Work Text:
“Five minutes,” Said Sherlock with a pained expression on his face, his grip tightening on the gun pointed directly at Mycroft, “It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us.”
“Well, not on my watch.”
Mycroft, who had been silently preparing himself to be shot in the head in just a few seconds, looked at his brother with pained confusion, and before he could ask the question himself, Eurus did it for him;
“What are you doing?”
“A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered.” Replied Sherlock.
Mycroft knew immediately where this was going, and complete and utter terror filled him, although this was only visible through his eyes, which began to display a look of fear that Sherlock had seen countless times before, a look of fear reserved only for him.
“I’m remembering the governor.” Sherlock said as he began to point the gun towards his own chin.
“Ten.”
As Sherlock began to count down, Mycroft remembered the first time he had laid eyes on this particular sight, Sherlock with a gun to his head, and Mycroft in front of him, paralyzed with fear.
By the age of 24, Mycroft had already established himself within the British Government, and was beginning to become essential to governments around the world. To Mycroft, his position was only a means to ensure that Sherlock was protected, and a way to check up on him without actually having to be a constant presence in his life, as Sherlock had begun to resent Mycroft for leaving him alone after he had left for university. Sherlock never understood just how much Mycroft cared, but it was guaranteed that Mycroft would always be there for him in the darkest of times, and would always be watching over him, even if Sherlock believed this was done with some sort of bizarre malicious intent.
Sherlock and Mycroft were not in the habit of communicating with each other, and despite Mycroft’s desire to do so, it was not reciprocated by Sherlock, who was 17 and had not yet gotten over Mycroft leaving for university all those years ago. Although Mycroft kept tabs on Sherlock, he did not have him under constant surveillance, and was therefore not aware of most of the things going on in his life, and it was for this reason that Mycroft found himself in complete surprise when he received a call from his brother at exactly 2:07 AM on one otherwise insignificant night.
“Hello?” murmured Mycroft softly, having just been woken up, but nevertheless concerned by the sudden appearance of Sherlock’s number on his phone in the middle of the night.
“Is it ever annoying living next to an alley? I mean, the traffic noises coming from all directions?” replied a quiet, monotone voice from the other end of the line.
“Sherlock? Do you have any idea what time it is? What do you want?” responded Mycroft, who was now slightly annoyed to have been woken up at such an hour to be asked such a ridiculous question, “How do you know I live next to an alley? You’ve never visited.”
“It’s not difficult to find a person’s address, brother dear, and besides, I’m sitting behind a bin in that particular alley right now.” Sherlock groaned as the sound of rain began to grow louder and louder from his end of the phone, before adding, “Of course it’s raining, how fitting.”
“Sherlock, why are you in the alley beside my house?” Mycroft sighed as he looked out the window in his bedroom and noticed that it had indeed started raining heavily, taking a deep breath before saying “I’m coming out there, don’t go anywhere.”
Mycroft quickly got out of bed and put on his house coat, deciding against changing into something more presentable, due to a feeling that the reason Sherlock was sat in an alley in the middle of the night was not a good one, and that he lacked the time to put on anything other than a house coat. He made his way down the stairs and towards his front door, where he grabbed his umbrella, something he never left the house without, rain or shine, though in this situation it was a rather appropriate choice.
Mycroft turned the corner into the alley and spotted a bin about halfway down on the left side, and began walking as quickly as he could towards it. There was a faint amount of light in the alley that allowed Mycroft to see his brother as soon as he approached the bin, dropping his umbrella from the shock of the sight before him, one he had feared that he would one day see.
Sherlock was completely drenched, as he had been sitting in the rain for quite some time, and was shivering from the cold. He had, of course, neglected the importance of wearing a jacket, and was only wearing a long sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. Sherlock’s head rested against the side of the bin, and pressed against his chin was a gun.
Mycroft had never felt such strong fear in his life. His heart felt as though it was preparing to leap through his chest, and his insides churned, creating an overwhelming feeling of nausea that brought him to one knee in front of his little brother. Mycroft’s breathing felt frantic, and he struggled to control his racing thoughts enough to construct the correct words, the words that would convince Sherlock to give him the gun, the words that would save his brother, the only person in this world that he had ever wanted to protect.
“I don’t want to do this anymore, Mycroft” Sherlock said quietly, looking up at his brother as tears streamed down his face, the gun still firmly pressed to his chin, “I just-I can’t do it anymore.”
“What happened, Sherlock?” whispered Mycroft, in almost the same way that you would speak to someone if there were to be a wild animal directly behind them, and you were trying to give them directions on how not to get eaten.
“Nothing happened, I’m just like this, Mycroft, you know that I’m like this.” sniffled Sherlock, his finger now resting softly on the trigger of the gun, “I can’t take it anymore, I can’t handle being who I am anymore, it’s excruciating.”
“Sherlock, please, don’t do this, you don’t have to do this. You have so much to live for, you have a future wait-”
“A future? What kind of a future could I possibly have? Everything about me drives people away, anyone who’s been in my life long enough to truly know me leaves me in the end, I hurt everyone around me with the observations I make and the words that come out of my mouth before I can stop them, people find me off putting even when i’m just being myself. Tell me, Mycroft, what is out there that is even remotely compatible with the kind of person I am? What kind of job tolerates my personality? What kind of people make friends with someone who comes across as nothing more than an emotionless, arrogant asshole?” Spat Sherlock, who was now beginning to press the gun more firmly into his chin.
