he ain't heavy, he's my brother

[punchmeitssubtext]

The Holmes siblings did not, as a general rule, observe one another's birthdays. Christmas might merit a phone call in a good year; occasionally something would turn up on Bastille Day or after a particularly bizarre case or political scandal. Sarcasm always featured heavily. Whatever remarks were tossed back and forth tended either to contain so much cutting wit as to cancel out any grain of underlying sentiment, or to be outright scathing.

One might imagine, having observed these two brothers before one of them had fallen from grace and a hospital roof, that they hated each other. And one might imagine that hadn't changed when the younger brother rose from the grave in a proverbial blaze of glory.

But what no one was privy to was the contents of the package that slid through Mycroft Holmes's mail slot on an overcast Saturday.

Comments

[the_government]

Mycroft heard the package thump upon the teak and frowned. His mail was thoroughly handled at his office, none of it came to the house. So a package, without a courier, was more than a little mysterious. He turned it over in his hands. No address. Therefore, someone who knew the address, knew his handwriting would be recognized, and with the skill or access to bypass the Holmes' residences numerous securities and the irritating cheek to fake a "mailed package" rather than giving it to him in person.

Sherlock.

He carried the package to his desk and withdrew his letter opener, slicing the package open in one fluid motion.

[punchmeitssubtext]

It was thin, and as soon as the envelope parted the smell of old paper flowed out, like a soft exhale.

A small leatherbound book, badly battered and worn, fell onto the desk. The pages fluttered, and a brilliant blue feather--somehow still bright, after years of being hidden--landed at the corner of his blotter.

SKETCHBOOK, the cover read, the gold leaf that had once filled the letters now entirely worn away.

[the_government]

Mycroft stilled, sitting down in his chair. The book seemed small now, as he picked it up for the first time in years. He remembered how big it seemed when he was a boy. He couldn't fit it in his pocket, but he took it everywhere.

His thumb smoothed what remained of the title, a gesture long forgotten. Those letters had shone so brightly years ago, when he had started filling the book of things he wanted to keep. Things that interested him. Leaves and feathers, bits of string, a note that his mother had erred in and discarded. A tuft of fox fur collected from a fence. And most importantly, his sketches. diagrams of plants, animals he'd dissected, details of their organs and musculature. Finally, sketches of humans, his mother's sketch missing, torn out as a present. His father, frowning, brow furrowed in thought. And...he flipped through the book. There. The round face, cupids bow lips, so innocent-looking... like any other child. Yet the outlines of his eyes bore trace of multiple erasures. Mycroft never could capture the intelligence and the fire in those eyes.

As he turned the pages of the volume, amongst his own, rounded script, he saw spidery scrawls that were all too familiar. He plucked the feather from his desk, fingertip gently tracing from the rachis to the tip of the barbs.

If only you knew how to ask, Sherlock. If only I knew how to be generous.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock, at age six, had long since begun to show signs of extraordinary intelligence. There were no misspellings, and the handwriting, though large and still showing evidence of developing fine motor control skills, was competent.

By a sketch of an orchid: Vanilla is a sort of orchid.

By the fox fur, written carefully around the sellotape that held it to the page: Saw it in the yard. It's caught two rabbits.

On the page where the blue feather had once rested, alongside the diagram of a bird's wing: Why does it need different shaped feathers to fly?

(Beneath that, in somewhat more assured handwriting--he must have been older when he wrote it--was a hastily scrawled treble clef and what looked like a few measures of notes. Nightingale transcribed, it read, and oddly enough it evoked the memory of a brief visit to Baker Street when he'd interrupted his brother practicing an original composition. The phrase had evidently never been deleted from his mental hard drive.)

[the_government]

Mycroft skimmed through these added notes, his expression soft, wistful. The questions, observations, yes, even corrections to his own diagrams (How could he have missed the tumor in the dove's brain? He'd shaded that area darker, noticed the blood pooling in the eye socket. Sherlock had redrawn it, without even having seen the animal, the exact shape and placement of it, on a brain he'd never even seen. Mycroft felt a pang of loss. If they had only been able to work together. If only...

He shook his head. It wouldn't do to bring old sentiment into this. He should accept the gift for what it was---a gesture of apology, a rightful return of something that had been taken. An offering of inclusion, a start of a new conversation that erased the slate. Something that took them back to simpler times, before one of them had been aloof and then overbearing, and the other, meddlesome to rancorous.

An odd olive branch, this tattered old journal. but one all the same.

Mycroft turned to the last page he'd written upon, then one more, his fingers smoothing over the blankness of the page. He pulled a pencil from his desk drawer, the graphite crumbling against the paper as he drew- soft strokes, but sure, sketching the bones as they connected...humerus, radius and ulna, ulnare and metacarpus. A few more strokes and he had filled in different shaped feathers.

"Primaries" he wrote "for strength in the thrust"
"Secondaries - Remain together for lift"
"Tertials - protect the feathers at rest"

His hand skimmed lower, pencil scratching at the paper as his strokes became more broad, fluid. Two young boys, facing each other in profile. The younger on the left, in bare feet, rolled up trousers, a shirt coming untucked, unruly curls frizzed about his face. The older on the right, kneeling, in clothes that were much too adult in size for his age. Between them, they grasped an open bird's wing.

