Chapter 11 - Ribbons
“Brother?” Mycroft asked, surprised to see Sherlock at his door.
“Yes, well, no need to stare,” he snapped, pushing past his brother and into the apartment. He moved straight to the kitchen, unravelled his scarf, placing it on the counter, and grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl, biting into it aggressively.
Mycroft watched as Sherlock paced alongside the kitchen counter in silence. He did this when he was worked up. He’d spit it out eventually. While he waited, Mycroft grabbed a crystal tumbler and opened his freezer to pull out some vodka. He poured himself a bit and then held it up in question to his brother. Sherlock waved him off impatiently. Apparently drinking wouldn’t help. Mycroft knew to wait in silence until Sherlock was prepared to speak.
“He’s just… so infuriating!” Sherlock finally burst out with.
“I can only assume you mean John.”
Sherlock flashed his brother an angry glare.
“Want me to have another little talk with him?” Mycroft offered.
“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock snapped, pointing his half devoured apple at his brother.
“Okay but you’re here. You have… feelings to express apparently.”
“Huh. Feelings.” Sherlock scoffed and continued to pace in silence for a time and Mycroft let him. “The thing is, there’s this case. And John’s reaction has been… difficult to understand.”
“Right…”
“When he first moved in, he asked…” Sherlock paused, looking at his brother to assess his level of judgement. Mycroft wasn’t giving anything away.
“He asked me about my situation.”
“Situation?” Mycroft asked.
Sherlock simply gave his brother a look in answer and continued. “Yes, and I said the usual.”
“Not your area?” Mycroft checked.
“Quite so.”
“Seems reasonable,” Mycroft agreed. “You barely knew each other and given Dr Watson’s hobby of serial dating, I can’t see how—“
“He’s bisexual.”
“Oh? I hadn’t… spotted that.”
“Well he covers it well,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly irritated by it.
“He told you this?” Mycroft asked.
“No.”
“Okay… then…” Mycroft was confused.
“Only, now, we’re dealing with a case and it seems to really be bothering him. I can’t understand how it should bother him, though, if he is also…”
“Not publicly though,” Mycroft suggested. “Publicly, he makes a point of being straight.”
“True. Although to be precise he always says he’s not gay.”
Mycroft paused. He didn’t like seeing his brother so distressed. It often coincided with danger nights. “Sherlock, won’t you sit. The pacing is… distracting.”
Sherlock hesitated, ready to argue as usual and instead pulled out a stool and sat at the centre bench.
Mycroft relaxed against the opposite bench. “So tell me,” he began, before taking a sip of vodka. “I can decipher why the case might be bothering John - perhaps some hidden truths he’s not ready to acknowledge - but why is it bothering you so?”
Sherlock munched quietly on his apple for a while.
And Mycroft sighed. “Oh. I hadn’t noticed it before. But now I see it.”
“What?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.
“You love him.”
Sherlock instantly choked on a piece of apple and stood up again, beating at his chest to move the piece of apple lodged there. He shot his brother an angry glare.
Mycroft simply stood watching his brother flail about dramatically with a knowing smirk. “Confirmed,” he said, when Sherlock finally sat again. Without a word he grabbed another glass and poured his brother some vodka after all, sliding the glass across to him. “I can’t believe I hadn’t seen it until now,” he said.
“Well you are the slow one,” Sherlock teased, taking a sip and sitting back down.
“Lucky for you John is the slowest.”
Sherlock gave him another annoyed look.
“What do you need then?” Mycroft asked more gently.
“He’s oblivious. Irritatingly so. I don’t think he’s aware of his own identity. I can’t… see a way past it.”
Mycroft took a leisurely sip of his drink. “When we were children, Mummy used to read us a book. I don’t know if you remember it. Well, she read it to me and so I assume to you also. The one with the ribbons?” Mycroft asked.
Sherlock frowned. “Why would I keep a children’s book in my mind palace?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Well the gist of it was about two people who loved each other so much that a connection grew. Two ribbons that tied them together. Tied their hearts together. And everywhere they went these ribbons connected them. No matter how far, the ribbons just grew long enough to keep them connected. I think Mummy used to read it so we understood that when they travelled so much, we were all still connected through love.” He huffed then, realising how it sounded. “The idea that someone could fly to another country entirely and still have their ribbons remaining connected is, of course, completely ridiculous and romanticised. Children are so gullible and stupid,” he scoffed.
Sherlock laughed. “Speak for yourself. I clearly dismissed it early on, which is why I hold no memory of it. I never took you for such a romantic, though.”
Mycroft snorted, looking down at his drink. “Actually, I loved that book so much. I used to read it to myself even when they were away. There was something… hopeful in it,” he admitted. “I think part of the reason I’ve remained single is because I refused to give any time to anyone who wasn’t worth that kind of love. I never found it.”
“You’re not dead yet, brother,” Sherlock said, suddenly feeling very sorry for his older sibling. Sherlock did tease him constantly about being a sad, lonely old man, but in truth he had always hoped Mycroft might find someone to share his life with.
“It’s fine. I’m… comfortable,” he said stiffly. They remained together in silence for a long time. Finally, Mycroft decided to impart his wisdom.
“When I first met John. When I picked him up and tested him, I was… quite taken aback. He was nothing like any of your other friends. He was instantly loyal, virtually unshakeable, in fact, yet with a vulnerability he tried desperately to hide. I couldn’t have found a more perfect partner for you, with all the resources I have at my disposal. The two of you connected instantly and I saw it.”
Sherlock looked up. “Saw what?”
“Ribbons,” he said softly, finishing his drink. Sherlock looked taken aback.
“You want my advice?”
“Please,” Sherlock said, watching his brother closely.
“John has trust issues, yet he trusts you. But he doesn’t really trust himself. He’s never going to tell you he has an interest. He’s never going to admit to being bisexual. He’s going to assume you are too far above his station in life. He’s going to assume you have deduced everything about him, including any feelings he has about you. He knows how you operate. He will expect you can see and hear his every thought and are wilfully ignoring them out of disinterest. I suspect all it would take, to win him, is to make the first move and he would topple over the cliff with you.”
“I see,” Sherlock said, swallowing hard.
“That is, if he will allow himself to admit he has feelings for a man. He could just as easily deny it to the death,” Mycroft added.
“Well that’s been very helpful,” Sherlock said, the comment dripping with sarcasm.
“You asked,” Mycroft replied smugly.
Sherlock stood and reattached his scarf to his neck. He swallowed the last of the vodka and gave his brother a little bow.
“Thank you brother. I will take that advice with the usual level of disregard that I always give it.”
Mycroft pursed his lips tight. He had tried.
And with that, Sherlock stormed out of the apartment again, out into the snow.
— —
Thanks @notjustamumj for the prompt list
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