Chapter Text
When Greg got into work, he was pleasantly surprised to see a box of doughnuts next to the coffee machine. He sent a silent thanks up to the pastry gods, snagging a sugar ring along with a cup of coffee. Closing the door to his office in the hopes of keeping the wolves at bay for a few minutes, he sat down and propped his feet up, biting into the delicious fried dough as he unfolded the Telegraph to see what fuckery was in store for the day.
His eyebrows lifted as he saw that the main story was about Prince Oliver attending some event last night without gloves. It was reported that the Queen was severely displeased, ordering a circle of guards around him at all times. No one was allowed near him if they weren’t wearing gloves, not even those with a soulmark – people have been known to fake them.
It was unknown why he made the decision to go gloveless, especially since it was soon clear that his hands were mark-free. The suspected reason was the growing discontent amongst the younger members of the aristocracy. According to the article, they believed it was obscene to prohibit or even delay connecting with their soulmate, if they had one. It didn’t matter if it turned out to be the gardener, they maintained it was unhealthy to attempt to thwart one’s fundamental body chemistry. They were advocating that all UK citizens should be glove-free entirely.
Christ, Greg thought as he tossed the newspaper onto his desk and wiped the crumbs off his fingers with a stray napkin. He could only imagine what Twitter was like this morning. That particular debate about gloves has raged for years now, and this would be like pouring petrol all over it.
Greg personally agreed with the younger generation’s perspective on delaying connections. He’d always wanted a soulmate, and even though he wasn’t counting on it happening - the odds were only one in ten - he couldn’t imagine denying himself the chance to know.
On the other hand, even in the UK there were many folks wary of who they might be tying themselves to or disliked the idea of soulmates entirely. He couldn’t begrudge them the right to choose their own destiny, and for that reason he disagreed with folks who believed everyone should be glove-free.
Besides, amongst the glove-wearing population are people who already have soulmates and don’t like to advertise the fact. The Chief Superintendent confided once that he has one, and he wore the gloves to protect her. Soulmates were always an enticing target for enemies.
Greg often wondered which category Mycroft fell into. As if the man weren’t mysterious enough, he was one of those folks who wore gloves. Technically, he didn’t have to since he wasn’t royalty or even part of the aristocracy. But given that Mycroft was probably more important to the nation than any of the royalty combined, Greg wondered if perhaps he was obligated to wear them for his job. Or maybe he just found it convenient to wear them all the time, since he would have to don them anyways whenever he travelled to a country where it was required. There were a number of countries where restrictions on skin-to-skin touching were more severe than in the UK.
Greg didn’t like to think about why he was so curious about Mycroft’s reasons for wearing gloves, far beyond what was typical. It was only human to wonder, he told himself. In fact, glove-wearing was frequently the subject of gossip, especially with celebrities, though it was considered horribly impolite to directly quiz someone about it.
Greg recalled when Donovan and Anderson used to speculate why Sherlock wore gloves. He himself hadn’t cared that much. He had his own ideas, but never voiced them aloud and never gave it much thought after his initial theory. In the end, he’d been right – Sherlock admitted he disliked the idea of soulmates and believed they would interfere with The Work. According to John, it was a fluke that they touched hands. Sherlock had been in the middle of examining trace materials from a crime scene, creating slides and working the microscope. Delicate work that he didn’t want to fumble because of gloves, and so he’d taken them off. He’d forgotten about them entirely when John entered the lab and offered him his mobile.
John confided to Greg one time after a few pints that he sometimes wondered if Sherlock ever resented him for that touch. Tying him to a soulmate when he’d taken such measures to prevent that very thing. But then he smiled and said that Sherlock always knew when he was feeling insecure, and came up with inventive ways to demonstrate that he had zero regrets.
Greg envied them, and he wondered if that was why he was so fixated on Mycroft’s gloves. Were his reasons the same as Sherlock’s? Would he change his mind if something similar happened – an accidental touch that led to a soulmate? Would he allow himself the same happiness?
