brother_mine (brother_mine) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2018-06-15 21:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, mycroft holmes (bbc), sherlock holmes (bbc au) |
Who: Sherlock Holmes (BBC AU), Mycroft Holmes (BBC)
When: Monday, April 16, the day after the Dementors came to Tumbleweed.
Where: Mycroft’s flat
What: Sherlock comes to check on Mycroft, who is uncharacteristically emotional
Warnings: FEELS
Status: Complete in Gdocs
Sherlock was surprised to find Mycroft's bedroom window unlocked. But then, even when his brother was under extreme duress, he could anticipate what Sherlock planned to do, so this wasn't altogether out of the realm of possibility. Maybe some part of Mycroft actually wanted his little brother back as much as Sherlock wanted him in his life again. Maybe he was just bored. It was difficult to tell with Mycroft, particularly when he wasn't fully himself — and given the nonsense with the dementors recently, there was no telling what state he was in. Where the hell are you? -SH was the text he'd sent the man last night, and upon receiving no response, Sherlock was up and out of his apartment, John close at his heels. He'd intended to try making it to Mycroft, but his brother's building was too far away and they had enough monstrous creatures to deal with in their own district.
It broke his heart to remain in Baker Street. He'd paced it like a caged animal (slowed down only by his knee brace), too overwhelmed with fury and concern to sleep at all. Thank God for John Watson. He'd been the only thing to save Sherlock from charging ahead anyway, damn the consequences.
"You'd better be decent," Sherlock called into the flat. Climbing up the fire escape had left him winded, the pain in his leg flaring up, but he ignored it in favor of wandering further into Mycroft's living space. "I brought food. Speak now or I'll be eating it all myself." The false bravado in his voice wouldn't fool his brother. Sherlock knew that. But he had to at least pretend like he wasn't sick and exhausted from worry.
Of course, the idiot would come through the window. Entering through the door would be too easy. It looks like this Sherlock shares the same absurd trait as my own. Mycroft ordinarily would’ve rolled his eyes and huffed out of exasperation at Sherlock’s behavior, then say something sarcastic, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond at all.
Yesterday, the Dementor had attacked and left Mycroft utterly drained emotionally, which in turn affected his entire body. As a result, he was listless, despondent, and quite unlike his usual self. The man on the network told him that chocolate would help, as well as focusing on happy thoughts. Fortunately, Mycroft had some hot cocoa in his flat, but try as he may, he couldn’t dredge up a memory that was happy enough. Anything that he did manage to think of was always tainted by some negative aspect, which his Dementor addled mind would latch on to, sending him deeper down the spiral of depression.
The first thing Sherlock would notice upon entering Mycroft’s apartment was that it was unusually warm - the thermostat was turned up much higher than usual. The next, obvious detail was how his flat was packed with shipping crates, boxes, and trunks of various sizes, stacked as high as an ordinary man’s shoulder, and arranged in such a way that crowded the bedroom and the adjacent living room area. A path was made, which was the only route that could be taken.
Mycroft was found in one of the armchairs, turned to face the windows so he could bask in the rays of the sun. Despite the warmth of the room and the heat of the sunlight, he was wrapped in a heavy blanket, more suited for winter in London than Spring in Tumbleweed. The Dementor attack not only left him emotionally a wreck, but had also lowered his internal body temperature so that he was miserably cold. Mycroft’s pokemon, an eevee, rested upon his lap, looking up with concern for his master, who idly stroked him behind the ears as a way to find some sort of comfort. The moment Sherlock had entered through the window, the eevee’s large, pointed ears perked up in that direction, and looked to see who was there, being incredibly protective. He even growled a bit, then barked one high pitched, ”Vee! Vee!”, but Mycroft weakly told him, “It’s alright, Reynard. This is Sherlock. He’s not unwelcome here.”
He made a point out of never appearing in front of anybody in a state of disarray, but Mycroft’s current condition had forced him to neglect his appearance. Unwashed, unshaven, his eyes red and puffy, he turned his face away from Sherlock out of vanity, embarrassed to be seen in this way. He wanted to be left alone, but at the same time, he’d hoped Sherlock would come - why else would he leave his window unlocked? His emotions were conflicted as he struggled to maintain a shred of dignity. He rested his hand upon the side of his face in a gesture that tried to be casual, but was obvious a way to further hide the way he looked.
“I’m not very hungry,” he told Sherlock, and it was the truth - his appetite was nill. He then frowned and lowered his hand in a sudden change of mind. “Go ahead and get it over with. I know you’re dying to say something.” Mycroft’s mind was already turning with insults directed toward himself, and he assumed Sherlock was dying to make a rude remark.
