Sherlock had decided he would shave off Mycroft's beard.
I've finished watching the entire series. I know exactly what the show is selling, yet I still fell for the brotherly dynamic--I'm hopeless. And to be honest, I'm not entirely satisfied with Mycroft's portrayal; it's hard to comprehend why the series insists on making him seem less intelligent. So I began writing this. After all, I feel Mycroft deserves to appear younger. So why must he have that beard? My mind is full of questions.
"So… why the beard, brother dear?"
"First, tell me, Sherlock, what are you doing sneaking over from Oxford with a razor in hand? Every mature gentleman would know better than to get ideas."
"Too hasty, isn't it? When you came to visit me at boarding school, you didn't have this unsightly facial hair, Mycroft. Is it to look more distinguished? Or some archaic government convention? Clearly, they couldn't care less, could they? I noticed Sir Bucephalus' gaze on you well enough in Oxford. Not so different from Professor Thompson's look when he eyes me."
"Alright, Sherlock, don't tell me you intend to--"
Mycroft stiffened slightly but did not recoil from his suddenly approaching brother. Somehow, in Sherlock's presence, his usual control often crumbled like a sandcastle under the tide.
"Stay still, dear brother."
Pressing gently on his chin with thumb and forefinger, Sherlock lifted Mycroft's head. He paused thoughtfully, then spoke with a faint, awkward longing:
"I hope you don't mind my unpractised hand. I have practised, though only once, as a makeshift barber by the roadside. I still can't fathom why, even after returning their wallet, they continued accusing me of theft. Strange business… May I?"
"Your hand is already on the tool; what excuse do I have left, brother dear?"
"I suppose none. After such a long time apart, I wanted to see you. And I think this beard suits you less."
"You know where I work. A beard can hide quite a lot…"
"Very well, very well, but I still want to see you."
"Indeed, you are. But it is not often that I get to see you properly, as you know."
"Have I, after all these years as your half-guardian, made you a touch too dependent?" Mycroft relaxed into the sofa, attempting a joke.
"You know Father is away abroad all year, barely a word from him, and Mother remains in hospital. If not you, brother dear, on whom would I rely?" Sherlock's expression remained innocent, his hands continuing their work.
Watching his brother's stubble fall away, Sherlock felt something of the young man he remembered slowly returning. The sensation was oddly pleasant.
Strangely, though it had just occurred, he knew he would miss it.
When Sherlock had finally shaved everything clean and wiped away the foam, he stepped back slightly, satisfied.
"You look much better now, I dare say. Hmm… perhaps… some young ladies in the government might notice, and then--"
Sherlock's voice grew softer, trailing off. The thought felt suddenly inappropriate, a vague prickling of unease creeping in. He found himself feeling a little guilty; Mycroft's wish to stay low-profile had surely not been without reason. And now, he would inevitably attract attention.
Mycroft interrupted, cutting off his brother's increasingly faltering voice at the right moment.
"Enough. You know that isn't what I am concerned with right now, Sherlock."
Producing the small mirror he always carried, Mycroft studied his reflection. The lips, previously hidden beneath the beard, now seemed somewhat pallid, yet, for some reason, starkly noticeable to him. He couldn't adjust to the sudden change so quickly.
Yet he did indeed look considerably younger. The air of authority he had cultivated now gave way to a long-missed sense of youth.
Mycroft scrutinised the unfamiliar version of himself in the mirror, his brows twitching faintly. Not that he disliked the change; it was more that, without the beard, he appeared to regain a touch of aggressiveness. Like a period reverting to a comma, his faintly sardonic smile could now be too distinct. In government, one must always maintain patience, obedience, and usefulness--otherwise, opportunities vanish.
Clearly, he would need more practice controlling his expressions.
Watching his thoughtful brother, Sherlock tilted his head slightly.
He knew his elder brother was busy with work. He did not resent him for it, but he suspected that occasions like this would become frequent enough in the future.