Chapter Text
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, brother?” Mycroft continued his path from the entry of his flat directly to the liquor cabinet. It had been a long day—a deposed dictator could be so draining.
“Do you know I was actually beginning to trust you again?” Sherlock was seated in a high-backed armchair near the fire, facing away from the door.
Mycroft poured two glasses of whiskey. He was not surprised by Sherlock’s presence. He was never surprised.
“Trust? You? Unlikely,” he scoffed. He took a sip from his own glass as he walked the other over to where his younger brother sat. “You became complacent. You thought you’d managed to get your own way.”
Mycroft stopped at Sherlock’s elbow and held out the heavy crystal. Sherlock considered it for a moment before taking it. He took a sip as his older brother sat in the chair opposite. “Why?”
“Why what?” Mycroft asked blandly. “Given the events of the past week I would think you’d want to be more specific.”
Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. “Why did you try to bond me so young? You never told me why.”
Mycroft sighed and stared at the whiskey in his hands. “Do you remember what you were like, Sherlock? Reckless, erratic, sometimes violent, unconcerned about your own safety or anyone else’s. Especially after our father died. You would disappear for days on end—Mummy would be frantic. Then you would saunter in with a broken wrist and an acid burn and declare that she was an idiot for not knowing where you had gone. You ignored your instructors at school and you were disruptive and contentious…”
“School was dull.”
“You nearly killed another alpha!” Mycroft snapped. “And over some ridiculous argument with your little beta friend.”
“Victor.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. “So we brought you home. But when we could manage to get you to study, your experiments nearly destroyed the house. Your propensity for extreme responses to boredom only increased after Mummy died, and you ate and slept less and less—you were even worse then than before John.”
“Don’t call him that,” Sherlock growled. “You don’t deserve to.”
Mycroft smiled. “I’m pleased you feel such a protective instinct for him. That can only be for the good, considering.”
“I warned you about putting cameras in the flat. They have been destroyed.”
“I needed to be sure you wouldn’t hurt him.”
“I would never hurt John,” Sherlock said coldly.
“You were not in your right mind. Neither was he.” Mycroft pointed—Sherlock blushed, tugging his scarf back up over his neck to cover the marks John had left on him.
“And whose fault is that?”
“I admit it was high-handed,” Mycroft agreed. “I had it on good authority, however, that weaning you both off of your suppressants gradually would be less of a risk.”
“And less noticeable.”
“Naturally. But I assure you I had the best of intentions. Anyone can see that Dr. Watson loves you. Do you regret what happened?”
Sherlock stared into the fire. “How could I?”
Mycroft nodded, satisfied. He stood and walked to the console table behind them. He retrieved two folders and returned to his chair.
“I gave him his freedom after you ‘liberated’ yourself from rehab. I didn’t expect you to disappear for six years, but I knew it would be some time before you resurfaced. Had my position at the time warranted the resources I now have access to, I would have found you sooner.”
Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The brothers glared at one another for a moment. Mycroft finally glanced down at the files in his lap.
“Nevertheless, there was no reason to punish the good doctor.” Mycroft crossed his legs. “I authorized his continued use of the contraband hormone suppressant and ensured his public status as a beta. And I approved his enlistment. Legally, he became my responsibility the moment you bonded.”
“John doesn’t know.”
“He knows he was given permission to remain in hiding. However, I allowed him to believe that the bribe his uncle provided him with was sufficient to get past the army physical examination.”
“His uncle,” Sherlock breathed. “Of course.”
“He contacted me when he received the guardianship papers, to negotiate. He wanted his nephew to be able to make as many of his own choices as possible, for as long as he could. Dr. Watson chose to serve his country.”
Sherlock was silent, sullen.
“I did meet his uncle, not long before he died. He became critically ill shortly after Jo—” Sherlock raised a warning eyebrow. “Dr. Watson was deployed to Afghanistan. I thought it would comfort him to know someone else had his nephew’s best interests at heart. He was very interested in you—was quite impressed with your mind and with the way you were beginning to turn yourself around.”
