Archive of Our Own ^beta

“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…

“Mycroft. I’m so happy you’re here.”

He hurried to meet his mother halfway down the corridor. “Of course I’m here. Sorry I couldn’t come last night but… work, you know.”

“You boys and your ever-important jobs,” she smiled and then she resolutely pulled him into a strong embrace that left him breathless.

She did look tired, though. Exhausted, even. “You did too much,” he said, worried, when she had let him go. “I bet everything looks perfect and you prepared the entire meal yourself.” She had not yet changed clothes for the party, obviously, wearing a neat but well-worn house dress and no makeup whatsoever, her grey hair in an untidy bun. She would certainly scrub up nicely when all the preparations were done and the guests were due.

Mummy gave him an indulgent smile. “No, my boy, I paid a catering service, and you will help me set the tables, right? I know my limits.”

“Do you?”

“Do you?”

Mycroft smiled. “Touché.” He had seen himself in the mirror when he had been shaving this morning. Work was taking its toll on him, he couldn’t deny it. There were days on which he would have liked to just walk away from it. Quit. Tell them to find someone else who could work themselves into the ground. But he knew he was not so easy to replace, given his unique talents – connecting dots by just reading reports, solving problems with his mind, sitting at his desk, that nobody else would have even detected.

Which was nice, of course. It was sort of an ego boost to be irreplaceable. But it kept the pressure coming, too… “I will do anything to help,” he promised, closing the front door behind him. It did feel like coming home even though he had not lived here for almost two decades and had barely ever returned for visits. Perhaps because his own house was not really a home. It was a place to spend the short time between two exhausting days at work and the odd free weekend.

It was a depressing thought, wasn’t it… He was a very powerful man, no matter how deeply he was hiding behind the shield of the ‘minor government position’. He wore bespoke suits, what was left of his hair was always cut by an expensive barber, he could have afforded all luxury under the sun – and yet he lived in a house his old Uncle Rudy had bequeathed him, and he had not bothered to change anything about the interior, with the exception of his bedroom and the adjourning bathroom. He didn't have any friends, well, how could he have? He was unlike any other person, well, except for Sherlock, but that was an entirely different matter… He was lonely, and he knew it. And only one person could have changed anything about it – alas, that was never going to happen.

He pushed those pointless thoughts away when Father joined them with a big smile. He looked healthy but a little bit tired, dressed sloppily for now – which would, without a doubt, change very soon under Mummy’s scrutiny. The elder Holmes had always been the jovial, touchy-feely kind – much to Sherlock’s displeasure; baby brother hated to be touched – and so it didn't surprise Mycroft in the least when he was pulled into a hug by his old man. Maybe he was getting sentimental in his middle years, but Mycroft found he didn't mind being embraced by his parents. After all, he knew they would not be there forever.

He congratulated Father and handed over his presents (a cashmere jumper, a voucher for a fancy dinner in one of Mycroft's favourite restaurants in London and a book about Arthur Conan Doyle, an author his father admired). Father was enthusiastic about his gifts and hugged Mycroft again, with Mummy standing next to them, smiling happily. For a moment, he let his mind wander to old times, with them sitting together in the large living room, Father and Sherlock reading, Mycroft discussing all sorts of topics with Mummy. Those times had not been that easy and carefree. After all, he had always been this awkward, out-of-the ordinary boy/man that would just not fit in. But in many ways, he had enjoyed this long-gone time without even really appreciating it, certainly more than he was enjoying his life now...

A few minutes later, he was burdened with chores by his mother. The catering people arrived and the house became as busy as a beehive. Baby brother had not shown up yet, and the anticipation of meeting him for the first time since bereaving him from the biggest adventure of his life (or, as Mycroft would have called it, a foray into doom) made him tingle with tension at an increasing rate, and eventually, he had to pull himself together to not drop everything his mother told him to put onto the table.

And when Sherlock arrived as Mycroft was just arranging some beautiful yellow roses in a vase, he could feel his presence before Mummy squealed in pleasure, as being in the same room as his brother, whether he could see him or not, made the hairs on his neck stand up and his soul tingle in the well-known mixture of excitement, desire, guilt and despair.

*****

“Oh, Violet, those flower bouquets are so precious.”

“Thank you, Mimi.” Mummy smiled brightly at her aunt. Don’t say it. Don’t say it… “Mycroft arranged them, actually.”

Thank you very much… Mycroft was not in the least surprised to hear a derisive snort from opposite of him but he chose to not look up. He knew what he would see in the mercurial eyes of the most beautiful man alive – dressed with elegant casualness, his curls bouncier and shinier than ever – and it was nothing exactly pleasant...

Of course being ignored did not keep him from reacting. “You’ve missed your calling, brother. Or are you indeed pursuing a new career as a florist?”

“Sherlock… It was nice of your brother to help me.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry I couldn’t come earlier to play with flowers,” Sherlock snarled. “I was up all night, chasing a serial killer. I caught him by the way, you’re welcome.” He grabbed a plate with tuna sandwiches. “Did you make these, too, brother? I’m surprised there was enough left to give to the guests.”

Instead of replying, Mycroft took a sip of his mineral water, stoically avoiding looking at his brother. He wondered why it still hurt. Sherlock's contempt. His hurtful innuendos.

He knew that Sherlock was angry with him. Very angry. And he should be used to it. But he would never get used to being treated that way by the only person that had ever conquered his heart, besides his parents. And his feelings for his brother went beyond any brotherly scale, which was not just royally fucked up but increased the impact of Sherlock's hurtful comments by a million. He knew he should have just stayed at home, finding an excuse to skip this party, and instead come on a different day. He would never learn, would he?

