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Words have never come easy to either of them.
It is not that they don't know how to hold a conversation, to talk grey-coloured trivialities, to muse about other people's problems while sitting by a window ignoring their own.
Those words are easy on the tongue.
He remembers so many things - events, dates, contacts - but he doesn't remember when they have stopped talking and started assuming knowledge. Knowledge being read in each others behaviours; Mycroft's rise in the government; Sherlock's unhappiness in school and then his relief in moving to London, following his brother's flight a few years earlier.
He is glad to have Sherlock here, it makes it easier to keep eyes on him. Perhaps he shouldn't, Sherlock is grown now, but it is hard to shake off habits.
The Diogenes Club is still new when they meet and Sherlock looks terribly thin. He worries but stays silent - following his own established rules or a habit engrained much deeper he does not know.
For a while Sherlock finds a friend. He doesn't tell, but Mycroft is too familiar with his brother's habits, the subtle signs to not know. He smiles a little as they sit together by the window, following a lesson turned practice turned time enjoyed together. He is glad of it. He doesn't tell. He hopes that Sherlock knows.
It gets worse again, he can see it. He doesn't ask and Sherlock doesn't tell but his brother's visits get irregular and his behavior irritated. He is familiar with his brother's restlessness, so familiar its alienness feels like a part of his own life. It worries him. He doesn't tell. He hopes that Sherlock knows.
He gets introduced to Dr. Watson. He has known about him, of course, the change in Sherlock can be read as easily as if he were to read a book. Dr. Watson is a polite man who is both amused and amazed about their game of deduction and Mycroft enjoys his company. As they leave, he shakes the doctors hand. His brother is very fond of him. Sherlock doesn't tell. He is certain that Mycroft knows.
Words have never come easy to either of them.
So when Sherlock asks for help the spoken words rest heavy between them. There is no hesitation, no real possibility of a different answer than expected, Mycroft has always been a man of predictable habits.
They do not linger on the worry behind Sherlock's tapping fingers, on the anxiety behind eyes darting towards the window, on the blood on his knuckles.
He does not wish him luck. He does not tell him to be safe. But he makes sure a heavy hand rests upon his brother's narrow shoulder before he brushes past him, stepping out into the net of London's Streets.
Words have never come easy to either of them.
Three years pass in telegrams and cyphered letters.
Words have never come easy to either of them.
They sit by the window as if no time has passed at all. Sherlock is restless and Mycroft knows the face of its cause. There has been no written word of thanks in the letters and there is no spoken word now, but there's a sheepish smile and fresh baked goods on the table and the obvious restraint of impatience. He acknowledges the gratitude.
As he watches his brother get into his coat, there lays a chasm of unspoken words between them, of assumptions, deductions, knowledge, words buried during a hushed childhood.
He looks out on the street as the door behind him opens to the hallway.
"Take care, Sherlock.”