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The instant he treads onto the fourth floor, Mycroft feels a certain uneasiness settle in. The hallway holds too-humid air, making breathing a tad difficult, and his eyes latch onto the brightest thing here; unevenly lacquered wooden boards. He imagines that long ago they shined uniformly, but today only the spots of finish that have survived the test of time get to reflect the yellow lights of the hallway. With each of his steps, squeaks that are particular to older buildings follow him, revealing to Mycroft the real age of this student residence.
In a few more strides, he reaches the desired door. It lacks the shine of the floorboards, but he can see what’s left of a sticker that has peeled off horrendously on the wood. A couple of white marks lay near the doorknob and Mycroft can only wonder if they come from Sherlock’s hand or an earlier tenant’s. He straightens himself, raps two knuckles against the door and waits. Some seconds later, a voice orders him to let himself in.
Mycroft does as he is told, entering the place his brother has been calling “Home” for the last three years. Inside the bedroom, a small window has been opened. It makes breathing much easier, but thanks to the small space, his malaise is quickly replaced by a sense of claustrophobia. It is as if the whole building had been constructed in a way as to never allow you a true moment of respite, he thinks.
A cursory glance paints a clear picture of Sherlock’s room. To Mycroft’s left is a single bed which has been overtaken by a large leather travel bag. Various garments, some folded and others not, surround it. On his right is a desk lit up by a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Many heavy textbooks and a pair of trousers, folded in two movements, lay upon it. It is also here that Mycroft finds the only seating available; a kitchen chair which is currently the throne to a battered pair of trainers. From it hangs a butterscotch scarf that he remembers Mother gifting Sherlock a year ago. Finally, Mycroft’s gaze lands on the floor and he is met with the entirety of his little brother’s wardrobe strewn on the same old floorboards as the hall.
The mess makes discarding his dress shoes and briefcase slightly more difficult than one would expect, but by a miracle, a corner behind the door hasn’t been hit by the tornado of wear. As he does so, his mind tries to understand Sherlock’s reasoning behind the clutter since he’ll only be out of his dormitory for two weeks, spending Christmas in his childhood home where the rest of his clothes reside.
“Truthfully, you only need the clothes on your back and your toothbrush,” comments Mycroft. After a moment, he amends his statement: “Actually, Mother most certainly has a spare toothbrush hidden away in a cupboard.”
Sherlock, standing near the bed, cocks his head to the side, “And you think I won’t need anything else?” He grabs a pullover littered with discoloured splotches which Mycroft very much doubts were present when his little brother left for university, holding it up. It looks as if he’s debating whether he should fold the garment before it is unceremoniously shoved inside the bag. “I’ve grown up, you know. So, I can’t just wear my pyjamas from when I was a secondary school student.”
Mycroft knows—Sherlock’s growth spurt hit him when he was fifteen and brought along a brand-new wardrobe to fit him—but he’s not sure if it would be wise to point it out. Instead, he picks up the trousers on the desk and hands them to the man. “Still, did you have to empty the entirety of your wardrobe to find a few shirts?” As he asks, his eyes trail over the mess on the floor once more. The sight urges him to help in any way possible—this has to get tidied up before they leave.
“It was necessary; my coat was hidden deep in there,” replies Sherlock, pivoting just enough to point at his wardrobe behind Mycroft with his chin. From his side of the room, he works on folding the easiest items before they’re packed away. Mycroft notices that shirts give him a hard time and are left rumpled inside the travel bag.
Arguing would be wasted energy, thinks Mycroft. So, he focuses on restoring the side opposite to his brother to something presentable. He carefully folds whichever item he retrieves from the floor whilst Sherlock concentrates on what he’ll be bringing home—black jumper or navy hoodie?
The older brother finishes with two wobbly piles—tops and bottoms—on Sherlock’s school books. But it is only then that he realises his possible mistake. “You don’t need any of these over the holidays, right?” he asks, pointing to a large tome under the clothes.
