Work Text:
[velocity of detonation.]
A violent and rapid oxidation reaction occurs, the walls blow outward, hurling debris and the world shakes itself down to rubble.
The fires are still burning, flames eating at the windows when Mycroft's phone rings and he’s grabbing his coat before the caller finishes the dreadful sentence. Emergency services haven't appeared yet and his car rounds the corner onto Baker Street.
The tires roll over smashed-flung glass, but this isn’t the same as a dead bird with a broken neck on a sunny day. The lower storeys of the building across are just an open gaping hole, like a broken jaw. He looks up at 221b and the windows are gone, but nothing is burning.
Nothing is moving either.
He lets himself in (a key made with Sherlock’s disgruntled approval), and he holds his heart tight in his chest, his nerves scattershot like the ash and debris marks on the face of the building.
Mrs. Hudson appears from the gloom like a frightened ghost, talking fast and breathless. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, that wasn't Sherlock, was it, he hasn’t blown anything up in a while, bless him. It didn’t sound like it. Is it—is there someone one out there burning us down?"
She refuses to call him Mycroft beyond any reason he or Sherlock can understand and he takes her by the elbow, guides her quickly back to her flat for safety.
"No, Mrs. Hudson, it’s fine. It's across the street," he says, lowering his tone, reassuring, and the sirens in the near distance put punctuation to his words.
She's shaking or maybe he is, and she takes his hand, squeezing it, leaning towards him confidentially, and she’s shaking or maybe he is.
"John left earlier, they had a domestic and he left without a heavy jacket for such a nippy night. I told Sherlock that jacket wasn't good enough for the cold, he—" Her face goes white as milk. "Oh, Sherlock—"
"Will you be all right," Mycroft says and he's fighting to keep the impatience out of his voice because his brother hasn't come pounding down the stairs in a mad dash to see the destruction from the epicenter of the blast radius, he isn't here talking furiously and demanding answers.
She nods, suddenly quiet. He tries to be gentle, saying, “Stay here, make some tea,” but his jaw aches sharply and he realises he's gritting his teeth. Behind him, Mrs. Hudson says something, but he doesn't hear her, all he can hear is his heartbeat.
He's not as athletically inclined as Sherlock, but he can move and fast and he takes the stairs two at a time, panic spreading out from his stomach towards his lungs as he gets to the door and everything beyond sounds eerily still. He can hear the sirens with the draught of cold air slithering under the door.
"Sherlock. Sherlock."
A slide of glass on the other side, and Mycroft shoulders the door open.
Sherlock is on the floor, as if he's been tossed there in the masonry dust, glass like cracked stars everywhere, pieces bright in his dark hair, over his blue dressing gown, the rug, surrounding him in an outline.
"Sherlock." Mycroft has felt this urgent terror before, when he found Sherlock collapsed from his overdose, and he has to breathe through it or it will eat him alive, there and then.
"Sherlock." Four times now he's said his brother's name, one time past the charm, and Mycroft cautiously palpitates around Sherlock's neck and spine, down his sides and legs and his body is so warm under Mycroft's palms, warm and breathing.
He brushes the glass out of the messy curls and with the soft, musical tinkling, there's no blood on his fingers and the panic is receding, pulling away so he can think. Then Sherlock shifts and Mycroft takes a breath, short and sharp.
He's on his knees next to his brother like a supplicant and he's been granted grace when those greybluegreen eyes open, bright as the smashed shards of glass.
"Mycroft, the windows exploded," Sherlock says, his deep voice ruining the little lost boy way he sounds. "After I was practically begging the criminal underclass to come get me. Everything was so obnoxiously quiet."
"And now you’ve disturbed the whole neighbourhood," Mycroft says and Sherlock halfheartedly glares. Mycroft stops talking, his mouth feels wrong until he helps Sherlock sit up and then Sherlock leans against him, tilting in to kiss him, just a press of mouths as proof and fact.
They're on the floor of 221b, sitting crumpled together in scattered shards and debris, kissing open-mouthed with the smell of smoke and explosion and dust. Sirens wail under the remains of the windows and Sherlock hisses when Mycroft finds a blooming bruise with his fingers. He shrugs Mycroft away, demanding space, haughty expression returning, before looking around at the destruction.
This is what it's like to love his brother, Mycroft knows and accepted it years ago when he first shed blood for Sherlock and he knows Sherlock would never give this up, not from the first time he shed blood for Mycroft.
Mycroft was fourteen and Sherlock was seven and they were in London. Sherlock refused to hold Mycroft’s hand, ‘I’m too old, Mycroft, and I won’t get lost,’ so disdainful, and everything was fine until they missed their train because they’d spent too long at the British Museum, peering at things behind glass and Sherlock kept going back to touch the sarcophagi. ‘We need cartouches,’ he declared, for immortality, then they realised what time it was and had to run. No worries, they’d wait for the next train and they were discussing the cartouches, Mycroft drawing hieroglyphs on his palm, and it was fine until a drunken man stumbled up the platform next to them. He watched Sherlock for a few minutes and Sherlock eyed him too until the man said, ‘C’mere.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘No.’
‘C’mere.’ The word slurred insistent and he crooked his hand in a floppy wave. ‘Over here.’
‘No.’
‘I said c’mere.’ The man frowned, face going red and Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.
‘I said no,’ Sherlock repeated, voice high and clear.
The man glanced at Mycroft. ‘Bring him ‘ere, I wanna talk to him.’
Mycroft pulled Sherlock away, saying, ‘No, sir,’ and he thought that’d be the end of it, but the man grunted.
‘I just wanna talk to him.’
‘Sir—‘
‘I just wanna talk to him. I gotta tell him somethin’.’
The drunk wasn’t going to let it go, they could both tell, but before Mycroft could say anything else or even shield his little brother, Sherlock proceeded to tear the man apart in strips. ‘You smell. You smell like vodka.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘And you need a bath. You should go home, sir, but you don’t really have a home. Your wife left you three—no, four days ago and took your child, you only have the one, though I can’t tell what gender, boy, I’m guessing.’
‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft warned and he dragged Sherlock back a step, he didn’t say Sherlock’s reasoning was correct, the child was a boy, probably Sherlock’s age, most likely why the man wanted to talk to him.
Sherlock kept going, head tipped in curiosity. ‘Did you lose your job too? Your drinking made them leave, so it’s a decent guess about the status of your employment. Is that why you’re drunk now? Where did they go? How long was it before you knew they were gone?’
The drunk looked absolutely dumbfounded, then he exploded, ‘You little bastard!’ and charged forward. Mycroft only had a split-second, so he closed the distance and shoved the man as hard as he could, but the man had years of weight and hours of drinking up on Mycroft and he was furious.
‘Is that fuckin’ bigmouth yours?’ the drunk yelled, spittle flying as he pointed a shaking finger at Sherlock. ‘Pryin’ into people’s lives where he’s not wanted. He needs to learn him some manners. Or be flushed down the loo like the piece of shite he is.’
‘Do you usually pick on children?’ Sherlock hissed and the man choked, his face redder and redder like murder.
Mycroft wasn’t scared, this drunken ass was threatening his brother and he’d fight back until he couldn’t breathe anymore. ‘Yes, this is my brother. He only told the truth; it’s not his fault your wife left you. Maybe she saw you for the real fucking piece of shit you are. Sir.’
The man yelled and rushed Mycroft, a wild clawing hand scratching out, closing around his throat, but Sherlock darted between them and kicked the raging man in the groin, hard. The man screamed like a wounded animal and stumbled, falling to his knees.
Bent double, the man glared at them, hands cupping himself, angry tears running down his face and a black look of absolute utter hatred, and Sherlock said, ‘You tried to hurt my brother,’ then he rabbit-punched the drunk square in the nose and with a loud crunching sound, blood spurted everywhere as the man collapsed backwards in a quivery ball, howling. Frowning, Sherlock went to kick the drunk again and Mycroft grabbed him, arm around Sherlock’s tiny shoulders and under his knobby knees, and Sherlock fought him like a devil.
‘Mycroft!’
‘Sherlock, stop it, he’s had enough, stop.’
Then Sherlock went limp in his grasp and Mycroft carried him down the platform as the loudspeaker announced the next train arriving.
When Mycroft set him down, he saw the blood on his little brother’s fist and face, red sprayed all over his shirt and jacket. He took Sherlock’s hand, blood smearing between them as the small fingers threaded through his and Sherlock squeezed to the point of pain.
Those eyes looked at him, grim and livid, the colours changing rapidly, and Sherlock wiped at his cheeks and said, ‘He tried to hurt you.’
Twenty-three years later, this is what it’s like to love his brother as Sherlock looks at him in the dark of the flat with the smell of smoke everywhere and the otherworldly swirl of the emergency vehicle lights and Mycroft is prepared to rip the world apart. He thinks, Someone tried to hurt you.
“I’m guessing gas leak,” Sherlock says, “whoosh,” hands flying up to form an imaginary fireball even as he’s cataloguing the debris within reach.
“Hospital,” Mycroft says, taking away what looks like a torn section of wallpaper (not the unique pattern from Sherlock’s flat) and Sherlock gives him a look of complete disgust.
“No, Mycroft.”
“You were knocked off your feet, Sherlock. You were out when I got here and I don’t know the exact time of the detonation yet—”
“I said no,” Sherlock says and Mycroft hears him with his child voice from so long ago.
“Then we should call John,” Mycroft says as he pushes at splinters of wood and Sherlock tosses a wicked cut of glass over his shoulder.
“No need. He went to Sarah’s, so let’s not spoil his fun.”
“Sherlock, there was an explosion. You’ve been hurt.”
“And?”
Mycroft sighs, exasperated because Sherlock is deliberately being obtuse. “He’ll want to know. At least give you a once-over.”
“It’s fine, I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson is fine.” He gets up, wincing, and picks his way to the window. “The street is a little worse for wear and…oh.”
His mouth twists, then he coughs as a thick waft of smoke brushes in and Mycroft goes to look out.
The huge hole in the building across stares dead at them, where there were flats. There will be a body count: low if they’re lucky; high because it’s a tragic, stupid waste.
This is too much of a coincidence, a violent explosion on the street where his notorious little brother lives.
Sherlock rubs at his ears and Mycroft thinks, Someone did this because of you.
And Mycroft is ready to rain down holy hellfire, his jaw aching again from clenching his teeth.
“You should call him,” he says again and Sherlock ignores him, but Mycroft knows John, “he’ll feel guilty he wasn’t here.”
“He can cry on Sarah’s shoulder. In fact, I’m sure he’d be happy to do so,” Sherlock says, peevish.
“Sherlock—“
“What, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, “are you being melodramatic again?” He scoffs, pushing a triangular shard out of the window casing and they watch it fall to the sidewalk and splinter on impact.
“You had an argument—“
“A discussion—“
“A fight—“
“A disagreement—“
“And he left and in the morning, all he’ll know is that there was an explosion on Baker Street. He’s your friend, Sherlock, he knows what you’re like—“
“Then there’s no need to call him.”
It’s jealousy over John’s attention and disapproval in his choice, preservation of John’s safety, in a way, and a selfish need to have Mycroft all to himself, and Sherlock twists things until they suit him. Mycroft slides his hand into the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
“He’ll assume the worst.”
“The same as you did, of course you did. How quickly did you get here? You managed to get here before the police, didn’t you?” Sherlock’s eyes shine and the spin of the lights cast him in blue, then black shadow, blue black blue black, angel devil angel devil.
His brother, never realising how close he is to dying, his brother, the invincible one.
