Chapter 99: Visiting Sherlock's Parents/A Rainy Day (Part 3)

Excitedly, Sherlock pulls the coffee table over towards the centre of the room and tips out palettes and bottles in a cascade of stained, rattling of plastic.

There are cheap Avon freebies that haven't even been opened, but there are also MAC and L'Oreas—light fluffy powders and rich, thick, gloopy liquids slopping about inexpensive glass bottles.

Y/N holds up a palette of eyeshadow. Even though each colour is as bright as a tropical bird and gritty with glitter, several of the squares have been entirely scooped out.

She narrows her eyes at it. "Is your dad a drag queen?"

Her sarcasm flying straight over his head, Mycroft's brows furrow. "No, he was a university professor."

"He could be both."

"Mother likes to dress up for Halloween," Sherlock explains, his lip twitching. "Although, I wonder what Dad would look like in lipstick? Oh, wait, I assume he would a little like you, brother, dear."

Said brother's mouth has been set into a very straight, unsmiling line for the past ten minutes—although it's hard to tell because someone has wonkily smudged a pink lip tint across the lower majority of his face. It only grows more unamused as Sherlock sweeps something blue and glittery over his eyelids—which is difficult to wedge under his strong brow and hooded lids.

They close defensively every time an implement is thrust towards them—

Or, maybe he just can't look his brother in the eye as he clumsily struggles to find his lipline.

Musgrave Cottage is colourful inside---

But in a somewhat time-bleached, traditional sort of way. Amongst the sun-stained, mismatched furniture and the faded wallpaper, Mycroft stands out starkly; as if a Kardashian were to be teleported back to 1929 and perched awkwardly on a Union Jack cushion.

Periodically, Sherlock sits back on his heels and mutters, clutching his own face:

"I can't believe we've done this."

And Y/N will shake her head in disbelief and exclaim:

"What a time to be alive."

And, every now and again, Mycroft will grumble something like:

"I just don't understand why we're on the floor; there's three perfectly good sofas—"

Despite having thrown themselves into the activity with chaotic excitement, Y/N and Sherlock—as they so often do—seem to have unspokenly settled into a rhythm:

One of them will fudge through the mess of pastes and flour-like substances, then hold something up. Once the other has nodded eagerly with approval, that thing is smeared, dabbed, or swept across Mycroft's pale skin—and the process starts again.

Sherlock is pointy at a distance—his cheekbones cast angular shadows and his coat creates a blocky, rectangular silhouette—

But he's all curves close up—almond eyes, thick, paint-stroke eyebrows, a long, smooth jaw. Occasionally, when he's lounging about the flat in pyjamas, Y/N has been surprised to glance hills of muscle and a new, unexpected, appetising layer of softness—

Mycroft, however, is pointy from any distance.

He has only ever worn starched dress trousers in Y/N's presence, but she can tell from his crossed legs and fitted shirt that, should he wear shorts, he would look not unlike a gangly adolescent. He is a regular runner, but (Sherlock has said) he eats like a parakeet, so his legs have grown ropy and his arms—neglected in his workouts—hang like a puppet without any strings. His nose has a strong, hawk-like quality to it, and—where Sherlock's cheeks are healthy pink—his brother's are gaunt, and his face dragged down into a permanently unamused expression.

It's easy for Y/N to dab the contour along his cheekbones and onto his forehead; she just follows the clear wedges of bone. It's blending it that's difficult. She scrubs the pink sponge around and around, her frown growing deeper.

"You need to moisturise, Myc," she chastises eventually. "You don't want to get to fifty and have the saggy face of an eighty-year-old."

"It's because he used to be fat," Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"Yeah, until he was twenty—then he lost it all. His skin is still a size too big."

"How tastefully put," Myc mutters. "You should write my biography."

"Well, it is, isn't it?" Sherlock snaps indignantly. "And anyway, I didn't mean it as a bad thing; I actually preferred you back then." Turning to Y/N:

"Believe it or not, there was a time when Mycroft was soft."

"Bullshit."

"Watch your tongue."

