Chapter 98: Visiting Sherlock's Parents/A Rainy Day (Part 2)

Because it is Tuesday, and Tuesday is board game day, Mycroft is soon absorbed into Y/N and Sherlock's game of Pictionary—although he protests the fact that they have chosen to sit on the floor.

"You don't have to play," Sherlock had pointed out, which made Mycroft's expression turn sour—

But he fetched three pillows from the sofa all the same, and now perches atop them like a peeved heron.

Y/N watches as he struggles to get comfortable, his bony fingers discreetly tugging his starched trousers over his knees. When he unbuttons his jacket, she can't help asking:

"Why are you dressed like you're going to a business meeting?"

"What?"

"We're just hanging around your parent's house. You don't need to dress so formally."

"Formal? I'm wearing three different shades of grey! I might as well be wearing a Hawaiian shirt!"

"I'd pay to see that," Sherlock mutters, uncapping another pen—the Crayolas are starting to show their age. "Who's go is it?"

"Mine."

Sherlock can throw a sketch together; he often scribbles something with a Biro—a crime scene, clues, suspects.  His lines are erratic and numerous, but they come together to create a somewhat scruffy, layered image; order from chaos.

Y/N imagines his school books used to be littered with them.

Mycroft, however, is good at many things, but art is not one of them.

The logical part of Y/N's brain says this is because he has dedicated his life towards academia rather than physical dexterity---

But the other half of Y/N's brain thinks it's because he's built like a giraffe that's just fallen from the womb, and landed on the tough grassy plains:

He has a long, narrow body and long, narrow limbs. The signals from his brain have to travel down six feet of bones and floppy, untrained muscles---he probably commands his arm to catch a ball and, three weeks later, his hand will sluggishly raise from his mahogany desk.

Y/N narrows her eyes as he shoves the pen about the pad of A4.

A thick, purple line wobbles from the squashed nib as though squeezed from a tube of toothpaste.

"...A water buffalo?"

"No."

"New Zealand?"

"No."

"To Kill A Mockingbird?"

"No."

"ALEXA!" Sherlock pipes up.

"What?"

Knowing exactly what he'd meant, Y/N says flatly:

"Your parents don't have an Alexa."

"They did," Mycroft points out curtly, "I bought them one, but Mother got rid of it because she 'didn't want to keep bugging the lady on the phone'."

"Oh," Sherlock says. Then:

"MUM!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Is it going to rain all day?"

Wendy's head pops around the door again. Her Cath Kidson apron has gained some blueberry stains. "I'm afraid so, love."

This seems to upset him. His spine slumps until his elbow can lean on his knee, a curled hand propping up his chin. Damply:

"But I wanted to take Y/N to Biddy's Tea Room."

"That's a lovely idea!" Mrs Holmes says in a way that makes his cheeks turn pink. "Unfortunately, I don't think it's going to stop until tomorrow."

"But Biddy isn't making shortbread tomorrow."

"You don't know that. Maybe she's not making it today, but she is tomorrow," Y/N suggests in an attempt to cheer him up, but he shakes his head.

"No, I rang ahead."

"I could make you some shortbread," Wendy suggests, "If your heart's set on it."

He perks up considerably. "Really?"

"Oh, Sherlock, can't you stop thinking of your stomach for two minutes?" Mycroft chides. "You baby him too much, Mother. Why don't you sit down and have a rest?"

Mrs Holmes barks a laugh. "A rest! You cheeky boy! I'm not in my seventies yet! I can make a few biscuits." Addressing Sherlock, now:

"Are they the ones with caramel, dear?"

Y/N can tell from the smug smile growing on his face that—if Mycroft's back were turned—Sherlock would stick his tongue out at him. Instead, he smiles sweetly.

"Yes, please, Mum."

"No! For God's sake, Mother! You see, this is why you could never get him to go to boarding school!"

"Oh, Myc, are you still upset about that?"

"Of course I am! You sent me!"

"Because you hated living here! You tried to run away to London when you were six!"

"Tried? I succeeded." Mycroft straightens his tie proudly, like a peacock arranging its feathers—well, a peacock filmed in black and white. "I'd made a grand by the time you picked me up."

