Sherlock- Burning Bridges

Warning: Post Reinbach spoilers

Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his umbrella, twirling it under his long fingers. The metal tip worked as a pivot into the wood floor. Though calling the floor wood was like calling the crown jewels 'jewelry'. A special little place in an exotic rainforest had provided the floorboards beneath him.

He checked his pocketwatch. His guest was late. He knew for a fact that this particular person was never late. They were doing this purely to spite him, he was sure. Mycroft considered pulling out his phone to call Anthea, inquiring their subject's location, but then again they could arrive at any moment, and being on his phone would detract from the atmosphere he had built in the room. Lights dim, fireplace lit and casting jumpy orange shadows across the luxuries in the room, Mycroft in the perfect position, at an angle to the fireplace, facing away, so that his face was in half-shadow. The empty armchair across from him would give his visitor the opposite effect, fully lit by the fire, unable to hide.

His guest had been hiding for too long.

All of this was theatrical, even for Mycroft. But it was for a reason. The man was hiding. Not hiding himself, of course. He was in plain sight, visibly, and had no physical barriers stopping his visitor if they wanted at him (well, other than the bodyguards and snipers, but who counted them?). But still, Mycroft was hiding a piece of himself. It would be obvious in his normal setting, or even in normal light. His fingers were fiddling with his umbrella more than usual. He had a small sheen of sweat on his brow that kept appearing, and he quickly mopped it up with a kerchief that cost more than many families made in a year.

Mycroft was afraid.

The door clicked and the man tried not to look over. He had to be calm, serene. Impassive. He fixed his eyes on a piece of original art on the opposite wall as his guest approached, and even as he did he could feel those eyes judging him, deducing him, like even with his shields up he was still more exposed than ever.

The guest lowered himself down into the armchair across from Mycroft and steepled his fingers. Quicksilver eyes took in every detail as they always did, and still Mycroft did not acknowledge him.

"Diet not working, I see."

Mycroft scowled. "You're late."

"Rather punctual for a dead man, though. You know how it is, have to sneak past Death, and he's more observant than I am."

"As ever, your jokes are lost on me, brother." Mycroft sighed, finally looking at the man in the opposite chair. He was worse for wear, definitely. Hadn't changed clothes in days by the look of it, though it was hard to tell beneath his overcoat and scarf. His black hair was greasy and disheveled, and Mocroft could still see clumps of blood that the man had missed, sticking the curls together. One side of his face was severely bruised, and there was a cast on his right arm, just barely visible beneath his sleeve. The tiny part he could see had been signed, just once. Three letters were visible

Mo
X

Molly Hooper. A sentimental 'hugs-and-kisses' mark beneath it. Not Sherlock's style, surely, but he did owe his life to the mortician, it was the least he could do to allow her to sign his cast.

"I'd ask how you've been, but the answer seems pretty obvious." Mycroft continued.

Sherlock shot his brother a defiant, annoying grin. "Oh, I've been swimmingly, thanks for asking. Though I must admit, being dead is so hatefully dull. But what's really on my mind is this; Why did you summon me?"

"Discovering one's only brother alive isn't a reason enough to invite him to tea?"

"You have people everywhere, cameras everywhere," Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to peer at his brother over his now intertwined fingers. "If you hadn't realized I was alive by now I'd say you were an idiot like the rest of the population."

"Always the charmer, aren't you?" The older man sighed.

"Answer my question, Mycroft." Sherlock said, his silky voice dark.

"Or what?" Mycroft leaned back, spinning his umbrella. "What leverage could you possibly hope for? I should by all means let the public know that the famed Sherlock Holmes is alive and kicking."

"And I should by all means let them know just who it was who fed information to Moriarty."

Mycroft stiffened, giving his brother all the affirmation he needed. A tiny smile played at the corners of the detective's mouth at his sudden upper hand and he leaned back into the armchair. "You thought I didn't know?"

"I-"

"I know everything, Mycroft," Sherlock didn't give his brother a chance to respond, his voice sharp as knives. The smile was gone, replaced by a dark, dangerous look amplified by the firelight dancing off of his prominent cheekbones. "Don't insult me further by pretending otherwise." His eyes flashed in the semi-darkness. "I know we've never been particularly close, but this-" the man's eyebrows tilted downward. "Why?"

The sheen of sweat was back. Mycroft furiously wiped his brow, though knew that it was useless. Whatever façade he had was gone, dispersed into mist that he tried to keep from clawing back in a childish attempt to rebuild. He was beaten, that was that.

The next best thing he could do was reason.

"He had information, Sherlock. Secrets. Things our top government operatives, MI6, noone knew. And one price." Mycroft said, his voice quiet, timid.

"An eye for an eye. Information you needed for information he needed. Elegant, but low, even for you." His eyes narrowed. "You had every resource at your expenditure, I'm sure you could have found something. Torture. Waterboarding. Whatever new hell the Americans have come up with-"

"You met him. You know." Mycroft was almost whispering now. "We tried, we did. It was the only way."

"There's always another way."

"Says the man who jumped off a building."

"Says the man who survived." Sherlock corrected. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft had a note of something in his voice. An emotion. Almost pleading.

"There are a minimum of four assassins in London. Baker street. I know you know where, I saw the pictures you gave to John. They will be gone before the end of the week. Next- Richard Brooke. Investigations will begin. He will be proved a fake. I don't care how, but bring back Jim Moriarty to the public eye. Third- and be sure that this is the last. My name. It will be cleared." Sherlock spoke his demands like gospel, his eyes boring into the powerful man across from him.

"Done." Mycroft assured, his eyes as wide and hopeful as one's like him ever got.

"And then, Mycroft, you will never interfere with my life again, is that clear?" Sherlock's eyes flashed up, suddenly dangerous.

Mycroft saw that there was no point in arguing. He simply nodded, looking off, his eyes resting back on the painting he'd pretended to be entranced with before. "Your second two requests…"

"Yes?"

"Your friends have not been idle, it seems. You've heard of the Believe movement, I'm sure?"

"I haven't gotten out much, clearly." Sherlock said, his voice speaking that he wasn't interested but the subtle twitch of one of his fingers suggested otherwise.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft said with a mild flourish. "Public graffiti. Popping up all over the city. For such an ass you do seem to have a fanbase."

Sherlock couldn't keep the smallest of smiles off of his face as he stood. As he turned to go, Mycroft stood.

"John's fine." He said quickly, grasping at the cinders of the bridge between him and his brother, desperately trying to fit them back together into something, anything; a stepping stone, even. "And Mrs. Hudson and the others. I've been keeping my eye on them in your absence."

Sherlock turned his head slightly towards his brother. "You think I haven't? Don't underestimate me, it's always been your downfall."

"You-" Mycroft started, desperate.

"Good day, Mycroft." Sherlock pulled his collar up further around his face. "I hope life treats you well."

Mycroft stood there as his brother walked away, and for one of the first times in his life, he felt an ache in the place where his heart should be. He'd forgotten how much hurt could come from emotion. It was his own fault for letting it get to him.

Still, it was that ache that made him call out as his brother's hand hit the doorknob.

"Sherlock!" He called. "Take care of yourself!"

The tall man hadn't slowed. "Mhm." He murmered as he swept out of the door, and out of his brother's life.