Sherlock cranes his neck then shakes his head. And Mycroft would have let out a sigh of relief if it wasn’t for the second glance sent towards his fine work. “Wait… is that Écritures et lettres underneath my shirts?” he asks. Mycroft cocks his head to the side, recognises the foreign words and nods. It is then that Sherlock pronounces something terrible: “It needs to come with me.”
Mycroft reverts his eyes back to the clothes in front of him. He is unsure on how to proceed without having the tower of shirts tumble over as he pulls out the book. Moving it to the chair would be the simplest solution, he thinks, but his brother’s shoes are in the way. Begrudgingly, pale eyes fall onto the floor and Mycroft wonders if this is his only viable option.
“Lift up the pile,” orders Sherlock, now by Mycroft’s side, “and I’ll take what I need.”
Mycroft obeys, grabbing the soft fabric and pushing his chin onto his brother’s only polo-neck to stabilise the tower in his arms. Sherlock takes the necessary textbook and his clothes are back on the desk without any mishaps.
Mycroft’s gaze lingers on the book in his brother’s hand, “I didn’t know you took French.”
Sherlock frowns, “Unfortunately, I do.” He glares at the textbook, “It is a god-awful class,” he remarks, throwing it onto his bed, “and my professor is a god-awful woman.”
The jibe makes Mycroft snort.
“Her lessons are mind-numbingly boring, forcing us to sit through her nth lecture pertaining to the most minute details of ‘The French Essay’ all the while her nasally voice grates at your eardrums—torture! And to make matters worse, she dares to assign us homework over Christmas break!” snarls Sherlock. He steps back towards the bed to zip up his travel bag with the condemnable tome inside. “If only they had allowed me to replace it with a biology class that I had been eyeing. That information would be much more useful to me than a language I’ll never use once I’m out of here.”
In the midst of his brother’s rant, Mycroft interrupts: “I quite enjoyed French.”
Sherlock stops talking to eye him suspiciously. “Of course, you would… political science grad,” he spits out the last words, but they don’t hurt Mycroft at all. At twenty-eight, he’s happy to say that he’s left all of the meaningless feuds you’d only find in universities behind him.
So, he sidesteps the jab with an inquiry: “If you’re taking sides in the squabble of ‘the best course’… Does this mean that you’ve finally figured out yours?”
His brother looks at him smugly, “Yes, I have.” And before Mycroft can ask, the younger man answers: “As to what it is, a glance at my desk will give you all the clues you need to figure it out.” Mycroft squints at Sherlock, miffed at the vague reply. His grey eyes travel to the furniture in question then back to his brother—can’t he see that said books are currently buried under his garments? “But,” continues Sherlock, “as to not ruin your serviceable work, I’ll tell you: chemistry.”
Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. It certainly fits the science-driven man, but he always imagined that his brother would be throwing himself into criminology instead. It appeared to be the obvious next step for a child who found his fun in reading the crimes printed on the newspapers… then solving them. Still, Sherlock finding his own path makes him happy. Proud, even.
“Interesting,” he comments, unable to mask his smile entirely.
His brother, catching sight of it, rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that motherly look; I’ll be getting enough of that where we’re going.”
With the room cleaned up and his things packed, Mycroft expects his brother to get dressed. Instead, the younger man opts to peer out of his window. After a minute, Mycroft realises that Sherlock won’t be moving away from his perch any time soon and decides to find one as well. After all, he has the entire afternoon to deliver himself and Sherlock to their parents’ doorstep.
The wooden chair next to him is a viable option, but the single bed, now free of Sherlock’s clothes, calls to him. Mycroft squeezes into the space between the headboard and the travel bag, knees bent. He closes his eyes and listens to the rare sounds of the residence hall.
And this seems to have successfully lulled him to sleep for a flick to the forehead jolts Mycroft awake. When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is staring at him and the younger man cracks a smile. “Oh, good! You’re awake,” he says, voice too jovial. “You should get up, Mycroft. We wouldn’t want to keep Mother waiting, hm?” He stands to his full height and pivots.
