sherlock holmes đ (unsolved) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2018-04-08 14:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, mycroft holmes (bbc), sherlock holmes (bbc au) |
This wasn't the first time Sherlock Holmes awoke in an unfamiliar place. It was stressful, to say the least, and deeply disorienting to find himself surrounded by medical personnel who he didn't recognize. Sherlock remained silent throughout the entire process, guarded and watchful, only speaking to provide consent to the vaccination. Internally, his mind was racing ahead â collecting information at an accelerated speed, too quickly for even his own brain to identify. He would focus on cataloguing everything later. For now, he was told that Mycroft would be coming to fetch him, and that provided some small amount of comfort. So long as Sherlock had his brother as a point of reference, he could manage this.
Only when his assigned doctor signed off on the paperwork did Sherlock stand (with no small amount of difficulty, the cane and knee brace still quite new) and venture out of the room. It took some time to get to the deck, as he wasn't used to moving quite this much after the injury, but he was nothing if not singularly determined. And when he saw the ocean stretched out before him for miles and miles, endless and vast, a relieved, delighted little sigh escaped him. The sight was comforting in the way most things from childhood were. It reminded him of family gatherings along the French coast, collecting tiny specimens in a toy bucket so that he could present them to his brother with undisguised glee. He'd loved nothing more than listening to Mycroft explain what each creature was, and he'd committed them all to memory. Even now, he could recite his haul.
Focus on what you can control his counselor had told him. Sherlock leaned on his weight onto the railing and waited for Mycroft to find him. It was inevitable.
Mycroft shouldâve expected Sherlock wouldnât make it easy by staying in the medbay to wait until he came to meet him. Nothing was ever that straightforward with his little brother. Even though he grumbled, internally Mycroft was pleased that Sherlock returned. If forced to admit it, which, by the way he never would, Mycroft would claim that the only reason he cared was that he finally had somebody close to the same intellectual level to speak with again, but it was more than that. For as long as he could remember (and he could remember with clarity pretty far into his past), his role had been watching out and making sure Sherlock was alright - without his brother around, there was something tanably missing in his life. So what if Sherlock couldnât remember that heâd been here the last time around? If he couldnât remember the time spent together in Preya. Mycroft would fill him in soon enough and life would be in balance again.
It was an easy deduction that Sherlock would want to get a breath of fresh air after leaving the medbay, perhaps do a bit of exploring. Because the ship was such a large place, and Mycroftâs patience was running thin, he simply asked the robot crew which direction theyâd seen Sherlock go, and eventually found him looking over the railing at the ocean. At first, Mycroft permitted himself to smile a little, knowing Sherlock couldnât see him, but it instantly faded when he observed the cane and the way Sherlock was standing - his leg was injured. Mycroft never knew Sherlock to have a leg injury, so he deduced that this Sherlock came from his future. Now that was interesting. Mycroft was not afraid to ask, either.
Mycroft silently walked up to the railing and stood beside Sherlock, and without any words of welcome, or simply took in the same view and haughtily said, âIt loses its appeal after two months.â
Sherlock would know his brother's particular gait anywhere. It was the only reason why he didn't tense when Mycroft came up behind him, secure in the knowledge that one of the few people he trusted in the world was with him. The brief silence that followed was expected, par for the course with his brother. Sherlock was either going to be lectured or criticized and yes, there it was â criticism. But it was surprisingly kind for Mycroft, and given his comment about time, the next deduction wasn't difficult to make. "You've been here longer than two months," Sherlock said, finally glancing at his brother so he could sweep his gaze over the man. "Ordinary life appears to suit you." It was a not-quite compliment, partially ruined by the drawl in his tone. Mycroft had clearly been vacationing since his arrival, and though he didn't look as though he'd entirely gone native, it was a near thing. At least his brother hadn't died from boredom. That would've been inconvenient.
He glanced back out at the long stretch of ocean, still processing everything. "I was here with you before," he commented, another deduction. It didn't bother him too much. The unknown was something that intrigued Sherlock, sparking his intense curiosity â even when it came to himself. And that said nothing of the fact that Mycroft always seemed to delight in knowing something before his younger brother. They would have to remedy that. "How long?"
