Sherlock FIC: All's Fair in Family Matters
Title: All's Fair in Family Matters
Author: guardian_chaos
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama/Friendship/Humor
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock, John
Spoilers: 2x03, The Reichenbach Fall
Summary: Mycroft tidies up "The Situation" as best as he can, and many shocking realizations are had all around. Takes place a few years after The Reichenbach Fall.
* * *
Mycroft is not entirely sure what compels him to react to Sherlock’s most recent text in the way he does. Perhaps it is the situation in Serbia. Perhaps it is the additional four pounds sogging up his midsection. Perhaps Mycroft is simply irritated that three years have passed and his infernal little brother has still remained bound to his decision to remain an anonymous drain on Mycroft’s resources and on his time. Either way, when Sherlock texts:
How is John? ~SH
Mycroft, with a tense curl of his lip, punches into his mobile a message he hopes will shut his little brother up for just a moment in which Mycroft can find peace.
John is dead. You waited too long. ~MH
His mobile stays silent for precisely twenty seconds: about the time it takes for the text to travel its way from a book-filled room in Britain and into a lavishly decorated temple in Nigeria. Mycroft puts the mobile in his suit jacket’s inner pocket and slumps in his chair, his fingertips pressed lightly together against his lips as he overlooks how the bookshelves around him glow with quiet morning light.
His mobile starts to buzz, a dull drone against his chest. When he pulls it out, he is surprised to see that Sherlock is not texting, but in fact calling. Sherlock has not called Mycroft even once during his entire time away from London. Mycroft realizes with an intake of breath that Sherlock must have taken him seriously. Sherlock must believe John is truly dead.
And then…an idea dawns.
Mycroft leans forward on his kneecaps, silencing Sherlock’s call and sending out a text to several different people:
If Sherlock contacts you, it is imperative that you inform him that John was struck by a car and is now dead. ~MH
Before a barrage of confused texts can assault his mobile, Mycroft sends one more text, this one to a singular person:
John, do not answer any calls for the next several days. This is immensely important, and you must trust me. ~MH
Sherlock attempts to call Mycroft again, the mobile buzzing erratically in Mycroft’s hands as Mycroft texts Anthea to get her to pick up John from 221B Baker Street so that he can be hidden from any operatives Sherlock may have in the area. Mycroft refuses to answer Sherlock’s calls, until finally Sherlock texts back:
how? ~SH
No capital letter. Ah, interesting. Only a very inebriated or utterly smashed Sherlock from, oh, years ago, had ever failed to use proper pronunciation in his texts. This must truly be affecting him.
A car struck him less than an hour ago. I believe he was on his way to the grocery. I am taking care of it. Stay where you are. ~MH
Sherlock does not seem keen to respond to that one.
At the very least, Mycroft thinks as he taps his mobile against his thigh, perhaps this will teach my little brother the inherent danger of keeping people who care about him in the dark about his present well being. The four months before Sherlock had informed Mycroft that he had not, in fact, died on the sidewalk in front of Bart’s hospital had been an unexpected agony that even Mycroft finds he would not wish on anyone.
The fact that Mycroft had to come to terms with the existence of that potential for emotional weakness inside of him is intolerable and, quite frankly, he rather hates his brother for making him realize it exists. The Holmes must never be known for their emotional attachments, unlike others who have the freedom to think in such ways.
On this line of thought, Mycroft realizes he has made a mistake, albeit a minor one. To the same contacts as before, he sends:
Oh, by the way, John is not dead. Neither is Sherlock. Apologies for any undue alarm. ~MH
Mistake corrected, he eases up from his chair and straightens his jacket. He lifts his umbrella from where it sits against his armchair and strides for the door to leave his study.
It is time, he thinks, with a swirl of his umbrella at his side, for my prodigal brother to come home.
~2/09/2012