Fic: In Silence (Chapter One)
Title: In Silence (Chapter One)
Word Count: approx 2,200 for this bit
A/N: Full story info and more author's notes here.
Prologue
Chapter One
Mycroft is an expert in silence, he thrives in it. His first negotiations happened before he could speak. The widening of his eyes or the absence of a smile gained him toys and milk and naptime before they came to any of his peers. "You were the perfect baby," Mummy used to tell him. "So silent and sweet."
He loved when she said that, but he never once blushed. Sometimes instead he'd sneer at his younger brother, still swaddled and letting loose wail after blood-curdling wail.
Mycroft tried to train him. "No toys for you, Sherlock," he would say to the infant. He held the rattle high above Sherlock's crib. "Not until you behave." Sherlock wailed and wailed; eventually Mycroft left in a huff. It was the first time he learned that some things-some brothers, in particular-are beyond negotiation.
Mycroft was raised in silence. Sherlock was cacophony; Sherlock played pirate when Mycroft was thirteen and old enough to know better. He was beyond the childish impulse to climb atop an armchair and shout "Land Ho!" Didn't Sherlock know Mummy needed her sleep? No, Sherlock was too young to understand. Or maybe Mummy wasn't sick enough just yet. Mycroft can't remember anymore.
After she died, the Holmes estate echoed.
Sherlock took up the violin; Mycroft never did thank him properly for doing so. It was only in listening to the melodies that Mycroft could resume his studies. It wasn't that his sadness weighed any less when Sherlock played, but his little brother unwittingly rearranged Mycroft's grief like notes on a scale. Mycroft's silence found purpose. It became the proper backdrop for Sherlock's concertos.
Mycroft insisted on funding the lessons. He found Sherlock the greatest teachers money could buy. If Mycroft wasn't being useful, at least he wasn't being useless anymore, either.
After the Fall, Mycroft has no concertos. He surrounds himself with silence. It's what he deserves, and it's easy enough to get.
.
.
.
No one mentions Sherlock here. No one would dare.
The beauty of the Diogenes Club is that no one acknowledges any flaws to the system. Mycroft has heard men cough, sneeze, and murmur words aloud as they read. People are imperfect; people make noise. However the Diogenes members are gentlemen of selective hearing: No member may acknowledge any other member within the main room.
Mycroft has watched new members from the corner of his eye as they make their first accidental (inevitable) noise. They scan the room guilty to see if anyone has heard them sneeze. When no one appears to have noticed, the new members' expressions change. Suddenly they look confused, even doubtful that they sneezed at all.
It's a beautiful system.
Sherlock once said that sitting in the Diogenes was like existing alone in a world full of dead people. It was a rare moment of praise from his brother. Now Mycroft would like to suggest a corollary: if no one acknowledges you, it is a little like being dead yourself.
It would be maudlin and foolish to suggest that Mycroft stays here in an attempt to ally his condition with his brother's. He cannot afford to fall.
He can, however, afford to hide. To an extent, anyway: other members must have heard his mobile go off, multiple times. It emits one low beep for national affairs, two for international. His PA has been earning her keep by paring down his workload to emergencies only. He takes his meals inside the Diogenes, in his private room in the back. He has nowhere to sleep, but this presents no disruption to his plans. Mycroft likes sleep; He does not require it to function.
Sometimes his phone beeps three times. He wants to look at those texts but he never does.
He made his prison and now he has locked himself inside. He will not allow himself conjugal visits.
No matter how often Gregory texts.
From work, from Gregory Lestrade, his phone beeps again and again. He sneezes, he feels utterly exhausted. Once he found himself tearing up, utterly out of his own control. (He will not offer himself private space to cry. He does not deserve it.) It doesn't matter, what he does or does not do. Here, he is invisible.
Instead he sits. Occasionally, he mourns. Mostly, he thinks.
.
.
.