But before Sherlock is out of his reach, Mycroft lurches to wrap his arms around his brother’s waist, pulling him down onto his lap. Thankfully, he remembers to put his left foot to the floor, saving his brother a knee straight to the spine, and successfully traps Sherlock without causing him much harm.
This makes Sherlock splutter, wriggling in Mycroft’s grasp. “What are you doing?”
Mycroft holds the man flat across his chest as best he can. “I know you don’t want to see them just yet,” he says, voice low, “So, consider this a blessing.” Sherlock fights some more, but it’s no use. Once Mycroft deems it safe, he rests his chin on his brother’s head, sporting a proud grin.
With time, Sherlock relaxes a little, but Mycroft doesn’t blame him for the residual stiffness—neither of them could be described as touchy-feely. But, if he is honest with himself, holding his brother in his arms doesn’t feel downright terrible: Sherlock is warm, the fabric of his shirt is soft and his hair smells of apples. Actually, it is quite comforting.
“Why?”
Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper and it pulls Mycroft out of his thoughts. “Why what?” he asks back.
The younger man huffs, “Don’t pretend to be an idiot, Mycroft—Why this? Has the government replaced you with a clone? Because the Mycroft I know would not hold me hostage… and in his arms no less!” In their position, it is impossible for Sherlock to face Mycroft so he’s craned his head back to stare up at him.
With Sherlock eyeing him so suspiciously, Mycroft can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “It was… a spur-of-the-moment decision,” he admits, looking down at his brother. “Which may have been fuelled by sudden sentiment but—don’t get me wrong—I quite like this.” Then Mycroft smiles wildly at Sherlock, knowing exactly what reaction it’ll give him.
“Jesus! Let go of me!” With that shout, Sherlock’s wriggling makes another appearance and Mycroft barely manages to keep him in his grasp. Realising that escape is futile, his brother then tries to negotiate: “If we stay like this, we’ll lose daylight,” he argues. And he would be right, thinks Mycroft, but he wants to hold Sherlock a while longer. Even if it means that he’ll be stuck driving in the dead of night.
“Come on, Sherlock… Indulge me,” whispers Mycroft. Still, valuing his brother’s comfort above his own desires, he disconnects his hands. It gives him an out and he expects Sherlock to take it immediately but to his surprise, he stays. They sit in silence for a minute before his brother then chooses to nest against Mycroft’s chest. It sends a buzz of delight down his spine and he wraps his arms around Sherlock again, eagerly.
They stay like this for some time: Mycroft with his nose in the younger man’s hair while the other stares on straight ahead. It isn’t unusual for them to enjoy each other’s company in quietude, but those moments would have them at least a metre apart. Mycroft wonders if this might ever happen again—or will they both forget it afterwards? Like an inexplicable blip in their lives meant to be dismissed. Against his better judgement, he presses his lips to the crown of Sherlock’s head. It causes his brother to pull back, but nothing more.
Sherlock cranes his neck to look at Mycroft curiously and he misses the warmth already. “Are you sure that you’re all right?” he asks. There is no worry in his voice, though, just confusion.
Mycroft’s hands now rest on his brother’s hips. He smiles awkwardly at Sherlock before answering: “The Christmas cheer must be having an effect on me.”
His poor excuse rewards him with an unimpressed look. “Or you’re turning into Mother—cuddly, affectionate… sentimental.” Sherlock taps Mycroft’s knee, “Now, let’s get going. I was serious about the daylight.” At last, he gets up and Mycroft’s hands fall back onto the mattress unceremoniously.
He watches his brother dress: the butterscotch scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck, his darkened wool coat is donned in record time and his dingy trainers, not fit for the snow ahead of them, are slipped into. Finally, Sherlock grabs the travel bag and looks at Mycroft expectantly—it’s time to go home.