Trying to close his ears, he still heard his mother admonish Sherlock and tell him that he had to very well know that the catering service had brought the food.

“Does the Queen really have so many hats?” he heard Aunt Rudina ask from his other side, and he suppressed a groan, not missing the stifled laughter of his brother.

Everything was going as expected. Uncle Petter was working hard on getting drunk, Mycroft was answering inane questions about the Queen’s headwear, and cousin Randolph had already told four misogynistic jokes. And one about the current PM, which had actually been quite funny, but Mycroft had not allowed the corners of his mouth to go up. One needn’t encourage the man…

Listlessly, Mycroft ate a bit, waiting for a snarky remark about having gained weight. In fact, he had lost a few pounds since his latest fallout with Sherlock… They had just been too good – those weeks beforehand. Finally coming closer – albeit not as close as Mycroft had been dreaming of for so many embarrassing years now – finally not being Sherlock's worst enemy. Oh well… The good times always had to end…

“You know, boys, it’s really quite funny – you, arguing with each other.”

“I did not argue,” Mycroft couldn’t help but disagree.

“Me neither,” Sherlock shot back. “Just stating facts.” He looked so handsome… a light-blue suit, matching one of the colours of his mercurial eyes. His thick black curls neatly cut. He looked healthy, and oh-so-beautiful, and it didn't help at all…

“Are you really?” Father smirked and got up. “Well, there have certainly been times when you were a lot fonder of your brother.”

Mycroft was taken aback, especially when he saw Sherlock wince. What was this about? It was true that they had gotten along much better when Sherlock had been a boy, though. Oh how much he wished those times back...

“Oh, Siger. You want to show that to them?” Mummy asked, looking doubtful, but there was a tiny sparkle in her eyes that gave away that she did like the idea.

“Yes, why not?” laughed the birthday-man. “You said it was cute.”

“It was indeed,” she said, smiling.

“What’s dis about?” Uncle Petter asked, already sounding as if his tongue was a bit heavy.

Siger returned into the room with a piece of paper that looked rather old and crumpled. Mycroft heard Sherlock gasp, and he realised that baby brother’s face had become even paler than it normally was. Whatever their sire had just brought, Sherlock knew exactly what it was. And he definitely did not like to see it.

“Give that to me,” he demanded, his voice very deep.

Siger shook his head and sat down, grinning. “It’s nothing bad, Sherlock. It’s really cute, actually. A blast from the past, if you want. We ran into your old teacher, Mr Dunn, you know, after that famous case. Falls of the Reichenbach. That famous painting.”

“I remember it,” Sherlock hissed, his cheeks having gone reddish now.

How could he not? It was the case that had finally made him what he had never longed to be – famous. He had always done his detective work in a very low-key way, never keen on taking the credits for solving Detective Inspector Lestrade’s cases. He had not wanted any public recognition. It had solely been about the thrill of the chase, not the merits.

But that had changed when he had recovered Turner’s masterpiece. The newspapers had come up with headlines such as ‘Hero of the Reichenbach’. Some more high-profile cases had followed, like the one of the kidnapped banker or the arrest of Mr ‘Most Wanted’ Peter Ricoletti, and now Sherlock Holmes was a household name.

Now, however, he looked like an embarrassed little boy, and Mycroft was dying to find out what all this fuss was about.

“As you know, Sherlock was in an advanced class at school. You couldn’t throw him in with the general population,” laughed Father. “But of course he still thought his handful of really smart classmates were idiots, too.”

“They were,” mumbled Sherlock, probably completely automatically. He looked as if he was close to jumping up and running away.

“He gave us this.” Siger presented the papers. “Some special homework. Questions to be answered.”

Mycroft craned his neck to get a glimpse of the paper. He could see his brother’s sloppy handwriting between what had to be the questions in printed text, but he could not decipher anything.

“Father, don’t,” Sherlock said, his voice strained. “I was, how old, 10? Nobody cares to hear about this old stuff.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. Nobody wants to humiliate you, Sherlock,” Siger said, smiling. “But your mother and I were so touched by it and had a good giggle, too.”

“Thanks,” rumbled Sherlock, now hiding his [beautiful] face behind his large hands.

“We should really not do this,” Mycroft said, gently. “Sherlock clearly doesn’t like it, and it is not fair to make people laugh about what he thought as a child.” He met Sherlock's gaze, and the grateful look in his brother’s eyes pleased him. But there was something behind that gratitude. Resignation, probably. Anticipation of humiliation, if that was the intent of this or not. Father was determined to share whatever this was about with his family, it was his big birthday, and he wouldn’t be talked out of this. Mummy might have been able to do that, but she obviously did not think it was a big deal.

“Sherlock, don’t be a spoilsport,” she said indeed now. “Go ahead, dear,” she encouraged her husband, and Sherlock made a very weird noise deep in his throat.

“Okay,” laughed Siger, “first question: ‘What does the Queen mean to you?’”

“Oh, don’t say he wrote something rude!” screeched Rudina, the Queen fetishist at their table.

“You can bet on it,” chuckled Siger. “He said, ‘I couldn’t care less whether we have a queen or not. We are a bloody democracy. It’s just a waste of money to entertain those parasites.’” He gave Sherlock a bright smile. “I thought you were quite restrained, son. But then, you were barely eleven, after all.”

Mycroft smirked. Sherlock had clearly not changed his mind about that particular topic since then. Sherlock caught his look and Mycroft was surprised to see him blush. Apparently, there was something in this quiz that was a lot more embarrassing than Sherlock's contempt for Queen Elizabeth…

“’I am proud to be British because…’ It is a bit nationalistic, I have to say…,” mumbled Siger. “Well, our Sherlock was having none of it. ‘Is this a serious question?’”