It was profoundly disturbing to find Mycroft in such a state. However, Sherlock was nothing if not singularly determined when he had a task in mind — so much so that his behavior resembled that of a bloodhound tracking a scent. So here he was, completely undeterred, setting his bounty onto the nearest table: a variety of chocolate candies, mostly American, unfortunately, but he'd managed to track down some Cadbury Cremes from a specialty shop. "Don't tell me you never read Rowling," he said, proud that his voice didn't waver in the slightest. "The effects of a Dementor attack can be combated by ingesting chocolate. Hence, why I brought some." Sherlock ventured closer, then, mindful of leaving enough space between them so that Reynard wasn't distressed, and he plopped onto a nearby ottoman, handing Mycroft three chocolate bars. He kept one for himself, which he proceeded to eat.
"Hershey's tastes like sick and despair," he commented, stretching out his weaker leg so that the brace didn't pinch his skin. Briefly, Sherlock's gaze flicked over his brother, lingering on the Pokémon for a moment. "Do you remember when Redbeard used to sit on your lap like that, too? Your trousers would always get so wrinkled." He didn't remember much from the early days of their family dog. He was too young, the memory of Redbeard as a tiny puppy vague and foggy, but that was a moment that stuck out for him. The hairy Irish setter flopping onto his brother's lap, demanding pets.
Finishing off his candy in record time, Sherlock leaned back on his arms and heaved a sigh. This was almost normal — barring the fact that Mycroft had all but disowned him, of course, and also that his brother looked a mess. But the point of this visit wasn't to point all of that out, or even to try and smooth it over. Sherlock was here because he wanted to spend time with Mycroft, even when he was at his lowest. Theirs was an odd relationship for siblings, but it was still theirs. At least for Sherlock it was.
“I know how to counter the effects of a Dementor!” Mycroft snapped, immediately going on the defense after it was suggested that he was ignorant. “Somebody posted the information,” he added, grumpily, since he hadn’t read the books, himself. He slumped in his chair, nestling deeper in the cushions, and groused, “If I had known the contents of a fictional book would be essential for practical life, I might’ve paid more attention. I had more important things to do than read children’s literature.” His remark was meant to cut down Sherlock for engaging in such frivolous activities, but Mycroft’s bite had no power, especially since it was Sherlock who currently had the upper hand in this world.
He looked at the chocolate that had been given to him, and then to Reynard whose nose was closely sniffing. “You can’t have this,” he lightly scolded the pokemon - chocolate could be fatal to dogs, and while Reynard didn’t have the same biology as an ordinary dog, Mycroft didn’t want to risk it. “You can have another treat, later. This is … my medicine,” he added with a scowl. Then, to Sherlock, “I had some hot cocoa earlier, but I ran out, and I didn’t feel like and getting more.” Not only did his depression make Mycroft lethargic, but Sherlock would be able to understand that he didn’t want to be seen like this by anybody else. A pause, then a mumbled, “Thank you.”
Mycroft peeled back the wrapper and took a bite - the taste, while inferior to the chocolate he was accustomed to, still was enough to send a welcomed warmth throughout his body. He savored the sensation, but what little joy he experienced was quelled by the thought that he was consuming so many empty calories. He’d probably gain weight by the time he’d fully recover, which then led him to memories of being ruthlessly mocked when he was young by children his same age (though nowhere near the same intellect) for being overweight. ‘Fatty’ was what they called him, and that name ‘Fatty’ kept repeating in his ears with the same, jeering tone. This was how his thought process usually went, but he’d internalized it so much that it had become an unconscious reflex - the Dementor’s effect had only brought it to the surface to make him even more miserable, so that he couldn’t even enjoy the simple pleasure of eating chocolate, although it was what he needed to get better. The chocolate bar remained held limply in Mycroft’s hand after one bite. So caught up in his misery, he’d nearly forgotten Sherlock was there, until the sound of his voice snapped him out of the spell.
“Redbeard,” Mycroft repeated with a small chuckle. “I almost called him that,” he confessed while affectionately scratching the pokemon beneath his chin, where the white patch of fluff that encircled his neck was fullest. Reynard, while genuinely concerned for his master, was pleased by this show of affection, but kept glancing over at Sherlock, curiously. “I decided against it,” Mycroft continued. “Sentiment is not one of my attributes.” Clearly, this was a lie, one which the Dementors had so easily exposed, but Mycroft clung to the delusion since it was what usually anchored him in times of turmoil. “Redbeard was impossible,” he began to fondly reminisce. “I tried training him until I was blue in the face, and while he followed basic commands, he was headstrong and would go off to run and play according to his own whimsy. That must be why he ended up being your dog, instead of mine. You two shared the same personality.”
