Sherlock WIP: Habits of a Lifetime
Jan. 23rd, 2017 10:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereThere are very few things Mycroft regrets. Which is not to say that every decision made was easily made or clearly right, but when it comes to errors of judgment, things he would do differently if he had the had the opportunity, he could count them on one hand.
The fact that they inevitably involve Sherlock is indisputable. It's an obvious pattern, but it's within his power to correct.
***
The first step is to meet with Lady Elizabeth Alicia Smallwood. There is no point pretending that there is any neutral ground between them, so he attends a meeting in her office.
Her office reflects it's occupant: well presented, orderly and understated. Lady Smallwood is usually an ally, and one of the few people Mycroft respects. He wouldn't say that he likes her, but he finds her far less tedious than some of their mutual colleagues.
"Mycroft," she says, as she leads him to the armchairs perched on one side of her office. "What is this about?"
"A reallocation of security measures." Mycroft slides the files over to her. Most of it is electronic, of course, but the passwords and details of current security measures are always kept in hardcopy as well.
She takes the time to open the folder, to confirm what she already knew. He'd seen the surprise on her face when he walked in, the split second of curiosity and concern before she blinked and locked her reaction away.
But despite what she thinks she knows, she reads to confirm it first. "This has been part of your portfolio since you started. It was a condition of your employment, I believe."
"It was." The acknowledgement doesn't cost Mycroft anything. He had been at university, jumping through hoops to complete three degrees concurrently, and had still been bored, when Uncle Rudy had suggested an interview for a mostly unofficial position. Protecting family had seemed important then, had been necessary in a way that it no longer is. "Circumstances have changed."
From Lady Smallwood's sympathetic frown, the fiasco at Sherringford has already become common knowledge amongst certain clearance levels. There will be official reviews at some point, but Mycroft has no intention of being part of tha committee.
"I believe my judgment is compromised," Mycroft says slowly, because compromised is a much kinder word than wrong. Faulty. Intimidated. Scared. "I also believe the contained threat has reduced, and the potential threat is minimal."
Lady Smallwood tilts her head and looks at the open file. The fluorescent light catches on her blonde hair, caught up in timeless chignon. Mycroft allows himself a moment, only a moment, to note the missed opportunity: he will never know this woman any better; he will be another person of interest listed on the file, another data set to observe for changes in behaviour. He will have slightly less privacy and far less ability to shelter Sherlock from consequences.
But Sherlock does not need his help. Sherlock is not that little seven year old boy who refused to speak for a year; Sherlock is not twenty-five and overdosing yet again. Sherlock has not needed his help for a long time.
And when Sherlock is involved, Mycroft makes mistakes. It would be better not to be involved, so he will hand over the Holmes surveillance to someone competent. And objective.
***
The second step is far easier. He requisitions a new mobile and finds a new flat. At times like these, he appreciates Anthea and her sheer efficiency. Arrangements are made -- furniture moved, security systems upgraded, drivers practicing new routes -- and it's all done with admirable speed.
It's something of an indulgence. Sherlock's visited his home once in the last six years, and if Mycroft did not call Sherlock, Sherlock would never bother to contact him. By all probability, it's unnecessary and achieves nothing. But it feels good to close the deadbolt on his new front door.
***
Hindsight is a beautiful thing, if a little impractical. In hindsight, Mycroft can recognise that they attended the circus twice as children, once when Sherlock was three and once when he was eight. It was the first visit that had scared Mycroft, the greasepaint covered faces that hide who was really there, the lack of logic as so many clowns streamed out of a car. The laughter and pantomime that Mycroft wasn't sure he understood when he was so used to understanding everything.
Sherlock had loved it. At three, he had laughed and cackled over their antics; beside him, Eurus had been a toddler with a duck egg blue ribbon on her head, sitting on Mummy's lap and staring at Sherlock.
At eight, Sherlock had been quiet and sharply unimpressed, until the clowns tripped over their own feet and fell into a messy sprawl. He chuckled, but it lacked the sheer joy Sherlock had once possessed.
Afterwards, Sherlock had said, "You're supposed to watch the show, Mycroft."
"Clowns don't interest me."