“I think I’m entitled when I get a phone call telling me a building on Baker Street just went up in flames and I might want to know since I have a relative residing there,” Mycroft says, feeling the frustration rise as if he’s getting a fever and Sherlock tests his jaw, shifting it side to side.
“A ‘relative.’ That’s quaint. They don’t know I’m your brother?”
“It’s the government, Sherlock, they say ‘relative.’”
“Surely, as the government, you could upgrade me to something with a better title,” Sherlock says and he smiles meanly and there’s blood on his teeth, he probably bit the inside of his mouth, so Mycroft kisses him, using his tongue to clean Sherlock’s wound.
Breathing between kisses, Sherlock says, “You were worried. About your ‘relative,’” and he sounds surprised and Mycroft presses down on the bruise he found earlier on his brother’s thigh, catching Sherlock’s throat when he gasps.
“I thought you were a genius,” he says and Sherlock says, “I am and you worry too much,” dragging Mycroft to him, the two of them staggering sideways through the mess of the detonation.
Worried, and Mycroft remembers, “Wait, Mrs. Hudson, she’s worried about you, I told her—“
Sherlock disentangles himself, sighing, so very put upon, because the last thing they need is for Mrs. Hudson to bustle up and then they scar her for the rest of her life, this woman who didn’t mind her husband being put on death row. “Yes, yes, go tell her I’m alright and the building isn’t falling down around her. She’s most likely made four pots of tea.” He gives Mycroft a scowl, all but sticking out his tongue like a five-year-old and Mycroft hurries for the door, he isn’t leaving Sherlock alone for any imaginable length of time.
“Be productive,” he says and Sherlock narrows his eyes.
“Won’t. I might burn the place down, oh, I know, Mrs. Hudson thought I did all this. Give her some herbal soothers and she’ll sleep right through everything.”
Mycroft trips down the stairs because sometimes his brother makes him feel lightheaded and stupid and this isn’t a normal night, a usual night, Sherlock almost blown to kingdom come and in the back of his mind, he knows it isn’t a gas leak, he’s texting Anthea—no, she’s Thalia and still Greek—a myriad of things: he’s staying at Baker Street tonight, he needs surveillance here within the next five minutes, he wants the video feed for the day from every camera available, he needs to know all the police comings-and-goings on this case for the next twenty-four hours, and he needs to be apprised of John Watson’s movements until morning.
Mrs. Hudson is at the door before he knocks and she’s got yarn twisted around her fingers. He tells her everything is all right, Sherlock is reasonably unhurt and the police might have some questions, otherwise, she should stay inside and relax.
“Mr. Holmes, you don’t think this has anything to do with Sherlock’s murders—“
“Most likely a gas leak, unfortunately,” he interrupts, hating to be rude, but the cells in his body are tugging him back upstairs to Sherlock since he’s here instead of there and he can’t see Sherlock and she shakes her head, such a tragedy, then she says, “Oh, here, you take this.” She disappears and reappears, fluttering with a tea tray. “It’ll help the both of you.”
Tea, biscuits, milk, Mycroft lifts the tray out of her hands, smiling hurriedly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
One can’t dash up stairs with a tea tray and he understands Sherlock’s electrical storm of frustrated impatience with the simple physics of the world as the teacups clink with each step.
Sherlock’s murders. As if Sherlock is committing the murders. When Mycroft walks into the small kitchen with the tea tray, he looks as if he’s furiously thinking and ready to commit murder.
“Once again, if you are going to kill me, I’d like to see the murder outline first so I can critique it,” Mycroft says. “It would be the murder of your life, your career. I wouldn’t want you to miss an important step. I know how you are.”
“I’m the detective, not you, I don’t need pointers on how to dispatch someone from this earth.” Sherlock grabs a cup practically without looking, almost sloshing tea onto his pyjamas and Mycroft is in love with his brother who lives through an explosion and recklessly doesn’t expect to do anything less than live through an explosion, of course.
The power is out, but Sherlock’s found candles from God knows where and Mycroft is silently thankful he didn’t light a Bunsen burner. They stand by the chemical-stained and lab-crowded table, leaning against each other, and they sip tea with the disorderly noise of sirens and shocked people coming to grips with the aftermath and reality.
“Mycroft.”
He wraps the edge of Sherlock’s robe around his hand as Sherlock’s fingers find the knot of his tie and unthread it, the decadent slide of silk loud in the flat and the sun will go nova before they admit it, but they are shocked people coming to grips with the aftermath and reality. When they meet in the middle, falling in, greedy, his brother tastes like tea and blood, and Mycroft follows as Sherlock draws him in with the tie, as if he’s committing murder.
-
His head hurts. It aches, obnoxious, but it’s easing a little every time he blinks.
And Mycroft is here, his brother with the worried tilt to his mouth, so Sherlock kisses him because Mycroft worries too much as it is, about stupidly dull things, like gun thugs and traps set in warehouses and blind alley corners.
So the pain is easing and he doesn’t have glass in his clothes, but they have to avoid it all over the floor as he drags Mycroft to the bedroom, against his protests, “you’re injured, Sherlock, you—“
“Shut it, just stop talking,” he says, irritated at Mycroft’s hesitance, pulling hard at Mycroft’s belt, and Mycroft grabs his hands, but Sherlock knows precisely how injured he is, he’s the one who survived a shock wave at explosive velocity in close proximity to the detonation epicenter.
He rolls his eyes and doesn’t try to get away, simply starts to unbutton whatever’s in reach. “It’s not as if we’re going to be doing damage.”
“We’ve almost done damage before,” Mycroft says, letting him go and Sherlock thinks of blast radii and how much it takes to start a fire and he says, “It doesn’t matter.”
It’s never mattered and his brother knows that, “stop trying to be so bloody noble,” Sherlock orders, “shut up,” and he’s tugging Mycroft out of his clothes which smell like his office and expensive leather.