“You’re only seventeen, Sherlock, you can’t know for certain that things won’t work out for you.” Mycroft replied, trying his best to breathe even though it felt like his lungs were collapsing inside of his chest as he watched his little brother grip the gun in his hand as if it were a lifeline.
“How could they?” Sherlock half-whispered, half yelled, “Mummy can’t even bring herself to see a future for me, Mycroft. I hear her sometimes, she thinks I should be sectioned.”
“Sherlock, Mummy does not think you should be sectioned.” Mycroft replied, quickly, as he tried to figure out the easiest way to take the gun from Sherlock’s hand.
“How would you know, Mycroft?” Sherlock hissed, looking up at his brother with rage now in his eyes, “You left, you don’t visit, you don’t even care. The only thing you care about is your job, to hell with me or the rest of the family!” he continued, venom in every word.
“You know, I don’t give a fuck about family dynamics or warm and fuzzy relationships, but I used to expect you, of all people, to understand me.” growled Sherlock.
Sherlock’s words bore a hole in Mycroft’s heart. Their relationship had quickly deteriorated once Mycroft left for University, and no matter how hard Mycroft had tried to stay in contact with Sherlock, it seemed that Sherlock could only see his departure as a betrayal. Sherlock didn’t understand that everything Mycroft had done, he had done for Sherlock’s benefit. He didn’t see that Mycroft worried about him constantly, that he kept his distance only because he knew that Sherlock couldn’t handle being coddled and watched, because Mummy had done that his entire life. Mycroft understood Sherlock better than anyone else, and it crushed him to hear that Sherlock couldn’t see that.
“I do understand you Sherlock, I understand more than you could ever know. I’m sorry I left, but deep down you have to know that I had to, Sherlock, I had to do something for myself.” Mycroft responded softly, now watching as Sherlock’s hands shook vigorously from the cold, and as they shook, he watched as Sherlock’s finger kept coming dangerously close to pressing down on the trigger of the gun, which remained neatly pointed at his chin.
With this comment, Sherlock let out a long, exhausted sigh, dropping his head down to look at the pavement, and at the same time, letting the gun drop out of his hand. At this moment, Mycroft moved faster than he had ever moved in his entire life, picking up the gun and keeping it out of Sherlock’s reach before he could get the chance to pick it back up again. For the first time since he had laid eyes on Sherlock in the alley, Mycroft felt like he could breathe, with the impending threat of Sherlock’s death now out of the question.
“I paid good money for that, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped, but did not make an effort to reclaim the gun, instead electing to put his head between his knees to avoid looking at this brother, “I know why you left, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.” he said, the traces of anger in his voice now replaced with deflated sadness.
“I know, I know.” Mycroft whispered, “Will you come inside with me? You can stay as long as you’d like. I’ll sort out the sectioning situation before you go back home so you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock did not argue with this, and wordlessly stood up to indicate that he would stay with Mycroft, at least for the time being. Mycroft sheltered Sherlock from the rain with his umbrella as they made their way back to his apartment in silence, with no other sound than the occasional crack of thunder and the sounds of cars still active on the streets around them, even in the late hours of the night.
When they had safely returned to Mycroft’s apartment, Mycroft suggested that Sherlock take a shower to warm up, and as Sherlock did this, Mycroft took the opportunity to discreetly dispose of Sherlock’s gun by handing it off to a government agent who’s appearance he had urgently requested, regardless of the hour. While Mycroft felt bad about disturbing someone else in the middle of the night, he knew that there was no chance that he could sleep peacefully while Sherlock stayed with him, knowing that there was a gun in the apartment, and knowing that Sherlock would be able to find it no matter how well he thought he could hide it.
After Sherlock had showered and cleaned himself up, Mycroft prepared his guest room for Sherlock’s stay, and told him that he could make himself at home there. As Mycroft retreated to his own bedroom, he noticed Sherlock leaning on the door frame of the guest room, with a look of uncertainty painted on his face.
When they were younger, Sherlock would often make his way to Mycroft’s room and settle in for the night on the occupied side of Mycroft’s bed. This happened whenever Sherlock became upset by the sounds of their parents fighting, sometimes against each other, sometimes about Sherlock, and sometimes even about Mycroft. Though Mycroft was older than Sherlock by seven years, and valued his time himself as a teenager, he never objected to this, because he knew it was Sherlock’s way of trying to make himself feel safe.
Now, even at 17 and 24 years old, Mycroft could tell that the uncertainty on Sherlock’s face was an internal battle to determine whether the distance that had existed between the two of them for so many years meant that he could no longer even dare to ask the question. Refusing to let his brother stand there and ponder for any longer, Mycroft simply motioned with his head towards his own bedroom, and Sherlock followed.
Mycroft waited for Sherlock to settle in under the blankets on one side of the bed before laying down above the blankets on his own side, as they had done as children. As Mycroft lay there, wide awake, he heard the soft sounds of Sherlock snoring as he quickly fell asleep, no doubt completely exhausted by the earlier events. Mycroft sighed as he hoped to himself that they would never find themselves in this situation again, and that he would be able to keep a close enough eye on his brother from now on to keep him safe.