BBC SH - Reunion - Mycroft

The Diogenes Club was old. The dark wood panelling and the high ceilings marking it out as a relic of a bygone era.

Rather like many of its inhabitants.

And like every old thing, it was a bit battered around the edges.

Normally, Mycroft Holmes saw the grandeur and the glory of the building's past.

But today, in the gloom of January with the rain pattering with insistent consistency against the window, Mycroft found it hard to ignore the flaking paint and chipped wood surrounding him.

But then again, the entire world seemed a little bit tarnished now.

He sat in the window seat, a glass of brandy cradled in his lax fingers, gazing numbly down at the hooded and umbrella-d figures hurrying along in the street outside.

The door opened and closed quietly; informing him that someone else had entered The Stranger's Room.

He raised his brandy to his lips and gave it a sip.

The figure moved towards the window, following Mycroft's line of sight.

They stood in silence for a moment.

Then a low voice spoke, "What do you make of the man in the leather jacket?"

Mycroft's shoulders tensed.

A long pause.

His companion was waiting for an answer.

He swallowed and was surprised by the steadiness in his voice. "The out-of-work actor?"

"Yes. Not got the part."

"Obviously. Fell at the second audition."

"Prone to depression."

"Alcohol, drug-abuse and self-harm."

"He'll not survive the night."

"No."

They could both see the man's obsessive sniffing and blown pupils as well as the tell-tale bulge of a fresh bag of cocaine in his pocket. Not his first hit of the day.

Not his last.

Difficult to see through the rain. But not when you know where to look.

"I'll tell Lestrade to keep an eye out for his body." Mycroft murmured, setting his brandy glass down.

If he wasn't holding it, it couldn't tremble.

"Still in contact with him?"

"Infrequently, but yes."

There was a long pause.

Finally, Mycroft pried his gaze from the window and looked.

Sherlock was opposite him, leaning against the window-seat. Even thinner and paler than ever, his quicksilver eyes were nevertheless locked on his brother.

Faintly accusing.

But alive.

"One stone, four?" Sherlock observed distastefully, viewing his brother's slightly expanded waistline.

"One stone, two." Mycroft said, with a hint of defensiveness.

Sherlock nodded and looked away.

"Who else knows?" Mycroft asked, gazing out of the window again but not seeing the street beyond.

"John."

"No one else?"

An almost undetectable hesitation. "No."

"Not even my daughter?"

"No. Not yet."

"Why?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock turned at the tone in his voice.

"Because," his brother said, witheringly. "Your daughter loves me. And once she's broken at least one of my bones in an attempt to vent her anger then she will be overjoyed and will want to tell everyone that I have returned."

Sherlock shifted slightly and his ever-changing Glasz eyes shifted into a dangerous steel grey. "And I wanted to be the first to see your face when you saw what your little indiscretions resulted in."

Mycroft sat there, his brother's excessively scrawny appearance making him more conscious of his increasing weight, and tried not to feel pathetic.

"I'm . . . sorry."

"A very clever person once told me that sorry is not always enough to make a thing better." Sherlock said, bluntly.

A long pause.

"Where were you?" Mycroft asked, fingers curling around themselves. A nervous gesture he had acquired whenever he did not have his umbrella to hand.

"Here. London."

Mycroft frowned. "Impossible, we would have kno-"

"You have walked past me, at least twice a day, every day, for the last eighteen months, Brother Dearest." Sherlock said, cuttingly. "Your powers of observation are obviously inversely linked to the expansion of your waistline."

Mycroft looked at him, momentarily unbalanced. "I did? Where were you?"

Sherlock told him.

Mycroft sighed, "I must have a word with our surveillance teams, there must be loop-holes in the system."

"And your interrogators." Sherlock's voice was cold. "Wouldn't want the precedent you set to spread. Otherwise they'll all end up selling their families souls just to get a confession."

Mycroft hunched slightly as though the words had been a physical blow.

"I deserved that." He said, quietly.

"I know. And for what it's worth, I know why you did it." Sherlock said, but there was no mercy in his gaze.

"Moriarty was a threat to the security of the nation." Mycroft said, hollowly.

"To the world." His little-brother's eyes were unblinking.

"He was a mad man."

"Violent and utterly lacking in empathy."

"He had to be stopped. For everyone's sake." Mycroft said, and his voice was faintly pleading.

"Did you tell that to Mother at my funeral?" Sherlock was all angles, razor-sharp. "Father? 'Phee? John? Did it stop them crying?"

Mycroft exhaled, shakily. "Sherlock-"

"I know that you have spent a certain amount of time locked in a futile attempt to understand my heart and as such you know full well that, despite the accusations of some, I am not completely without a sense of honour." Sherlock's leather gloves creaked under the strain as his hands clenched into fists.