Everybody laughed, only Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, thanks, Father. Can we stop here now? What is next, showing around my baby photos with me sitting in the tub? I thought we were celebrating your birthday, not Let’s-Torture-Sherlock Day.”

But Father just grinned and went on, and every answer revealed a bit more of how thoroughly annoyed Sherlock had been by that homework. Mycroft caught himself listening very closely to his brother’s replies to the increasingly personal questions, like, ‘What is your favourite colour?’ which had been answered by a laconic ‘black’, unsurprisingly. He had not actually answered a lot of them in detail, only when it came to his interests (science, obviously). He also confessed his obsession with classical music and his adoration for the family dog, Redbeard, which made the relatives go ‘awe’.

Mycroft found it all very amusing and in many ways informative, as it told him a lot about how Sherlock's mindset had been back then, and he didn't see why Sherlock was obviously getting more nervous with every question. What was embarrassing about his favourite place for vacation (‘South France’) or his preferred food (‘I don’t care about food’)?

And then…

“And here comes the sweetest one,” Siger laughed, and Sherlock seemed to freeze on his chair.

“Stop it,” he rasped out, and he winced when Mummy patted his hand and shushed him.

“’Do you think you will ever share your life with somebody?’ What a question for a kid, right… That teacher had some strange ideas… But listen… ‘There is no somebody. People are stupid and boring. There is only one person I would ever consider, and that’s my brother, who says he’s the smart one, even between the two of us, and he’s right.’” Sigher laughed. “Isn’t that precious? The only one Sherlock ever considered marrying was our Mycroft.”

Mycroft slowly turned his head to his brother. His heart was racing. He met Sherlock's look, and his little brother’s eyes were showing strong anxiety and something way beyond embarrassment. Mycroft would have described it as sheer panic...

“Excuse me,” Sherlock croaked and got up.

“There is no reason to be mortified, son,” Siger snickered. But Sherlock ran off, his entire body shivering, under the laughter of his insensitive and obviously oblivious (extended) family and their parents’ old friends.

Mycroft stared at him until he had disappeared, his hands cramping around the armrests of his chair, feeling shocked and amazed – and hopeful. It was hard not to go after Sherlock right away, but Mycroft knew that would not have gone down well.

Even though Sherlock clearly still thought he was the one for him, despite their messed-up relationship.

Which he was...

This had to be the worst day of his life. Sod having been robbed of the endless opportunities for adventure in the Moriarty case by his overprotective brother. Sod having almost died of an overdose five times since his late teenage years. It couldn’t get worse than this… And the worst thing was that it was his own bloody fault, he thought while walking across his parents’ large property, the fresh air clearing his mind but not easing his distress.

Sherlock had totally forgotten about this stupid quiz. Completely and utterly forgotten. Why the hell had he written anything like that, saying Mycroft was the only one for him. Which was true… It had been true back then, it was still true now. But of course Mycroft had never been supposed to know that.

Back then, he had obviously not imagined that his teacher could give the paper to his parents. Why should he? Digging up the memory of having answered this particular question, he knew that at that point, it had not been that long ago that he had discovered his feelings for his big brother, making him, despite the hopelessness of it, giddy and careless and honest like a stupid child for the unforgivable moment of idiocy in which he had written this down. He had still been a child, yes, but only by years. He had always been far ahead of any classmate, even the so-called brilliant ones. He was an ‘old soul’, as his grandmother had always said. Well, he didn't know about his soul, but for sure he had been smarter and more educated, his mind sucking up all knowledge it could get hold of before he had even set a foot into a school. He had always thought he was superior to anyone – except for Mycroft, that is.

Big brother had always, always been his idol. Mycroft had taught him so much when he was little. And Sherlock had always gone to him when he hadn’t understood something, when he had needed advice, when he had wanted a hug. Never to his parents. And Mycroft had always been there for him. Had answered endless questions. Sherlock had loved him for as long as he could think, and this love had turned into something more than brotherly love naturally. It had been a progress, and Sherlock had never questioned it.

But he had been way too smart to let Mycroft know about it. And, not long after doing this moronic homework, big brother had made it easy for him. He had left. Left Sherlock alone with his kind but clueless, normal parents, his idiotic teachers, his despicable peers. Had left him alone with his increasing wish for intimacy with his big brother. No more shared nights, however innocent, no more hugs and smiles and encouragement.

Of course Mycroft had wanted to keep contact with him, but he had been very busy, having been plucked away by the government after completing his studies in record time. He had rarely come back to visit the family he had left behind when Sherlock had been eleven, and Sherlock had simultaneously never forgiven him for that and never stopped loving him. In fact, his want and desire had only increased with every passing year. As had his resentments for having been abandoned – or so it felt – by the only person in the world who had ever understood him.

A spiral of despair and the wish to escape it by doing all kinds of reckless things and eventually getting high on a regular basis had messed up his life and wrecked their brotherly relationship to the point of sheer antagonism. How he had hated to be, sometimes literally, dragged out of drug dens, getting this look full of disappointment, anger and worry that Mycroft had mastered like nobody else. He had told Sherlock, time and time again, that he was better than that, but Sherlock was not. Numbing himself had been the only way to forget about his misery, the boredom, the emptiness, the shattered hopes and dreams that had become sour. Had it not been for Lestrade and the Met cases, Sherlock might have not survived that phase, that march to doom he had begun when he had taken the first hard drug.