The differences between this Mycroft and the Mycroft that Sherlock knew would be easy to notice: Without the stress of managing Britainâs political crises, without the weight of that responsibility on his shoulders, this Mycroft was able to sleep better at nights, the creases in his forehead had softened, he looked relaxed. As much as he tried to keep trim by exercise, it was difficult not to give in to the temptation of snacking on the cruise ship, so heâd gained a few extra pounds, much to his chagrin. Heâd also become more social while interacting with people, which rather took the edge off him. All these factors led Mycroft to insist this was a negative development. âIâve become soft,â he said with disdain., then added with a flare of his nostrils, âContemptible, really.â
After a momentâs pause, Mycroft replied, âApproximately five months in total, at least with this batch of people. You came through the portal first, with John Watson, a month earlier. But before that, the three of us were in another place, which you evidently donât remember, either.â He shot Sherlock a glance out of the corner of his eye while raising a single eyebrow. âAn entirely different set of circumstances.â
Yes, he rather did enjoy lording over this information, knowing how it must irritate Sherlock.
âWeâd been approached by representatives of this mysterious island kingdom called Preya, each at low points in our lives, and were offered to start our lives anew. We each individually accepted, but once there we were not permitted to leave. You and I were there for six months before Watson showed up, and then for three months after that, after which we were brought to Tumbleweed.
A year. More than one, in fact, by several months. Sherlock actually turned himself fully so that he could observe his brother without any distractions, pinpointing all the new details. There was so much. He wondered, briefly, whether leaving the government entirely would have provided Mycroft with a better quality of life. His appearance now certainly seemed to suggest that. And yet, Sherlock had always assumed his brother wanted that -- a profession fraught with danger around every corner, a chess board come to life. No time to relax. No time to live. Did he enjoy that? Or was Mycroft unaware he even had other options? It confused him, and Sherlock looked it for a moment. He'd never considered his brother's perspective, secure in the knowledge that he already knew what it was. Evidently, that couldn't be the case, because here Mycroft stood now, actually looking ... well. Content.
"You realize you sound insane," he said at length, still not looking away. He accepted what he was being told, of course. The evidence was overwhelming, and although Mycroft skirted around the truth in the past, he would never lie about something like this. Sherlock trusted him implicitly. That meant they really were trapped in another dimension, or had been for a while, and Sherlock didn't remember it. "Hateful," he hissed under his breath, finally turning away. It hadn't occurred to him that anything else could be amiss. "What do I need to know?"
It was a good thing that Mycroft couldnât read Sherlockâs thoughts - had he known that heâd just been described with the âCâ word , he wouldâve taken it as an insult. In his world, he was powerful, intimidating, in control. Here, he was frustratingly ordinary, and while heâd become accustomed to it, he was by no means content. He required control to make him feel secure - discipline and control. If those things were not present⌠well, Mycroft couldnât even contemplate what his life would be like, it wasnât even an option.
You realize you sound insane. Mycroft sighed and simply responded, âYet here we are.â He looked over at Sherlock again, then continued, âWhat is there to tell? I assume youâve already read the welcome brochure, or started reading what others have written on the Network?â Mycroft decided to summarize, anyway, since he was asked. Mycroft wouldnât hold back, since it was important, and he knew Sherlock could take it.
âPrior to being on this cruise ship, we were all living in a college town in the United States, Texas, called Tumbleweed, which is about as provincial as the name suggests. The general assumption is that weâll be returning there at some future point. Thereâs a military base there thatâs watching over the portal, which is whatâs responsible for bringing us to this universe. Itâs also responsible for causing a great deal of unusual circumstances from time to time, and possibly the only thing that makes the town interesting. There are people here, from all matter of eras and locations, including other planets. Some of them have amazing powers and abilities, including self-propelled flight and telepathy. A great deal of them enjoy publicly talking about themselves and what theyâve been through, which can be tedious, but is makes it easier to keep tabs on who weâre dealing with. People disappear without warning, though not as frequently as they arrive, some of which are from alternative universes than others, so itâs not uncommon to come across two versions of the same person present, nor is it uncommon for two different people to resemble one another⌠face twins, so to speak. And without exception, everybody here is considered a fictional character of one form or another, including ourselves. Many know us from a BBC television show depicting portions of our lives, but itâs generally thought that our source material comes from a series of short stories and novels written in the late 1800âs by the author Sir Arthur Conan Dolye.â
Here he paused to glance at Sherlock to gauge how he took this bombshell of information, especially the last part. He would have to eventually let his brother know there was an alternative version of Sherlock present, as well as somebody who looked uncannily like him, but that would come later. Mycroft continued, âLast week there was a pirate attack on the ship, which we needed to defend ourselves from. Two people died and many others were injured, so theyâre still recovering from that, physically and mentally. Also, there isnât any cigarettes on board, but there is a cigar lounge, and at our second to the last port I procured some high quality tobacco to roll your own cigarettes.â This last bit was added in case Sherlock was feeling overwhelmed and would appreciate a nicotine fix.