Until the Fall, Mycroft had always considered himself an expert in getting what he wanted. As a child Mycroft wanted for nothing. This wasn't because their family had money (which they did), and it wasn't because their father had died and so by default Mycroft stood as the dominant male (though this was also true). He wanted for nothing because he instinctively knew exactly how to negotiate for everything. That's why Sherlock loathed him so when they were children. Sherlock sulked in corners as Mycroft always got the last piece of cake.
When they were children Sherlock decided to make himself as different from Mycroft as humanly possible. Given that they were two extremely intelligent people with similar genetic DNA and the same…unconventional upbringing, Sherlock's intention to destroy the combined efforts of nature and nurture (though the idea of "nurture" in the Holmes household was nearly humorous) required significant effort to implement.
But his brother was always so determined. So stubborn.
Mycroft was an expert at getting what he wanted, and so Sherlock became a study in insolence. Sherlock went to great lengths to make it appear as though his choices reflected whatever other people least wanted him to do. To those who knew both Holmes brothers, Mycroft seemed as magnanimous as Sherlock seemed selfish.
But Mycroft, who watched his brother grow up, knows this behaviour as the façade it truly is. By this point, Mycroft's not sure even Sherlock remembers that's it's a façade.
No: remembered.
Sherlock isn't (wasn't) selfish. Mycroft wasn't (isn't) the perfect negotiator. Sherlock would have loved that, to see Mycroft fail so thoroughly. The irony isn't lost on the survivor.
He spent weeks working on Moriarty. Everyone did. Every kind of torture was employed, every kind of incentive was offered. Nothing worked. They had considerable evidence suggesting Moriarty's new weapon would bring down London in a heartbeat, the rest of the world soon thereafter. Never let it be said his brother's arch-nemesis cut corners.
When their efforts got them nowhere, they did what every desperate high-ranking government official would do: they called for Mycroft Holmes.
And Mycroft could make Moriarty talk-that was part of the man's genius. Moriarty's, of course. He flattered Mycroft, courted him, until he had him sharing the most intimate details of his brother's early life. That's what John Watson would tell you. (Much like Sherlock, John Watson has a penchant for grand statements. Not the same penchant, of course. Sherlock's statements are (were) bragging, John's are in the name of bravery.)
It wasn't quite the case.
John implied that Mycroft had mindlessly handed Moriarty an annotated copy of Sherlock's life story on a silver platter, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Mycroft was a Holmes; Mycroft wasn't an idiot. He was well aware he betrayed his brother with each story he shared. If anything, Mycroft was too mindful. He wore his mindfulness like a shining badge. He had believed his mindfulness would protect his brother; his mindfulness would save the world.
Mycroft had carefully examined each anecdote he told Moriarty, and he checked himself when stories might reveal any information about Sherlock's current life, his weaknesses, even his strengths. He limited the amount of embarrassing stories he relayed-though he did share a few. He knows Sherlock would have done the same, if not worse. Sherlock would not have been able to help himself.
He sold Sherlock's story; he weighed his options and he left each session sure he had got the better deal. It's a farce now, of course. (The trade was not acceptable; the trade was unnecessary.)
It's a farce without laughter; it's a silence.
It's silence, still.
.
.
.
Mycroft has no doubt that, were he to perform a thorough investigation of all facts surrounding Sherlock's death, he would discover that his brother was coerced into killing himself: Sherlock wasn't one for suicide. He wanted everyone to worship him, and their adulation (or even just John Watson's adulation, after the publicity scandal) was useless to him dead. Some days Mycroft entertains a frivolous suspicion that his brother isn't dead at all but has performed some sort of elaborate magic trick. The greatest façade yet. It seems unlikely, but Mycroft knows his brother better than anyone, certainly better than the doctors who diagnosed Sherlock's death and the reporters who proclaimed it "official." Both Holmes brothers know (knew) exactly how little of the truth makes it into the papers these days.
But it doesn't almost matter whether Sherlock is alive or dead. Mycroft made a mistake that cannot be unmade.
