchen table where he sat down, still letting the pastries cool. Sherlock wasn't going to broach the subject they were both avoiding. Instead, he blew on his tea and took a sip, waiting out the inevitable.
Ignoring Sherlock’s infuriatingly smug expression, Mycroft sat himself down, casually eying the kouign-amann in a way which suggested he might be worried they might suddenly jump up on their own accord and try to escape off the table. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he gave in and plucked one out of the tin. The pastry was hot, but it was so delicate, flakey, and delicious, the temporary pain in his fingertips and tongue were easily tolerable. Mycroft wanted to melt the same way it melted in his mouth, but he resolutely kept a straight face to prevent giving himself away, despite the knowledge that Sherlock would be able to immediately tell. The true complement was when Mycroft took a second.
A few silent moments passed, sipping tea, staring out into space, before Mycroft spoke the name, “Mordecai Roberts.” It was the answer to Sherlock’s privately asked question, Which one was it?, when he first replied to his network post. “We were going to go antiquing together. His disappearance was very inconvenient.” On the outside, he remained impassive and cold, but internally, Mycroft flinched, anticipating a derisive remark to ridicule him.
It was shocking enough when Mycroft made no comment about his attempt at French baked goods, but it was infinitely more shocking when his brother provided a name. Sherlock set his cup of tea down, slowly, until it thunked dully against the wooden table. He’d worked with Mordecai, however briefly, on the Christmas play. The man had seemed a little stiff — but what British man didn’t? And he’d been kind to Sherlock, or at least kinder than the vast majority of people usually were. What did Mycroft see in him? What set the man apart from everyone else in existence? For so long, Sherlock had assumed his brother simply took no romantic interest in anyone.
He was wrong.
I’m sorry, Sherlock thought, knowing he couldn’t actually say that lest Mycroft mock him for it. "We can go antiquing instead, if you still want to," was what he offered instead — a sort of truce only a Holmes would be able to identify. He wouldn’t pity his brother, but he would offer to help in a practical, more useful way.
Mycroft recognized the truce, but still couldn’t bring himself up to accepting it. Shaking his head once, he very reasonably said, “I’m quite content with what I have. The thought doesn’t interest me anymore.” His words had double meaning, about going antiquing and being romantically involved with somebody - he trusted Sherlock would be intelligent enough to figure that out. “The whole antiquing idea was nothing but a flight of fancy, anyway. Mordecai was busy with his roommate, Karen, with whom he had a romantic relationship.” This was his way of pointing out that Mycroft could tell Mordecai was hopelessly heterosexual from the moment he met him in person, and wouldn’t be interested in his advances, had he even acknowledged how he felt. It was a frivolous indulgence on his part to entertain being with somebody with whom he had absolutely no chance, and yet he gave in to this foolishness by still wanting to associate with him in any way he could. According to Mycroft, having Mordecai gone was ideal - out of sight, out of mind. “It’s better that I don’t do any more shopping, I’ve been living beyond my means since I arrived.” More double meanings.
Sherlock remembered, very distinctly, when he felt the same way that Mycroft did now. How romantic entanglements were boring at best, dangerous at worst. He couldn’t explain how or why John Watson had entered his life — it still mystified him, quite frankly — but just because it had happened for him didn’t mean it would or even needed to happen for Mycroft. What Sherlock truly wanted was a relationship with his brother, and if the man wasn’t interested in anyone, he would support his decision to avoid romance. He’d be a hypocrite otherwise. He could be a better brother, however — that was in his control.
Besides, he didn’t disagree with Mycroft’s assessment.
“Very well,” he said, reaching to try one of his pastries. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying, but it was something. That his brother was even sitting here, across from him, and they were being civil ... Sherlock was grateful. He could be patient when it came to this. "You’ll still have to shop for the holidays, though. Assuming Santa doesn’t arrive." It was a very obvious out: Mycroft could discuss this instead if he wanted.
Frankly, it was a relief when Sherlock didn’t press the issue, to poke fun at his weakness, or pressure him into something he didn’t want to do. The tension he’d felt since he came into the apartment dissipated somewhat, and he picked up his tea to drink before it got any colder. “Mercifully, my list is very short, and I’ve finished shopping last week.” He gave his brother a curious glance out of the corner of his eye. “What did you ask Santa to bring you?”
Sherlock sat back and steepled his fingers, mind already whirring ahead. "Well," he began, and proceeded to lay out exactly what he'd asked for and what he would be doing with it: namely, Moriarty's final casefile, his parting gift in death. Sherlock had theories — partly influenced by his nemesis appearing in Preya, the other alternate universe all of them had been herded into, but not all. He talked and talked, excitedly, not quite picking up on the fact that Mycroft was radiating concern and disapproval in waves. They'd have that argument later.
Much later.