"No, it's true—and not just physically, either. When I was little—I mean really little, before I realised he was awful...he used to let me hug him."

Y/N's eyes widen and her hand lowers, her sponge forgotten.

She tries to picture it; a soft, younger Mycroft with rosy cheeks and a full head of hair. Maybe eight years old or so, his chunky little arms proudly cradling his baby brother.

When she can't picture that, she tries to imagine just a soft, younger Mycroft with rosy cheeks and a full head of hair.

Then just a young Mycroft.

When her imagination still can't get any further than 'present-day Mycroft but just three feet tall', she breathes, shaking her head:

"No way!"

Present-day Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Yeah," Sherlock says, not with any particular tone. He's found a black pencil marked with a few scuffed letters that spell

'Ma b lline'

and begins carefully expanding Mycroft's eyebrows. His mouth ghosts with a smile. "I used to like to sleep on him. It was like hugging a bear."

Blandly: "I'm so glad I drove two hours to be here."

"No one asked you to. And, anyway, your chauffeur drove you," Sherlock sneers. "Why won't you let me teach you to drive?"

"Why did you stop?" Y/N asks.

"He hit one fence post ten years ago---"

"No, I mean: you never hug anymore—you won't even sit next to each other at the table."

"To be fair, have you seen Sherlock inhale a bowl of spaghetti?"

Y/N rolls her eyes. "I mean it. Something must have happened between you."

"I told you." Sherlock shrugs. "He turned horrid." He's started on the other eyebrow, his lines surprisingly straight, but blocky and three times larger than necessary.

Mycroft looks a little like Milhouse from The Simpsons.

"I didn't turn horrid, you grew up," he interjects—if Y/N didn't know any better, she'd say he'd sounded offended. "I was always there for you." Turning to Y/N, now:

"Father has always been fond of us, but he was never very physically affectionate—and Mother was often busy with work or the house. If little baby Sherlock fell over and scraped his knees, it was down to me to patch him up—and, when he started school, he'd come home all mopy—he didn't fit in with the other children. Plus, he'd cry all the time about the most stupid things." Mycroft shrugs his narrow shoulders. "Holding him seemed to shut him up."

"Wow, thank you for that touching tale," Sherlock drawls. "It's nice to know that some of my fondest childhood memories are built upon a foundation of loathing."

"Not loathing, no. Back then, when you were small and cute, I was actually quite fond of you." Flatly, one hand gesturing to his brother:

"Then you grew into this."

"I am so glad you bothered to stop by."

Steam-rolling over him, as he so often does:

"You were so sweet back then—and so tiny. Mother loved your curls so much she barely ever cut them, and you'd always wear dungarees and these little yellow wellie boots. I believe they were patterned with crocodiles." He must catch Y/N's face soften with a grin—and Sherlock's hardening with a frown—because he continues:

"Sometimes you'd cry for hours and Mother couldn't shut you up. Then I'd get home from school and she'd shove you into my arms and you stopped immediately."

Sherlock's brows furrow. "I don't remember that."

"Well, that's not surprising. You were young then, and you're stupid now—"

Sherlock gives his brother a hard jab with the brow pencil.

"Ow!"

"Oops. I slipped."

"Hm."

"I wish I knew Soft Mycroft," Y/N muses sadly, and Sherlock nods.

"I miss him."

"So do I," the man himself sighs bleakly. "He was so hopeful and curious—before the world crushed his spirit."

"I'll show you some pictures later," Sherlock offers, and he growls:

"You most certainly will not."

"We should take a photo of you now, Myc," Y/N suggests, and his expression turns sour. "We can pop it up on the mantelpiece between your graduation picture and that one of you and Stephen Hawking."

"Which graduation picture?" Sherlock mutters bitterly. "He suckled from the education system until he was thirty."

"Twenty-eight."

Sherlock's eyes roll. He's found a shallow disk of pressed powder, but he can't seem to find how it opens. He turns it one way and then the other, running his thumbnail along the edge as if searching for a notch.

He must find one because the lid falls open.

The powder falls straight out onto Mycroft's trousers.

