Taste versus Effect
TITLE: Taste versus Effect
FANDOM: Sherlock
CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes
NOTE: Pre-series - Sherlock is in his second year at university; Mycroft is much lower in the political food chain.
The door swung open not long after Mycroft had rung the doorbell. He wished he could say he was surprised to find a desperate, aggravated man, pleading for his intervention, but, alas, he wasn’t.
“For God’s sake, tell your brother that if he doesn’t stop harassing my dog he can find somewhere else to live.”
Mycroft glanced over the man’s shoulder and could just make out a familiar pair of shoes at the top of the stairs. A familiar voice accompanied them.
“It was only a hypnotic. There’ll be no damage, no lasting effect.”
“Fuck off. Fuck right off,” the first man told the shoes and, with one last entreating look at Mycroft, he stalked off to the kitchen.
“Hello, Sherlock,” said Mycroft.
“Hello, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, coming down the stairs.
Mycroft noticed an unconscious border terrier, propped up against the bottom step.
“Don’t you think you could leave that man’s pet alone?” he asked, as delicately as possible, “This university has some of the best scientific facilities in the country; isn’t that good enough for you?”
“Yes, of course, they’re fine. But when I’m here in the middle of the night I don’t exactly want to take a taxi to the campus, do I?”
“And you can’t wait until morning? You just can’t hold it in. You have to poison a dog, right that moment.”
“I didn’t poison it. I used a perfectly standard date rape drug.”
“Ah,” Mycroft said, feeling that no other word would suffice. After a moment he added, in one final attempt at persuasion, “At least try to keep the other people here happy. It’s the middle of term and it would be such a hassle to find you another house-share now…”
Sherlock nodded (a decidedly non-committal gesture) and quickly waved a hand to the landing.
“Do you want a drink? I think I’ve got some in my room.”
Mycroft squeezed past Sherlock in the narrow hallway and started to climb the stairs.
“Third door to the right, isn’t it?”
Sherlock poured them both a mug of red wine from a bottle of Tesco’s cheapest. Mycroft looked at it distastefully, and Sherlock met his gaze with an amused smirk. Mycroft shook this off quickly and surveyed the room instead. It was the exact same order of mess as usual. The books, the bottles of God-knows-what, the pharmacy boxes of pills, the skull…
“Why are you here?” asked Sherlock.
“Just checking in on you, that’s all,” Mycroft answered.
It was an unnecessary exchange. They went through it every time Mycroft visited. If Mycroft ever, in the future, had a different reason for visiting his brother, Sherlock would be able to figure it out without asking.
“How’s the history degree coming along?” Mycroft asked.
“You know as well as I do that I haven’t been going to lectures recently.”
“No,” Mycroft said, in his gravest possible big-brother tone, “Or handing in work, or attending tutorials. You spend all your time in the science departments. Sherlock, it’s ridiculous to carry on like this. Why don’t you change your degree? We have the money. No one would mind.”
Sherlock smiled, “I thought you’d like to see me leave this place without anything. That would really put you one up in the competition.”
“I left with a First, remember? I just want you to get a Third; I don’t want you to end up with nothing. I’m not that cruel, am I?”
“No,” Sherlock agreed, “No, you’re not.”
“Then why not change?”
There was a pause. A pause to allow Mycroft to come up with the answer, which Sherlock knew he was in possession of. Mycroft said nothing, so Sherlock reluctantly went ahead and said, “Because once I’m studying it I’ll get bored of it. This way, I’m accomplishing something and it keeps me interested. I’m good at it, you know. I’m creating my own branch of science and reasoning - I call it the science of deduction.”
“Well, maybe you can write a book about it one day,” said Mycroft, exasperatedly, “But right now, the only thing anyone is getting out of it is the knowledge that you’ve got something to occupy yourself.”
“That’s a start, isn’t it?”
“I have to admit, it’s an improvement on last year.”
Mycroft stayed perhaps an hour longer, facing various accusations from Sherlock, all of which he had to reluctantly admit were true. He managed to level a few more at Sherlock, all of which Sherlock deftly glossed over. It was in this way, as it was usually, that they shared news. It was more trouble than having a straightforward conversation, but it was the only way they felt comfortable with.
Sherlock said goodbye to Mycroft at the door. It had started to rain.
“Keep out of trouble,” said Mycroft, opening his umbrella, “And I’ll tell mother that you love her.”
“Tell her to forward the parcel I had delivered to her house, too.”
“I will,” said Mycroft, “When you’re free at Easter, come down to London, won’t you? I’ll give you something decent to drink.”
Sherlock nodded but said, just to voice his opinion, “Alcohol’s alcohol. Why does it matter how it tastes? It’s the effect it has on you that matters.”
The rain was falling heavily. Mycroft had stepped down to the pavement and Sherlock couldn’t see him very clearly through the rain’s distortion. But he noticed that his words had provoked a brief frown.
“Yes, I can see you’d think that,” said Mycroft.
There was silence for a few moments. Mycroft seemed to be struggling to say something more. Eventually he looked up at Sherlock and smiled, crookedly, and said nothing. He would walk away, then. He would walk away, having said nothing to any effect and worry about his brother.
That was how it always went.
“Goodbye, Sherlock.”
“Bye, Mycroft.”