The work, eventually John, and finally growing up had made him much calmer. He had found friends and a purpose, and life had been so much better. The feelings he’d had for his brother had been pushed into the very core of his soul. Always there but not burning a hole into him any more. Only when he had met Mycroft occasionally, usually on Mycroft's incentive, he had felt this simmering need, this desperate wish that they could be together. Knowing how futile and ridiculous and dangerous this wish was, he had lashed out at Mycroft at any opportunity. Had pulled one over him whenever possible. But that hadn't made him love his brother any less. He had even pretended to like Irene Adler to lure a reaction out of Mycroft. He had gotten one in that creepy plane, oh yes. But it had been contempt for his alleged weakness, not jealousy. Big brother admonishing him once more had made him feel small and silly and just wrong, and that had not been a nice feeling… Especially because he knew he had fucked up and deserved Mycroft's contempt – as he had really not planned to give away a state secret and torpedo a top secret government operation. Quietly, he had saved Irene, as she had only been an oblivious pawn in this game, and he had never even told Mycroft about it.

And then – the Moriarty blow-up. The confrontation that had tipped Sherlock over the edge. Not the confrontation with Jim he had longed for, but with his brother for interfering. For taking Jim out as if it was nothing.

And Mycroft had not even understood why Sherlock had been so upset. Sure, he had been pissed off about not going on that adventure his feud with the crime lord had been leading to. It had felt like running like mad only to be stopped abruptly. By a regal, long-fingered, manicured hand, and Mycroft was certainly aware of that.

But what really hurt was the fact that Mycroft, who had first helped him to get ready for clashing with Jim and then tearing apart his network, had not trusted him to actually do it. Mycroft obviously thought Sherlock was not capable of doing the job. After all, big brother thought he was still a stupid child. It had felt like the worst betrayal Sherlock had ever experienced, coming from the man he loved more than anything.

And now Mycroft knew that… One look had told Sherlock that Mycroft could see through him. Mycroft had understood that Sherlock's feelings for him had never changed, despite their estrangement.

And big brother’s look had given nothing away about what he thought about it. He had not seemed appalled. But he had to be. How was Sherlock supposed to survive this party?

But of course he had to go back. Man up. Pretend nothing had happened.

God… It would be so painful…

After quickly smoking a fag he had been hiding in his coat, as he really needed it now, he reluctantly returned to the house for a party that would be no fun at all, and it felt like walking towards his execution...

*****

Somehow, this seemingly endless day had gone by. Hours filled with socialising, bad jokes, good food, cold drinks and the strongest awkwardness Mycroft had ever experienced.

It had felt like being in the twilight zone as soon as Sherlock had been back, and boy had he looked as if he would rather run out of the house, the town, the country, and possibly the continent than face Mycroft again…

Thankfully, nobody had teased him with what he had written in a quiz such a long time ago. The party had gone on in his absence, Mummy had just patted his shoulder and given him a sandwich and then asked him about Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft had succumbed to a conversation with Aunt Rudina, giving away some naughty secrets about the Royal Family, only to lift the pressure from Sherlock as much as possible.

But he had still been feeling Sherlock's look on him whenever he had turned his back to him completely. The stare had made its way into Mycroft's soul, had made him tingle with tension. He had almost turned over his glass because his hand had been shivering.

They needed to talk about this, but certainly not in the presence of their slightly crazy family. Mycroft had made himself useful, handing out plates, getting more wine for Uncle Petter, doing Mummy’s bidding.

Eventually, they had all been sitting in the garden with a glass of water or orange juice – the uncle had fallen asleep in an armchair in the sitting room – and the party was officially over. Mummy had excused herself to clean everything up, and Mycroft had asked Father to stay seated and entertain the guests who had not already left, and had followed his mother into the house with a tray, feeling Sherlock's eyes following him as they had been doing all day.

Mummy had been chatting away happily about everything and nothing, not once touching the subject Mycroft certainly did not want to talk to her about, and it had been very amicable and right-out cosy. Mycroft had decided he would come home more often in the future. He had not forgotten how he had thought in the morning that one day, he would return to an empty house that had to be sold, and he had to admit he enjoyed the company of his parents. Everything here was just so slow, and in his hectic everyday life, he needed some of this slowness. A realisation he had certainly not expected when he had entered the car to be brought here. Not the only one, obviously…

And now he was ready to take a seat in the car again to return to London, but this time, he would not be the only passenger.

He had announced his departure after having confirmed his driver’s return in a quick message exchange. And Mummy had asked him if he could give Sherlock a ride.

Sherlock had gaped at him like a deer in the headlights for a moment before he had schooled his expression to faux indifference and said that he would take a cab to the station and then go by train, just like he had done on his way here.

Mycroft could have let him get away with it. He could have said something snarky and offensive. But number one, he would have upset his mother with it and number two, he knew he might only get this one chance… A two-hour car-ride with a Sherlock who was trapped and unable to flee? It was the best opportunity he would ever get. So he had, also with faux indifference, said that Sherlock was very welcome to join him as he would be working on his laptop the entire time anyway and hardly notice that his brother was there.

Of course, Sherlock had not fallen for that. He had swallowed hard and feverishly searched for a way out – he had been trying to appear calm, but his eyes had given him away. Going on a long ride with Mycroft was the last thing he wanted to do. But Mummy had said that it was settled then. And there had been something in her eyes Mycroft was not sure he had really seen. It had made him panic for a moment – did she know how he was feeling about Sherlock? Did she know that Sherlock had never changed his mind, either? – and then Father had joked that they could plan their wedding on their way home then, and Mycroft had choked on his spit and Sherlock had produced a strangled whine deep in his throat and Mummy had given her birthday-husband a not-quite-friendly slap on the shoulder but there it had been again – that ominous sparkle in her big eyes.