Greg flushed at this train of thought. Stop this, he told himself. Whatever Mycroft’s reasons, they deserved to be respected. Besides, if it was simply distaste at the idea, wouldn’t he have changed his mind once he saw how much it’s altered Sherlock for the better? If he could witness his brother finding such joy and still don the gloves every day, then he was either a very cold person or there were other compelling reasons.
Greg sipped his coffee, his mind wandering to the incident last month when he was at Baker Street to go over a case and came very close to getting more information. He saw a pair of gloves sitting on the desk, and Sherlock mentioned that Mycroft had left them there on accident. John noted with amusement it was because the brothers had been in a raging argument, and Mycroft attempted to have the last word by sweeping dramatically out of the flat. Sherlock smiled maliciously and said he probably realised his error when he got to the front door, but refused to come back for them.
Greg asked why he had taken them off in the first place. Sherlock shrugged and said he never wore them around family. He was a very tactile person and liked having them off in personal spaces so that he could feel the texture of things. Greg had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid reacting to that tidbit. Sherlock went on to note that he had been the same way before John. The gloves were a nuisance, hindering his ability to deduce his surroundings. He remarked that one of the side benefits of having a soulmate was that he no longer had to wear the damned things.
Greg wasn’t sure what made him decide to do a little fishing at that point. In hindsight, he’d been really transparent. He remarked in a casual tone, “If Mycroft doesn’t like wearing the gloves so much, I wonder why he even bothers with them now that you and John are together. Don’t the odds drop to 2% if someone in the immediate family already has a soulmate?” He felt a twinge of sadness as he said it, which he ignored. “Unless…he has one he’s shielding from the public eye.”
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, and Greg realised immediately that he’d made a mistake in asking. John’s eyes widened and he quickly chimed in, “You know, a lot of people get that wrong, I think. That idea that your odds would go down. I don’t think it works like that. I think it’s still one in ten, it’s just rarer for it to have happened. It varies with each census, but it tends to average out to it happening 2% of the time.” John cleared his throat as Sherlock stared at him like he’d grown three extra heads. “Harry researched it after Sherlock and I got together. She’s still hoping to have a soulmate, especially afte-r she and Clara split. She was pretty upset when I told her the news, but now after swotting up, she’s sure that nothing has changed. The odds, I mean.”
Greg was grateful for John’s rambling attempt to distract Sherlock, but he knew it wasn’t working. Sherlock simply shook his head and remarked, “Your grasp of probability and statistics is appalling. But, that’s not the pressing concern here.” His gaze turned back to Greg. “Why are you quizzing me about the reason Mycroft wears gloves? John likes to tease me for being socially inept, but even I know that’s a huge faux pas.”
Greg flushed, and attempted to reply nonchalantly, “No, you’re right. It’s the detective in me. I’m always looking for anything out of the ordinary and then try to find out why.” Sherlock’s hawk-like gaze remained steady on him, and Greg tried to think of a reason to bolt.
John came to his rescue again. “Oh come off it, Sherlock, you do the same thing – lose all sense of propriety when something intrigues you. Remember that Margaret Thatcher shrine? You were obsessed with the idea that there was an empty space where that bust should have been, and you wouldn’t shut up about it in front of a grieving family.”
Sherlock huffed, but after seeing the expression on John’s face, he apparently decided to let it go. Waving his hand, he said, “I understand your instinct to meddle, but you must understand that I’m not about to share Mycroft’s secrets. His reasons for wearing gloves are his own.”
Greg felt his face get even hotter and apologised. “Yeah, of course! He’s your brother and you want to protect his privacy. I dunno what I was thinking.”
Sherlock laughed. “Oh it isn’t filial devotion that keeps me quiet. If Mycroft found out I said anything, he’s more than capable of retaliating. It’s utterly tedious.”