"You're scared of them." There was something gleeful in Sherlock's tone, spiteful and pleased with himself. "You avoided looking at them. Your hand tightened on your popcorn every time you did."
Then Sherlock paused, watching him with open curiosity. "It's only acrobats in costume. Why would you be scared?" and for a moment, there were echoes of Eurus, curious and cool and 'Aren't you scared of heights?'
"Don't be clever, Sherlock. I'm the clever one."
***
In hindsight, he should have realised the clown suggested Sherlock and Sherlock's memories of Mycroft's childhood fears. If it had been Eurus it would have been fire and locked doors and heights.
In hindsight, he should have realised that Eurus was conditioning him as much as everyone else. That a few minutes online was enough to identify threats to national security and find traces of a consulting criminal brilliant and mad enough to willingly follow her lead. Disasters had been averted and lives had been saved, but it was a breadcrumb trail for Mycroft to follow. It was a reason for Mycroft to talk to her, a slow escalation of the presents she asked for, a sign of good behaviour so he could convince himself that letting them meet was a contained threat, a calculated risk.
He had worried about Sherlock and stood guard over Eurus, and been worse than useless in the end. He was complicit.
He had been outsmarted. While he thought he was juggling both threats, maintaining enough control over the situation to keep everyone safe (mostly Sherlock, but the rest of the world as well), he had contributed to the threat. He had allowed it to escalate.
In hindsight, it's clear. It takes several hours explaining it to the review committee before they understand but at least Lady Smallwood asks relevant questions. Right now, he needs to be thankful for small mercies.
***
"Finally." Gregory Lestrade says it like a joke, rubbing the back of his neck and standing up. He rolls his shoulders, a result of sitting in the intentionally uncomfortable chairs in the Diogenes foyer. People are not encouraged to wait; the foyer is intended to be decorative.
There is a firm policy that members will not be disturbed for guests. So Lestrade has sat here and waited. Really, that tells Mycroft enough.
It's not urgent. Sherlock is in no immediate danger. It would be a good opportunity to update Lestrade on the current contact procedures.
Lestrade shrugs the last of the tension from his shoulders. "You're a hard man to find."
"Thank you." Mycroft smiles and makes no attempt to pretend it's genuine.
"I tried your mobile, but it's disconnected. Same with your office number."
"My direct line changed." Mycroft fishes a blank card from his pocket and picks up a pen from the foyer desk. "If you have any future concerns about Sherlock, this will be the best number to call."
Lestrade takes the card. He stares at the number for a moment too long. Mycroft's handwriting is clear; there should be no confusion about the numbers.
"Is this your new number?" Lestrade asks, dark eyes watching him closely. Most people wouldn't think to question the assumption. But Gregory Lestrade is careful, meticulous, methodical. He performs his job well through consistent and rigorous effort. It's a small pity that Mycroft probably won't deal with him again.
"No, but it is the relevant number if my brother needs assistance." Mycroft hooks his umbrella over his arm, a nice, clear signal that this conversation should be finished now.
"I tried to get in contact earlier. You sounded--" and Lestrade pauses, finally noticing Mycroft's umbrella and coat. "Maybe we should talk about this in your car? If you're going somewhere, I don't want to hold you up."
There's nowhere Mycroft needs to be, but if Lestrade is going to insist on talking further, the other club members would not appreciate conversations in their foyer. "That would be better."
Lestrade waves a hand and says, "Lay on, Macduff."
Mycroft almost smiles. So few people reference that quote correctly.
He remembers meeting Lestrade years ago, same boyish good looks, same thick grey hair -- although it had been a shade darker then -- same odd mix of deferential respect and staunch belief that no one was above the law. It had been at the Yard, a rare visit for Mycroft to assess the officers in person, to have a clear idea of who Sherlock was dealing with. Lestrade hadn't been insufferably stupid; he'd defended Sherlock's results while acknowledging the flaws in his personal skills. He had proved himself a tolerable option for Sherlock to befriend.
There had been a moment in that early acquaintance, a brief glance from Lestrade that had been sly and interested, a momentary attraction. It had been intriguing to consider. Apart from Lestrade's superficial appeals, he was also confident and self-aware. He could acknowledge that he wasn't the smartest man in the room and not take offence at that fact. In Mycroft's experience, most people didn't recognise a higher intelligence -- they secretly believed they were equally clever, that there was some trick being played, that it somehow didn't count. Most people bristled or rationalised.