Mycroft dully prepared himself for a blow within the next few minutes.

"We both serve our country in our own way. I keep the streets of the capital safe to walk on, you keep the government within a controllable level of chaos and stop the darkest of the foes from tearing down the facade of security. All very dignified, all very proper and correct. And you never could understand why I never wanted to follow in your footsteps. Could you, brother?"

Sherlock's nostrils were flaring now, eyes wild with rage. "It never occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, I placed more value on taking real villains off the streets, preventing real crimes, righting real wrongs, than gambling real lives in a vague game of chance based on the abstract principle of 'The Greater Good?'"

"There is such a thing." Mycroft said, quietly.

Sherlock's face contorted with fury. "I know." He snarled. "Why do you think I was working against Moriarty and not with him?"

"And that's why you're so angry with me." Mycroft murmured, gazing out at the rain. "Because you can see why I did it. Because, were the tables reversed, you're not so very sure that you wouldn't have done the same."

Sherlock stared at him.

"No, Mycroft." He said, finally. "I'm angry because I slept in my own bed for the first time last night.  I haven't been able to before because I've been sleeping on the end of John's bed due to the fact that he still keeps waking up in the night thinking that he dreamt me. I'm angry because your daughter has a bag of cocaine in her pocket at all times and she can't quite bring herself to take it but can't quite bring herself to throw it away. I'm angry that Mrs Hudson's lonely and has started drinking too much. I'm angry that Lestrade's career's suffering," He swallowed. "And I am angry that you walked past your own little brother 478 times and didn't even recognise him."

Mycroft finally met his brother's eyes again.

Sherlock looked back. Hurt. Confused.

"You threw me to the lions, Mycroft. And even now you think it was worth it."

Mycroft hated himself for nodding. "Moriarty is dead. You're alive. If this were a case where I had no emotional involvement I would call it a rousing success."

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip, tasting blood. "And you'd do it again."

He couldn't stop the nod.

"For 'The Greater Good?'"

Mycroft closed his eyes, feeling his head bob of its own accord.

Sherlock just sat there, looking so-very lost hunched inside his coat which was now a bit too big for him.

"I'm your little brother, Mycroft." He asked finally. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

Mycroft couldn't help it. He started to laugh. An empty, unhappy sound.

"Yes. You are my little brother, Sherlock. And I am your big brother. And with such a role comes certain responsibilities and I have been endeavouring to protect you since the day you were born."

He opened his eyes again, seeing grey-green staring back.

"I knew within days of you learning to crawl that I would rarely succeed in my responsibilities. You were everywhere, grabbing everything, going everywhere regardless of the obviousness of the danger or our warnings. And when I protected you, you would hit me and scream for hindering you in your adventures and when I didn't you would cry and ask me why I had let you get hurt."

This time it was Sherlock who closed his eyes.

"What am I to do, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded, a growing hysteria in his voice, gesturing at his head. "Because the best mind in the country is at a loss as to how to protect his baby brother who doesn't want his help but still reverts back to the little eight-year old pirate crying over his skinned knees whenever something goes wrong!"

The rain broke the silence, reassuringly rhythmic in the dark room.

A car drove through a puddle outside, sending a wave of water splashing against the building.

"There is a big difference between trying and failing to protect someone and actively feeding their inner-most secrets to their worst enemy, Mycroft." Sherlock said, finally.

Mycroft didn't answer.

"I will forgive you eventually because I know why you did it. But knowing why is not the same as accepting."

Sherlock got to his feet.

"I've lost everything, Mycroft. My life, my reputation, the few friends I managed to get. It's going to take a long time to salvage what I can from what's left."

His scarf had slipped so he untied and re-tied it, hands skimming easily through the familiar motions.

"Maybe then I'll be able to accept your apology. But for now, I'm just letting you know that I'm alive so I don't run afoul of one of your minions in a surveillance team who think they're seeing a ghost."

"I will alert the necessary departments and unfreeze your financial assets." Mycroft  murmured.

"Much appreciated." Sherlock reached into his pocket and removed a scrap of paper which he placed next to his brother on the seat.

It was a Weightwatchers business card.

Mycroft managed to muster a faint smile at that.

Sherlock walked away, but paused at the door.

His parting words were not as accusing as they could have been. "I am informed by those who understand such things that Country is worthless when it does not contain the ones you care for."

Mycroft said nothing.

He'd already come to that realisation.

Two minutes after he received news of his brother's death.

Sherlock turned his coat collar up, preparing for the rain outside. "Goodbye Brother."

"Sherlock?"

He paused, turning his head slightly.

Mycroft was staring out the window once again, looking much as he had when Sherlock had entered but there was an almost imperceptible smile in his eyes now.

"Welcome home."