Looking back on the conversation, Greg was relieved that he hadn’t made his interest in Mycroft too obvious. He didn’t need Sherlock on his back about this. It was a great risk he took and he didn’t even get the info he wanted. Greg sipped his coffee and tried to tell himself it didn’t matter anyway. Whether Mycroft had a soulmate, didn’t want one, or couldn’t have one due to his career, the end result was that the elder Holmes brother was off limits.
Most would argue that Greg was the one who was off limits, given that he was married. But most people didn’t know the state of said matrimony. If Mycroft ever deduced it, he didn’t say. Greg preferred not to talk about or even think of his erstwhile wife when in his company.
Suffice it to say that both Mycroft and Greg came with their own ‘it’s complicated’ designations, and Greg knew he would just have to content himself with their relationship as it was – an odd sort of friendship that had developed over their mutual interest of Sherlock. He honestly felt privileged that it got even this far, given how closed off Mycroft was for several years after they first met to discuss Sherlock. ‘Met’ being a generous term, given that it was a kidnapping. Greg still jokingly called it kidnapping to this day, even though in the past year they met much more frequently and not always to discuss Sherlock. Mycroft retaliated against the teasing by continuing to have him picked up in the car at random intervals.
Greg realised that it had been awhile since the most recent kidnapping. This must be why he was thinking so much about Mycroft this morning – he was overdue. He had a very strong feeling that today was the day, so he quickly logged into his calendar to see what his schedule looked like for the rest of the day. He was relieved to see that there was nothing of importance. He rescheduled a couple of things and then set a block of time in the early afternoon so no one would try to rope him into anything.
Later, when Anthea picked him up right as he was walking back from lunch, he smiled to himself. It seemed like more often these days, he was able to guess correctly when it would happen. He even got lunch earlier than usual because something told him it would be better to get it out of the way.
*
Mycroft basked in the silence as he went through his e-mails. There were few places where he felt at home, and the Diogenes Club was one of them. There was something rare about being part of a community that went above and beyond in guarding their privacy. No one ever spoke. Everyone wore gloves. If any member appeared in the newspaper, that day’s edition was not delivered. The only familiarity was in seeing the same faces over and over throughout the years. It was so peaceful.
It was why Mycroft preferred to meet Greg here whenever he could. The calm that the place radiated helped to settle his nerves at coming face to face with the enticing detective inspector.
When Greg was escorted into the room, Mycroft’s eyes softened. He felt reminded of the first time he met the detective inspector. He was able to deduce right away that Greg was a romantic who longed for a soulmate. Longed for…but didn’t hope. After all, his file and his wedding ring said he was married. So, he must have at some point made the decision not to hold out for that 10% chance.
At the time, Mycroft had admired his pragmatism. Most so-called ‘soulmantics’ ended up spending the bulk of their life chasing after a fantasy person. Most of the time they never met someone and ended up alone. Not that this was a bad thing in Mycroft’s view. It was better than those who did get their fondest wish, and it was someone utterly incompatible that they had to upend their life to accommodate.
It was a moot point for Mycroft, his aspirations did not include partnership of any kind. His work was too important. But someone like Greg… it must have been hard for him to set aside that foolish desire and be the engineer of his own happiness. Well, perhaps not happiness. That didn’t seem to describe Greg’s marriage. More like content with what he had.
Greg sat down opposite Mycroft and gave him a cheeky grin. “So what have you been up to today? Putting out fires after the stunt Prince Oliver pulled?”
Mycroft sniffed. “As if I would concern myself with the social foibles of the royal family. I deal with far more delicate political matters.”
Greg’s gaze was sharp, and it gave Mycroft an unexpected thrill. “You know well and good that more than one war has started because someone in a powerful position dared to doff their gloves. I’d say that’s pretty delicate.”
