Title: Chanson de Geste
Author: Pennies_4_eyes
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock, (tiny bit of John at the end)
Pairing: John/Sherlock preslash musings, sorta... maybe
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft have a heart to heart while waiting for rescue.
A/N: This is a fill from the Sherlock Kinkmeme, prompt is linked here.
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2753238#t2753238
Therein, <i>Anon</i> requested Mycroft and Sherlock, abducted by a criminal who's plan isn't very well thought out. They didn't want a serious "we're gonna die" situation, just more or less the a brother fic involving them waiting for the police. There were some stipulations in the original prompt which I worked hard to incorporate.
Chanson de Geste
He'd been watching slack, pale features for signs of incipient wakefulness and the sudden groan from the lanky figure sprawled out on the floor next to him told Mycroft Holmes it was thankfully, finally time for his brother to come 'round. "Wake up Sherlock," he insisted, smartly tapping his brother's long cheek. "There's a fellow. Come now, no more laying about. I'm owed an apology." Yes indeed, this entire afternoon--from the abrupt drugging and subsequent manhandling to Sherlock's rather unreasonable insistence on remaining unconscious--was uncalled for.
Someone owed him a reckoning.
"Mmmfffk'off J'n." Coherency wasn't Sherlock's strong suit at the moment. The world was a wavering, icy cold place full of dank smells, dimmed lights and stiff limbs. all around, Sherlock felt like he'd come off a three day bender.
"None of that. I'm rather afraid I have to insist you wake up." Mycroft laid well manicured fingers to the pulse-point inside Sherlock's slender wrist, much more pleased with what he found there now. If not a steady beat, certainly it was an encouragingly strong one.
Sherlock twitched, unsure in the least why on Earth John sounded like his arse of a brother. He took a deep, bracing breath. "Gods.... John. Stop. Don't impersonate my brother, he's grating enough in person."
Mycroft let out a long suffering sigh. "I'm not... Wait a moment. Does Dr. Watson often impersonate me?" Mycroft inquired with genuine curiosity, eyeing his brother's haggard features and counting the moments until the boy would be coherent enough to answer real questions.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock looked up then, mind coming online all at once. "What? No! Of course not!" He swiftly swung his head 'round the dimly lit room, immediately regretting the action. 'Need a few more moments to collect myself apparently...' Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut against the sickening vertigo, ignoring the comforting pat on his shoulder.
"Steady on, Sherlock. It will get better." Mycroft assured his brother, relieved at the pace Sherlock's wits seemed to be returning. He always was the resilient one.
"Where are we?" Sherlock spat, his annoyance mounting as the room's details started to clarify, leaving him with a dark suspicion.
Mycroft would have reached out to help Sherlock up, except that he already knew he'd be rebuffed. So instead he sat by, patiently ignoring his brother's struggle to even get his elbows under him. "It's a good question, Sherlock. One I unfortunately have no answer for other than that we're still in England, though not in London. Apparently your low rent thug of the week fancies himself somewhat of a enterprising fellow."
"Again, only with less ponce," Sherlock sneered, unable as yet to drag himself to what could pass for a sitting position, and even worse, unable to gather his thoughts into cogent form. Drugged then...
Right. So they'd been...
"Yes, we've been abducted, Sherlock. Hence me deserving an apology. I don't appreciate my rather full schedule being derailed for a sojourn with your ruffians du jour." Mycroft's tone was arch as ever, burying the worry that had gnawed at him as he watched over Sherlock laid out on the concrete floor, not moving for such a long time.
Sherlock struggled up, again unsuccessfully. Whatever they'd used on him, it had been strong. And by the feel of it, witless clods that they obviously were, they'd used far too much. Sherlock's limbs were like water and his mind was still troublingly slow. He was probably no more clever than the average person at that precise moment.
"Here now," Despite knowing exactly how unwelcome his help would be, Mycroft couldn't watch his recalcitrant sibling struggle any longer. He reached, drawing Sherlock's shoulders upright against the wall. It was a testament to how low his brother was laid that Sherlock barely bothered to swat at Mycroft's hands. He ignored the gesture, steadying his brother's narrow form until Sherlock was able to stay upright on his own. "There's a fellow. Take it slowly. Perhaps they overestimated your body mass under that rather deceptive coat of yours. You've been unconscious quite a bit longer than me." An understatement if ever he'd spoken one.