But those same qualities made Lestrade an ideal liaison for Sherlock and the Met. Sherlock needed someone who could respect intelligence without being awed by it, and the current foray into detective work might end badly with a different officer. Lestrade was far too valuable keeping Sherlock occupied to risk the inevitable childish jealousy that would spring from Mycroft encrouching to close to Sherlock's life.
The fact that Lestrade had been married then hadn't weighed into his decision at all.
But now, the tan line from his missing wedding ring has faded entirely and Sherlock's reputation with the Met -- and his general fame -- will ensure he continues his work. Those previous objections no longer hold weight but the opportunity has passed by. Lestrade is single and dating -- hair neater, nails well tended, all those other tiny details that point to a generally hightened attention to his appearance -- and Mycroft has known him for years. Mycroft is not the sort of person who improves upon acquaintance.
"Look," Lestrade says awkwardly, once the silence in the back of the car has dragged interminably long. "Are you okay?"
"I'm well, thank you. You?"
"I'm fine," Lestrade replies, mostly out of habit. "Sherlock didn't go into the details, but--"
"But he wanted you to check on me," Mycroft finishes for him. "I do appreciate the efficiency of outsourcing these conversations. Do let my brother know I'm fine."
"Most people wouldn't be, after going through something like that."
"I am not most people," Mycroft replies sharply. He should be more polite. After all, this has nothing to do with Lestrade. "Tell my brother that I am fine. Or tell him that I am a shaking, sobbing mess. Tell him whatever you wish."
The driver takes a few turns. Lestrade stares out the window as if he recognises the streets leading to the Yard. "The way I see it," Lestrade says, giving Mycroft a wry look, "a man like you doesn't have a lot of friends. There's not many who'd listen with a sympathetic ear and not look for some advantage. But if you want to talk to someone, call me."
"It's a very kind offer, Detective Inspector." The car slows to a stop. There's the click of doors unlocking. "It won't be necessary."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but for a pair of geniuses, you and Sherlock lack basic coping skills. You should talk to someone."
The attitudes of the modern police force: the importance of trauma risk management, the careful monitoring of emotional health and welfare of a witness. It all seems rather prosaic but Lestrade clearly believes in it. "Rest assured, I will be monitored and subject to psychological scrutiny for months, if not years, to come. If I need to see a qualified professional, I will."
Lestrade frowns but at least he opens the car door. "It's not the same thing," he says as he gets out.
"The appropriate measures will be taken. Good night."
***
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Date: 2017-01-23 02:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-01-23 02:57 am (UTC)This was mostly written on my phone, and usually between 10pm and midnight, so... yes, there will be typos. (Oops.) If you email them to me, I'll fix them on the file.
I just love your Mycroft voice.
*beams* Mycroft is prickly and polite, and I really want to give that sense of much more happening behind the scenes than he shows. That there is a healthy range of emotions that simply never quite manage to surface. Mind you, I've been thinking about the end of the The Final Problem, that concert with Eurus and Sherlock seems like it happens after Rosie has grown a lot, so it gives me a nice emotional end point to work towards.
I particularly like the comparison of young Sherlock before and after Eurus
The way that Mycroft said that everything about Sherlock is his memory of Eurus, the fondness when he talked about Sherlock once wanting to be a pirate, I think there was a very sharp change there. And while I've always interpreted Mycroft as honestly worrying for Sherlock (in a rather unemotional way), given the fear he has of Eurus, I think he also works hard not to be scared of Sherlock -- for reasons that have less to do with Sherlock and more to do with childhood memories and never really dealing with them.
and the fact that Mycroft goes to the trouble to change living arrangements.
After that stunt from Sherlock, I would be changing addresses too. Even if Mycroft objectively knows it won't truly stop Sherlock if he wants to do it, there's no need to make it easier. Plus, after being chased by a homicidal clown, I'd want a nice change too.
I have to say, I love this stage of writing. This feeling like you can't wait to find time to write to work out what happens next, where walking down a corridor or driving or standing in the shower, you're really thinking through what the next bit of dialogue would be and where it would fit.