Mycroft sighed, pretending like he wasn’t truly impressed with Greg’s insight. “I fear you are right. It would be so much easier for everyone involved if the Prince kept himself covered up. I know you think otherwise. You agree with all those…bright young things that have the press and Twitter so enthralled with their cause celebre.”
Greg dropped his eyes, his smile turning rueful. “And how did you deduce that, Mycroft? I’ve never shared my opinion on that particular matter. What was it that gave me away? My tone of voice when I brought it up? The newspaper print on my fingers?”
Mycroft’s brow furrowed. In truth it was neither of those things, though he supposed they supported his conclusion. He’d just…known. He gave Greg a small smile. “Greg, we’ve known each other for four years. I think that’s long enough to be able to predict your views on any given situation.”
Greg huffed out a laugh. “Four years? Yeah, I suppose that’s long enough to know me. Except I can’t say the same about you. You’re still a bloody mystery. Not much of a detective am I?” Greg dropped his eyes, and Mycroft could have sworn they paused briefly on his gloves.
Mycroft tucked his hands into his lap. “You’ve hardly had a chance to use your skills. Up until a year ago, our acquaintanceship mainly consisted of occasional short meetings where we discussed my brother. Even now that we spend time on other topics, I admit I’m not very forthcoming.”
“Whereas I’m an open book, I s’pose.” Greg’s smile was rueful.
Mycroft tilted his head. “I rather like that about you.”
Greg’s smile widened. “I rather like that we’ve become friends. The more we meet, the less we talk about Sherlock…maybe someday I’ll find out your favourite colour.”
Mycroft looked away, unable to sustain contact with Greg’s warm, chocolate gaze. Fortunately it was unlikely that Greg would ever guess that the answer was brown.
*
A few weeks later, Mycroft stopped by Baker Street to bring details on a case Sherlock had (to his great surprise and relief) agreed to take on. It had to do with a possible mole in his organization, and the fewer people involved, the better.
When Mycroft walked into the flat, John was in the kitchen making tea for the three of them. Sherlock was in his chair, his head buried in a book. No Touch Necessary by Zohra Lari. Mycroft recognised it as a popular treatise on soulmate theory, and felt a flash of irritation. “Why are you reading that nonsense? Please tell me it’s for a case.”
Sherlock lowered the book, his expression calculating. “Not so much a case as a puzzle. I’ve been noticing certain behaviours lately that have me wondering if the phenomena described in this book are real.”
Mycroft glared. “Of course it’s not real, it’s utter rubbish. We’ve been over this before. What you and John experience is not a link. You are a genius with superior deduction skills, so of course it would seem like you can read John’s mind.”
John set the tea tray down on the coffee table. “And what about my ability to know things about Sherlock?”
Mycroft sniffed. “You may not be a genius, but you do have a keen intellect. As a doctor and a soldier, you have the ability to read people well. And you’ve lived with Sherlock for three years, so of course it would seem as if you share a brain. But that is all it is. There has never been conclusive proof that soulmates share some sort of mental link.”
Sherlock gave him a stubborn look. “We do share a link, and it is a powerful one. But this book isn’t about soulmate links in general. It’s a very specific subset of the theory, regarding mental connections between two people who have not yet been confirmed to be soulmates.”
“Confirmed to be…don’t tell me you subscribe to that twaddle that soulmates are destined even before they meet?”
Sherlock steepled his fingers. “The destiny theory? I haven’t dismissed it entirely. It provides a neat explanation for why no one in all of recorded history has ever had more than one soulmate. Such a statistic is highly improbable unless there are mitigating factors. Every scientist who’s made a study of soulmate theory acknowledges that there must be some reason why it has not happened.”
Mycroft sighed deeply. “The more logical hypothesis is that a person’s brain chemistry changes when they obtain a soulmate or when their soulmate dies, making it impossible for a bond to form with another.”