Moriarty is dead, that matters. There's no hope of Shakespearian revenge left for Mycroft Holmes. No chance to redeem himself anymore. It's not a negotiation not with only one party available and one option left.
For once, Mycroft takes what he's given.
.
.
.
Then, eight days after he enters the Diogenes club, someone breaks the rules.
There's a hand on his arm, a rude, interrupting hand on his arm, yanking him out of his favourite armchair and pulling him to his feet. He's staring into the eyes of one DI Gregory Lestrade, and Gregory isn't speaking but his mouth is set in a deep, downturned line, and he doesn't let go of Mycroft's arm.
Mycroft wants to say, "Don't." He wants to say, "I need this, let me be." He wants to say, "You're breaking the rules." None of his unspoken words are elegant; none of them would work effectively in a negotiation.
It's probably for the best he doesn't speak.
Gregory doesn't open his mouth either, but Mycroft knows just what he's thinking. The tugging grip on his arm says, "We're getting you out of here now," and the way Gregory glances back to Mycroft's face, inspecting every wrinkle says, "Too skinny, no sleep. What have you been doing to yourself?" Gregory chews on his lip, and he may as well shouted, "You bloody wanker, you disappear and you don't think I'll miss you?" Mycroft thinks that last one is a bit unfair. It's not as though they talk every day of their lives; normally Gregory understands when Mycroft has to leave for business and can't call him back while he's away. It's not as though Mycroft hasn't missed Gregory, but he needed this silence. He deserved it.
Gregory drags him though the halls. He doesn't let go of Mycroft even when they reach the exit of the club. Rather they're standing outside on the streets of London in the twilight and pouring rain, and Gregory still has his hand wrapped around Mycroft's wrist, even tighter than before. Mycroft's umbrella is back inside the club, as is his coat. Gregory just stares at him; both of their faces are dripping wet. People rush past them on the street.
Gregory's breathing hard, like Mycroft's punched him. As if Mycroft's winded him in some way.
Mycroft automatically tries to negotiate. What can he possibly say to mitigate the situation? "You're being unfair," is the only thought that comes to mind in response to the accusation built into every inch of Gregory's features. But "You're being unfair" won't get him anywhere. Besides, he's cold and he's wet and he hasn't slept in far too long. He doesn't have the strength to argue. Or rather: he doesn't have the strength to win.
"Christ, Mycroft," Gregory finally whispers.
"You found me," Mycroft says. He's not quite sure why. It's rather obvious. His tone comes out closer to a plea than anything else.
Gregory huffs out a laugh. It doesn't sound terribly happy. None of their words mean what they ought to, and normally Mycroft would relish navigating a conversation with such heavy subtext. But nothing is normal right now. Nothing could be farther from normal.
"Bloody well ought," Gregory says, which might mean, Should have done sooner. "I have a badge to certify that's what I'm good for." He breaks eye contact then, just for a second, to stare at the ground. "Had a badge," he corrects. Then he pulls his eyes back to Mycroft. "So. Yours or mine?"
"Neither," Mycroft says. "I'd like to return to my club."
"Bollocks," Gregory says. Mycroft had a feeling he might. Then something shifts; Gregory stands up straighter. "Mine it is, then."
"Kidnapping a government official is a federal crime," Mycroft says softly.
Gregory looks like he's going to say something. Mycroft can't possibly guess what. He also can't guess that Gregory is going to let go of his wrist (Mycroft suddenly feels hollow) and pull him in for a hug. Mycroft wants to keep his body stiff, to protest: he's fine on his own. Instead his frame sags the instant he makes contact with Gregory's body. He lays his head down on Gregory's shoulder.
This is dangerous. People will see. People will talk. Someone may realize how much Mycroft needs Gregory. Someone might try to use Gregory against him.
Mycroft ignores the paranoia for the moment, in spite of every one of his instincts. He closes his eyes and takes deep, heaving breaths. He can't breathe deeply enough.
Eventually, he allows Gregory to lead him home.
