[Sherlolly fanfiction] Silhouettes

Chapter 25-- Treasure Hunt

(NEXT DAY)

As Sherlock and Molly get out of the car, they glance at one another. "Stay here." He says quietly and Molly nods once, indicating she understands. She's stood by the car, stuffing her hands into her pockets nervously, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock as he approaches his brother.
Mycroft had sent for a car to pick them up without an explanation and had led them to an old, deserted warehouse just outside London. It's plain walls seemed to carry twice as much shadow, but the headlights of the car lightened the contaminated space a little. As a whole, it was very 'Mycroft-esque'.

"And why have you dragged us here?" Sherlock asks as Mycroft turns to face him.
"I have a known love for warehouses." He says sarcastically before starting on their real conversation, "Is this what you call 'under control'?" He asks, getting straight to the matter at hand.
"Oh, you want to lecture me." Sherlock mutters, rolling his eyes as he looks away.
"Do you expect me to pick up the pieces again, like when you killed Magnussen? It's getting to the point where bailing you out--"
"Couldn't you have just done this over the phone?"
"I've been forced to do this face to face. You still don't get it, you never did--"
He exhales as if he's growing bored of the conversation already. "He won't come for you--"
"I'm not the worry, Sherlock, it's the newspapers. The public know what the newspapers know, and so, he's threatening the public. Do you know how much work it is to get the cattle back in their pens?" He looks at his younger brother with those same piercing eyes. The uneven shadows leak over his face, emphasising the dents and curves of his disdain.
"If you do that, he won't bother you again." Sherlock says clearly, as if the problem is simple.
"I've never been one for agriculture, Sherlock." His voice quieter and his tone a little more collected, but it's thin too; it's bitter and cold.
"Fine, let's put it this way; you can put your plastic soldiers back in line and I'll make sure the dog won't eat them again."
Mycroft ignores his comment. "You'll be needing a safe house."
He grunts at his older brother over exaggerating with his 'motherly worries'. "Why--"
"You've gotten yourself involved in gangsters. Half of the Jones family wants your head." He's merely said this so Sherlock is aware he knows of his movements, so he knows that nothing gets past him.
"I don't see how--"
He says the real reason. "If I keep you away, the dog will follow. That was usually how it worked."
Sherlock's eyes drift to Molly for a moment, but he turns them away before she notices. "How long?" He asks.
"Two, three weeks, four at the most."
"When?"
"The end of next week should do it, but I will not object to an earlier date."
"Where?"
Mycroft breathes a laugh at his relay of short, snappy questions. "I've not been planning to send you away like this."
"Yes, you have."
He exhales, "I was thinking Gun Ghyll Manor. For old times sakes."
They both smirk at the name and at the memories of the that building.
"Is it still just as cold in there?" Sherlock asks.
Mycroft's eyes narrow on him. "Oh, little brother, it's only gotten worse with age."
Sherlock breaks the eye contact again. "You sort out your little figures and we'll leave on Sunday."
"It's a date."
There's a silence.
Sherlock laughs to himself without an explanation.
Mycroft observes him for a second, a tight-lipped smile appearing on his face. "What is it?" He asks, almost anxious.
"You've become so caring since I've gotten engaged." He comments.
"It's not just I that's softened, is it?"
Sherlock looks at him, "I've not 'softened'."
"Watching you sort out all the problems for everyone; reassuring the people like some public role model." The words disgust both brothers.
Sherlock scoffs. "I don't think so."
Mycroft is now the one to mumble a laugh to himself, "It's like watching a seal balancing a ball on its nose."
Their words echo throughout the empty building.
"Your insults aren't as effortless as they usually are." He points out to his older brother. "I would accept a 'congratulations'."
"Of course you would, you like praise and admiration." He snorts, dismissing his brother's attempt at a conversation containing at least one compliment.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turns up ever so slightly at his brother's jibe. He remembers that Molly is still stood at the car. This then encourages another thought. "You knew, at Christmas, you knew that she'd accept me." He refers to how Mycroft had told Molly about his drowning nightmares and issues in his childhood. He knew if she was told any other way, accepting it may have been a lot more difficult.
Mycroft remains silent for a moment.
"Well, someone has to." And then he turns, strolling away.