With his briefcase in tow, Mycroft follows his brother out of his room.
As they set foot onto the pavement, covered in a fresh layer of snow, Mycroft comes face to face with December’s famously short daytime. He flicks his wrist to get a look at his watch—16:24. He expects Sherlock to make a jab about their poor time management, but his brother marches in the direction of the parking lot wordlessly.
They reach Mycroft’s Toyota Yaris and Sherlock’s hand is already gripping the handle, demanding Mycroft to “Hurry up and unlock the door” with a glare. To urge him even further, he shakes his arms vigorously. The sight reminds him of an overtly excited child.
Mycroft digs for his keys and obliges. The distinct click of the locks sends Sherlock into a frenzy, throwing his travel bag onto the backseat and climbing onto the passenger seat in ten seconds, tops. Opposite of him, Mycroft puts his things away calmly before sitting down on freezing faux leather with a wince. He turns on the ignition and the heating kicks in immediately.
It must not be enough for Sherlock at this exact instant, though, because he lets out a complaint: “Christ, I hate winter.” He breathes out misty air as he rubs his hands together fiercely. When that doesn’t warm them quickly enough for his taste, he approaches them to the vents in front of him.
Mycroft, watching his wipers remove the snowfall off his windscreen, comments: “It’ll take a minute, you know.” He’s uncomfortably cold as well, but seeing his brother wriggling around for warmth helps him forget about it a little. Perhaps he could gift his brother a pair of gloves, thinks Mycroft. Something that’ll last… if Sherlock doesn’t lose them. The idea then reminds him of a certain memory, one he’s always held close to his heart:
Sherlock, about ten years old, whined that his fingers were freezing—the poor child had soaked through his cotton gloves after spending the better part of the afternoon playing in the snow. Upon hearing this, their father called out to the boy, rubbing his hands together at lightning speed.
“Take those gloves off, Sherlock. I’ve got just the thing for you,” he said, voice trembling from his erratic movements. Sherlock obeyed, looking at him quizzically. Then the older man covered the boy’s little hands with his own. “That does the trick, doesn’t it?” he asked, smiling proudly.
Sherlock gasped in awe at the warmth that had seemingly manifested itself out of thin air.
Then their father cupped his face. “Now, I’ll lend you mine, but don’t lose them. All right?” He retrieved a pair of leather gloves from his pockets and handed them to the boy.
Sherlock, all smiles and reddened cheeks, gladly put them on, promising his father that he wouldn’t. They were far too big for the child’s hands, but it didn’t matter—he could play again.
Mycroft and their mother watched the scene from the side. She cooed whilst he stared on blankly. With the youngest back on the snow banks, Father returned to them with a satisfied grin. At that age, Mycroft kept his impassiveness up like a shield, but he still felt his heart squeeze at the sight. However, some time later his adorable little brother happily struck Mycroft with a snowball, reminding the older sibling of how evil the boy could be.
At last, the heater begins to emit warmth about the vehicle and Sherlock comes to rest. Mycroft shifts gear and drives out of the parking lot. The ride ahead is only an hour long and there is barely a peep between them throughout. Still, Sherlock allows a ten-minute intermission of radio chatter before he shuts it off with an annoyed huff.
Their journey ends in their parents’ driveway and Mycroft sighs, content. He steps out of the car, retrieves his briefcase then peers at his brother who has yet to move. Mycroft wonders if he should call out his name when an opportunity dawns on him. Careful not to make a sound, he opens the passenger door and finds Sherlock fast asleep. With his head slotted between the headrest and the door, his neck is craned awkwardly to the side. Even in such an uncomfortable position, his brother is the picture of serenity.
As he approaches his hand to Sherlock’s face, Mycroft has a passing thought about being the bigger man, but it isn’t enough to stop him from flicking the younger man on the cheek. It wakes him with a start and after a few slow blinks he appears to remember where he is. It is then that he notices his brother and his once-peaceful expression turns sour, “Piss off, Mycroft.”