Sherlock nodded slowly. “Agreed, but that theory has never been proven, no matter how many soulmates have donated their bodies to science. The soulmark is and always has been the only physiological indication. Anyway, I wasn’t referencing the destiny theory when I said, ‘confirmed to be.’ I was talking about the untouched theory as it is explained in this book. In this case, the hypothesis is that they were already soulmates before they touched, confirmed once they did.”
Mycroft pinched his nose. “Oh that. Forgive me for not keeping track of every crackpot notion put forth by people determined to romanticise the soulmate phenomenon.”
John snorted. “Would you listen to yourself? How can they romanticise something that is, by its very definition, romantic?”
Mycroft lifted his chin. “By ascribing more significance to it than it deserves. Soulmates are not destined. Soulmates do not have mental links. And people only become soulmates once they’ve touched.”
Sherlock held up the book. “Not according to this. The author did extensive research and produced some compelling evidence that it is possible for soulmates to form a link before they even touch. Fascinating read. Do you know that most people who are soulmates will touch each other within a year of meeting? In societies where touching is commonplace, it usually happens right away or at most within three months. It takes longer in societies where touching is forbidden until the person is considered suitable. The odds of establishing soulmarks is also much lower in those places because of the restrictions. There were probably loads of people who would have had soulmates but they were never allowed to touch.”
Sherlock tapped his fingers on the book. “The author researched soulmates who took much longer than a year to finally come together. They were generally people in different social classes or one or both had taken to wearing gloves because they didn’t want a soulmate. In each case, there were all sorts of clues that made them realise in hindsight they already shared a connection before they touched. They just didn’t understand what was happening.”
“It’s circumstantial. A series of coincidences.”
“So you have read it.” Sherlock’s eyes danced.
Mycroft huffed. “I skimmed it. It led to such an uproar with politicians and the privileged classes when it first came out that I wanted to be informed.”
John smirked. “And of course you instantly dismissed it. Just like all the others who are determined to avoid a soulmate bond, you don’t want it to be true because it would mean you can’t control it.”
Mycroft scowled, gripping his umbrella. “I will not have my own life decided for me by…by…some arbitrary…” He petered out, frustrated as always by his own lack of understanding of why some people have soulmates and others don’t. In the history of the human race, no one has ever successfully pinpointed with accuracy how it happens. Theories abound, most of them complete rubbish, and Mycroft was tired of being inflicted with them.
The more pragmatic folks assumed that soulmates happen because there is an unusually high number of points of compatibility. This was where matchmakers came in – they try to predict who will be soulmates by charting all the similar or complementary parts of their personality. Then there are those who believe it is merit-based. It was a popular notion with religious people, that only the strongly moral are ‘deserving’ of soulmates, and kept people warming the pews every Sunday.
The most ridiculous group were the soulmantics, who believe that only folks who are open to love will find their soulmate. They find the practice of glove wearing abhorrent. They are also the ones most susceptible to so-called ‘soul readers’ who, similar to fortune tellers, charge exorbitant fees to people eager to know whether they will get a soulmate. Their success rate was worse than fortune tellers, because the latter tended to look for patterns of behaviour to predict someone’s future, and people always did follow to type. Soulmates did not follow any types. All the theories of compatibility, morality, and tender-heartedness have been proven to be completely false. Soulmated couples were often incompatible, frequently lacked morals, and Sherlock was proof positive that someone who was thoroughly opposed to soulmates could obtain one.
“It is arbitrary,” Sherlock murmured, and Mycroft’s sharp gaze shifted to him. “That much is true, whether one believes in destiny or not. You can’t get a soulmate by being more worthy than anyone else. School mates like to taunt each other by saying that no one would want them as a soulmate, and unfortunately such childish notions have a nasty habit of sticking with people into adulthood.”
Mycroft flushed. He closed his eyes, unable to bear looking at his brother as he brought his emotions under control. Sherlock always knew how cut right to the heart of things, with devastating accuracy. He savagely pushed down the feelings and memories of his youth that threatened to surface. Not now. “You still haven’t explained why you are reading such folderol.”