Sherlock tried not to look chagrined. He preferred not to remember his struggles to stay clean.
“Really, he was a remarkable man,” Mycroft continued. “I was very sorry when he passed.”
Sherlock looked incredulous. “And you think he would have approved of the way you’ve meddled in John’s life since?”
“Michael Watson was an omega, Sherlock. He was very well aware of the limited choices available to his kind.” Mycroft released a weary breath. “We agreed that—in the end—John’s best chance for happiness was with you.”
Sherlock was too surprised to respond to his brother’s use of John’s first name.
Mycroft smiled a little. “Still, he’d prepared enough of the hormone suppressant to last for several years, just in case. And I promised him I would safeguard the formula, for a time when our society might be more liberal-minded with regard to omega rights.”
Sherlock shook his head. “Why would he trust you?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Mycroft asked. “I have protected John’s secret and watched over him for 15 years.”
Sherlock opened the first folder to find photos of John: in basic training, at his sister’s bonding ceremony, at his first deployment, on patrol somewhere in Europe, in surgery somewhere in Africa, at the camp in Afghanistan, on the streets of London with his cane. He traced a finger over the line of John’s tanned face, trying to imagine how different things could have been.
“But you couldn’t protect him from the enemy.”
“No,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “I kept him as safe as I could, but John’s skills and strength of character are considerable. And his instincts to heal and protect are very powerful, regardless of the cost to his person. True valour is a rare commodity. I deeply regret that I could not prevent his injury.”
Sherlock closed the first folder and opened the next. “And you did all of this because…?” His voice died off as he began to sift through the next set of photos: Sherlock sleeping rough, in a cell covered in his own vomit, in a hospital bed recovering from another overdose, in the treatment facility.
“In spite of the path you chose, I continued to hold out hope. However slim it might have seemed, at times.”
Sherlock felt an unwelcome tightness in his throat. “You think that excuses you for manipulating John? For ‘arranging’ for us to breed when neither of us was prepared?”
“He was free to leave you at any time. I had Dr. Stamford put him in your path but I would not have forced him to stay; I was merely giving him the opportunity to…” Mycroft sighed. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “John loves you, but you know it is more complicated than that. His only chance at a complete life is with you, Sherlock. Nothing else would ever have been quite enough for him—you are in his bloodstream.”
Sherlock stood and began to pace.
“And your only chance at becoming the man you could be is with John,” Mycroft continued. “In the short time he has been with you, he has brought out some of your best attributes and helped to curb some of the worst. I think he actually enhances your abilities.” Mycroft finished his whiskey and set the glass on the table beside him. “Naturally you will always be…different…but you don’t need me to point out that you are a much better version of yourself than you were before.”
Mycroft stood, tugging on his waistcoat.
“I tried to bond you so young because I didn’t think I could keep you alive long enough for you to fulfil your potential.” The words were heavy between them.
“It was a calculated risk. The doctors couldn’t guarantee that bonding and breeding would have a significant impact on your behaviour, but there was a good chance the hormonal changes would have helped. I had to try something.”
Mycroft started for the door to his private study; Sherlock stepped in his path. “I’m meant to believe you locked me in rehab for two years because you care about me.”
“What you believe is up to you,” Mycroft replied calmly. He stepped around his younger brother. When he reached the door; he hesitated.
“After the first failure, I realized your omega would need to be someone very special. It took two years to find John, and I was not the only one to recognize his worth. When he turned up in the system after his arrest, I had to pay off two other families to secure him.”
Mycroft turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. “I only wish I had been able to get you to him sooner, so you could have spoken to him before his heat began. Unfortunately, my influence then was not sufficient to arrange his release from that room—I had hoped your bonding could take place somewhere less…”
“Barbaric?”
Mycroft inclined his head, pulling the door open. “John is your miracle, brother. I suggest you take very good care of him.”