Sherlock blinks at it, then, slowly raises his head—squinting as if looking into the sun—to his brother. His eyes have turned a sickly, pale blue. For once, he actually looks frightened. A sentence starts pouring from his mouth, his usual gravelly baritone rising in pitch with each word:

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't do it on purpose! Stop looking at me like that!" he insists defensively. "I said I'm sorry!" Panicked, he flip-flops, his apologetic tone turning into frightened anger:

"I mean, for fucks sake, Myc, that's why you shouldn't wear trousers that cost a grand to a farm!"

"This isn't something rotten from a farm!" Mycroft snaps, "It's some multicoloured chemical, made of god knows what, that you spilt on me!"

"I said I'm sorry!"

"Oh, okay, so if I go to my tailor, I can use this 'sorry' you've given me—"

"Myc—"

"Are you going to buy me new trousers?"

Hurriedly, Sherlock had been trying to scoop the powder back into its case with his finger, but he stops now, clasping it tight shut. Sheepishly:

"Well...no, because of the aforementioned grand."

Mycroft gives him a look, and Sherlock sputters:

"I live in a shared flat!"

"We both know that's got nothing to do with money—you didn't even need a flatmate in the first place, you just had a crush on her."

Making a despairing groaning sound, Sherlock gestures imploringly at Y/N. "See! This is why he didn't make any friends at Oxford."

"I did make friends!"

He shakes his head. "They weren't your friends! Once, you came home covered in syrup with no eyebrows."

"That was the initiation ceremony for an elite club—"

"I don't think it was, Myc," Y/N says gently, but she is ignored.

His chest puffs up and, with his painted face, he looks a little like a pouty, middle-aged secretary from the 1980s. "You're just jealous because you weren't invited—you only got into university because the admissions officer was fond of Father. How many lectures did you attend? Three?"

"They didn't have anything they could teach me! Apart from boxing, which is what you'll be getting if you don't start behaving more civilly."

"Ah, threats of violence, how common."

"Prick!"

"Drop-out!" Mycroft lowers his voice to Y/N, stooping to mutter it into her like they're kids at a sleepover. "He tells everyone he graduated, but he didn't. That's why he made up this whole 'consulting detective' racket. None of the real agencies would take him."

Sherlock growls and lunges for him.

With a panicked yelp, Y/N leaps to Mycroft's aid and, for a moment, is squished against his bony sternum and Sherlock's pectorals.

"Sherlock, stop it!" she pleads, desperately scrabbling to gain some control. Her palms find his soft t-shirt and Mycroft's silk tie, and she gives them a hard shove,

A little red and out of breath, they're forced back onto the rug.

"For god's sake, what is wrong with you two!" Y/N gasps. She's still holding them apart, their chests rising and falling below her fingers.

She can usually nudge and pull Sherlock about wherever she likes but—for the first time—she realises that that's because he's been letting her. Much bulkier, his shoulders wider, he must have surpassed his older brother in weight and strength some time ago. Although Mycroft is taller, he's as lithe as a willow branch. Unable to shake the Older Brother Attitude, he still carries himself like the dominant one—

But it's an illusion—a stick insect standing on its hind legs to intimidate predators.

For a stomach-turning second, Y/N wonders what he would have looked like if she hadn't separated them.

"Ox," Mycroft mutters unevenly, perhaps thinking the same thing. Reflexively, he straightens his rumpled shirt collar, and Sherlock spits back without hesitation:

"Twat."

"Jesus Christ, you're grown men!" Y/N cries in disbelief. "If you don't stop bickering, I will take the car and I will leave right now—if lightning hits me and I crash into a tree, so be it!"

She hadn't meant it as a threat, she was just stating a fact but—to her surprise—they both shut up promptly.

In the silence, the rain can be heard still tap tap tapping against the glass. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles.

Y/N takes a cleaning breath. Their scuffle does seem to be over, for now, so she hesitantly lets her palms fall from their chests. "Okay, we're all a little bored and annoyed, but that doesn't mean we need to behave like petulant children—" she holds up a hand. "Sherlock, I swear to God if you don't close your mouth."