Sherlock fidgeted with the book. “Your deductions about Lestrade.”
Mycroft felt a trickle of dread about where this was going. “What do you mean?”
Sherlock set down the book and levelled a calculating gaze at Mycroft. “You may be able to fool everyone else, but you are my brother and we think very much alike. I know how you make deductions, I make them the same way. People seem to think that it’s a magic trick or that we’re mind readers, but we are very much reliant on what we observe. And I observed some very suspicious behaviour at the Christmas party last week.”
Mycroft was unable to suppress the flush that rose up his neck. God almighty, had Sherlock actually seen the way he was looking at Greg, detected his attraction? Mortifying. He lifted his chin. No, Sherlock was talking about deductions. He did recall making a few, emboldened by Greg’s delight at his accuracy. “You mean my observations about his family and his plans for Christmas? It was child’s play!”
Sherlock shook his head. “I disagree. One or two points I was able to follow, but most of it came out of thin air.”
Mycroft felt prickly. “You forget that there are times when the Detective Inspector and I meet for dinner. We talk about topics other than yourself.”
Sherlock sneered. “I’m sure you do. I thought about that, but Lestrade’s surprise at your accuracy indicated that he never gave you a hint in prior conversations.”
Mycroft gripped the file in his hand tightly, wanting to change the subject and get to the reason why he was here in the first place. But he knew if he deflected now, he would have lost. “You also forget that I had Lestrade thoroughly investigated when you met. I know many details about his personal life.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “So you’re saying that your file on him contains that little anecdote about a young Lestrade watching his brother slice his finger open while cleaning fish, and ever since then he feels phantom pain whenever he sees someone cutting food. My my, your operatives are quite thorough.”
Mycroft felt his breathing stutter as he remembered that moment at the party. John had been carving a slice of turkey at the buffet table, and Greg had been staring at him, rubbing his thumb along his fingers in an agitating manner. Mycroft was well into his cups by that point, buoyed by Greg’s admiration from previous deductions in the evening. Mycroft blurted out the whole story, picturing it in his head clear as day. Greg’s admiring expression still warmed him.
Mycroft saw that Sherlock was waiting for an explanation. “I saw him worrying at his fingers as he watched John carefully, his shoulders tense. I knew it must be some past trauma related to a knife injury while cutting food. It wasn’t his own injury, there is no scarring on his hand, so someone close to him. He showed no actual distress, it was mostly a reflex, so it must be an old memory…likely a family member. Um…”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “So how did you know it was his brother, and not one of his two sisters? Or a parent? How did you know it was fish?”
Mycroft remembered that he’d practically been able to smell the brackish odour, the shock of red blood. “I…I was drunk, Sherlock. It’s a bit hard for me to recollect the logical progression of my deduction.”
Sherlock stood up and approached Mycroft. “Or it wasn’t a deduction and you were seeing his memory through a mental link.”
Mycroft took a step back. “That’s ridiculous! It was a deduction! It’s how my mind works, I see the clues and it…it paints a picture in my head. There had to have been something else that I saw which drew out those extra details, I just simply cannot recall what it was. Blame it on the Christmas punch!”
Sherlock shook his head. “I would have seen it too, Mycroft.”
Mycroft’s irritation spiked. “Not necessarily, Sherlock, you know I’m better at this than you!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be entrusting this to me.” His eyes flicked to the file still in Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft felt waves of frustration roil through him. “This is different. You are able to keep your head when it comes to a case. The reason I’m better than you on a personal level is that I haven’t allowed my judgment to be clouded. You believe you have this wondrous connection to John that allows you to know what he had for lunch. You’re determined to see romance and fairy tales around every corner.”
Sherlock looked at him in amazement. “Just listen to you. You’re so shaken by what I’ve told you that you’re spouting nonsense. I’m right, Mycroft, and you know it.”
