The Road to Redemption

Chapters: one shot
Type: vignette, angst, family, drama
Rating: K
Main characters: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes
(not slash)
Timeline: Set during 2x01 "A Scandal in Belgravia"
Summary: Even the political world slows down at Christmas. Mycroft is left alone with time to think and reflect on his relationship with his brother and the mistakes he's made.
Beta Reader: Kate (aka love_like_burning)
Disclaimer: Don't own the show; don't own the characters (sadly).
Written: February, 2012

oOo

Mycroft Holmes is a busy man.

He rarely has a moment to reflect on his life and the choices he's made. His job within the government takes a lot of his time. Even when he's not at the office, he has to remain available and always keep his phone within reach. But it's all right; to be perfectly honest he likes it that way. He was never one to delve on past mistakes and what could have been. His mind is rational and he prefers to focus on facts rather than emotions anyway.

However, there are certain moments every now and then when life just seems to stop and there isn't anything else he can do to pass the time. Today is one such day: the office is mostly closed, his phone doesn't ring and even his faithful PA has taken the evening off. Today is Christmas Day and the world seems to have slowed down so much it's barely moving anymore: life is frozen, buried under a blanket of snow. He knows most people stay inside with their families as they exchange gifts and smiles. It's a moment of shared happiness and joy worldwide.

As usual, the elder Holmes sits at home alone and reflects. Platonic seasons' greetings to the Prime Minister and other officials have been sent; the mandatory annual Christmas phone call to his mother has been made and he his up-to-date on all his paperwork, including taxes. All that's left for him now is to wait for all his underlings and superiors to stop partying and get back to work so that his world can start moving to the proper speed again; something which cannot come a minute too soon.

And so here he is: sitting in his favourite chair by the fireplace, sipping brandy and just waiting. The house is quiet and so he thinks. He spends a bit of time going over the politics of this past year and the economical crisis and wonders if the latest alliances with Asian countries are really such a good idea. He reviews his Coventry plan and tries to predict every possible outcome.

When he feels the beginnings of a headache building up in the corners of his mind, he decides to shift his thoughts onto a topic unrelated to work instead. There will be time to start worrying about the nation when the world resumes its frantic pacing again. Instead his mind decides to settle itself on a much more familiar subject: his younger brother.

He lets a slight smile grace the corners of his lips at the thought. It's been a good year for the two of them. Sure, they barely see each other and every time they talk they engage in some verbal war of their own, yes - but Mycroft has to admit that as bad as it looks: it's actually a huge improvement compared to the previous years. The drugs are gone, the cigarettes are (mostly) gone and it's a world of trouble and worries that's been lifted off of Mycroft's shoulders.

He swallows a large gulp of brandy and then his thoughts shift to the new inclusion in his sibling's life: John Watson, doctor, army veteran, friend. This was an unseen development in their little universe, something neither Mycroft nor his brother saw coming. Neither of them believed it was even possible and yet fact is: Sherlock has, for the first time in his life, a true friend. John's a good man: he is loyal, understanding and most importantly, patient. A quality Mycroft often lacks when his brother is concerned. He lets his smile grow slightly as he ponders this unforeseen turn of events.

Sherlock is still a genius who constantly decides to behave like a prat; but with a bit of help from John, Mycroft believes there's hope for him now. Hope for a better life, hope for understanding and love. His eyes mist and prickle at the thought and he swallows with difficulty. All he ever wanted was for his brother to be happy; to feel like he belongs in this imperfect world that wasn't quite ready for either of them. Make Sherlock happy, that used to be his job. And he was fairly good at it when they were younger. He taught his little brother how to read, taught him about chemistry and hundreds of other things. They played pirates, captured lizards to study and shared jokes only they understood. But then Sherlock grew older and everything got more complicated.

A different kind of ache stirs in Mycroft. The headache is gone, but there's something within his chest that's hurting as he remembers older times, happier times. Looking at the pair of them now, no-one would believe it but the Holmes kids used to be very close. They were so alike: two gifted minds in a world that was moving far too slowly for their liking. They shared an insatiable thirst for knowledge, all the while knowing they were better than all those around them. They saw and understood so much more than the average human brain.

They were always aware of their difference, but that was okay so long as they didn't have to interact with the outside world too much. It all got a lot more complicated as they grew older. Mycroft quickly learned how to fit in: he became a clever puppet master, pulling strings in the shadows without anyone noticing. Sherlock on the other hand never could be bothered to learn the concept of subtlety.