Chapter Two
Word Count: approx 2,200 for this bit
A/N: Full story info and more author's notes here.
Prologue
Chapter One
Mycroft is an expert in silence, he thrives in it. His first negotiations happened before he could speak. The widening of his eyes or the absence of a smile gained him toys and milk and naptime before they came to any of his peers. "You were the perfect baby," Mummy used to tell him. "So silent and sweet."
He loved when she said that, but he never once blushed. Sometimes instead he'd sneer at his younger brother, still swaddled and letting loose wail after blood-curdling wail.
Mycroft tried to train him. "No toys for you, Sherlock," he would say to the infant. He held the rattle high above Sherlock's crib. "Not until you behave." Sherlock wailed and wailed; eventually Mycroft left in a huff. It was the first time he learned that some things-some brothers, in particular-are beyond negotiation.
Mycroft was raised in silence. Sherlock was cacophony; Sherlock played pirate when Mycroft was thirteen and old enough to know better. He was beyond the childish impulse to climb atop an armchair and shout "Land Ho!" Didn't Sherlock know Mummy needed her sleep? No, Sherlock was too young to understand. Or maybe Mummy wasn't sick enough just yet. Mycroft can't remember anymore.
After she died, the Holmes estate echoed.
Sherlock took up the violin; Mycroft never did thank him properly for doing so. It was only in listening to the melodies that Mycroft could resume his studies. It wasn't that his sadness weighed any less when Sherlock played, but his little brother unwittingly rearranged Mycroft's grief like notes on a scale. Mycroft's silence found purpose. It became the proper backdrop for Sherlock's concertos.
Mycroft insisted on funding the lessons. He found Sherlock the greatest teachers money could buy. If Mycroft wasn't being useful, at least he wasn't being useless anymore, either.
After the Fall, Mycroft has no concertos. He surrounds himself with silence. It's what he deserves, and it's easy enough to get.
.
.
.
No one mentions Sherlock here. No one would dare.
The beauty of the Diogenes Club is that no one acknowledges any flaws to the system. Mycroft has heard men cough, sneeze, and murmur words aloud as they read. People are imperfect; people make noise. However the Diogenes members are gentlemen of selective hearing: No member may acknowledge any other member within the main room.
Mycroft has watched new members from the corner of his eye as they make their first accidental (inevitable) noise. They scan the room guilty to see if anyone has heard them sneeze. When no one appears to have noticed, the new members' expressions change. Suddenly they look confused, even doubtful that they sneezed at all.
It's a beautiful system.
Sherlock once said that sitting in the Diogenes was like existing alone in a world full of dead people. It was a rare moment of praise from his brother. Now Mycroft would like to suggest a corollary: if no one acknowledges you, it is a little like being dead yourself.
It would be maudlin and foolish to suggest that Mycroft stays here in an attempt to ally his condition with his brother's. He cannot afford to fall.
He can, however, afford to hide. To an extent, anyway: other members must have heard his mobile go off, multiple times. It emits one low beep for national affairs, two for international. His PA has been earning her keep by paring down his workload to emergencies only. He takes his meals inside the Diogenes, in his private room in the back. He has nowhere to sleep, but this presents no disruption to his plans. Mycroft likes sleep; He does not require it to function.
Sometimes his phone beeps three times. He wants to look at those texts but he never does.
He made his prison and now he has locked himself inside. He will not allow himself conjugal visits.
No matter how often Gregory texts.
From work, from Gregory Lestrade, his phone beeps again and again. He sneezes, he feels utterly exhausted. Once he found himself tearing up, utterly out of his own control. (He will not offer himself private space to cry. He does not deserve it.) It doesn't matter, what he does or does not do. Here, he is invisible.
Instead he sits. Occasionally, he mourns. Mostly, he thinks.
.
.
.