“Damn it, Sherlock! If I could remember how I did it, I would tell you! I really would, because then you would shut up and leave me in peace!”
Sherlock took a step closer. “If you want to prove to me that all your deductions about Lestrade are pure observation, I know just the way to do it.” He leaned over and whispered in Mycroft’s ear. “Take off your gloves…and touch him.”
Mycroft flinched away. “I can’t do that, and you know it! He is a married man, it would be completely inappropriate!”
John, who was stuffing a biscuit into his mouth, put his finger in the air. “If you and Greg are soulmates, his marriage would be null and void immediately. Wouldn’t be worth the paper the certificate was printed on.”
Mycroft gave him an imperious look. “You’re suggesting I should deliberately break up a marriage?”
John’s mouth turned down. “His marriage is already broken. Deb’s cheating on him.”
Mycroft stared at him, utterly gobsmacked. “H-he’s not told me about this. Surely he would have said if he was getting a divorce.”
John shrugged. “They aren’t. Don’t see the point. If either of them meets a soulmate, it will end automatically. Until that happens, it’s cheaper to stay together. Divorces lawyers are expensive, and so is living in London if you’re single.”
Mycroft sucked in a breath of air, shocked at what he was hearing. It was one thing for Greg to be pragmatic. But he was consigning himself to a loveless marriage, forced to see every day the woman who betrayed him.
Greg. He felt something shudder within him. Anticipation? Trepidation? Mycroft suddenly felt discomposed and he spent a few moments straightening his tie, smoothing down the line of his jacket, and running his hand through his hair to make sure it stayed put. He looked back towards Sherlock, who was giving him a curious look. “I’m not…I can’t…this discussion is so far beyond appropriate. I am begging you to drop it and please focus on the case.” He tried not to let the distress bleed into his voice and wasn’t sure he succeeded.
Sherlock gave a longsuffering sigh and went over to sit in his chair. He held out his hand, waving it imperiously. Mycroft set his jaw at the absurd little power play. Sherlock had been standing right next to him, he could have just taken the folder. Ignoring the voice that warned him he might annoy Sherlock into refusing to take the case, he held up the file, stretching his arm out in a gesture indicating that Sherlock get up and retrieve it.
They both stayed that way in a frozen tableau for several moments until John muttered, “for fuck’s sake,” and stomped over to grab the file and then walk the several steps over to slap it unceremoniously into Sherlock’s hand.
Mycroft was itching to leave, but he waited while Sherlock flicked through the data, in case he had some questions that could be answered right away. There was utter silence in the room as Sherlock turned the pages of the file, until it was broken by the sound of the front door buzzing and Mrs. Hudson shuffling to answer it. Mycroft tensed up for a moment, then relaxed when he heard feet upon the stairs. Based on the creaking of the wood, he knew it was Greg. From the hurriedness of the steps, he knew it was a case – a quite serious one. Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, who was smirking at him with a gleam in his eyes. He said in an exasperated tone, “You know it’s him, too!”
Sherlock closed the file. “If you mean his tread on the stairs and that he’s bringing me a case that’s at least an eight, that’s not what I was thinking about. Something odd I saw earlier has now been explained. Oh, this is too good. It’s Christmas all over again.” His eyes were flashing with deductions and Mycroft felt a sense of foreboding.
Greg stepped into the flat at that moment, full of nervous energy. Not excited like Sherlock would be. He did not enjoy the puzzle of solving a crime so much as he had a keen desire to bring terrible people to justice. It filled Greg with adrenaline and purpose, and Mycroft knew it was deeply inappropriate to find it as sexy as he did. “Sherlock, there’s been a triple murder. A family. We need to catch these bastards.” He did a double take when he saw Mycroft standing off to the side. “Mycroft!” His expression softened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was interrupting.”
Mycroft waved a hand. “Not at all, Detective Inspector. The matter I was discussing with Sherlock is a long-term project and can certainly wait. Please, go on.” Greg’s lips twitched into a smile of thanks before he turned back to Sherlock.