Sherlock winces, hissing through his teeth as they get him out of his t-shirt and pyjamas and it’s like any other time he’s been injured; they don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves, but their shared pounding blood needs to be appeased and Mycroft puts his mouth to the new bruises and the fading older ones and Sherlock keeps Mycroft right where he wants him.
“Do you remember when you were seven?” Mycroft asks, stretching out naked under Sherlock and Sherlock looks down at him, toes curling against the sole of Mycroft’s foot.
He deduced years ago why Mycroft works to hold the world in the palm of his hand, and they won’t ever discuss it, so Sherlock kisses him, settling between his legs with a push they sigh into at the heavy comfort of warm skin.
“He tried to hurt you,” Sherlock says; he hears his voice, low and dark, and he has an idea why Mycroft remembered the angry drunk on the platform.
But he doesn’t care, Mycroft should know better, and Sherlock slides his fingers around Mycroft’s throat, those eyes flashing at him like a dare.
He presses down, letting his weight rest completely on his brother’s body and he does ache from various places, all these new bruises, but it’s never mattered.
“Sherlock.”
He licks the syllables of his name out of Mycroft’s mouth and he tastes the old panic, the faint metallic tang of his own blood and this is better than getting caught in an explosion.
He’ll have to do it more often.
Mycroft’s palm finds the small of his back, pulling him closer, and Sherlock doesn’t give in, he closes his eyes.
It’s too much after supersonic flow, waves breaking sound and striking Sherlock to the floor with a godly hand; it’s too much for anything complex and Mycroft’s holding back, so Sherlock will hurt him later, but now, now he takes and takes and takes.
Fingers tracing his scapulae like wings, Mycroft says something and Sherlock responds in kind without thinking about it, his mouth against Mycroft’s chin and he prefers to think he misheard them both.
After, they can’t sleep, neither of them, his brother’s hands are restless on the bed and Sherlock’s head aches, in pulses.
“I know, Mycroft.”
“That’s wonderful, Sherlock, your extensive knowledge has always been a thing of beauty.”
Sherlock stares daggers at the ceiling. “The probability of a gas leak on the same street where I live, in the building across from my flat, is astronomical to calculate, and I don’t have the time to calculate it, so it wasn’t, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Mycroft says, “since the world revolves around you.”
“According to John, the world revolves around the sun,” Sherlock retorts, irritable, because the universe has seen fit to give him a big brother and a flatmate who are spectacularly excellent at being bothersome, he doesn’t know why he puts up with their prattle or their disreputable company.
“And John would be correct; however, and it pains me to say it, I think you too are correct.” Mycroft’s knee finds its way into Sherlock’s ribs and Sherlock squirms, grabbing Mycroft by his thigh.
“So the world does revolve around me,” Sherlock says, nails digging in to his brother’s skin and Mycroft jerks away and Sherlock leaves little scratches as he goes.
“As much as John and I seem to foster that opinion, to our detriment, I might add,” Mycroft says pointedly, “it is only an illusion.” He swats at Sherlock’s roaming hand even though he’s the one who’s restless, so Sherlock can’t let the insult pass.
“But I’m not wrong in thinking this isn’t a coincidence. If it isn’t coincidence, then this happened on purpose. And unless there is someone thoroughly infamous on this street—“
“Just you,” Mycroft says to the ceiling and Sherlock shifts to hear Mycroft’s heartbeat rise as he annoys his brother and Mycroft huffs Sherlock’s hair out of his mouth.
“Then the only solution is that this does revolve around me, and therefore, you and John are both wrong.”
“Fallacy.”
“Deduction.”
Mycroft’s hands finally settle, one on his chest and one on Sherlock’s head and Sherlock feels the spinning of the room slow to a manageable speed, his headache lessening with each cadence of blood.
“Induction,” Mycroft says.
“How dare you,” Sherlock retorts, curling his lip, because really, that’s a dirty word, a filthy, abhorrent word, it leaves room for doubt and that tiny percentage that could prove Sherlock wrong and sometimes he’s wrong, but he won’t be wrong in front of Mycroft.
The sirens have stopped, but the lights are still flashing from the front room into the hallway and Sherlock twists crooked to see them, the colours like imprint images on his eyelids and he says again, “How dare you.”
“It’s not difficult, when I know I’m right.” His big brother, so bloody smug all the fucking time, and Sherlock bites whatever is closest, the thin skin on the inside of Mycroft’s arm and Mycroft simply grunts, pressing his arm into Sherlock, as if to muffle him because he suddenly feels Mycroft’s fingers stroking along his side, searching, so Sherlock works to bruise as the emergency vehicle lights stamp shadows on his eyes.
The fingers in his hair tighten, pulling, and only once he’s left a mark does Sherlock follow to kiss Mycroft and he doesn’t taste blood or panic anymore.
“You could tell him,” Mycroft says, quiet between idle kisses. “You could tell him it was because of you. Or you could tell him it was a gas leak. Until you ‘discover’ otherwise. At this point, we only know—“
Sherlock thinks this is intriguing, the omission of knowledge as a way to control a reaction or prepare someone, safeguard them against what might be coming in the future, because even if it doesn’t happen, then it won’t matter. He’s always found this mechanism to be tedious, the planning is enormous sometimes, and it’s all gone as fast as a shock wave, sometimes just as strong.
He calls it manipulation. Mycroft calls it precaution.
The world ends not with a bang, but a whimper.
“We only know not enough and that he doesn’t need to know,” Sherlock decides. “Yet. He’ll know in time. He might do something—“
“John knows the dangers and the consequences,” Mycroft says.
“Oh, so you won’t tell him either?”
Mycroft looks offended, as if Sherlock could even fathom him going against one of Sherlock’s decisions and Sherlock glares because whole years of their lives have been Mycroft going against Sherlock’s decisions.
It’s his hobby. It’s what makes him happy. Contrariness.
“Sherlock.”
“Mycroft.”