"What?" Y/N asks, appalled. "How?"

"I invested in the stock market."

"At six? How was that allowed?"

He shrugs. "I was tall for my age."

"And he came out of the womb wearing a tie clip and Oxfords," Sherlock quips, and another flurry of flour rains down onto the worn old rug.

Wendy's round little cheeks have turned a delicate shade of rose. She arranges her teatowel back over her shoulder like an archer stowing away their bow. "Can we not talk about my womb in front of company, please."

Mycroft is flushed too. It could be from anger, or because of the word 'womb', Y/N isn't sure. Either way, he says in what Sherlock teasingly calls his Government Voice:

"Ignore him, Mother—and forget his blasted biscuits! Do you want another cup of tea?"

"Ooh, that would be nice, love. Cream and sugar?"

"No, I meant I'll make it. "

"Oh no, it's really no trouble."

"Exactly. You sit down, put your feet up."

"I told you, I'm barely sixty! I could run a bloody marathon—if that heart doctor would let me."

"I know, but that's not how the whole 'putting your feet up' thing works, Mum," Mycroft mutters. "Now: do you want some more tea?"

"Only if you're making some."

"I am making some."

"Then yes, please."

"Fantastic. Cream and sugar?"

"Oh, just however it comes."

"However it—it comes however I make it."

"I'd like some tea," Sherlock interjects.

"Of course, dear," Wendy says cheerfully. "Milk and sugar, right?"

"Yes, please."

Mycroft groans. His head is in his hands, and Y/N's lip curls at the corner.

"Wow, I think you broke him."

"Oh dear, he always was such a drama queen. He'll be okay when he's had some tea," Wendy assures. She's already bustling towards the kitchen.

Mycroft doesn't stop her. He just sits, defeated.

"Would you like some, Y/N?"

"Yes, please. Are you sure you don't need any he---"

"Of course not, dear!" she calls from the other room. "You lot keep playing your game."

"Do you think we could play a different game?" Y/N asks, because the card she turns over says 'labyrinth' and she's sure she's had that one before.

"Oh, thank God," Mycroft sighs, tossing the notepad---and his wriggling, amorphous squiggles---onto the ground. "Sherlock, go look what else Mother has squirrelled away in the game's cupboard."

Put out: "Why can't you do it?"

Mycroft does not dignify this with a response.

The board game cupboard is at the bottom of a large, wooden credenza. It must have been beautiful, once, but is now chipped at the corners and scuffed along the edges. It's been painted a light teal, but not professionally; children's fingers have dabbed on green leaves, and a brush has added wonky daisies and clumsy suns. This is not its first face—it has had many. The chips reveal layers of red, orange, and pink.

It sits, squashed, between two overstocked bookshelves and, when Sherlock shuffles towards them on his knees, Y/N worries they might topple over and crush him.

When they remain standing, however, she follows him, scooting closer until she's wedged between his side and an oak coffee table.

She watches as he lifts boxes, some just a little tatty at the corners, others held together with yellow wisps of sellotape. There's Ludo—dating back to his grandfather's youth—and a wooden set of backgammon that's even older. There are new games too—ones with batteries like Operation—and forgotten things with missing pieces, lost cards, and unfinishable jigsaws.

Sherlock sighs, letting Frustration fall back down with a rattle of plastic. "We've played all these so many times,"

"What about something a little more high-brow?" Mycroft suggests from his pillow throne. He hasn't moved---not even to peer over Sherlock's shoulder.  Perhaps because he's used to being waited on—

Or because he's not used to sitting on the floor, and can no longer stand up.

"Such as?"

"How about Chess?"

Sherlock frowns. "But there's three of us."

"I wasn't assuming you'd play."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock shoves box after box aside, looking slightly like a mole digging a very quadrilateral hole. Eventually, he moves an ancient edition of Snakes And Ladders out of the way, and hits the backboard of the cupboard. It's a dark oakwood sort of colour—untouched by sun and acrylic paint.

Sticking one arm into a gap between Cludo and Operation, he pulls something out and turns it over, puzzled.

