Come to 221B this evening, 8pm. Important. -SH
At exactly 8pm, a knock came at the door and when Sherlock opened it, Mycroft stood there looking mildly annoyed.
"Yes, brother mine?"
Sherlock simply took a step back and gestured him in. At the dramatic silence Mycroft rolled his eyes but entered the flat, reading his surroundings. A fire crackled in the fireplace, making the room feel warm and unusually cozy. A cocktail cart stood beside Sherlock's armchair.
"Do make this quick, will you?" Mycroft complained. "I've been dealing with a skirmish of sorts in Dubai all evening and I would like to rest."
"Then rest."
Sherlock motioned to John's armchair and approached the cocktail cart. "Brandy?"
Mycroft looked displeased at the seat he was offered but took it regardless, raising a brow at the sight of the crystal decanter Sherlock was pouring from.
"New addiction for the holidays?" He tried.
Sherlock made eye contact as he handed his brother a lowball glass of brandy but said nothing, instead settling into the adjacent armchair with his own glass and gazing into the fireplace. Shadows played over the sharp angles of his face.
Mycroft scoffed after they sat in silence for a few moments.
"I don't have time for your moodiness, Sherlock. Out with it, please."
Sherlock sipped from his glass and met his gaze once more.
"Tomorrow is Friday--"
"Stunning deduction--"
"-- which means it will be a month since you visited Eurus."
Mycroft scowled at first, but quickly it melted into an expression of guilt and annoyance that Sherlock had been keeping track.
"Yes, well."
He did not continue the thought, but relented to a sip of brandy. It was a very fine vintage, he was surprised to find. Similar to what he might drink at his gentleman's club.
"You didn't call me here to scold me." It wasn't a question.
Sherlock inhaled deeply and shook his head before returning his eyes to the fire.
"No."
Mycroft was going to stab something if the silence didn't let up soon, but decided (perhaps in the spirit of Christmas) to simply wait. Sherlock always made him wait.
Together, the Holmes boys shared a drink and watched the fire for several minutes. Wind whistled outside the flat, bringing the beginnings of a snowfall to London.
"I can't imagine what it was like to tell our parents that she was dead."
Mycroft's eyes were no longer on the fire, though Sherlock's remained.
"What is so urgent about this conversation? You said it was urgent."
"I said it was important."
Sherlock sent a pointed look his way.
Mycroft sighed in defeat and settled further into the armchair, adjusting his grey waistcoat.
"Fine. Yes. It was... hard. But it had to be done."
Mycroft studied him again.
"You don't feel sorry for her, do you? After she murdered your friend? And tortured us like that?"
"She is still my sister," Sherlock replied, his voice alarmingly gentle. The concept of having a younger sister was still new to him, and he struggled with the emotions surrounding it. "Just as she is yours."
"Yes. Well. If only siblings came with gift receipts for return," Mycroft remarked dryly, grimacing into a sip of brandy. "I remember thinking something similar after you were born."
Sherlock looked over at him.
"You would never return me, Mycroft."
For the first time since he'd arrived, Mycroft's expression softened. He swallowed and looked down into his glass while swirling the last of its contents.
Sherlock, seeing that the meaning of his words had landed, mercifully occupied the silence with refilling both of their glasses.
"I wouldn't return you, either."
Mycroft glanced up at him, the look on his face a heartbreaking mixture of hopeful and insecure.
"No?"
"No," Sherlock repeated. "I believe there are policies against returning damaged goods."
Mycroft's expression became guarded while he sorted through the intention of the words.
"Then neither of us would be eligible for return, I'm afraid."
When it became clear that Sherlock had nothing to retort, the quiet become comfortable again and they resumed gazing into the fireplace.
Sherlock remembered now. The week after Eurus had been taken away, he'd been inconsolable. Traumatized. Grieving a death that he felt responsible for at the age of six.
Mycroft, then thirteen years of age, spent the entirety of that week at his side, holding his baby brother as he sobbed. Rocking him back and forth. Soothing him.
Sherlock remembered the feeling of Mycroft's cashmere sweater, soaked with his own tears, against his cheek. The sound of Mycroft shushing him like a practiced mother of four.
"You were a good brother, Mycroft."
Sherlock cleared his throat and rubbed his fingertips together.
"You are a good brother."
He didn't dare look up from the fire, but heard something akin to a sniffle.
"So are you, brother dear."