Mycroft immediately fell silent, then covered his eyes with his hand to hide the fact that tears were falling freely from his eyes, ones which he could not control.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft's outburst. That, at least, was a reaction he was familiar with, and one that was just as easily dismissed. It was far more interesting to watch the interactions between his brother and the pokémon, which he hadn't anticipated. Although he knew now that Mycroft was still capable of love, it was an altogether different thing to see it on display for himself, clear as day. He hadn't been a witness to this level of affection from his brother since .. well, since they were children. It was somewhat comforting to know the man hadn't completely eradicated every sentimental instinct inside of him, contrary to what Sherlock had assumed. Somewhat, anyway. He was keenly aware of the flash of jealousy he felt to see Mycroft bestow his kindness upon someone else when he still refused to acknowledge Sherlock as his brother.
The quiet thank you earned a nod of acknowledgement from him, though. Mycroft was clearly in a delicate position right now, and he wasn't about to provoke him again. Not intentionally.
"He listened to you more than our parents," Sherlock offered, because it was true. No matter how many times their mother tried calling the dog into the house, he stubbornly continued sniffing through the gardens for whatever new scent he'd decided to track. "And he always insisted on herding us. Do you remember? I think he saw himself as our guardian." Redbeard had been so pushy. Maybe it was true that their personalities were similar, but he bullied and corralled Sherlock over to his brother so frequently that there was really no use running off unless Mycroft came with them. It was so —
Sherlock blinked, realizing his brother was crying. For a moment, he sat frozen, shock and fear registering on his face. But then he relaxed. This was comforting, actually, that Mycroft was finally releasing some of that stress building inside of him since yesterday. He dragged the ottoman over without ceremony and sat close, their knees knocking together briefly. "Mycroft," he said, pitching his voice low. It wasn't quite soothing, but it was certainly firm. "We're alive, and we're here. You don't have to mourn the past." Sherlock reached over to scratch behind Reynard's ears, placating the pokémon as much as he was trying to do the same with his master. "Tell me what's wrong." Stubborn, this one. Endlessly, impossibly stubborn.
Humiliated and infuriated with himself for being unable to control his emotions, Mycroft’s frustrations were exasperated by Sherlock’s show at sympathy. Their relationship was not like this - even in the past it was always Mycroft who was the steadying force when Sherlock fell short or came undone for one reason or another. As big brother, he had to be stalwart, in control, protective. It began when they were both quite young, when it became clear that Sherlock was different and their parents’ neglectful attitudes compelled Mycroft to reach out and take up a role with responsibility that shouldn’t have been his in the first place. One which Mycroft took so seriously and had become so ingrained that it continued well into their adult lives, with him using his influence with the British government to help overlook Sherlock’s more criminally inclined behavior.
But therein was the root of Mycroft’s current misery. His hand moved away from his eyes to cover his mouth in a futile effort to prevent himself from making an even greater fool out of himself, but that only caused him to start hyperventilating. He removed his hand, and helpless against the Dementor’s influence, he dolefully moaned, “I’ve failed you, Sherlock. I’ve failed you as a brother. My hands were tied, I couldn’t protect you!”
Gone were Mycroft’s previous distinctions between the Sherlock he knew, and this Sherlock from another universe. At this moment, all he saw was his little brother, whom he loved but could never express it.
Sherlock knew their relationship wasn't, as Mycroft believed, 'like this.' It hadn't been, mostly because they'd grown so used to playing their roles from childhood — but that didn't mean they were incapable of supporting one another in their own way. He'd arrived at the Diogenes Club unannounced countless times under the guise of wanting to pester his brother, when in actuality, Sherlock was providing a familiar presence during a particularly volatile political mess (he did watch the news). Then there were all the moments when Mycroft did the same for him, always a ready cigarette in hand or some clever little puzzle to draw his attention. That was how they expressed their love for each other: by skirting around, never quite articulating it out loud.
No matter where they were, or what trials they faced, Sherlock trusted in the fact that Mycroft would be there for him. Always. It was partly why he felt a wave of calm wash over him when his brother revealed the true reason for his misery. "You're referring to Moriarty," he said, half a question. "A man who we ultimately defeated together. You failed, yes. But you also mitigated the damage by coming up with another plan." Sherlock tilted his head, eyeing his brother. "It's not like you to devalue your accomplishments, brother." With any luck, calm, cool logic would help cut through the fog of irrational despair. But it was only a theory. He'd have to work hard to see it through.