Mycroft tuned out the ensuing details of the grisly homicide and attempted to think of what it was that had made Sherlock light up at Greg’s arrival. He mentally reviewed that last few minutes over and over, but could not think what it was. He found his mind wandering back to what Sherlock had said earlier about the cruelty of children. In his youth, Mycroft was quite often told by his peers that he was unloveable. And he might have been able to shake it off if he hadn’t had the same impression from the adults in his life. They should have known better, but he would never forget overhearing one conversation between his mother and a neighbour lady.
Mycroft was fifteen, and already feeling the effects of being gay, ginger, and far too intelligent for his classmates to tolerate. Sherlock was eight and only just starting to be irritated with the other kids’ fascination with soulmates. He asked Mycroft once why people cared so much, pointing out that their parents were not soulmates and still loved each other very deeply. Mycroft had not known how to answer, because deep down inside he craved the idea of it. As the older child, he was often overlooked in favour of his brother, and the notion that there might be someone out there who would focus entirely on him…well, it was appealing.
The brothers were coming in from school and heading to the kitchen for tea and Mummy’s mince pies. They automatically paused when they heard voices. Their mother was talking about how charming it was that Sherlock wanted to be a pirate. It meant that he had a romantic and adventurous heart, and she believed that he was destined to have a soulmate. Mycroft’s heart started pounding, and he looked down at his little brother, who was coincidentally wearing a pirate hat. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled when he heard Mummy’s words, and he folded his arms in disgust.
Another voice piped up, and Mycroft recognised it as Mrs. Turner next door. She asked about Mycroft’s prospects, and his mother’s response was that he was too ambitious to concern himself with such things. It was better if he didn’t have a soulmate as they would likely be neglected in favour of his work.
Despite the fact that he now agreed with her assessment, it had been a blow at the time. His peers thought he was unloveable and his mother clearly thought he didn’t deserve such a ‘gift.’ It had been the nail in the coffin of whatever silly dreams he’d had, and from that point forward he doubled down on his career ambitions. He sometimes wondered if that had been a pivotal moment for Sherlock as well. His interest in piracy waned after that, replaced with a hardness that echoed Mycroft’s cynicism.
Mycroft started when John appeared by his side, asking if he wanted his tea before it got cold. He realised that he hadn’t so much as sat down since he came in. He’d been standing this whole time, as if poised for flight. It was likely true, given the topic of soulmates which agitated him so much. He shook his head. “No, I should take my leave. Sherlock will be preoccupied with this murder case, so no point in me being here.”
He looked over at where Sherlock and Greg had their heads together and found that part of him wanted to stay just so he could continue to be in Greg’s presence. But such thoughts were dangerous, and so he turned towards the door. A gravelly voice called, “Leaving already?”
He turned back to see Greg gazing at him. “I’ve concluded my business with Sherlock, and I’m afraid have a pressing engagement,” he smoothly lied.
Greg gave him a smile that seemed to twist a little. “Oh, you have a hot date for New Year’s Eve?”
Mycroft blinked in surprise. “I’m afraid I did not even notice that it was the 31st. My plans involve work, as usual.” That part was true enough.
John piped up, “D’you have plans, Greg?”
Greg shook his head. “Nah, I agreed to catch duty for tonight so others could go enjoy themselves. S’not like Deb will care, she’s going out with friends.” His expression conveyed that he didn’t believe it was ‘friends’ but that he didn’t much care. Mycroft’s heart wrenched.
John clapped Greg on the back. “Looks like we’ve caught duty as well, if Sherlock’s expression is anything to go by.” Sherlock ignored them all as he had begun typing furiously on John’s laptop.
Mycroft opened the door and then nodded his head to the room at large. “I hope you are successful in your endeavours…and have a Happy New Year.” He forced himself to look away from Greg’s soft smile when he returned the sentiment, and went down the stairs.