After all the goodbyes and well-wishes and thank-you’s, Mycroft had led the way while their parents had gone back into the house. Walter had already arrived and got out of the car now. He had clearly enjoyed this more or less free day in the fresh air, far away from smoggy London. There had obviously been a visit to a nice café, too, and perhaps even a little flirt with a local woman.

“Mr Holmes. Well, Mr Mycroft, Mr Sherlock.”

Mycroft smiled. “We are giving my brother a ride home.”

Walter beamed. “Of course.” He proceeded to come up to them to take Mycroft’s bag – Sherlock had not brought one – but Mycroft gestured for him to stay.

“No worries.” He turned to his brother, who was standing next to him, motionlessly. “Ready, little brother?”

Sherlock was clearly anything but ready. He looked as if he estimated how long it would take for him to run to London… But he nodded and croaked, “Yes.” There was fear in his eyes as well as a plea – ‘don't ask me about it!’ – but then he stalked towards the car, and Mycroft knew this ride would most certainly change both of their lives.

Sometimes, it is now or never. Sometimes, life throws a chance you had never even dared hope for your way.

And Mycroft would not let this chance pass.

Sherlock didn't want to be here. He would have rather walked home than sit here next to his brother on the backseat of the fancy government car. Whatever had he been thinking, agreeing to joining his brother after what had happened today? But he had not even really done that, had he, Mummy had decided he would do it. And grown man or not, he had never really learned to say ‘no’ to his mother… It was embarrassing, really, and right now, it was to be feared that it would backfire greatly...

Fastening his seatbelt, he stared at the dark screen that separated them from the driver. Which meant they were undisturbed. Panic flooded his system once more, and he stared at Mycroft, who was just neatly folding his coat.

“The screen is always closed,” big brother said, casually. “I like to work here, having my peace and quiet. Sometimes I even manage to take a short nap.”

“Oh, fine. Great. Do that now. You must be knackered from all the socialising and housework today. I won’t disturb you.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and held it up with what he hoped was a friendly smile but probably resembled the grimace of a skull… “I’ll keep myself busy. Just ignore me.” Too much. Way too much… Not even John would have bought that...

Mycroft gave him a look that said, ‘nice try’. “Sherlock –…”

“Father did look quite well, didn’t he?” Sherlock blathered, knowing he had to fill the silence or else, Mycroft would do it, and that would not bode well for him. “I wonder how I’ll be looking at 70.” He winced and then beamed when the phone he was still holding vibrated. “Oh, that’s John. Excuse me for a moment.”

“Sure,” Mycroft said calmly and pulled out his own phone.

The short conversation that followed was surprisingly smooth, given the fact that Sherlock's hand was shivering while he was typing. But that was John Watson for you. Loyal, indulgent – most of the time – and easy to handle.

Survived the party? JW

Easily. On my way home in Mycroft's fancy car. SH

[And I don’t want to be here.]

Oh, that was nice of him. I’ll be out when you come home. Date. I told you. You forgot. JW

Mummy’s idea. Perhaps he will kick me out on the way. Did you? Yeah, I forgot. Have fun. SH

I will, thank you. My regards to your brother. JW

As if. SH

Fine, don’t say anything. Having a nice conversation? JW

[Oh, if you only knew…]

No. He is busy. SH

[I can only hope so…]

Probably for the better. I don’t think a black eye would suit him. JW

I don’t tend to beat people up, John. Only with words. SH

And we know he can do that very well, too… JW

[True. And he will. As soon as I have to focus on him again…]

Why are we talking about my brother? SH

Right. I need to go anyway. See you tomorrow. JW

Fine. Or tonight, if she throws you out. SH

Thanks a bunch. JW

You are welcome. SH

There was no answer after that, and reluctantly, Sherlock stored his phone. So did Mycroft, and then big brother looked at him again. Sherlock pondered about opening the door and throwing himself onto the street. It couldn’t be worse than the conversation that was waiting for him…

“Sherlock…”

“Let’s just not do that, Mycroft. You look tired. Have your nap. You arranged flowers today.”

“Do you still feel the same way?” Mycroft's lips were shivering a bit but his eyes were boring into Sherlock's.

Sherlock gasped. He had not expected his brother to attack him like that. Just bring up the touchiest subject ever without even hesitating, even though he clearly was nervous about it. But his determination seemed to beat his anxiety. “I never did,” he lied. “I just wrote that to disturb my teacher. And the others were all idiots. I didn't know any smart people outside of the family. Still don’t.”

Mycroft stared at him for what felt like an eternity. His face was impossible to read. Then he nodded. “Shame. If you only felt like I feel…”

“What?” Sherlock winced at the sound of his own voice. It was a mere shriek…

“You heard me.” Mycroft’s voice was totally calm but there was something in his blue eyes that betrayed his nonchalance.

Still, that couldn’t be true. Sherlock would have noticed that! It had never been that difficult to deduce Mycroft – Sherlock had always known when his brother had been upset about something Sherlock had done, and also when he had been hurt... How could it even be true? He had treated his brother like shit for leaving him behind and because it was easier and because it had been a way of hiding his own feelings. “This is not a subject to joke about,” Sherlock hissed.

“I am not joking, brother mine.”

Sherlock snorted. “You think I’m an idiot, you have always done that! You just proved it!”

Mycroft looked perplexed. “When, right now? How –…”

“No, not right now!” Sherlock screeched, wondering if the driver could hear him through the glass. Not that it mattered that much. If he worked for Mycroft, his middle name had to be ‘discretion’. And frankly, he didn't care anyway. “When you took Moriarty out! You know what we had planned! And you just were like this” – he snapped his fingers – “and took it all away because you thought I was too stupid to handle it!”