Sherlock did, in fact, want a cigarette after receiving that overload of information. But he'd been doing so well in his recovery at home that indulging seemed ... wrong, somehow. Like cheating. John would be upset by it, and he couldn't do that to him, present or no. Not when he owed the man so much already. It was immensely frustrating, but he played it off with a cool, indifferent air all the same. "Idiot. Those things will kill you," Sherlock commented, dryly, a good-natured brotherly jab. For them, anyway. He heaved a sigh and turned around completely so that his back leaned against the railing. It gave him the opportunity to observe all the people wandering past them, each one confirming Mycroft's story in one way or another. He could see that now, and identify the signs for what they were.
It occurred to him that his brother wouldn't provide certain details without a reason, which could only mean one thing: "There's an alternate version of me, and a 'facetwin.' Separate, or combined?" That was far more difficult for Sherlock to swallow than the fact that he was, apparently, considered fictional in this universe. People back home thought his persona had been manufactured as well. There was little difference. Sharing a face with someone, however, was deeply unsettling, and his fingers curled into the railing just a little bit tighter.
Mycroft could tell that Sherlock wanted a cigarette. This was a man who regularly gambled with his life by jumping headlong into danger, so the jab was taken with a grain of salt. Sherlock had quit smoking several times already, but if he wanted to play at being strong, Mycroft knew all he would have to do is pull out a cigarette and start smoking himself to break down that resolve. However, he choose not to, considering that he was being merciful, and instead clasped his hands behind his back is a casual manner, chin held up high as he answered.
âSeparate. The Other Sherlock looks nothing like you, and is dreadfully dull. I tried engaging in conversation with him on the Network a few days ago for a lark.â Which was to say, he wanted to push the Other Sherlockâs buttons to see how heâd react, but it proved to be less entertaining than it was worth. âInstead of living in London, he moved to New York City, and his version of Watson is a woman named Joan. They both to themselves, for the most part. If itâs anything like the last time you were present, then you shouldnât expect much interaction, if at all.â Mycroft regarded Sherlockâs hands on the rail, and frowned a little. âThe man who shares your face is an American. A former surgeon who now is, of all things, a sorcerer who quite literally casts spells. Dr Stephen Strange. His hair is straight, his facial hair is trimmed in a Van Dyke, and frankly, he wears a ridiculous tunic with a bright red cloak. As far as I could tell, neither of you crossed paths before, much less wrote to one another.â
Sherlock would never, ever admit that he was profoundly relieved Mycroft held a low opinion of his alternate version. Or that he'd even feared otherwise. That would mean revealing his brother's love was important to him, and he hadn't indulged in such a gross display of affection since he was a child. It was the Joan part that clearly piqued his interest, as Mycroft likely knew it would. A light returned to Sherlock's eyes, and though he didn't smile, he looked decidedly curious. Not that he'd make any comment on that particular point either. This was all data he filed away for later, little puzzles he could lay out and sort through inside his mind once he was alone. Besides, Mycroft couldn't tell him how like their John this Joan was. Only he would be the true judge of that.
Van Dyke. Sherlock made a face, vaguely horrified. "He sounds better suited to a Renaissance fair," the detective said, dryly, wondering briefly whether anyone had tried wrangling this Strange person into the nearest clothing shop. It sounded like the doctor-wizard could at least use a few new dress shirts. Certainly a new coat. And then, after a brief, thoughtful pause: "Gay?" Because if he had to compete with either of his supposed doppelgängers for the title of biggest drama queen, they would have problems.
Mycroft made a show out of rolling his eyes at Sherlockâs question. Even though heâd never asked either Dr Strange or the Other Sherlock their sexual orientation, it was clear just from his personal observations that they were, âHeterosexual. Both of them.â A pause, and then, âIt might interest you that Mary Crawley from Downton Abbey is present. Iâll introduce you to her. Sheâs delightful company, and I forbid that you be rude to her.â He wouldnât admit that they were friends, because Mycroft Holmes most certainly did not have friends.
