Work Text:
"Sherlock, where are you going?"
"To find us a case!"
Sherlock pulled the door behind him, listening to the fade of the slam as he pulled his ear defenders on, pulled the hood of his sweat shirt onto his head.
His phone was already in his hands, fingers dancing over the buttons. A few quick swipes over messages, over to a chat he hated using. And then the simplest message in the world.
"."
Sherlock stuffed his phone in his pocket, headed towards the tube station. It didn't matter if he got a response or not. This would be perfunctory really. A courtesy, as he was headed over anyway.
The seething annoyance, almost bordering on hatred in his chest, he tried to push down. He didn't want to do this. But John and Mariana had sounded desperate. And although Sherlock acted nonchalant when Mariana went over budgets and line items with Sherlock, as if he didn't understand, what he couldn't allude to them was that he did. Oh, he understood far more than they could comprehend.
And he hated that he did so.
His phone buzzed, the answer.
"."
Good. Well, that was out of the way.
The travel on the tube was short. Although he hated peace and the forcing of it, Sherlock had to try now. Had to keep his eyes down, his mind both alert and non alert. If he didn't, he knew. He would take everything in. Could read everyone on this damn line like a book.
Everyone was a book, waiting to be read. The new mother with little sleep, unknowing the cheating husband. The old woman who was being actively scammed. The new immigrant - three days in this country, they had missed their stop four stops ago.
Damn it all! Sherlock closed his eyes. Focused on the silence from his ear defenders. Normally there was Mozart, or Paganini playing through the Bluetooth, but not now. He needed a deafening silence. He needed to prepare.
It had barely been a year though since the last time he had been this way. Favours in exchange for services. And Sherlock had exchanged his services quite well, or so he thought. After all, the favours had come through and now he lived in Central London through the housing scheme. Wouldn't have been able to pull that off otherwise. But he hated that initial conversation. Hated asking in the first place. But Sherlock had grown tired of counting how many flat shares he'd been kicked out of, the number of flat mates that had left, or the ones that had kicked him out. Tired of the lonely rooms, fitting himself into closets. - no, he finally had a place he could well and truly call home. A place that didn't rely on him trying to fit into a particular box. And he wasn't going to lose that.
No. Now he was here, a year later, crawling back - figuratively. He wouldn't dare to actually crawl - but either way, coming back and asking yet for more favours. Sherlock inhaled and held the breath. Continued holding it as the tube line slowed at its next station, held it as people went about their business. And just as he thought he couldn't hold it any longer, his body exhaled.
What would be asked of him this time?
~*~
Topside from the underground - this area of London was much cleaner. Sherlock could hear Watson's voice in the back of his head, 'Looks nearly spotless, doesn't it?'
No. No it did not. But it was about as clean as London got.
Sherlock made his way up towards the towering building, Greco-Roman in design, but otherwise nondescript. The white brick of the building blending in with so much of its surroundings, one couldn't tell the difference between this and perhaps the Nando's on the following corner. Save that the Nando's had neon lighting enticing weary travelers and this building did not.
Sherlock made his way through the dark glass doors. The doorman, clad in a navy blue suit, held out a hand, "I'm sorry sir—"
Sherlock half slipped the case off of his phone, pulled out a creme colored card, and flicked it past the doorman's eyes.
The doorman became increasingly nervous. He bowed his head at Sherlock, "My apologies, sir."
Sherlock barely heard. He was already down the corridor, tugging off the hood of his jacket, lowering his ear defenders and making his way through the gentleman's club.
'oh ho ho, gentleman's club?' The ever present imaginary Watson in his head.
But it was not the sordid type of club with half dressed women. No, down these halls of granite and the rich navy blue of the carpet, Sherlock entered a larger room that was deafening in its silence.
Large pine armchairs with plush green velvet upholstery. Men in boring black suits and starched white shirts. Patent leather shoes. Newspapers, or a book here and there being read. One could hear a pin drop.
He could feel the surprised eyes on him. A staggering shock of royal blue, gold and brown amongst all the black and white.
There. Black and white, but he could pick out the sparse dark brown curls and the undeniable crisp posture.
Sherlock took the handful of steps and stood before the man.
The man looked like Sherlock - if perhaps Sherlock was seven or perhaps eight years older. Same dark brown curls, same sienna coloring to the skin, same piercing brown eyes.
Sherlock cleared his throat and felt the eyes of the other men in the club glance his way. To that, Sherlock only sighed louder and rolled his eyes. A fluttering of newspapers replied, as if a flock of birds were beginning to awaken.
The man before him frowned, looked up and closed the newspaper that he was reading.
It felt like a stalemate. Sherlock looking at the double. The double looking back at him.
