Chapter Text
“This is a nice house, sir.”
Mycroft took his bag with the presents and a spare shirt (just in case) from the driver and nodded. “It is, Walter.” The garden in front of the house was a blooming flower heaven. There were bees shooting through the air. Big and small butterflies nobody would ever get to see in London were dancing from blossom to blossom. And he knew that the back garden would be looking even more voluptuous. And the house itself… It was not new but it was in good shape. Filled with memories, too. Memories of summer nights and swimming in the nearby lake and then coming home to hot chocolate, memories of innocence and a freedom he had not known since he was a child and then teenager. As all youths, he had not fully cherished it then, and he was too busy to waste time regretting that. But it was always bittersweet to return to the house he had called his home for the first nearly two decades of his life. To face a life he had left behind a long time ago, an easier life than the one he led now. To see how much his parents had aged again. One day, he would come here and nobody would be there to greet him. It was not a thought he wanted to dwell on.
“I bet you don't come here often, busy as you are.” The fifty-year-old man in the neat uniform smiled at Mycroft.
One of Mycroft's privileges was that he could use a government driver in his spare free time as well. He could have driven himself but he did not possess a car. And he had done some work while he had been driven here. The work never stopped. They had gotten through the light Sunday morning traffic in London smoothly so the ride had not lasted as long as it could have, but Mycroft had been able to work on quite a few urgent matters that could not wait until Monday.
“No, I don’t, you are right.” Mycroft returned the smile and bade the driver goodbye. “Thank you, and I will see you in the evening.” He fleetingly wondered what his trusted driver would be doing all day – he would not drive back to London but stay in the area as it was certainly more comfortable than to spend another more than four hours in the car, back and forth, just to drive Mycroft back in the evening. There was no way Mycroft would have invited him to stay – he appreciated the man’s services and professionalism, but their relationship should stay strictly professional, after all. And as discreet as Walter was, Mycroft did not feel inclined to expose him to the eccentric Holmes family… He had met Sherlock once in a while, and that was more than enough, given little brother acidic behaviour...
Thankfully, Mummy had told him he could not stay overnight as they needed the guest rooms – his and Sherlock's old childhood rooms – for her old aunt and a line-dancing friend of theirs. She had asked him to come on Saturday already and stay the night before the party, but he had declined. He was not a mediocre civil servant who could leave the office on Friday one pm and enjoy a completely free weekend. Even on Saturdays, he had meetings and lots of cleaning up to do – the kind of cleaning one did with computers or threatening phone calls. He had gone home at nine, and there was no way he could have been arsed to be driven to the countryside at this hour. But now he was here, it was still rather early in the morning so he had plenty of time to help her if necessary. Certainly, none of the guests had arrived yet. Holmeses were not known for rising early – him and Mummy being exceptions.
And despite his beautiful surroundings, Mycroft wished he were in his house in London… Having coffee, reading the newspaper, listening to some classical music before doing some important work without being constantly interrupted by a needy PM and a rather intrusive Lady Smallwood. But he would survive this one day. Hopefully...
“I’ll be on time,” Walter promised and got back into the limousine. “Have a good time with your family, sir.”
“I will, thank you.” Mycroft wondered if his voice was sounding convincing. Because most certainly, this particular Sunday would be awful. Perhaps even a disaster. A day in hell, if he wanted to be dramatic.
Not because his father turned seventy today. Not even because of having to deal with their relatives. People. It would be annoying to the extreme, certainly. Mummy would make a fuss. Aunt Rudina would want to know everything about the Queen. Cousin Randolph would make stupid jokes. Uncle Petter would probably be drunk one hour into the party. Mycroft would endure it all. He might want to kill them, but he would not do it. Because they were not the problem.
Sherlock was the problem, as per usual.