There was only one question that Mycroft had on his mind. âHow did you injure your leg?â Since his brother had never injured his leg before, Mycroft naturally assumed that it had been done some time in their shared future, which he had yet to experience.
Sherlock heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Small miracles," he replied. Really, he would've had to kill one of them. Now, at least, he could exist in peace. Mycroft was right, however â the mention of Mary immediately drew Sherlock's attention, and he smirked, a wolfish, slightly terrifying expression with all teeth. "Before series four?" Because it had all gone rapidly downhill after that particular season in his esteemed opinion. Not that it would matter, of course. Lady Crawley was the best thing about the show, and a favorite of both the Holmes brothers after Sherlock bullied Mycroft into binge-watching it with him. That, it would seem, transcended all universes.
The delight in Sherlock's eyes vanished immediately when Mycroft asked about his leg. He stared at his brother for a full sixty seconds in disbelief before his facial expression became guarded. "Isn't it obvious?" He wondered aloud, his tone light and offhanded when in reality, this was a very serious challenge. Mycroft had just told him alternate versions of themselves were not only possible, but present. There was no telling whether the man standing in front of him was his real brother or not. He'd need proof.
And quickly.
âThe end of season five,â Mycroft explained, but pointedly added, âSheâs very sensitive about her life being a television show, so no fangirling.â He gave Sherlock a cross look until he was certain his warning was understood.
Isnât it obvious? Taking it as a challenge, Mycroft narrowed his eyes to take a really good look at Sherlock. Heâd been so quick with his greetings that he hadnât bothered to do it, before, choosing to only regard Sherlock with quick glances. The way Sherlock spoke and held himself suggested that he came from a point in his life when he had more confidence, and hadnât been broken either physically or emotionally. Mycroft was alarmed in a way that he couldnât disguise. He had his suspicion, but he wanted a confirmation. âTell me,â he demanded.
Sherlock only rolled his eyes in response to being warned about Mary. He didn't fangirl. The suggestion was too absurd to even refute, so he allowed that conversation to die there. It was the shift to the topic of their history that made the detective tense, drawing himself up to his full height despite the knee brace being so cumbersome (and he was still, hatefully, shorter than Mycroft). "Moriarty," he replied, satisfied that his voice was controlled and even. All those long weeks of counseling had paid off â Sherlock could say the name without fear, and even a little edge of disgust. "You retrieved me after I was kidnapped. A mission gone awry in Moscow. I was to be exchanged for ransom by a contact calling herself 'Eurus.' No, the irony doesn't escape me." East Wind. Eastern Europe. What sort of life did he live, a soap opera?
Perhaps their BBC programme was really a daytime television show, and not quite an evening drama. Sherlock leaned away from the railing and used his cane for balance, tipping his chin up as if daring Mycroft to make a comment about his disability. He was still fiercely proud. Perhaps his brother would be able to deduce what, precisely, he had experienced â the evidence was there, after all, having only endured torture a few months ago. But for all Sherlock had suffered, he was not broken.
"Satisfied?"
In Mycroftâs universe, the mission in Moscow was completed without any problems. Sherlock was able slip in to retrieve the intel they needed, and then planted the explosion that was timed to go off well after heâd left the area. This mission happened a year after Sherlock faked his suicide and went undercover to help dismantle Moriartyâs crime syndicate - Sherlock went on for nearly one full year after that before he was captured by the Serbians and tortured by their hands. Sherlock returned to London traumatized, yes, but it was nothing compared to the shock he received when he found out John had âmoved onâ and was preparing to propose to Mary Morstan. John had been Sherlockâs motivation to survive out in the field, but without him, Mycroft watched his little brother go into a downward spiral. Obviously, none of this happened to this Sherlock.
When he came to this realization, Mycroftâs expression fell with silent disappointment. He was quiet for several moments before he icily spoke. âYouâre not from the same world as I.â Though he had not articulated the words, the thoughts going through his mind said, You are not my brother. It was a complete let down, but Mycroft squared his shoulders to make a quick recovery. What was Mycroftâs motto? Caring is not an advantage. It was a defense mechanism, which instantly sprung into place like a steel trap. Just like that, Mycroft erected a mental wall that separated himself from this person who looked like Sherlock, spoke just like him, and behaved in very much alike. They mightâve even shared similar experiences, but now, mentally, this man might just as well be a stranger.