Mycroft backs away but keeps a hand on the door. He tuts his brother, “I’m just doing my job, Sherlock; I promised to bring you to their doorstep, not their driveway.” Sherlock, still groggy with sleep, simply frowns. “Now, grab your bag—we’ve made Mother wait long enough.” With that, Mycroft pivots and heads towards the front door.
Sherlock joins him a minute later and Mycroft knocks.
The door opens and their mother greets them with a squeal. “You’re here—the two of you!” She pulls Sherlock in for a bone-crushing hug first and his little brother almost looks worried for his ribs.
Upon hearing the commotion, their father joins them. His grey eyes light up as he greets them. “My boys are home for Christmas; it’s a miracle.” It is then that Mother pulls Mycroft in for a hug and he feels her mumble happily against his chest.
“Is it, though?” asks Sherlock, entering the warm household hurriedly. He stomps his shoes on the doormat, “We’d visit—be it for the holidays or otherwise—eventually,” and discards his travel bag on the floor with a thud.
The comment makes their mother release her eldest and she pivots to, Mycroft surmises, glare at her youngest. “You can never truly know, Sherlock… Especially with such utilitarian children.” In that short amount of time, Sherlock has taken off his shoes, shoved his scarf in a sleeve of his coat and hung it. Then, as is customary of him, he absconds into another room without casting them a second glance. With him gone, she urges Mycroft to step inside as well.
Father takes his briefcase as Mother offers to help him with his coat. He removes his dress shoes, tucking them away next to his brother’s, and stands up to his full height. His parents look ecstatic and Mycroft almost wants to side with Sherlock here—their excitement is unnecessary, really.
“Were the roads all right?” his father asks. Thereafter, his mother speaks up as well: “You two took quite a while to come, you know… Worried me a bit.”
He puts on a polite smile. “Yes, they were quite clear, even with the sudden snowfall. As for our lateness… if you had seen the state of Sherlock’s room when I came in, you would have stuck around to clean up as well.” Believing his plan to be foolproof, Mycroft easily shifts the blame onto his little brother while he isn’t present since revealing the true cause of their tardiness would be too strong a hit to Sherlock’s pride for him to contest.
His mother coos, pinching his cheek. It makes Mycroft’s smile falter. “Very thoughtful of you, Mycroft.” She smooths a wrinkle on his shirt before her pale blue eyes, the source of Sherlock’s own pair, look at him with adoration. “Thank you. Really. I know that Sherlock can pop in for a visit out of his own volition, but it doesn’t hurt to push him in the right direction, hm?” She sends him a knowing smile before scurrying off in the direction of the living room.
His father doesn’t quell his chuckle at his wife’s statement. “She needn’t sugarcoat it—in truth, the boy’s been escorted to the premises by his big brother,” he corrects. “Now, Mycroft, I’m letting you know that dinner’s not quite ready, but you can always scavenge if you’re hungry. All right?” He hands back the briefcase, knowing that his son doesn’t need help settling back in, and departs into the kitchen.
Now left to his own devices, Mycroft considers the leather travel bag at his feet and, feeling charitable, grabs it. He climbs the white oak stairs to reach his bedroom, but stops by his brother’s room first to deliver his parcel. He finds the man lying on his bed, arm thrown across his eyes.
Sherlock, who must have sensed Mycroft’s presence, speaks up: “Shut off the lights, will you?” The request, paired with his brother’s dramatic posture, reminds Mycroft of a spoiled royal, waiting to be fed grapes or some such.
Suddenly, Mycroft’s generosity escapes him and he ignores it to drop the bag on the carpeted floor dismissively, reminiscent of Sherlock five minutes earlier. “Dinner will be ready soon, Sherlock, and I wouldn’t sleep through that if I were you,” he mentions before leaving his brother in his brightly lit bedroom.
The younger man groans. “God! You’re so irritating!”