Until the Fall, Mycroft had always considered himself an expert in getting what he wanted. As a child Mycroft wanted for nothing. This wasn't because their family had money (which they did), and it wasn't because their father had died and so by default Mycroft stood as the dominant male (though this was also true). He wanted for nothing because he instinctively knew exactly how to negotiate for everything. That's why Sherlock loathed him so when they were children. Sherlock sulked in corners as Mycroft always got the last piece of cake.
When they were children Sherlock decided to make himself as different from Mycroft as humanly possible. Given that they were two extremely intelligent people with similar genetic DNA and the same…unconventional upbringing, Sherlock's intention to destroy the combined efforts of nature and nurture (though the idea of "nurture" in the Holmes household was nearly humorous) required significant effort to implement.
But his brother was always so determined. So stubborn.
Mycroft was an expert at getting what he wanted, and so Sherlock became a study in insolence. Sherlock went to great lengths to make it appear as though his choices reflected whatever other people least wanted him to do. To those who knew both Holmes brothers, Mycroft seemed as magnanimous as Sherlock seemed selfish.
But Mycroft, who watched his brother grow up, knows this behaviour as the façade it truly is. By this point, Mycroft's not sure even Sherlock remembers that's it's a façade.
No: remembered.
Sherlock isn't (wasn't) selfish. Mycroft wasn't (isn't) the perfect negotiator. Sherlock would have loved that, to see Mycroft fail so thoroughly. The irony isn't lost on the survivor.
He spent weeks working on Moriarty. Everyone did. Every kind of torture was employed, every kind of incentive was offered. Nothing worked. They had considerable evidence suggesting Moriarty's new weapon would bring down London in a heartbeat, the rest of the world soon thereafter. Never let it be said his brother's arch-nemesis cut corners.
When their efforts got them nowhere, they did what every desperate high-ranking government official would do: they called for Mycroft Holmes.
And Mycroft could make Moriarty talk-that was part of the man's genius. Moriarty's, of course. He flattered Mycroft, courted him, until he had him sharing the most intimate details of his brother's early life. That's what John Watson would tell you. (Much like Sherlock, John Watson has a penchant for grand statements. Not the same penchant, of course. Sherlock's statements are (were) bragging, John's are in the name of bravery.)
It wasn't quite the case.
John implied that Mycroft had mindlessly handed Moriarty an annotated copy of Sherlock's life story on a silver platter, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Mycroft was a Holmes; Mycroft wasn't an idiot. He was well aware he betrayed his brother with each story he shared. If anything, Mycroft was too mindful. He wore his mindfulness like a shining badge. He had believed his mindfulness would protect his brother; his mindfulness would save the world.
Mycroft had carefully examined each anecdote he told Moriarty, and he checked himself when stories might reveal any information about Sherlock's current life, his weaknesses, even his strengths. He limited the amount of embarrassing stories he relayed-though he did share a few. He knows Sherlock would have done the same, if not worse. Sherlock would not have been able to help himself.
He sold Sherlock's story; he weighed his options and he left each session sure he had got the better deal. It's a farce now, of course. (The trade was not acceptable; the trade was unnecessary.)
It's a farce without laughter; it's a silence.
It's silence, still.
.
.
.
Mycroft has no doubt that, were he to perform a thorough investigation of all facts surrounding Sherlock's death, he would discover that his brother was coerced into killing himself: Sherlock wasn't one for suicide. He wanted everyone to worship him, and their adulation (or even just John Watson's adulation, after the publicity scandal) was useless to him dead. Some days Mycroft entertains a frivolous suspicion that his brother isn't dead at all but has performed some sort of elaborate magic trick. The greatest façade yet. It seems unlikely, but Mycroft knows his brother better than anyone, certainly better than the doctors who diagnosed Sherlock's death and the reporters who proclaimed it "official." Both Holmes brothers know (knew) exactly how little of the truth makes it into the papers these days.
But it doesn't almost matter whether Sherlock is alive or dead. Mycroft made a mistake that cannot be unmade.