'This has got to be the most humiliating moment of my life!,' Sherlock thought heatedly. His vision still wasn't clear enough to gather anything useful from their surroundings, and it was a damn good thing his stomach was already empty or else he might have been adding to his current state of mortification. He thought back to his last conscious memories and vaguely recalled an acrid, tinctured odor as darkness descended. "Where DO people keep getting chloroform from? It's not like you can hop over to the corner druggist and get some."
Mycroft almost, almost smiled at that. "I suspect that may well be next thing I find out. Noisome stuff," He resisted the urge to steady Sherlock further as the younger man listed oddly. "Just sit still a moment, Sherlock. Give it some time."
"I won't sit still!" Sherlock announced crossly, trying to force his unmanageable body back under his control. "Sitting still is the reason your body mass is so much easier to calculate than mine."
Ah...back to comfortable battlegrounds. So predictable, Sherlock'. "There's no reason to be tetchy, we won't be here much longer and then your doctor can have a proper look at you." And if not, Mycroft reasoned he'd have his own concierge physician check Sherlock over.
Sherlock summoned up his special 'Mycroft' scowl--which was also his 'I've accidentally drank my experiment' look. "I'm perfectly fine now. And John's not my doc..." Sherlock suddenly seized on the rest of what Mycroft had said. "What do you mean 'we won't be here much longer'?"
Mycroft smiled his nearly patented, 'remember I'm smarter than you' smile and lifted his favorite silk power tie, revealing that the tie-tack was actually a very small tracer.
"Ah," Sherlock snorted. "So your minions are on the way." He was, in fact, relieved though. Not because he wasn't in top form at the moment. Even at less than his best Sherlock had outwitted average criminal minds as easily as breathing. And this lot wasn't even average, they were positively challenged! Leaving him and his brother in one room together...alive? He almost pitied whomever had them captive. Almost.
Mycroft gave his brother yet another considering look. "They dislike being referred to as minions, you know." He thought Sherlock might want to keep that in mind, considering the adherent he had in John Watson.
"I see." Sherlock eyed his brother and curled his lip a bit. "Well, why don't you bore me to tears with the official, sanctioned, PC term for government trained thuggery at your beck and call?"
"My my..." Mycroft clicked his tongue. "Being unconscious really doesn't do anything at all for your disposition, does it brother dear?"
Sherlock ignored his brother and casually settled his arms around himself, stamping down hard on the urge to shiver.
"You're cold," Mycroft observed, obviously not fooled for a moment.
"I am not." It wasn't pouting if his lip was tucked in, Sherlock was sure of that.
Mycroft frowned, telltale concern burning in his stomach. He scooted shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, hazarding the immediate black glare he received. "Sherlock, be reasonable. Being drugged unconscious, especially with a slight overdose, can lower the body's temperature approximately..."
"I know how much it lowers it," Sherlock veritably growled. He'd be damned if his inability to regain utter mastery over his physical needs was going to give Mycroft an open door to get the upper hand. "And I'm not cold!" Even though he was, in fact, freezing.
Mycroft didn't seem to care, and bowled right over Sherlock's stubborn objections, just like always. He snaked a long arm around slender shoulders, saddened that it took a half-arsed kidnapping and an overdose of chloroform to force Sherlock to suffer his embrace. But Mycroft was nothing if not practical. He had his brother now, hugging Sherlock to his shoulder as he hadn't in years. "Even so, I'm pulling rank," he said firmly, but gently.
Sherlock snorted again, trying not to lean into the warmth of his brother's substantial form. "You don't have any rank to pull with me. I'm not one of your damnable shadow puppets." But there wasn't any heat behind the words, just a tired resignation. Mycroft would always win in the end. And sometimes--every once in a while--that wasn't the worst thing in the world.
"I have all the rights, privileges and responsibilities of the official rank of older sibling, dear brother. And I assure you it accords me all manner of liberty. Including this." And in the name of the worried hour he'd spent waiting for Sherlock to wake, Mycroft pulled his brother in and planted a brief flutter of a kiss upon his brow.
That WAS too much to abide and Sherlock struggled, mostly in vain, to pull back away from Mycroft--warmth be damned. "Oh for the love of anything sane!"
But Mycroft held on doggedly, though not tightly, knowing Sherlock wasn't yet fit to fight his way free. "I'd quiet down if I were you. Or else I'll do it again. Or worse, I may start regaling John Watson when next I see him with tales of how despicably cute you were when a small child. That propensity you had for running about in the altogether--all pink bum-cheeks and little black curls..."
"Enough! Alright!" Sherlock knew when he was defeated, even if he despised admitting it. "Fine! Keep me warm if you must! Just do it without the insidious narration!"