It's a toiletry travel pouch. It's light blue and patterned with the Avon logo—and many multicoloured, powdery stains.

Sherlock thrusts the bag over his head, holding it above the hodge-podge of furniture, and gives it a little wave. "What's this, Mum?"

There's a pause, a shuffling of slippers against flagstones, then:

"Oh, that's all my old makeup. I had a clear out; I thought the children could use it to do face paints."

Sherlock's fingers find the zip—they appear pale against the stains of browns and blacks.

It's knobbled and bulging and, when he opens it, a hoard of pencils, pots, and sticks clamour for space—all the colours of the rainbow.

Something twitches his lip. "Well, I guess it could be entertaining..."

"Oh, I didn't mean you," Wendy laughs. "I meant the little ones; your cousin's girls." She must notice something in his face change because she shrugs. "But I guess you lot can have a go with them if you wish. Just don't get any on the carpet."

Happily, Sherlock shuffles around to present the bag—almost hopefully—to Y/N. For the first time since the rain began, his pretty almond eyes are bright blue and sparkling. "What do you think? I would quite like to draw a moustache on you."

Her lip curls. "Only if I can make you into a pretty lady."

Sherlock snorts, and someone makes a tutting sound.

Obviously, when they turn to find the source, they're faced with a very unamused Mycroft.

"What's wrong with face paints, Myc?" Y/N asks, and he rolls his eyes. Compared to Sherlock's, they are grey and hard as concrete.

"Come on, be serious."

"We are being serious," Sherlock insists, filled with new energy. Excitedly, he draws the coffee table over to their spot on the rug and pats the space at his side. "Come on, Y/N. It looks like my brother is kindly offering to go first."

"I most certainly am not—"

Sherlock has found a round, electric pink sponge sort of shaped like an egg, and dips it experimentally into a dish of tan powder. "I always wanted to know what it would be like to have a sister."

Mycroft recoils. "Sherlock, if you touch me with that, I will have the Secret Service ensure Cadburys, McVities, and Twinings go out of business."

His mouth is doing a sort of smirking thing. "Worth it."

"I'll have your driving licence revoked."

"You can't do that."

"I can do whatever I want."

"I know Britain has gone down the pan, but I don't think the government will allow one man to needlessly torment a civilian."

"I am the government."

"Come on," Y/N begs encouragingly, "It'll be fun! We won't tell anyone if that's what you're afraid of."

"I'm not afraid of anything!"

"Apart from the ocean," Sherlock points out.

"It's dirty!"

"And germs."

"It's perfectly natural to not want strep throat."

"And lipstick," Y/N adds. Then a smirk curls her lip. "He's afraid he'll like it."

"Of course I'm not, you dolt!"

"Hey!" Scowling, Sherlock smacks him around the back of his head.

Mycroft blinks, for once caught off guard. A few strands of his dark, tidy hair sticks up at the back and, glowering, he flattens them carefully.

"And yes, you are," Sherlock points out. A grin is playing around the bottom of his face. "I saw you trying on Mum's dress when you were eleven."

"I was pretending to be Pythagoras!"

"Bollocks, you don't have the mental capacity to pretend!"

"It's okay, Myc," Y/N says kindly—even though he had just called her a dolt. "Everyone experiments with gender at some point—"

"I wasn't experimenting!"

When Sherlock reaches out with the pink sponge, Mycroft's eyes widen in what seems to be genuine panic.

Like a startled hair, he flounders for a moment, then manages to grab Sherlock's arm. Although his brittle bureaucrat fingers can't even reach all the way around it, he manages to—somehow—bring it to a halt. "Why does everything we do together have to involve you tormenting me?"

"I tormented you?" Sherlock's hand lowers, the sponge forgotten. "We used to get along fine until I realised how horrid you were being to me."

"I was never horrid."

"You used to give my finger paintings a letter grade!"

"So?"

"It was always an F!"

"Your proportions were off."

"I was three!" Moodily—yet also carefully so as not to spill anything on the rug—Sherlock places the sponge safely away in its little pot. "Nothing I did was ever good enough for you," he mutters, and Y/N slides a comforting hand onto his knee.