Moriarty is dead, that matters. There's no hope of Shakespearian revenge left for Mycroft Holmes. No chance to redeem himself anymore. It's not a negotiation not with only one party available and one option left.
For once, Mycroft takes what he's given.
.
.
.
Then, eight days after he enters the Diogenes club, someone breaks the rules.
There's a hand on his arm, a rude, interrupting hand on his arm, yanking him out of his favourite armchair and pulling him to his feet. He's staring into the eyes of one DI Gregory Lestrade, and Gregory isn't speaking but his mouth is set in a deep, downturned line, and he doesn't let go of Mycroft's arm.
Mycroft wants to say, "Don't." He wants to say, "I need this, let me be." He wants to say, "You're breaking the rules." None of his unspoken words are elegant; none of them would work effectively in a negotiation.
It's probably for the best he doesn't speak.
Gregory doesn't open his mouth either, but Mycroft knows just what he's thinking. The tugging grip on his arm says, "We're getting you out of here now," and the way Gregory glances back to Mycroft's face, inspecting every wrinkle says, "Too skinny, no sleep. What have you been doing to yourself?" Gregory chews on his lip, and he may as well shouted, "You bloody wanker, you disappear and you don't think I'll miss you?" Mycroft thinks that last one is a bit unfair. It's not as though they talk every day of their lives; normally Gregory understands when Mycroft has to leave for business and can't call him back while he's away. It's not as though Mycroft hasn't missed Gregory, but he needed this silence. He deserved it.
Gregory drags him though the halls. He doesn't let go of Mycroft even when they reach the exit of the club. Rather they're standing outside on the streets of London in the twilight and pouring rain, and Gregory still has his hand wrapped around Mycroft's wrist, even tighter than before. Mycroft's umbrella is back inside the club, as is his coat. Gregory just stares at him; both of their faces are dripping wet. People rush past them on the street.
Gregory's breathing hard, like Mycroft's punched him. As if Mycroft's winded him in some way.
Mycroft automatically tries to negotiate. What can he possibly say to mitigate the situation? "You're being unfair," is the only thought that comes to mind in response to the accusation built into every inch of Gregory's features. But "You're being unfair" won't get him anywhere. Besides, he's cold and he's wet and he hasn't slept in far too long. He doesn't have the strength to argue. Or rather: he doesn't have the strength to win.
"Christ, Mycroft," Gregory finally whispers.
"You found me," Mycroft says. He's not quite sure why. It's rather obvious. His tone comes out closer to a plea than anything else.
Gregory huffs out a laugh. It doesn't sound terribly happy. None of their words mean what they ought to, and normally Mycroft would relish navigating a conversation with such heavy subtext. But nothing is normal right now. Nothing could be farther from normal.
"Bloody well ought," Gregory says, which might mean, Should have done sooner. "I have a badge to certify that's what I'm good for." He breaks eye contact then, just for a second, to stare at the ground. "Had a badge," he corrects. Then he pulls his eyes back to Mycroft. "So. Yours or mine?"
"Neither," Mycroft says. "I'd like to return to my club."
"Bollocks," Gregory says. Mycroft had a feeling he might. Then something shifts; Gregory stands up straighter. "Mine it is, then."
"Kidnapping a government official is a federal crime," Mycroft says softly.
Gregory looks like he's going to say something. Mycroft can't possibly guess what. He also can't guess that Gregory is going to let go of his wrist (Mycroft suddenly feels hollow) and pull him in for a hug. Mycroft wants to keep his body stiff, to protest: he's fine on his own. Instead his frame sags the instant he makes contact with Gregory's body. He lays his head down on Gregory's shoulder.
This is dangerous. People will see. People will talk. Someone may realize how much Mycroft needs Gregory. Someone might try to use Gregory against him.
Mycroft ignores the paranoia for the moment, in spite of every one of his instincts. He closes his eyes and takes deep, heaving breaths. He can't breathe deeply enough.
Eventually, he allows Gregory to lead him home.
Chapter Two