Mycroft pulled his brother gently to him again, and since the battleground had been surrendered with due honors, he was even granted the quarter of having Sherlock relax against him. Achingly, it reminded Mycroft again of how much control, how much distance his brother forced upon himself. Sometime he feared Sherlock would altogether forget the language of human touch. It was, of course, a defense mechanism he understood perfectly clearly about Sherlock--who, contrary to popular belief was possessed of too great a heart, rather than too little. But that didn't make it any less unfortunate.
Maybe there was hope for his brother yet, though. Months ago Sherlock wouldn't have let Mycroft hold onto him if he were spouting blood like a geyser. He knew at whose feet to lay gratitude for this, if he were so foolish as to try--which he wasn't. All the same... "You know, I suspect John Watson will indeed be on the way as well. Anthea will have picked him up along the way."
Sherlock stiffened a little in Mycroft's arms, wondering what his brother was up to now?' "Why should I care?" Sherlock asked with all the practiced nonchalance of years of lying. Inside though, that damnable traitorous pumping organ was, as ever, barometer to his thoughts, speeding in a lopsided gallop of dread at Mycroft treading into such private domain.
Mycroft for his part, wasn't fooled at all. He knew the minefield he was casually stomping into. "Well... I have noticed your regard for him," he held up his spare hand to forestall the rain of impolite objections. "Tut! Nothing to be gained denying it. And I can't say I think you've chosen wrongly. He's quite the charismatic fellow, in his own quiet way."
Sherlock drew back to glare his brother right in the eye. "Kindly leave off your patently uninspired assumptions about our relationship. Unless you fancy yourself sharing that misconception with all of the mindless masses of the larger Metropolitan London area."
"Well, there is such a thing as esprit de corps," Mycroft chuckled.
"What there is 'such a thing as', is incidents of mass hallucination. You and the entire country, it would seem. John Watson is into blonds, breasts, and biddability. I thankfully fit in none of those categories." And if Sherlock couldn't quite hide the minute hint of disappointment from his voice, well, he hoped to God Mycroft wouldn't mention it. He'd hate to have to find something to stab his brother with, seeing as he was so useful as a human furnace.
"I think you do him a disservice," Mycroft scolded gently. "He'd be receptive to more than you currently have between you, I'm sure of it. The filial attachment is undeniable, but there's the potential there for more."
"I'm sure you've suffered a head injury at some point today, or else you'd be able to recall that I am married to my work." Sherlock sniffed petulantly.
Mycroft smiled. "Hardly. You've just not met anyone worth the risk until now." He took a deep breath, holding it for a moment. "And... Mummy wouldn't mind if you and he were...more than brothers-in-arms," His voice was hardly more than a whisper, but Mycroft was ever aware that sometimes Sherlock was the wild animal that had to be coaxed in out of the cold, for his own good and quite often in spite of himself. "I wouldn't mind either."
Sherlock frowned for a moment, and then looked away. Mycroft knew Sherlock had forgiven him for the entire thing when boney shoulders snuggled halfheartedly against his side. Several minutes passed in what wasn't exactly tense, nor precisely companionable silence. "You know," Mycroft offered at length. "Conversations are easier when both people actually speak."
Sherlock deflated with an exasperated gust of a sigh. "What do you want me to say, Mycroft?"
And that, when nothing else ever did, finally made him cross with Sherlock. "I want you to say that you're attracted to him. And don't deny that you are, I can see it, plain as day. I want you to admit that you need another human being, that you..." He swallowed down his anger as quickly as it came. "...That you won't let what happened between us, happen with he and you." Mycroft hadn't intended to drag that out in the open. Sherlock was plain out sulking now, and it had a sharply vulnerable edge to it that Mycroft regretted.
"I can't promise that," came the quiet, deep tone at length.
'Hung for a Sheep as a lamb,' Mycroft thought tiredly. "You have to forgive people, Sherlock."
"You mean I have to forgive you," Sherlock spit out bitterly.
One day this age old feud would die, and if Mycroft was really, truly fortunate, it wouldn't be because one of them was dead as well. In the mean time... "No, I've resigned myself to what our relationship will always be. But I haven't resigned my hopes for you."
"Gah! And they say I'm arrogant!" Sherlock suddenly pulled altogether out of his brother's grasp--ignoring the fleeting dash of regret that stole momentary over Mycroft's features, scooting a handful of feet down the cold wall. "The world does not, despite your best efforts, work by your design. And what I feel or don't feel about John Watson is none of your concern!"