The air is tightening, still with the hanging smell of smoke and chemical burn and water, and this could be another fight, in the bedroom, Sherlock does love a good fight in the bedroom because Mycroft doesn’t hold back.
The colour of Mycroft’s eyes changes slightly, as if he’s going to give up, and that’s not allowed.
“That’s not allowed,” Sherlock says. “I was almost blown up. You can’t not fight. It gets the blood going.”
But Mycroft doesn’t respond, obstinate, and Sherlock sometimes has to dent that obstinacy because he’s the other half of Mycroft, the only one permitted inside. John scratches the surface with exasperated friendship; Sherlock is entirely sanctioned by virtue of being himself.
He kisses Mycroft properly, hard and permanent, and Mycroft kisses as if the fight is just a distraction, which makes Sherlock smirk and like a trigger, Mycroft smiles. He remembers when he was seven and Mycroft was fourteen and a questionable specimen of a man tried to attack his brother.
Sherlock presses himself between Mycroft’s thighs and remembers: no one hurts them, ever.
There’s a rumble of damaged masonry out on Baker Street, the quenched noise of flames going out and the front door is locked, but the bedroom door is open, so they can go see the destruction whenever they want.
-
Sherlock sleeps for a few hours and Mycroft keeps a careful eye on him; he’s sure Sherlock hit his head, but his pupils appeared fine and his motor skills weren’t slowed, in fact, everything about him was enhanced, a halo effect, as if his brother bloody enjoyed it.
He checks his phone messages: the surveillance arrived, the feeds will be delivered in the morning, a few of the cameras are past it, and the Met officers are milling around as if they’re in a police procedural.
John is still at Sarah’s and given the time of night, he’ll be staying there until he decides to come back or he sees the news, whichever comes first.
Mycroft shakes his head because he should’ve ignored Sherlock and called John, regardless of the fact he wanted nothing more than to take his brother down to Whitehall or his house and they’d watch the feeds and go over every angle and not come out until his teams had completed all his revenge-fuelled fantasies of tracking down the truth and killing those responsible.
Unless it was an accident. Always a possibility, but an unsound one.
And again, Sherlock’s choice to not include John, not yet; it’s a safety measure; he’ll share everything with Mycroft because they share their skulls, they’ll share whatever they can even begrudgingly, and Sherlock reads his mind, but John will be told the truth once it becomes apparent.
Mycroft despises the phrase ‘need-to-know basis.’ The Americans use it and though he understands the concept and fully utilises it when necessary, the phrase rankles him.
John needs to know. Just.
Beside him, Sherlock knocks their ankles together in his sleep; the tense little line between his eyes scrunches into existence, and Mycroft squeezes his shoulder to help him shift comfortable, because he’ll have aches and pains, and then he’ll have aches and pains though Mycroft tried to slow him down the best he could.
Sherlock is formidable, especially when injured. Mycroft will never tell him.
He flips his phone in his hand, catching it easily, flip catch flip catch flip catch, and he thinks about the cast-off pattern of blood on Sherlock, seven years old, arguing for immortality through hieroglyphs and his dangerousness.
He tried to hurt you.
Quiet, Mycroft slides from under the blankets and out of bed; Sherlock rolls into the spot of his warmth and Mycroft laughs under his breath, searching about for clothes. He ends up with his button-down and Sherlock’s pyjamas and his socks, with glass everywhere.
He blows out the guttering candles and there’s a broom, somewhere in the kitchen; John struggles to keep the flat clean over Sherlock’s protests, vocal and silent, and the invasion of territory Sherlock mounts every chance he gets.
He does the same with Mycroft, abandoning objects in his office, coat pockets, strewn over his house, or shooting little texts at all hours and sometimes Mycroft hates modern technology because it’s one thing to be woken by a lump in his bed which he discovers to be the button from his waistcoat, the one Sherlock tore, angry in the backseat of Mycroft’s car, and it’s wholly another when his mobile buzzes with a message (I’ve decided the telly is an idiotic invention best left to idiots. SH) in the middle of a meeting or in the dead of night or when he’s just figured out who killed his four spies.
The glass shards jingle and ring like demented bells as he nudges a few aside, but no luck on the broom and there’s a hammering coming from outside. He leans out the window to see city works or disaster relief, whomever, people in official reflective safety vests boarding up the windows in the effected area on Baker Street. Mycroft finds himself humming in the rhythm, something his mum used to sing as she roamed around the house, absentminded, almost as if she didn’t know she was doing it. He sang it once for Sherlock, when Sherlock was a baby and wouldn’t go to sleep, but it didn’t help, Sherlock just stared at him and stayed awake for another hour, breaking apart a toy train their father had given him.
He’d catch Sherlock singing it too when he wrote out his experiments in messy sideways notes, absentminded, almost as if he didn’t know he was doing it.
The air coming in through the windows is fucking cold and Mycroft grabs his coat and he’s tempted to text Thalia to get someone to 221b faster, but it seems a bit excessive and he spends enough resources on Sherlock. As it is, Sherlock won’t want to move himself and John to Mycroft’s house since he’s so serious about keeping his independence, to the point of being completely irrational about it; and he won’t stay in a hotel unless the flat is mostly uninhabitable and Mycroft has his security haul Sherlock and John to somewhere halfway decent.
Sherlock can be infuriatingly obdurate and vexatious; Mycroft knows he enjoys it, making things difficult and making Mycroft cross.
A jolt of pain through his jaw, but he’s not gritting his teeth, it’s an actual toothache and he’s reminded he has a dentist appointment; he’s staring around at the glass and scattered papers, tonguing at his sore tooth as Sherlock appears in the doorway naked, saying, “Just leave it,” and the world goes on.
“You always did prefer to live in a disaster area,” Mycroft says, opening the fridge to find a head in it. “As I said, disaster area complete with morgue. Are you creating a microcosm of Bart’s?”