Sherlock, baby brother, the world’s only consulting detective, who had not talked to him for three months straight. Wisely, Mycroft had not gone to Baker Street to ask him and Doctor Watson for help on any kind of case, even though he could have used Sherlock's expertise more than once. He supposed that if he had dared show his face in their flat, Sherlock would have shot him. Well, maybe not exactly that… But there might have been objects flying into his direction. Violin strings would have been abused, creating a kind of acoustic torture Amnesty Internation would not approve of. A bow might have met Mycroft's eye…
Because Sherlock was more pissed off at him than he had ever been before. Was certainly seething at the very thought of Mycroft's existence. Big brother had done something so unspeakable and horrifying that Sherlock would never forgive him.
Mycroft had spoiled his fun, or, as Mycroft would have said, had, perhaps, saved his life. At the very least, he had kept Sherlock from being consumed by a vengeance against a criminal network for god knew how long, dealing with its insane leader, possibly having to give up his own career and risking his friendships with the people who were important to him, especially Doctor Watson. Jim Moriarty had been a dangerous opponent, too dangerous, after all, Mycroft had decided. The longer he and Sherlock had been plotting and scheming against this man – and god had it been nice to work alongside Sherlock, even seeing his brother smile at him sometimes! – the clearer it had become to Mycroft that Moriarty would only accept one ending to their feud: Sherlock's death. And even though Sherlock had hatched an elaborate plan, involving the ever-useful, smitten Miss Hooper and an ominous corpse that looked like him, he could have still died for real. Either in directly dealing with the Napoleon of Crime or during the war against the man’s vast network afterwards.
And that could not happen.
Mycroft had known Sherlock would not like it. At all. He had known that all those weeks of planning, being in Sherlock's good books, even hoping for a lasting better relationship, would be lost. He had known Sherlock might hate him forever. But he had seen no other way. In the end, there was no good relationship with a dead brother...
So Mycroft had struck before Sherlock had the chance to confront Moriarty, before Moriarty could have finished his own evil plan against the detective – using the mistrust some members of the police force had been harbouring against Sherlock already, destroying his reputation with the help of that idiot journalist he had been telling a fairy tale to – before everything could have accumulated in a potentially deadly confrontation.
In fact, he’d had the man arrested, never to be heard from again. He had sent three dozen agents to dismantle the man’s web all over Europe – they had been able to do that much more efficiently than Sherlock alone could have ever had. He had made sure Miss Kitty Riley saw all the evidence she needed to know that her imminent story of Rich Brook, the poor, innocent actor, was total bullshit – the next day, she had published an apology to Sherlock for the stupid lies she had already told about him, and had probably gotten severely drunk afterwards... He had also informed Molly Hooper that they would not be needing that corpse to throw off the roof. In fact, he had made sure said corpse was handed over to the Met. That same day, it had become clear that this unknown man’s fingerprints were on the crime scene of the kidnapped children so a certain, always angry sergeant and a notoriously stupid head of forensics had realised that they had been all wrong about Sherlock, making the man shower Sherlock with apologies (while the nasty sergeant had been very silent). He had cleared his brother’s name towards the police within just a few hours.
In short, he had taken Moriarty out and destroyed the man’s efforts to smear Sherlock before anything dire could have happened, sparing Sherlock lots of trouble. And yes – destroying his big adventure before it had even begun.
And, expectedly, Sherlock had exploded. He had called, via phone, Mycroft names that he had never heard before. Mycroft had listened to Sherlock's rants without saying a word until Sherlock had been out of breath from yelling. Then he had simply said, “You’re welcome”, and had winced when Sherlock had screamed into the phone with his voice breaking before ending the connection.
And since then, there had been silence between them. Until today. Because no matter how little Sherlock wanted to come here and meet him, not even mentioning anyone else that would show up, he would not back out. He would not hurt Mummy by refusing to be summoned here. He would not ignore his father’s birthday.
But boy, Sherlock would not make it easy on the man who had probably finally made it to the very top of his archenemy-list…
Mycroft had reached the door, sighed loudly, and rang the doorbell, listening to his mother’s footsteps coming closer a moment later.
Into battle…