“No, it had nothing to do with that,” Mycroft said, almost pleadingly. “I know how capable you are. How smart. But… He was dangerous. His people were dangerous. I couldn’t let you go into the lion’s den with no backup and allow you to confront his network in all Europe. You could have died, Sherlock. And… I wouldn’t be able to bear this loss…”

His voice had gotten quieter with the last two sentences, and Sherlock could see the absolute truth of his claims.

He shut his mouth and swallowed. His wrath, which he had been cultivating and cherishing for months, had suddenly deflated like a balloon which had met a needle. Mycroft cared about him. He didn't think he was stupid. He loved him…

Dear God… All those years of fighting Mycroft, of trying to prove that he was not an idiot, a hopeless case and a lost drug addict while simultaneously hiding his true feelings from him. What a bloody waste of time…

But whom did he want to fool? Mycroft might have mingled in the Moriarty affair because he cared, he might love Sherlock beyond the brotherly scale – or had he gotten that wrong?! – but that still didn't mean Mycroft would want to actually act on it. The sheer thought was ridiculous. It would jeopardise everything he was, everything he had, and big brother would never risk his career for anything or anyone. Certainly not for him…

He realised that Mycroft was watching him closely, deducing him fiercely, now that Sherlock's shields were finally down, probably for the first time in their adult lives. Well, except for the moments in which Sherlock had felt burning anger about his brother’s overreach and his patronising ways.

“I can see you are coming to conclusions, Sherlock, and let me assure you that they are wrong,” Mycroft said softly. “I have wanted this… wanted you… for so long. You were of age,” he hastily added. “But only barely…” He blushed a little at these words, and Sherlock was amazed to no end.

“So you mean… You want to say…”

“I want this, Sherlock. It’s as easy as that.”

“Easy!” blurted Sherlock, blushing himself now. “Nothing about it is easy. Us. Our messed-up relationship. The consequences if anyone finds out and reports us…” Then his eyes opened wide in shock. “You think Mummy knows it? That she made me join you on this trip because she… supported it?” After all, Mummy had read what he had written about Mycroft, and after seemingly hesitating, she had encouraged Father to share it with the family. Which had been a dick move, hadn’t it? But what if she had wanted to make them have this discussion now?

Mycroft shrugged but then he nodded. “It is a possibility, yes. But of course we cannot raise the subject without being a hundred percent sure.”

“I don't want to raise this subject in the presence of our parents, ever!” Sherlock hissed, mortified. “That would be… No. Just no.” And how could it even be possible that their mother would be okay with an incestuous relationship? Because she knew they would both be alone forever if they didn't get together? Was she really that understanding and tolerant? And what about his friends? John? Mrs Hudson? Or, God forbid, Lestrade? How would they react if they found out? All those thoughts made his brain dizzy and his skin tingle. He had certainly not expected this outcome of going home for the birthday of one of his parents…

Forcing himself to calm down a bit, he realised that this was the most amazing day of his life. Him and Mycroft, more or less alone in this car, talking about loving one another… Amazing. It suddenly felt as if a shadow that had lain over his life for so long had been finally lifted, making way for a path of light and love and a future so promising and exciting that he couldn’t even imagine it. But there would be demons along that path, and they should better not forget it.

“Are you prepared for it, Mycroft?” he asked, inquiringly. “If we are discovered? What then?”

“Then, Sherlock, I will have strategies ready to deal with that,” Mycroft said like a true politician. “Do you doubt that?”

“Not really but… you would want this? Taking that risk? Perhaps having to go away together if things get dire?” Because neither of them would want to go to prison...

“I am quite sure that we can avoid that,” Mycroft said suavely. “But if it becomes a necessity, and we cannot rule that out completely – of course.” He smiled. “You might think I’m an obsessed slave to Queen and country, and I might have more power than any random minor government official. But I’m really just a pretty unique civil servant. I have brains – I think we can agree on that, after hearing this bon mot about me being your only match. I can do other things. But… what about you? Of course you could also do a lot of other things with your life,” he hastened to add. “But would you leave it all behind – your friends, your work, just for being with a brother you obviously love but have been fighting against for ages?” His pale-blue eyes bored into Sherlock's. “Is it worth it?”

Sherlock leaned back against the seat, his eyes locked with Mycroft's. And he thought of the sacrifices he had planned to make to keep John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade safe. He thought of the fun he and John had, chasing criminals, bickering about nothing, teasing each other. Mrs Hudson, being like another mother for him, always an open ear, always a biscuit with his tea. And Greg Lestrade, who had risked his own career by giving him access to crime scenes – even though of course the fact that Sherlock had saved those cases for him had not hurt his career… Even Molly with her frankly annoying infatuation with him, just having proved she would go above and beyond for him to help him beat Moriarty. All of them were friends, and he relied on them, trusted them, and liked them. And he loved The Work. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. He had eventually found something he was really good at. Even though many people still disliked him greatly, and thought he was a fraud, like Sally Donovan, who would never be convinced he was the real deal, he had achieved something that resembled stardom, and he had gained respect from a lot of people. He was no pathetic druggie anymore who had fucked up his academic education and relied on his trust fund. He had found his place in life.

And he looked at his brother, the brother he had loved forever, and the sudden possibility of finally having him as his lover, his partner, almost made him keel over. They had done nothing forbidden yet, and who knew when they would even kiss for the first time. Maybe later today, if he was lucky. Doing anything really incestuous would come much later.

But he knew it – this was what he had always wanted, even as a boy. It would still be what he wanted in twenty years. It was forbidden, stupidly enough, but it was the right thing for him. For them.