“What’s that hammering, who’s hammering, why are they hammering,” Sherlock says, hand to his head, stepping careful, barefoot, to the window and Mycroft crosses his arms as his brother without a stitch of clothing on ducks out the window to see and he’s shivering as he says, “Ah, boards.”
“Your intelligence clearly knows no bounds,” Mycroft says, waving at Sherlock as he jitters his way back to the bedroom, “since you don’t think to put on clothes when you haven’t any windows.”
“I have windows, Mycroft, they’re just useless at the moment.” Sherlock gives him a patronising glare. “Besides, you’re wearing my pyjamas. Give them back.”
“Why, you have other pairs.”
“I want those.”
“You want these because I’m wearing them.”
“That should be reason enough.”
Mycroft sighs and starts to strip and Sherlock hisses when he gets his pyjamas, warm from Mycroft’s body, but he doesn’t put them on, he merely tosses them off in a corner where they vanish into the dark.
“What in the bloody hell, Sherlock—“
“I’m cold. Get back in bed,” Sherlock demands, burrowing selfish into the blankets and Mycroft crooks his mouth, this is ridiculous, Sherlock doesn’t need encouragement, but his brother drops his voice, snarling, “Get back in bed,” and it’s not worth a fight.
“Fine.”
He finds his phone and settles in under what blankets Sherlock allows him, checking for new messages. He spots a particular one and texts Thalia to send over the Andrew West/Bruce-Partington file, a mystery that transpired yesterday – was it really yesterday, it’s two now, so yes, yesterday— he’ll give it to Sherlock because it requires the chase and the hunt and Mycroft has elections to scrutinise and it’ll keep his brother busy, for all that he claims to be currently, he seems to already be contemplating a strop.
Something occurs to Mycroft. “Very nice art decoration on your wall. A smiley face in spray paint with accompanying bullet holes. Do you consider it pop art? Does it have a title? I do love how it goes with and yet clashes against the wallpaper on which it is painted. And spray paint, Sherlock, very street art—”
“Mycroft.”
“You could remove the entire square, including the bit of wall behind it with the bullets in situ, and send it to the Tate. I’m sure they’d love to have it as an art installation.”
“Mycroft.”
“Mrs. Hudson will extract a pretty penny for that.”
“You are a fucking wretched human being,” Sherlock says, his mouth close to Mycroft’s ear as if he’s about to eat him, “though that presupposes you are human when I’m not entirely sure that you are.”
“Fallacy.” He glances at Sherlock and he shouldn’t have, his brother burning hot as if he’s made of a combustible material, about to start a deflagration, and Sherlock glares again.
“Deduction.”
“So you want me to prove my humanity.”
-
A challenge in the curve of Mycroft’s mouth, how his eyes widen and Sherlock wants to play dirty. Most people don’t understand the depths of his brother, his razor-fine subtlety lost on them. Pity.
Most of the time, Mycroft’s subtlety is just annoying.
Sherlock thinks about setting rules and then discards that train of thought as pointless. “Yes. I am the judge—“
“You think this is a contest?”
“So you have to convince me.”
“I’m assuming there aren’t any rules.” He reads Sherlock’s mind and that will never, ever not be simultaneously tiresome and a relief.
But it’s not a good idea to let Mycroft have advantages. He’ll ruin Sherlock. “If that’s what you assume. Assumptions are logically weak—“
Mycroft’s smirk deepens and Sherlock smiles darkly because his blood has gone maniacal, then Mycroft pins Sherlock’s wrists to the bed and shows his teeth.
Later, Mycroft disappointingly falls asleep as Sherlock is discussing Mycroft’s dubious use of the word ‘fallacy’ and he wants to peek at his brother’s mobile, but Mycroft seems to have secreted it somewhere, possibly between the mattresses or under his pillow, and it’s not worth the effort to find it, he’ll learn soon enough what Mycroft is up to and what he’ll want from Sherlock, because it’s inevitable he’ll want something from Sherlock.
He stares at the ceiling, listening to the hammering outside, and it’s getting closer; they can pretend they aren’t here and the workers will board up the windows and that will be that.
Explosion – gas leak – taken care of until he needles Lestrade for information and while it’s stimulating to have all of Mycroft’s attention, he has to deal with Mycroft and John hasn’t returned so Sherlock can fob Mycroft off on him to be stuck in an excruciating loop of politeness, a sound punishment for the both of them as they are so very pesky, and maybe then he can focus on the cause of the destruction on Baker Street.
A surprise action has given him a desirable result as his brother’s leg slides against his and the offshoot is a possible case if it is an explosion. If this is what happens every time the criminal underworld fails his expectations and forces him to shoot the wall, then he'll definitely have to try it again.
A shame John didn’t get to experience it.
His fingers move against the blankets as he calculates odds and then the workers are hammering on the outside of 221b and it makes a rhythm Sherlock hears like a heartbeat. He takes apart the path of destruction, how the face of the building blew outward and up, the shock wave banked by crossing the street and slamming into Sherlock’s building; his lab equipment on the kitchen table isn’t even disturbed though dust and glass and papers are everywhere.
It’s completely fascinating and he’s glad he didn’t let Mycroft clean, he wants to examine the fragments of glass scattered around his floor and Mycroft mutters, “I’d ask you to keep still, but that’s an exercise in futility.”
Sherlock yanks at the covers. “Even though it’s ‘exercise,’ something you despise, you’d still attempt it because vanity is your favourite thing.”
“Not my absolute favourite, that would be like choosing the best time you ever destroyed something,” Mycroft says against the pillow and Sherlock’s about to smother him with it when Mycroft interrupts, “Not the optimum method for murder, Sherlock,” and his phone buzzes, then Sherlock’s distracted trying to find it before Mycroft can get to it and he wins, it is between the mattresses.
“Thalia – still Greek, I see, tsk— reports John is not yet out and about—of course you have to know John’s whereabouts—the news is being vague as usual though possibly no casualties, and your file is on its way.” Sherlock eyes him. “What file.” He knew it, Mycroft has something for him, had it sent to the flat and he desperately needs a nicotine patch.