Mycroft placed his emotions back behind that wall of professionalism and objectivity that served him so well. "Of course it is," he offered evenly. "I'm your brother, after all."
"Pshhhh! Brother..." Sherlock wanted a warm bed in a quiet room where he didn't have to spend time holding up armored walls between himself and the one man on the planet he couldn't hide from. "You seem to think the word means endless allowances to commit countless acts of attempted meddling!"
"Doesn't it?" Mycroft smiled, amused.
"No, it most emphatically does NOT." Sherlock was going to loose his mind if he had to stay in this room much longer. He just was!
"You only say that because you're the youngest." Mycroft offered with the smug sureness of an eldest sibling. But quickly the smugness drained away in place of earnest, fond exasperation. "Sherlock, I see how you look at him and I know how you think. Time will come when he's so close to you, you'll panic and push him away. And it will kill you both."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and gave his brother a derisive glower. "I thought you were above such histrionics, Mycroft. Don't be so dramatic."
"Don't be so literal," Mycroft countered. "There are many kinds of death. And you're lying to yourself if you think a life without purpose and duty isn't John Watson's. If you won't let him in for your sake, please, please let him in for his."
It took Sherlock several moments to organize his raging thoughts around his equally raging emotions. Damn Mycroft to hell for ruining his equilibrium! He always did. "I won't play Charlemagne to his Roland. And that's the end of it," Sherlock spat tiredly.
Mycroft considered it a shockingly revealing analogy and almost had to chuckle, knowing Sherlock instantly hated having revealed himself so completely. "Now who's being dramatic?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock smirked, in spite of himself. But then he sighed, a thin line of irritation creasing his forehead. "You know what I mean."
"I do, perhaps. Though even years of deciphering the way you think couldn't allay my shock over discovering your apparent penchant for the classics." Mycroft sorted over snippets of memory... history and gossip, romanticist hearsay, all regarding Charles the Great and his most favored peer. Mycroft couldn't help but be moved, stunned even by the full weight of the metaphor as he understood what Sherlock actually meant. His brother had a tragic hero's heart hidden some place very deep inside him, of that Mycroft was now sure. "Roland...He loved God, France and Charles, but not necessarily in that order. I DO see now." Mycroft reasoned. How had he not realized... "You don't want to be the cause that John Watson sacrifices himself for." Mycroft's voice couldn't help but be laden with sympathy, even knowing how angry it would make his brother.
Sherlock ignored him, thinking on what he knew of his flatmate and friend. He certainly was well aware that John Watson needed what they did together. But he patently refused to let it be about him. Sherlock simply wouldn't allow it, couldn't stand for it and still be able to bear John Watson sharing their adventures. "I'm not anyone's cause, Mycroft" Sherlock insisted sourly.
'Poor, poor Sherlock,' Mycroft thought. 'So sure of your own brilliance and yet so reluctant to place a value upon it. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But your self imposed solitude hasn't kept you from having... what's the term Anthea used the other day... Ah yes! A 'raging man-crush' on the good doctor?" Mycroft smiled triumphantly at the choking noise that came from his brother.
When Sherlock had collected himself... "You really are a very great prat, you realize."
Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock, you need him and he needs you. Don't be so pedestrian as to limit or label that need. The rest of the world will happily oblige you in that, far too readily."
"I never cared what the world thinks about me." Sherlock announced with quiet pride.
And Mycroft knew it as the thin shield it was. "No, but I highly suspect you care what the world thinks about John Watson. And he does as well. And yet even so, he would become whatever you allow him to be to you. Foremost whatever you needed him to be."
"I don't want that kind of power over John," Sherlock insisted.
"Liar," Mycroft asserted quietly.
At that moment they heard a series of sounds--the heartwarming titter of distant gunfire, yelling, fighting. It was all very brief. They both knew their captors were pitiably amateurish and in no way prepared for what was coming down on them.
"That would be your goon-squad," Sherlock smirked.
As the sounds of confrontation thinned, a brisk call rang in the air beyond their makeshift prison. "Sherlock! Where are you?"
"Ah yes, And THAT would be your paladin." Mycroft tasted victory again, and as usual, gracefully relished it. "You know what they say, brother. In Arduis Fidelis."
"Oh Shut up, you smug bastard," Sherlock ground out, just loud enough for Mycroft to hear him.
And then the door was kicked open and there stood one very angry, very worried ex-RAMC surgeon--gladstone bag in one hand, gun in the other. "There you are!" John announced loudly. "I thought we'd never find you in this bloody maze!"
~~~~FINIS~~~