“I’m referring to Mary,” Mycroft snapped back before he had a chance to censor himself, angry not at Sherlock but his own weaknesses. “I’m referring to Magnussen.” The contact they had between one another was practically nil, so Mycroft didn’t know the the differences between this Sherlock’s world and his own. They managed to get Moriarty, did they? That was an interesting development, and a story worth delving into, had Mycroft been in a better state of mind. Mycroft wanted to shield Sherlock from the awful truths, however, “I see no reason to hide what happened when you can easily pick up the bloody BBC program and watch for yourself,” he bitterly said, adding with a note of defeat, “I have the DVD set, you may borrow it, if you want.”
There was a pause, as Mycroft looked Sherlock over, then reluctantly, “At least you fared better than my brother.”
Mary was a name he knew. She was the nurse who had befriended John at the clinic while Sherlock was away, and someone his brother suspected of having ties to Moriarty's network. Mycroft had kept tabs on her, but he hadn't heard anything more about the woman while abroad, so he'd assumed there was no immediate threat. It seemed as though that hypothesis was incorrect. The mention of Magnussen, however, yielded little response. Sherlock hadn't met or heard of anyone by that name. Still, it wasn't difficult to guess what Mycroft was alluding to — that they'd found themselves entangled in a situation similar to the one where they walked right into Moriarty's trap. It just surprised him that they'd allowed something like that to happen twice.
Sherlock sat back, processing the new information in silence. There was only one way he could respond to all this.
"Did we survive in your world?" He asked at length. No matter what, that had always been the priority. After years of drug-induced close calls and far too much dangerous fieldwork to count, surviving was what a Holmes did. Mycroft made a tactical error. So what? As long as he employed that well-honed strategic mind in order to find his way out of it, they were fine. The rest of his brother's comments went ignored. For now.
The pause between Sherlock’s question and Mycroft’s answer felt disturbingly long, and just as awkward. Mycroft tried to choose his words, carefully. To be better informed, and out of plain, morbid curiosity, Mycroft had watched the BBC program depicting their lives, all the way through. If there were people out there who had seen the show, then Mycroft wanted to know what exactly they had seen. The action focused primarily between Sherlock and John, with only glimpses of the behind the scenes scheming and manipulations he had done - for this, Mycroft was grateful. But his failure to shelter his brother was evident, and the guilt was magnified in his currently tender state of mind.
Mycroft’s mouth sealed tightly in uncomfortable line, and his forehead fretted with wrinkles. “You survive. John survives. Even I survive.” But the way he replied had a disquieting subtext: We survived, but was it worth it?.
The three people who mattered most. Sherlock inclined his head to indicate he'd heard Mycroft, both what he'd said out loud and what he'd implied. This was hardly new to either of them. Perhaps, given Moriarty's involvement, what they faced in his brother's version of their world was far worse than Sherlock could imagine. It certainly seemed that way. But it was still largely a moot point — if they were dead, they could hardly have an opinion on the matter.
"Mycroft," Sherlock began, steepling his fingers as he observed his brother. "You could agonize over this if it suits you. I'm sure it would provide sufficient motivation in your work—you were always a bit of a masochist, let's be honest—but that wouldn't be productive for long. Either you learn from this, or you wallow in it. Which do you prefer?" Perhaps it wasn't the kindest thing he could have said to his brother. But kindness didn't seem to be getting them anywhere, so instead, Sherlock attempted more logic.
And maybe a bit of a curve ball. "I forgive you."
Logic. Yes. That’s what Mycroft needed. It was an anchor that kept his mind from rocking upon the tumultuous waves of his emotions. The appeal that logical, analytical side gave him a small sense of peace, though he still felt physically drained. Sherlock’s comment about being a masochist caused him to smirk and chuckle a little, knowing it to be true. As for the wallowing bit, Mycroft took minor offense - he despised feeling like this in the first place, but that logical side of him knew it would pass with the Dementor’s influence. He’d just have to slough it through, no matter how bleak it seemed now.
What Mycroft did not expect was the curve ball. Only his eyes shifted in Sherlock’s direction, inspecting him for any hints of insincerity. Finding none, Mycroft sealed his lips into a tight line to prevent himself from saying more foolishly sentimental drivel, even though the outpouring from his heart threatened to do so. He gave Sherlock a single nod, both of acknowledgement and gratitude, then broke off a bit of chocolate to eat, but before doing so, he muttered, “Make yourself useful, brother, and prepare a pot of tea.” He didn’t need to tell Sherlock where the kitchen was, or even where his tea things were kept - Sherlock would know how to find these on his own.