“It doesn’t concern you.” Mycroft flops onto his back, rather undignified and somewhat sulky.
“Yet. It doesn’t concern me yet.”
"Oh, so you can tell the future now, Sherlock?"
"Given the right set of variables, yes."
"And I enjoy vanity?"
"You wallow in it, Mycroft. I am merely using the facts as presented to me." Mycroft blinks at him, playing innocent, and Sherlock huffs. “I know you.”
“That’s good,” Mycroft says, smiling that inane smile he uses on other people, other not-them people, “I’m not one to fall into bed with a stranger.”
“You did not ‘fall’, there is no ‘falling’, remember.”
“You dragged me here.”
“I was almost blown up,” Sherlock retorts, tetchy because though his headache is gone, his brother is another ache in his head altogether and this is petty.
Mycroft looks at him, an eyebrow raised. “I said you dragged me here.”
“As if you wouldn’t have found an excuse to come spy on me anyway.”
“When you say I ‘spy on’ you, it makes you sound so suspicious, Sherlock.”
Why on fucking earth does he allow Mycroft into his flat, or even onto Baker Street, or for that matter, in London. Why. It’s reprehensible, Mycroft is reprehensible and in a not-good way, and the reprehensible personified by his brother is currently smirking at him in a most provoking manner and Sherlock will have to rectify the situation immediately. Despicable.
But Mycroft’s phone buzzes again to say Thalia is downstairs with the file and a change of clothes and she doesn’t even blink when he lets Mycroft answer the door in a jumble of wrinkled t-shirt, nicked pyjamas, coat and no socks, but Sherlock’s right at his heels, robe flapping about him and a spare pair of pyjamas, muttering blackly under his breath, because he’s not letting Mycroft meet his assistant alone, it’s his flat anyway. Some days it feels like people are trying to annex 221b along with him in it and that’s bad enough, but with Mycroft, it’s a full-scale invasion and the only ever possible outcome is aggrieved unconditional surrender. Again and again, over and over.
He shivers. It is fucking freezing.
Sherlock is carrying Mycroft’s suit paraphernalia in a wadded ball (trousers, shirt, socks, waistcoat, tie, belt, all ‘folded’ into the jacket, does Mycroft have enough layers) because he likes the idea of chucking Mycroft out of the flat, even in a superficial, metaphorical way.
He shoves the clothing at Thalia and slaps on a blessed nicotine patch. She sweeps her sardonic gaze over him like she expects him to spout something piffling, then she ignores him.
He thinks Mycroft trained her in the best expressions of disdain. He notices Mycroft doesn’t invite her in, which is a bit of a victory for Sherlock since he won’t have to waste his breath telling her to go away and his day is already off to a morbidly curious start; he lets them talk, as if anything they say is going to remain confidential for long, and he pushes past them to properly survey the devastation.
The light on the street is changing and the damage looks more severe in the milky morning haze, a hovering dust as if the explosion is still occurring on a fundamental plane no one can see.
-
Thalia holds the bunched-up suit out to Mycroft and he sighs. Searching about in the pockets, he takes out his money clip and watch, one he bought, one a rare present from the mad man currently walking out into the middle of Baker Street barefoot with blasted masonry thrown everywhere. Sherlock ignores the police and firefighters meandering around and the gathering of early looky-loos and picks up a broken block.
“I’ll need at least an hour, maybe two, of empty time in my schedule for today,” Mycroft says as she swaps the clothes for a file and he grimaces as she stuffs the suit and all into the large shopping tote at her feet.
“Not a problem,” Thalia says, waving a hand, “the day should be pretty slow anyway.” She hands him a garment bag and his umbrella and Sherlock materialises next to him, turning the burnt brick over and over with just his fingertips as if it’s a Rubik’s Cube.
Sherlock clicks his tongue at her and she gives him her politest frown, as if she disapproves of every bit of him, and Mycroft doesn’t hide his smile.
“I’ll be in later,” he says and she nods, dark hair tucked behind her ear and Sherlock clicks his tongue again as she walks to the car at the end of the street.
“You didn’t have your umbrella,” Sherlock states, darting back towards 221b. “I am shocked, Mycroft, shocked you didn’t have your umbrella.”
“Oh, shut up.” Mycroft pushes at him in the back with the umbrella handle as they start up the stairs. “You didn’t notice. I am shocked, Sherlock, shocked you didn’t notice.”
“I was busy being almost blown up.”
“Old news.”
Sherlock pauses as if he contemplating slamming the door in Mycroft’s face, so Mycroft slips through the gap and the pause neatly, then Sherlock opens his mouth to keep talking and Mycroft cuts him off.
“Yes, I forgot it last night. In the rush, you know, since you dragged me over here, what with the explosion and you being you—this sounds like it’s becoming a philosophical discussion or thought experiment,” he says and Sherlock looks ready to throw something, if Mycroft’s lucky, it won’t be the heavy jagged brick in his hands. “It is a shame though. If I’d had it with me, I could’ve just poked you with it to see if you were alive, and then left.”
“Would’ve saved us all a lot of trouble.”
“Indeed.”
His brother is pacing like his day is going to be nothing but boredom and crawling up the wall, though that might be good for the wallpaper, and Mycroft sets down what he’s carrying in case Sherlock does decide to start throwing things.
“Don’t tell me you’re not happy to be practically living on top of a crime scene,” he says and Sherlock turns that expression on him. “What.”
“Don’t you have other people to pester today?”
“It’s just come morning, Sherlock, I have yet to decide whom I want to pester. It takes time. You’re the one in closest proximity at the moment.”
Sherlock loses interest, peering at the blackened marks on the brick and how it rubs off on his thumbs and for once since Mycroft abandoned his office last night, it’s quiet.
Calm.