He does so obediently.

"Mycroft, I'm sorry about your trousers, but you have to admit it was...sort of your own fault. I mean who are you trying to impress here?"

He struggles, his jaw opening and closing—

But no words come out.

"Luckily, I think Sherlock brought an extra pair of joggers. Didn't you?"

"No."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I forgot them."

"You barely ever forget things! And anyway, I saw you put them in your bag. The grey ones."

"Okay, I did, but I'm not having him stretch them out."

"Hey, which one of us gets up at five every morning to run on his expensive new treadmill?" Mycroft drawls. "I think that might be me. And which one of us sat here all afternoon giggling and nibbling biscuits? Now, I might be wrong, but I think that was you." One of his bony fingers reaches out to poke Sherlock's stomach. Caustically:

"You've gotten sloppy."

Defensively, Sherlock bats his hand away, something Y/N doesn't recognise passing over his face.

She doesn't recognise it, but she knows she doesn't like it.

Her lips purse.

Y/N has a sturdy and even temper that, on a good day, can tick along easily for several miles. Today, however, Mycroft has snipped at least two of those miles into ribbons, and the rain has poked holes into the remaining few feet.

Before she knows what she's doing, her mouth is hurling some words, and she has uncapped a tub of bronzer.

"For fucks sake, Myc!"

In one go, she empties the whole pot over his other pant leg.

All three sets of eyes watch as the glittering, shimmering cloud bursts across the deep black material.

Even the rain seems to stop falling, for a second.

Her mouth dry, Y/N watches her tattered temper fall to the floor disappointedly, just like the bronzer. The heat drains from her cheeks—

But Sherlock is grinning. He almost punches the air triumphantly—as if he's just seen a winning goal in a football match.

Before now, Y/N has never realised just how colourless Mycroft's eyes are. Void of emotion, he lowers their steely iron gaze to the burst of colour staining his black cashmere-wool blended outfit, then raises them to sear the side of Y/N's face.

There is a long pause and then, Y/N stammers a meal little:

"Sorry!" her voice is much higher than she remembers.

Mycroft just makes a sound in his throat. It sounds like:

"Hm."

"Don't apologise!" Sherlock is saying, but Y/N is Ignoring him.

"It'll wash off, Myc, I promise," she's still pleading almost desperately, but he's still just regarding her dryly.

"It's not these trousers I'm worried about, it's the replacements."

Puzzled: "The...?"

"I have never worn loungewear before, and I didn't plan to start today. In fact, I didn't plan to start ever. Especially not with my brother's scruffy, pasta-sauce stained—"

"A few hours in sweatpants won't kill you," Y/N interjects with a roll of her eyes.

Disbelieving: "We'll see."

Tentatively: "So...you're really not mad?"

Mycroft's asymmetrical, painted-on eyebrows raise and fall with his shoulders. "Not particularly. Disappointed, yes."

"Oh, so it's okay for Y/N to spill a whole pot over you," Sherlock sputters in disbelief, "but I get a tiny little—"

"Yes, funny, that," Mycroft says. It's difficult to tell under the makeup, but he appears to be smirking.

Just a little.

Y/N doesn't know what it means. "...Does this mean we can keep drawing on you?"

Mycroft sighs as if it's been a long day. Although—for a man used to heated diplomatic meetings with foreign governments, the constant threat of war, and a madman running at least three of the world's most powerful countries—Y/N would assume some harmless fun with his brother would be a welcome break.

Apparently, she assumed wrong.

Despite his uncharacteristically colourful face, Mycroft looks more like a weary older brother than Y/N has ever seen him. For a moment, she can easily imagine him patiently indulging an eight-year-old Sherlock in wooden sword fights and piggyback rides, a newspaper pirate hat wedged on his big, intelligent head. His expression patient and exhausted, she imagines him walking his little brother to school, stopping every few minutes to investigate a ladybird on the pavement, or a dog shoving its friendly, floppy face between fence posts.

His voice is emotionless—as if he's dissociating to his happy place (probably The Diogenes Club)—as he drawls:

"If you must."