Mystrade - Christmas in the Cotswolds - from The Personal Journal of Mycroft..

Chapter 6

        I was still exhausted and somewhat infuriated as the car pulled up to my parent's house. Greg had spent most of the ride silent but staring at me. He was worried about me - and about Sherlock - but was unsure of what to say or do that would be of help. Instead, he chose a swift clutch of my hand before sliding out of the car.

        Without a word passed between us, we walked, arm in arm to the doorstep, to find Dr. John Watson pacing before it.

        "John, are you alright?" Greg reached out for Dr. Watson's arm as he spoke.

        "Yeah. I just... Well, after yesterday..."

        I interjected. I'd never been able to stomach watching a man flounder for words. "Dr. Watson, I'm glad to see you. You were missed last year." He had spent the previous holiday in an attempt to work through his mess of a relationship with his own sibling. I fully understood his struggle.

        "Thank you, Mycroft," he said, now seeming to breathe a bit easier. "Sherlock insisted I come this year, but once I got here... Well, I'm not sure if I'm really still welcome."

        "Dr. Watson, whatever has happened, I can assure you, this is a home where you'll always be welcome." I knew I spoke for my mother as well as Sherlock.

        I could feel John's eyes resting on me. My kindness was unexpected.

        As I reached for the handle, the wood and iron door swung open.

        "What on earth are you boys doing? It's incredibly cold. Get inside." My mother waved us through the door, snatching Greg's hat from his head as he crossed the threshold. "Father's just building a fire, but there are snacks on the table."

        Greg and John both found seats and were unable to resist the prawn cocktail that Mummy had laid out. I paced a bit near the table, wondering about Sherlock's present condition.

        "Come sit down, love," Greg coaxed, patting his hand on the seat next to him.

         My mother watched as I ignored Greg's request and continued to stew near the counter. She approached me with her back to John and Greg. "Mycie," she whispered, "he's just in the shower. He'll be down." She squeezed my arm. "He's alright, boy."

        I acknowledged her with a slight nod but propped myself against the wall in the corner of the room.

        Before my mother could even get a conversation started with John and Greg, Sherlock blew through the door at my right. "Afternoon, boys." He stood at the edge of the table, clapped his hands, and rubbed them together, examining the many platters before him. He swiped four biscuits up in one hand, then landed in the seat next to Greg, quickly setting his feet up on the arm of John's chair. "What's on at Scotland Yard, then?" he asked Greg.

        Greg and John both stared blankly at him. He was still high as a kite but was able to deceive with good grooming, excellent dress, and his keen focus.

        Realising his friends wouldn't indulge him, he turned his attention elsewhere. "Mummy, I think we need some music, don't you?"

        "Oh, stop it! Just stop this!" I yelled. "There's no one here who you can fool!"

        "Mycroft!" Mummy scolded.

        "No," I defied. "I will not just stand here and pretend that everything is ebullient. This is ridiculous!" Never in my life had I raised my voice to either of my parents in such a way.

        "Always so embittered when you're hungry aren't you, brother dear?" Sherlock jested, patting his stomach.

        I found myself rushing across the room toward him. "You insolent little chit!" I yelled, knocking his legs down off the arm of John's chair.

         Greg stood, placing himself between me and Sherlock. As was typical, I let my exasperation spill out in thoughtless words. "Figures," I said puffing my chest and pointing my nose to the ceiling. "Somehow I always knew your true loyalty would out in the end."

        The blood drew from his cheeks and he reached for my arm, "Myc. No."

        My mother was already at my side, pulling my other arm. "Mycroft Holmes. Sitting room. Now."

***

        "You, of course, have my apologies for yelling. I will not, however, just carry on as if nothing has happened," I explained, looking up at my mother from the sofa. She stood, joined by my father, arms crossed in front of the fireplace.

        "Mycroft, it was an isolated incident. He's in pain," my father insisted.

        With my head down, I found the courage to contradict him. "With all due respect, it is not at all an isolated incident. I can't even count for you both the number of times I've fetched him from an alley over the years. I've spent my entire adulthood taking care of him and trying to protect you two from it."

        My mother moved to sit beside me. "Mycie," she started, "you are a good brother and an honorable man. We don't doubt everything you've done for both of them." She was unwilling to use Eurus' name but understood the timeliness of the comparison. "Sherlock has always been difficult. He was always emotional. Now, the only real human relationship he's embraced since childhood is under threat. Put yourself in his shoes, dear boy. How would you feel if it were Greg with the sad news instead of John?"

        "That's different," I argued immediately.

        She took my hand. "Is it?"

        The truth was, I had never been able to completely work out the nature of Sherlock's relationship with Dr. Watson. "I don't know," I admitted.

        Mummy confessed, "Neither do I."

        "What we do know, is that he needs our support," my father contributed.

        "I always support him," I muttered.

        "And dear Greg," Mummy said. "Did you even hear the way you spoke to him?"

        I had heard it, but I'd no idea what to say about my actions.

        "You, my boy, are burdened with a very sharp tongue - and it can cut so deeply that the wounds can't be healed. You'd do well to remember that." She walked off into the kitchen.

        I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. "Mycroft, we have a duty, you and I. Those two - they're endlessly passionate. It's a bit of a fault really. We're the strong ones, though, son. It's our charge to hold them together."

        "Don't you ever tire of being strong?" I asked as he walked toward the door.

        "At least once a day," he said, holding his arm out in invitation for me to walk through the passage to the kitchen first.

        I followed him to begin dinner. Entering the kitchen, I knew I needed to apologise to Greg before sitting to eat. I scanned the room, to find John now seated alone with Sherlock. Dr. Watson's eyes caught mine with a look of empathy. I closed my eyes in pain, realising that Greg had fled, then was startled by Mummy's whisper in my ear. "Go find him, Mycroft."