And now as he sits, alone, on Christmas night, Mycroft truly wonders. He wonders where's he's gone wrong. He tries hard, but he can't pinpoint the exact moment where his relationship with his brother went down the drain. He wishes it was this simple; that there was only one huge mistake to fix that would make everything okay again between them. He searches his mind and his memories, but he cannot find it and he knows it's because there wasn't a specific moment. The breach happened over time; a kaleidoscope of singular events deemed insignificant at the time. It was him leaving for university; the one-too-many missed phone calls; diverging interests; his career plans. There were signs, dozens of signs that Mycroft willingly ignored until it was way too late and their friendship had withered: dead like a plant one forgot to water.

The Holmes brothers had drifted apart and darker days were to come. It was the time for drugs and subsequent forced rehabs. It was the time for broken promises and threats; hateful words and physical violence. Mycroft had tried so hard to be there for his sibling when he'd needed him. He'd tried with all his heart to help him get better, but Sherlock had refused even the smallest gestures, too stuck in his grief and anger.

Years of pent up resentment and disappointment in his elder brother's behaviour had built up walls inside Sherlock even Mycroft's best intentions weren't strong enough to take down. And so they engulfed themselves in a fratricide war neither of them could ever win and that left scars in both of their hearts. It took time, more trials and more errors until they finally managed to move past the standstill their relationship had reached at the bottom of a dark pit. Sherlock stopped the drugs and Mycroft crafted a clever plan for his brother to accidentally come across a nice flat for half of the current market rate. But the price to their feud was heavy and the chasm that already existed between them had been stretched into a gigantic canyon.

Mycroft lets go of a long suffering sigh, which is more akin to a sob, as he tries to rain in his emotions and chase away his sad thoughts. He reminds himself that those days are behind them now; they are talking to each other again. And they're slowly – oh-so-achingly slowly - moving towards something that bears a little bit of resemblance to what they used to have.

Sometimes, Mycroft is tempted to forfeit their ongoing battle of will. There are days when he feels like giving up and admitting to Sherlock that he screwed up and beg for forgiveness and a way - any way, please - to restore friendship between them. But he never does. It's not their style; it never has been and in all likelihood, never will be. He isn't even sure how Sherlock would respond to such a display of weakness. He probably would deem it too human, too… boring. And the saddest part is that Mycroft would have to agree with him. He brushes the idea away as he drains the rest of his glass, knowing he has to remain strong and patient. He has to keep on trying to care in his own special way. One small step at the time; whatever Sherlock will allow from him. So he looks at his brother from a distance - caring disguised as surveillance - and it doesn't matter if it's achieved with the government's money.

He gives the young man occasional cases - that quite frankly any of his underlings could take - because it's the only way he's found to show his brother he acknowledges his abilities and trusts him to help. When they meet they argue and mock each other. Sherlock asks him about his diet and Mycroft doesn't bother answering. He simply smiles and reminds himself that they've just taken another step in the right direction.

The fire flickers in the dark as he sets his empty glass back on the table and wonders if he could find a reason to drop by 221B Baker Street in the following days without seeming to obvious. He wishes that he could simply stop by whenever he wants, just to say Hello. He sits back down and a few minutes later his phone rings. He takes it off of his pocket and Sherlock's familiar number lights up the screen. Mycroft can't quite believe his eyes.

"Oh, dear Lord. We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?" he asks by way of greeting. Secretly, he is pleased at this surprising and unexpected call, but he knows better than to let it on. And if Sherlock picks up on the traces of humour in his voice that sarcasm can't quite cover, he doesn't care. It's Christmas after all.

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight." his brother replies and Mycroft is slightly taken off guard. The topic couldn't be further from what he was expecting. So, this is nothing more than a professional phone call then, he deduces bitterly.

"We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters." he replies and all traces of humour are gone from his voice now. He hates having to state the obvious but Sherlock is forcing him to fish out for more information.

"No, I mean you're going to find her dead," his sibling says. Then he abruptly cuts off the communication without giving his elder time to reply. Mycroft isn't even sure what he would have said anyway. Asked more questions, inquired for information or acknowledged his brother's pain which he could clearly hear in his tone? Once more, Sherlock made the choice for him and Mycroft sighs. Small steps, he has to remind himself. He lets his gaze wander outside of the window - it's snowing again - and the world is still not turning at the proper speed.

He makes another call to enquire about Ms. Adler. Sherlock could have done the research himself if he'd wanted. He had enough connections to find out her whereabouts. But instead, he had chosen to ask his brother for help. Small steps indeed, Mycroft thinks as waits for his call to MI5 to go through.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Mycroft Holmes knows. He also knows that the road to redemption is not actually a road. It's more like a stairway - an achingly long stairway - made of very, very small steps.

THE END

Gotta say, I really love this show. Brilliant writing, brilliant acting! It's too bad we only get 3 episodes per year; but I guess it makes you enjoy them all the more.

I really loved the further exploration of the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft this season. Fingers crossed for more of this in series 3. Anyway, it's fun trying to understand the true nature of their bond. Hope you'll like my interpretation of it.

-K.