He looks at it as if surprised—

Then gives her a weak, grateful smile.

Mycroft gives an almost imperceptible roll of his colourless eyes.

Almost imperceptible.

"You were always so ungrateful," he sighs wearily. "I taught you everything you know, and this is the thanks I get?" One by one, his long, spider-leg fingers extend as he counts:

"I taught you to walk, to read, to use the computer—although all you ever did was play Microsoft Paint."

"Because coding isn't fun for an eight-year-old! We always had to do your activities, never what I wanted!"

"Yes, we did! Every night I read you bedtime stories—"

"War And Peace is not a bedtime story! All I wanted was to play outside and read Enid Blyton, but you wouldn't even step onto the lawn!"

Ignoring him, Mycroft's spindly fingers are still extending one by one:

"---I also helped you with your homework when Father had to work late—although that was always a disaster."

"Yes, because you shouted at me if I got questions wrong!"

"How else are you meant to learn?"

"You weren't teaching me, you just liked making me miserable—you always have. Other people love food and adventure and sex, but what gets you going? Disappointment! You're only happy if something horrible happens!"

For a moment, Mycroft's cheeks flush pink; perhaps because Sherlock had said 'sex'. It soon subsides, though, and gives way to papery white skin and a scowl.

"Liked being miserable? You think I wanted to shout at you? You drove me to it! Always pestering me to take you to the sweet shop, and Grandma's house, and to see your silly little school friends." His nose wrinkles as if some putrid stink from the neighbouring farm is wafting in through the window—

Although it is still latched firmly closed, the rain pelting it from outside like little stones. On any other day, the panoramic view would be stained peach and pink, a sunset slowly seeping into the hills of grassy meadows and wheat—

But, today, the smudged black clouds have brought an early dusk, the view so marred the lights from the village barely manage to twinkle through the low, waterlogged clouds. Without them noticing, Mrs Holmes has flicked a few lamps on, their reflections stark against the black glass.

"You used to make me trudge through filth to pet smelly animals, and watch you torment slimy things in the pond—"

"Of course I did! You spent every day of your life in your room! We wouldn't see you for days! I thought, if you don't have some human contact soon, you'd go insane!"

Mycroft makes a disbelieving huffing sound.

"Don't make that noise, I mean it! You were my big brother! I wanted to be with you because I liked you—God knows why. But you'd lock yourself away upstairs—and your room was so dark. You never had friends around, they bullied you at boarding school. You seemed miserable. I thought if I could get you outside—or if you'd come into town with me—you might cheer up a bit. Has it ever occurred to you that I was worried about you?"

Mycroft blinks. There's a long pause where his ice-coloured eyes just stare. Then, quietly:

"No."

Having lost momentum, Sherlock shrugs, suddenly sheepish. "Well...I was. It didn't take long for me to realise we were different from the other children, Myc. I always thought it was okay though, because we could be different together...but you always pushed me away."

For the first time ever, Y/N sees Mycroft moisten his lips. They're thin and as pale as the rest of his face, which is angled down towards his hands. They'd been counting a moment ago, but have fallen to his lap now. His fingers curl into fists.

He sighs. "Fine."

"'Fine'? Fine, what?"

"Put the make-up on me, if you really want to."

"Wait, what?"

"We always had to do my activities, that's what you said, isn't it?"

Sherlock eyes him, his brow furrowing. "Yes, but—"

"Well, today we're doing yours." Under his breath:

"Even if it is childish, asinine, moronic—"

"Really, Myc?" Y/N clarifies hesitantly. "You don't have to—"

"Yes he does, he's agreed to it now." Sherlock is already rummaging through the bag with a rattling of plastic.

Slowly, Mycroft is removing his waistcoat. It has many buttons, and his fingers work them one by one. Having shrugged it off from shoulders, he folds it solemnly and places it carefully aside. Facing Y/N like a prisoner about to take a seat in the electric chair:

"Yes, if you must. But—as Mother said—don't get any on the carpet." A glare tossed in Sherlock's direction. "She can't spend all her life cleaning up after your mess."