“It is – worth it. And I will go with you to the end of the world, if we have to.” He bit his lip after bursting out with something that emotional, fearing to be mocked for being a sentimental fool. It was the simple truth though – he would give up everything, not without any regret but without hesitation, should it ever be necessary.

And by now, he should have known better – now that they had confessed to love one another, even though neither of them had actually spoken it out, the days of contempt for sentiment had to be over. Mycroft stared at him for a moment longer before he smiled at Sherlock, a smile unlike any other Sherlock had ever seen on his face, and his heart clenched with affection, and there might or might not be a tear in his eye.

Mycroft offered him his hand, and after a moment of being dumbfounded, Sherlock let his hand join his, and their fingers entwined, and now there was definitely a tear. It rolled down his cheek, where it was caught by a soft fingertip.

Sherlock was hyper aware of his brother’s presence right behind him when he was climbing the seventeen steps to his flat as quietly as possible. His heart was beating much faster than it could be healthy, but it was the kind of excitement he had never even dared hope to experience, and he could feel the silly grin that was spreading on his face by itself.

Mycroft had told his driver to wait for fifteen minutes. He had not given him any explanation as that would have only been suspicious, and the man had clearly thought nothing of it. Fifteen minutes by themselves was certainly not much – more might have been suspicious, too – but Sherlock was sure he would cherish every second of this short period of time. They had entered the house without alarming Mrs Hudson, whose telly they had heard through the closed door of her flat. This was the time of day his landlady liked the most – chilling in her favourite armchair, a glass of sherry on the table next to her, watching crap telly, not having to worry about anything.

He carefully opened the door – there had been no light in the living room and John had said he would be out, but one couldn’t be sure enough if one planned on some light incestuous actions…

But the flat was empty, and Sherlock waved Mycroft in and quietly closed the door behind them, shedding his coat and throwing it into the general direction of the wardrobe, which made Mycroft chuckle in a tone that did things to Sherlock that had never been done to him before. And they had not even started to do anything really exciting…

On their long way back to London, they had just talked. Holding hands (and damn had it felt good) and talked – and there had been a lot to cover.

It was impossible to erase decades of estrangement within a two-hour ride. But they had addressed the sore spots, the hurt, the misunderstandings, the wrong-doings, everything that had made them drift apart more and more. It had been painful to admit how poorly he had treated Mycroft, but it had not surprised him that much that Mycroft had accepted his explanations and apologies, and had offered a lot of his own, too. It had felt like poking into a heavily infected wound and letting out all the nasty stuff so it could finally heal. And being in love – and this feeling had only gotten stronger during that time – would surely increase the pace of this healing.

They would take it slow – there was really no other possibility, given their mutual lack of experience with any intimate relationship, and there would be throw-backs, last but not least because it would be a challenge to actually find time to meet and spend some hours, if not a full night, together, given their respective work and the fact that John and Mrs Hudson would have to be kept in the dark, but that didn't bother Sherlock. He had been longing for this forever, and so had Mycroft, and neither of them had even entertained the possibility that they could ever actually have the other one. So each and every minute spent together would be special, and they wouldn’t allow anything to disrupt their newly-found bond. Their forbidden love might have to thrive in the dark, but thrive it would.

Devoid of their outerwear, they sat down on the couch, and Mycroft's arm curled around his shoulders immediately, and Sherlock shuddered at the contact, as innocent as it was. He rubbed his face against Mycroft's neck, and was rewarded by a delighted sigh and an even firmer hug.

“You should have told him you needed thirty minutes, no, an hour!” Sherlock breathed, and Mycroft smiled.

“If I had done that, we would have gotten carried away, and I wouldn’t have gotten out at all. Which would be too soon and not very reasonable.”

“I think we’ll have to get used to not being reasonable…”

“That is true,” Mycroft conceded. His hand was rubbing Sherlock's arm very appealingly, and the fingers of his other hand were linked with Sherlock's once more.

“And there is nothing bad about being carried away… a bit…” Sherlock husked.

“Isn’t there?” teased Mycroft. “So what do you want to do in the twelve minutes we have left?”

Sherlock couldn’t say it, but he pursed his lips, and Mycroft smiled. “I see. I think it can be arranged.”

“Ever the politician, Mycroft,” Sherlock teased him back, and then he closed his eyes when Mycroft’s face closed the gap and the soft lips of his older brother finally touched his for the first time.

There were no fireworks and the earth didn't move beneath him. But the kiss sent sparks of joy and want through his body, and it touched his soul in its very core. This was not another fantasy – he had allowed himself to have any of those very rarely, and only a very long time ago, as indulging in them had been painful and seemed pointless as he had thought they could never come true. This was not a dream. This was really happening. His arms curled around his brother’s neck and he moaned into Mycroft's mouth when his brother’s tongue spread his lips and demanded entrance. Mycroft chuckled, their teeth clacked together, and they both groaned and laughed at the same time before they resumed their task, a task so new, so exciting.

Mycroft slowed him down when he got greedy, and Sherlock did understand why – it wouldn’t do for Mycroft to return to his car with lips puffy from kissing. So the kiss stayed on the chaste side, mostly, but it was engraved in his heart already, not just his mind palace, as it meant the world.

They would not be able to do this here very often. John usually did spend the evenings at home as his flings were always short-lived – Captain Watson did prefer solving cases or just hanging out with Sherlock over any woman. Mrs Hudson was cute and helpful but rather nosy, too, and it would not be a nice surprise to have her sneaking up on them, and locking the door would give their secret away even faster.

Whether their mother really supported this remarkable development or not – and it was very hard for Sherlock to believe that she truly did – this love was one that didn't dare speak its name, and that would never change. They would have to be so careful but there was no question that Sherlock would do anything he could to make it work, and so would Mycroft, without a doubt.