He makes tea and listens to Sherlock rustling about with his brick and he leaves finger streaks in the dust on the table when he brings out their cups. He works hard to protect his brother and still, despite all his best efforts, Sherlock manages to cock it up in some inexplicable way, like sleight of hand: here one minute, it’s a boring night at Baker Street and the next, his little brother is somewhat unconscious on the floor; here one minute, it’s a day of meetings at Whitehall because people can’t seem to manage their insipid selves and the next, Mycroft’s receiving a video feed of Sherlock being thrown into the Thames like he’s a side of beef by some gun runner’s mutant thug.
Something like this will happen again, something violent and destructive and deleterious, because Sherlock is all of those things, in a darker world; in this world, he merely draws brutality to himself as if he can’t help it, a strange attractor of his own chaotic dynamical system.
Mycroft shouldn’t be surprised. He should know better.
When Sherlock was four and Mycroft let another kid’s blood seep into the mud as he helped Sherlock dig up nightcrawlers. When Sherlock was seven and Mycroft felt the blood of a fully-grown man drip between their fingers. When Sherlock was twenty-three and Mycroft could only watch after the fact as Sherlock was pistol-whipped by some fucking tosser looking for gambling money.
Every time since.
He thinks they both fascinate violence maybe because of their brains, but Sherlock seems to have a high magnetic resonance.
He glances up from his tea to see Sherlock watching him before setting the brick on the table, most likely to be forgotten.
“Since someone interrupted my perfectly dull, tranquil evening by rushing over here out of spite just to be the first on hand to see at close range the aftereffects of a decent-scale explosion in the tight confines of a London neighbourhood, and then demanded to be quartered in my own flat, I’m off to shower to contemplate the many ways I’ve been inconvenienced and subjected to cruel and unusual punishment,” Sherlock says indignantly, all in one quick breath, and he raps his knuckles on the table like a gavel.
“You’re not the Colonies,” Mycroft says.
“I should have my own flag,” Sherlock throws over his shoulder as he scurries off.
Mycroft follows him because Sherlock might be already formulating some sort of constitution or bill of rights and because he doesn’t pass on the mad invitations from Sherlock. The shower isn’t technically big enough for them together, but Sherlock can be difficult, Mycroft can be stubborn and they make it work and he makes sure they don’t flood the bathroom.
“What fun would it be if I promised not to get myself into any more situations where there are possibilities for combustion or the discharge of ammunition,” Sherlock says, spitting out water. “Sometimes it’s necessary.”
“But fun,” Mycroft replies and tips his head out of the spray.
“Of course.” A quick, happy grin, then Sherlock’s back to glowering. “Now get out, and get your own towel, you can’t use mine.”
Another cup of tea or two, and Sherlock is watching him get dressed, probably to see to it Mycroft doesn’t nick his pyjamas.
Smoothing the grey patterned fabric of his waistcoat over his shirt and tie, Mycroft waits and catches Sherlock as he’s pulling on his trousers, reaching around to zip up the fly and do the button and Sherlock sighs heavily.
“Going to dress me?”
“Why not. I can’t seem to let you do anything on your own without you causing chaos.”
Sherlock shoulders Mycroft away and sighs again when Mycroft kisses his temple.
“Where’s the file,” Sherlock says and Mycroft raises his chin, tightens his tie, threads his belt, drops his money clip in his pocket, his watch in its waistcoat pocket with the chain cold against his palm, slips into his shoes, now where did he put his jacket and Sherlock has taken to breathing loudly by the time he’s found it and put it on, straightening the shoulders, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt sleeves.
“What file,” Mycroft says flippantly. He wants to put his hand on Sherlock’s chest to feel his heart because he looks absolutely livid. Today could be a good day.
Sherlock grabs his lapels, he can read Mycroft’s mind, he’s in love with Mycroft and he kisses angry, palms skating like he’s going to pickpocket the file off Mycroft’s person and Mycroft congratulates his insanity, taking the kiss darker.
There’s a buzzing in the room and Sherlock breaks the kiss to snatch up Mycroft’s phone.
“John’s on his way,” he says, pointing with the mobile, “now where’s the file.”
Mycroft fixes his jacket where Sherlock pulled at it.
“You’re the detective, I thought you didn’t need pointers from me on how to detect.”
“Not on how to detect or commit murder, which is looking more profitable by the second. The file, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, whirling in place and glancing about, as if it will spring up from the floor like an imp, and his hands go to his hips, eyes sparking like hot blue flames. “You want me to chase about after something. But now you’re going to get that file, so I can chuck you and it out by the time he gets here.”
“Rubbish, Sherlock,” Mycroft says and rescues his phone from Sherlock’s grip. “I’m here to check on you after something rather horrible happened last night in your neighbourhood. After all, I am your concerned—“
“High-handed, pompous, supercilious, patronising—“
“Big brother and I’d like to say hello to John.” His smile is wicked and Sherlock’s scowl is evil and Mycroft knows why no one else has ever been his equal.
Mycroft trails after Sherlock as he stomps down the hallway, seizing his violin and plopping into his chair as if he’ll drive Mycroft out with dissonant chords and atonal sawing.
This is one of his favourite things. Mycroft fetches his umbrella since Sherlock’s got his weapon of choice and sits in what’s become John’s chair.
His tooth hurts again, an electric zing of pain, and he tongues at it in placation and he sees when Sherlock sees it, speculation in his gaze.
“Alright, I do have something for you,” Mycroft admits, tempering his tone as if it’s a secret drawn from him and Sherlock sniffs, his expression going superior.
They have a staring contest, the winner gaining the moral high ground, whatever that is, and it’ll just become another fight for another time.
The door downstairs slams and they hear John running up the stairs, calling out, Sherlock!, but this is a contest of wills and nothing will disrupt them from it until—
John bursts into the flat.
“John,” Sherlock says in greeting, plucking at his violin.
It’s a new day in London.