[punchmeitssubtext]

At one point the edge of his hand caught the edge of the page and tugged it back... and there were pencil strokes already there.

Turning two pages ahead revealed a very rough drawing. It was very simple: a chair in a familiar shape, something like a modern armchair--the same one that his brother generally occupied in Baker Street. A human figure had been sketched in, someone with a thin frame and long limbs, head cocked to one side as if listening intently. There were no real identifying features, no hairline or nose or jaw to indicate exactly who was sitting there.

However, the date at the bottom of the drawing provided a clue all its own. It had been drawn during Sherlock's absence, around the halfway point--probably while he'd been sitting in an airport or a hotel room or some lonely place halfway around the world. The fact that he hadn't torn it out was a kind of quiet concession that he was all right with his brother knowing he was capable of missing places and people.

Mycroft's phone chimed with a text alert. It was a reply to a voicemail he'd left the day before.

Too busy for the Russian Embassy business. Stop trying to get Lestrade to call me. -S

Apparently, what warmth Sherlock possessed had to be balanced out by a reminder that he was still a bastard.

[the_government]

Mycroft smiled, fingers lightly tracing the drawing. He and Sherlock were never going to be the type of brothers the idyllic public thought were standard. Deep emotional connection was something of a loss. But mentally, where it counted the most to both of them, they had already forged a connection. They were still the only person in each others life who absolutely understood what it was like in their heads.

As annoying as that was sometimes.

Mycroft's thumbs pecked out a reply. He knew it would take Sherlock forever to listen to his voicemail, as his brother often made a habit of ignoring him for fun.

As long as you're busy, dear brother. -M

bringing the phone to his ear, he dialed Lestrade

"Detective Inspector, I'm afraid he's screening his calls. I'll have to stop by 221B. No, it's quite all right, I've something else to discuss with him. Though if something comes up, feel free to interrupt."

If Sherlock was running around town anonymously mailing him packages from his childhood, he was obviously bored out of his skull.

[punchmeitssubtext]

By the time Mycroft reached the Baker Street foyer, Sherlock's boredom appeared to have reached a plateau: he was at that stage where he'd decided to push his own skills with the violin. A Paganini caprice was the order of the day, and the music echoed down the stairs, each phrase tackled with the kind of sharp precision that suggested he was trying to play it from memory rather than the music stand.

[the_government]

Mycroft climbed the 17 steps, listening to the skillful attacks and swift note changes of the caprice, the simple repeated combination of notes and chords began anew, an entirely different piece of music on every repetition.

He entered on a particularly vicious section, watching his brother attack the strings, two at once, perhaps a bit harsher than intended, the doublestops sounding harsh and yet beautiful. He sat down on the couch, the one reserved for guests, and listened politely, while carefully placing the small leather book he had brought with him on the arm of the sofa.

[punchmeitssubtext]

As usual, Sherlock waited to finish a particular section before addressing his brother, as if he didn't care how long Mycroft waited or why he was here. As if the music were the priority. But there was far less of the usual harshness about his mouth when he turned to face Mycroft.

"I do recall telling you I was busy."

[the_government]

Mycroft spread his arms slightly, inclining his head.

"If you were really busy, you wouldn't have bothered to text. Or to stop by the house this morning."
He leaned back on the couch, stretching his legs, crossing one ankle over the other.
"I'm just enjoying the performance." He said, softly. "You needn't stop. I'll wait"

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Too late." Sherlock sounded almost grumpy now. He hadn't bothered to lower his violin, instead staring down its length at his brother in a way that could only be described as haughty. "There was a flow and it's been interrupted now. I'll have to start again."

And yet he didn't put away the instrument, or address Mycroft's receipt of the package, or even bother to acknowledge the phrase with anything more than a faintly affronted look. Had they been boys again, it probably would have been accompanied by a sullen Did not.

[the_government]

"So start again"

His words were delivered amiably, in a low tone. The leather of the book warmed slowly beneath his stroking fingers.

"Or start a new song. Perhaps the Humoresque?" he offered, and was immediately thrown back to days standing in the sun dappled foyer, knelt behind the smaller Sherlock, the tiny violin on his shoulder. Sherlock fingering the simple melody while Mycroft completed the trickier bowing pattern. Sherlock had demanded to know the rest of the song, and Mycroft had played it for him, eager to show off. Sherlock hadn't applauded or complimented, just nodded, as if the completion of the piece answered all the questions he needed to ask.

[punchmeitssubtext]

On any other day, Sherlock likely would have ordered his brother out of the flat with a biting remark about his weight. He rarely even took requests from John or Mrs Hudson, and, well, his relationship with them was far steadier than this one.

But today, where the sarcasm would have been, there was merely a fragile quiet.

He was a man of small concessions, whose gestures of genuine feeling were so small as to pass by nearly unobserved among ordinary people. Understanding that carefully guarded heart required learning a difficult language, one which translated poorly or not at all. It meant he was alone most of the time, isolated within his own armor, but when a connection was made--however thin, however hesitant--it was not made lightly.