Sherlock counted, managed to hit fifteen before the double stood. And that's where their similarities ended. Sherlock was tall by most standards - 6'1" officially. He generally didn't care about his appearance, but considered himself fit.
His double stood taller than him, by an extra three inches, and was a tad wider by those same three inches.
The newspaper was folded, folded again, and then tucked under an arm as the double led the way out of the reading room. Down a hall and into something of an office - not the double's office, but an office nonetheless. An office in the sense that hotels have a "business suite". A glass room with a computer seven years out of date, attached to a ten year old printer. But there was a desk, and two chairs. They both stood.
The silence was becoming less charming and more cumbersome.
"Mycroft." Sherlock finally said.
"Sherlock." Mycroft replied. "No little puppy by your side?"
"Watson is not a puppy. He is my companion." Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. Barely a second, and already Mycroft had to insult him about something.
"So you've made it official then?" Mycroft sat in one of the chairs while Sherlock stood. Mycroft clocked the raised brow on his brother's face. "Calling Doctor Watson your companion. Some might consider that an emotional relationship. I know you're partial to those sorts of things."
Sherlock sighed, rocking back and forth on his feet. This conversation was going to be considerably more difficult than he expected.
"Let me guess," Mycroft began as he crossed a leg over the other, "your experiment as a consulting detective is failing. While you have the respect of Scotland Yard and a handful of friends, it doesn't pay - as I tried to tell you - and while clients are forthcoming, the funds are not. You've taken on more charity cases than paying ones. Have I got that correct?"
Sherlock closed his eyes. This…this was his greatest challenge. And still he was showing weakness, allowing any emotion in his face, his tightly clenched fists, clenched jaw. The gentle albeit slight rocking if his feet.
'Sherlock, mate, I know he's your brother, but he's a prick. Sorry. Sorry.' the sound of John again, in the back of his mind. The faintest of smiles on Sherlock's lip. Sherlock could feel the tightness in him lighten. He could do this. He had Watson, he had Mariana. He would do this for them.
Sherlock gazed at his brother. A quick once through, and watched as everything came to light. There. There it was. His own brother's tells.
"The ink, on your wrist: Kakuno black from a Japanese pilot fountain pen. Not your own, but from a left handed writer who forgot to use their blotter. And although they use decent enough paper, this request was written with urgency. Likewise, your cuffs are without their cufflinks and are unbuttoned, meaning you've been rolling and unrolling your shirt sleeves. Any other person would think you were getting hot, not knowing about the aircon in your office. Although you were expecting me, you forgot to do up your shirt sleeves. The shirt sleeves show you are nervous, but why? Why be nervous at your own brother? Granted we don't have the best relationship even in better times, but why now? Because the note has a case. And the case, normally, would be something easy enough for you to solve, except this one—" Sherlock peered closer at his brother.
Unlike most clients, whose eyes would rise, or who would begin to stutter, whose nervousness came out in fingers, noises and agitated legs, his brother's story was much more subtle to tell. The slow rise of an Adams apple, the finger that whispered against the cuff of the said shirt sleeves. The barely perceived glance at a clock on the wall. All casual movements to a casual observer. But to someone who not only had been studying the human condition, but no less his own brother, knew much better.
The pause was practically for dramatics much less than taking a deeper deduction. "This one would require you - or rather someone - to leave London altogether. And for a person in your position, while you certainly could do so, you loathe leaving London proper. So who would be cunning enough, smart enough -"
"Yes, yes, or dumb enough or stupid enough to take this on, correct? Certainly not either if your companions. And so, just my luck, by Jupiter, that you should arrive, needing funds. Favors for services, isn't that what our relationship boils down to now, dear brother?"
Sherlock wished he could ignore the venom that seemed to be on the breath of his brother, but it was there nonetheless. Fine, time to end whatever charade they were playing at.
"Hand me the letter. If the case requires travel—"
"A daily stipend, for you and your companions. The client will handle room and board during the duration of the case. Travel provided. The funds will be deposited into your business account." Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter, handing it over. Sherlock reached to take it, but Mycroft held. If Sherlock took the letter, it would rip. "I will not promise anymore after this." Mycroft's voice lowered to a whisper, "I can provide employment, but I will not let you dwindle my inheritance like you did yours. If this fails - if you fail - I will not be there to catch you this time. Understood?"
The hold on the letter loosened and Sherlock was able to take it. He looked from his brother to the letter. His faith in his abilities did not waiver or falter. The faith he had in his own brother however…
"Understood."
"Report back to me once it's solved. Hurry, little detective. Your train leaves in an hour."
Sherlock turned to leave the Diogenes Club.
"And Sherlock?"
He felt like a damn ballerina, turning to look back again at his brother.
"No mention of me on your little podcast, yes?"
Sherlock's face remained neutral.
"Yes. Quite."
Finally, Sherlock thought, I can leave.