For a brief moment, Sherlock's facial expression revealed precisely how he felt: shocked, angry, and perhaps worst of all, heartbroken. Throughout his entire life, Mycroft had always been there for him. Even when they were arguing, or not speaking, his brother was still a presence in his life. He'd always been there â from the days Sherlock lived on the streets of London, all the way to Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club when they planned their next steps in defeating Moriarty. There was no single Holmes brother. There never had been. It was the Holmes brothers, the last two remaining after Sherrinford left the family. Sherlock couldn't imagine his life without Mycroft. Never, in all his years on earth, had he anticipated this moment â that he would be abandoned like Sherrinford had done to them all that time ago.
Ironically, the same motto filtered through his mind: Caring is not an advantage. But it took on a far different meaning for him. Caring made you stronger. And Mycroft was being weak.
"So that's it, then," Sherlock replied, his own face a careful mask again, mirroring the one that stared back at him. "You were content with the fact that I had no memory of being here, but a minor change in our history was too much of a transgression. You're disowning your own brother." He was proud of the fact that his voice didn't waver. He didn't even speak Sherrinford's name, though he certainly could have invoked the obvious parallel. This was between them, and them alone. He tightened his fingers into his cane and waited for the verdict, feeling as though far more was at stake than even Moriarty's trial.
The disowned brother reference did not affect Mycroft - he only had one brother, so there was no parallel to be made. One brother, and this Sherlock was not him. What other differences were there between them? Already there was enough to put Mycroft on his guard. Just a few days ago, heâd had a conversation on the network with the Other Sherlock about not being related, so from Mycroftâs perspective, he was just being consistent.
âI wonât go so far as to say disown,â Mycroft haughtily said, narrowing his eyes and giving this Sherlock an estimating glance, up and down. âBut Iâd say thereâs more than a minor change. How do I know you?â
"Because we recognize each other, you Victorian maiden aunt!" It was an outburst, and a bit sexist, but Sherlock was nearing his breaking point. To have gone through one harrowing experience only to plunge right into another one ... he wasn't sure he could handle this. A situation he couldn't control. A betrayal from his own brother.
Sherlock inhaled sharply, attempting, poorly, to conceal just how upset he was. "Don't be absurd. If you can't work it out for yourself, ask. The differences are minorâI look like your brother, I act like your brother, and until a moment ago, you accepted the fact that I was your brother." His heart was pounding furiously, and he scowled, more terrified than he was angry, though his appearance certainly suggested otherwise. He's going to leave like everyone does, Sherlock thought, gripping his cane tight. Sherrinford shouldering a duffle bag and little else. Victor lingering briefly at his dormitory door before his footsteps retreated. His parents cutting him off from his trust fund at the first sign of risk. Even John, his John, the one real thing he could cling to, would eventually marry someone and move out. At least that seemed the inevitable outcome after an endless parade of girlfriends. Mycroft was supposed to be the unchanging constant in his lifeâthe one thing he could count on.
This wasn't heartbreak. This was mourning.
For as long as Mycroft could remember, heâd taken it upon himself as his personal duty to watch out for and protect his little brother, especially since their mother and father were so negligent in their parental responsibilities. So, to see Sherlock react this way caused a visceral reaction so strong that it made Mycroft flinch. But there was another, deeply rooted emotion that was the basis of much of how he reacted: the fear of being exposed as weak, and the uncertainty of what this Sherlock knew made him uneasy on such a primordial level that it superseded his protective instinct.
Still, it was impossible to flat out reject this Sherlock, not with him practically pleading for acceptance. Mycroft revealed his uneasiness through his facial expression, which slipped during the confrontation. Struggling to regain his composure, Mycroft hurriedly said, âI need time.â
Sherlock was surprised to see his words actually got through to Mycroft. Not because he was right (he knew he was), but because he so rarely knew whether his brother ever heeded anything he said. Mycroft's true thoughts and feelings had always been a mystery to him. Sure, he could extrapolate his brother's motives because he'd lived with the man his whole life, but that didn't mean he could ever really confirm it. For all his brother served the Crown, he couldn't be ruled by anyone â certainly not his wayward, reckless little brother. And yet here he was, cowed by Sherlock. It would've felt satisfying if he didn't feel like shit.
"Acceptable," he said at last, not quite realizing he'd been silent for almost a full minute. Then he brushed past Mycroft, leaving him on the deck while he went in search of his new accommodations. There was no further need to speak to the man who hadn't decided whether they were still related or not. It stung too much, and Sherlock needed space.