Sherlock lifted the bow and began the Humoresque.

Although Mycroft had neither heard it at the flat nor seen the CCTV cameras pick up the pattern of the notes, it was evident Sherlock had practiced it often. His playing held the confidence of years' worth of repetition, of mistakes found and corrected in the decades between the foyer and the flat.

That room, years and years ago, had been the last place Sherlock had told his brother he loved him. He was nearly eight at the time.

[the_government]

Mycroft breathed a sigh, experiencing the music as it resonated from the cavity of violin. As the light happy melody changed to the deep and somber tones, he thought about what it must have been like for Sherlock, when he had left to go to school, when he had left their family home for good. When he had finally gone someplace that Sherlock was not allowed to go, and wasn't coming back.

Mycroft was good at forging alliances (not friendships but nearly as close and infinitely more functional) and Sherlock was not. How had he survived in the wake of the departure of the one person who knew what the burdens of genius were? Mycroft knew Sherlock's self-destructive habits for what they were- an attempt to push him away. To make him leave for good. To hurt the rest of the world in the same way it had hurt him. Mycroft's forced interventions had not endeared him to Sherlock, he knew. But he was amazed that they had progressed to this- a sort of truce.

He remembered the last time his brother had embraced him, gripping the lapels of his overcoat and muttering into his tie, quietly, that he loved him. He never knew how much that admission killed Mycroft. How could he say it back, knowing he was about to leave? How would that statement have retained its truth?

The piece concluded, and Mycroft let the note ring, observing Sherlock. He was staring out the window as usual, but Mycroft could see him thinking, could see him tensing, could see him bracing for an onslaught. Emotions, especially ones like these, could shatter that truce, Mycroft knew. And he wouldn't be the one to break them apart again.

"Sherlock..." He saw his brother start, coming back to the world, turning those always-questioning eyes onto him. He took a breath.

"I'm proud of you"

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock Holmes, as a general rule, had made a point of telling the world he was either immune to or incapable of love since his teenage years. Only work mattered, only knowledge, only the pursuit of showing off or pushing himself impossibly close to destruction. He was brilliant and isolated, like a comet whose glow pushed away all the stars close to its part of the sky. And no matter how people like John Watson or Molly Hooper or even Irene Adler changed him, his orbit was too set to make him anything else.

There might have been a time when those four words from his brother might have changed his course. When they would have quieted all the old resentments and healed something that would then have only been partly broken. That moment had long since passed, and could never really be recaptured--not between two people this stubborn, not between two people who had done each other so much damage. A grown man could hardly be healed by appealing to the hurt child he'd once been, no matter how sincere the effort.

But if Sherlock's orbit couldn't be altered, the light he gave off could.

To say he "lit up" at his brother's praise would have been a vast overstatement. He didn't even crack a smile, let alone approach the kind of casual, careless happiness he showed his few friends... but something had been set in motion that their constant bickering couldn't undo.

"You'll get over it," Sherlock murmured, and though it was sarcastic it was entirely without bitterness.

It was far from a reconciliation. But the war between them was done.

[the_government]

Only a moron would have been able to miss the change in Sherlock's demeanor after he'd spoke.

And Mycroft Holmes was certainly not a moron.

He saw the slight strength in his brother's spine, the relaxing in his muscles. He saw the relief in his unclenched fingers, the unfolding of his lower lip from the tight frown. It was nearly as heartwarming as a hug. And far less awkward.

He knew then, that though his brother would never NOT begrudge him the long shadow of their adolescence, that their traded insults would be less cutting and vicious. Since their father's death, Mycroft had found himself in the awkward position of trying to be a parent and a brother and a friend to one stubborn genius. His attempts at parenting had been forced upon and subsequently rejected. An attempt at friendship would be ridiculous. But a brother...that was the least he could do.

His phone beeped, and he fished it out of his pocket, checking the screen.

"Probably." He said, flatly. "Although your dallying has benefited you. The Russian Embassy sorted itself. I'll have plenty to cover up from the public this time. Definitely Karashov's human trafficking. We were so close to getting to the top of that too. Pity. None of the girls will talk to us."

He looked up "Some of them you might know. I think they're in your homeless friends network." He made a face full of distaste. "But if you're busy..."

[punchmeitssubtext]

He considered a moment. Normally he hated giving his brother any sort of favor; there had long been a kind of childish, perverse pleasure in withholding something from him. The sketchbook had only been the first in a long line of stolen or hidden things. (Truth be told, he still had a small box of Mycroft's possessions somewhere in 221B, but it had been so well hidden he no longer remembered where it was.)

"News travels quickly," he said, his tone neutral. Mentally he was already considering his map of the city. He'd been considering going to the morgue, a pet shop whose specimens were often of dubious and questionable legality, possibly down to a sushi place to grab some dinner... along the way he could identify at least ten different spots frequented by his contacts, plus a few irregular hangouts and two patrol routes whose officers had crushes on him.

If everything went well, he could get the information, route it through other contacts to see that it got to his brother, and be home by seven-thirty to curl up in his chair with a beer and a pair of ear plugs.