They finally stopped the slow, soft dance of their tongues and lips to regard each other in wonder, and Sherlock shuddered when Mycroft’s hand slid through his curls, caressing his scalp.

There was so much to say and yet neither of them found the words. And did they really have to? Everything they felt was written on their faces, was in the smile they gave one another, and the looks that lingered.

“So, little brother,” Mycroft said eventually, “what are you going to do when I come here with a case for you to take care of?”

“I’m going to tell you to leave me alone,” breathed Sherlock, and Mycroft grinned.

“Good boy. And then John will take it anyway and -…”

“...I’m going to solve it behind his back, and yours, too.”

Mycroft nodded, smiling. “Everything as it should be. Business as usual.”

But of course it wasn’t, and it would never be again – it just had to look like that. So far, they had not broken any laws, had not consummated their forbidden love. And still – they belonged to one another now, they had given their hearts, their trust, and their love to each other, and neither of them would take this lightly.

“I think it would be smart to gradually get along better,” mused Sherlock, his mouth very close to Mycroft's.

“Agreed. Tell John we buried the hatchet as Mummy forced us to.”

That would certainly surprise John, but not too much. He knew both Holmes boys respected their mother and her wishes, at least to some extent… “That could work. It will be good, Mycroft, won’t it? Really good?”

“It will be amazing,” agreed Mycroft, his lips searching for Sherlock's again, and Sherlock got all pliant and soft in his brother’s embrace.

Mycroft would have to leave soon, way too soon, and who knew when they would be alone with each other again. But Sherlock couldn’t wait for it, but would still wait patiently, because this was what he had always wanted. It had happened under rather crazy circumstances, but that was quite fitting, wasn’t it, because neither of them was normal, and what they had now was clearly not normal, but normal was boring.

And whatever happened next would be the very opposite of boring, and Sherlock would be there for it, and if Mycroft's hand on his hip and then, very briefly, on his arse, was any indication, his brother would be so there for it, too.

Sherlock would hate to see him go tonight, but he would love to have him back in his arms, time and time again, even if it was just for a few minutes each time. They would make the best of it, so much was sure.

“What?” smirked Mycroft, stroking his face.

Sherlock realised he had been smiling soppily from ear to ear. “Nothing… Just… You know… Romance. Naughty things. You and me.”

“Ah. You and me, being romantic and naughty. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” Mycroft nuzzled his face against Sherlock's cheek.

Yes, Sherlock had to admit. It sounded really fucking great.

*****

Mycroft sat down in his chair, wearing nothing but his bathrobe, a glass of his finest whiskey in his hand. He had never felt like this before. Giddy. Happy. Excited. Remorseful to have left Sherlock without showing him his age-old feelings even more physically. The kisses and the touches seemed so insufficient now that he was alone again. He should have stayed longer. How delicious Sherlock tasted, how soft and beautiful his mouth had felt on his – Mycroft could still feel it, and he remembered in awe how perfect baby brother had fitted into his arms. He wanted more, needed more.

But he knew that it was for the better. Taking things slow. Getting to know each other in all the emotional ways before going all the way. Something to look forward to, definitely.

When his landline rang, he was not overly surprised. In fact, he had expected it. He said his name as if he had not seen who was calling.

“Hello Mycroft. Just checking if my two boys got home well.”

Mycroft smiled. If he’d had any doubt about Mummy’s intentions of sending Sherlock along with him, they had now vanished. It wasn’t in her words but in her tone. “We did, thank you. I trust everything is shiny and clean and you are about to go to bed?”

“Quite so. Sherlock is at Baker Street?”

“He is. I dropped him off before my driver brought me home.”

“And he is quite happy, I suppose…”

“I would think so, yes. And so am I.” It did feel a bit surreal, talking to his mother in this casual way but with heavy innuendo. Had she always known how he felt about Sherlock? And had she only realised that these feelings were mutual when she had seen that quiz, seeing Sherlock's behaviour towards him in a new light?

“I’m very glad.”

“You really are, aren’t you?” As if he had to ask… Who should know better than their mother that they would never be able to find someone to love, seeing how far beneath them everybody was? How difficult they were, how unique, how hard to understand?

“Yes. You guys being happy has always been my biggest wish. And Sherlock… He has struggled so much in his life. And it hurt to see him bash you, every time we met you two. That is not going to happen again, I assume?”

“No. Not on my watch.” He did not ask what Father thought about it – he was absolutely sure that he had no clue, and Mummy wouldn’t tell him. Perhaps, over time… But even if not – knowing that their mother knew and supported them meant the world. Both he and Sherlock had never been that close to their parents, for a lot of reasons, but her approval was much more important to him than he had realised before. They were special, Sherlock and he, and he should have known that their mother was, too.

“Will you two visit us soon again?” Mummy asked softly.

“Of course. I need more time off. And Sherlock can’t chase murderers all day and night, after all. Going to the countryside once in a while will be good for him.”

“You’ll take care of him, right?”

“Always.” Keeping Sherlock safe had always been his number one priority. Keeping him happy was another one, now that he had the chance.

“I know him to be in the best of hands. Well, I better let you go now, Mycroft. Good night.”

“Good night, Mummy. My regards to Father. And… thank you. For everything.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. You have always been the strong one. I have relied on you more than I should have, I suppose. But I always knew this day would come.”

Mycroft swallowed. They had come closer to actually speaking it out than he had anticipated. “Well, you’re the smart one,” he chose to say, and she laughed and bade him good night again.

When he had put the phone away again, he sat back in his chair, a big smile on his face.

What a brilliant, happy day… And really only the first of so many more to come.

The End