paradisalogs | The Brother's Holmes

When Sherlock sleeps, he sleeps like the dead. (By which he means he sleeps deeply, higher percentages of N3 sleep compared to the other NREM stages.) Not usually a fan of hyperbole, but here he makes an exception. Humor isn't lost on him.

But he is nothing if not oversensitive. Everything is data, even in hazy half-sleep; light (wrong source), smell (his, but also not his), sound (none, unusual), pressure (mattress dips heavily to the side). Conclusion --

No.

His eyes snap open, suddenly all awareness, and he practically hisses through the blankets he's gathered around him.

"When Mummy said she wished we were closer, fairly sure this isn't what she meant."

"And you think I want us this close?"

Because it was true, and it was not some trick of his mind (unfortunately). But in the true ways of all siblings he pulls the blankets back, after all they are his, and it is his room.

"So I truly do have to ask, Sherlock, why have you decided to invade my room and my bed?"

"You think this was me?" He digs his nails into the comforter at first, tugging back just out of spite. "Please. I have sixty-two better things I could be doing with my time. Shall I list them for you?"

He lets go of the blankets, tossing them unceremoniously off himself and (hopefully) over Mycroft's head, and swings himself out of the bed. He makes a beeline for the door; if the castle wants a game, he refuses to play it.

"Only six-two better things?" Yes he was out to antagonize the younger man but that really wasn't much of a surprise.

And the blankets, sadly, do not land over his head as he bats it down before it gets there, and he shakes his head as Sherlock heads for the door. "If the castle saw fit to, put us together, Sherlock, I do not believe we will be going much of anywhere for a rather long time."

"Slow week."

He tries the handle (locked), then kneels to examine the locking mechanism. Doesn't have his picking tools on him, of course. Doubtful the ghosts would bring them to him if he asked. (Just another reason in favor of keeping them on his person at all times.) He twists, scanning the room for anything he could use instead, deigning to give Mycroft only a portion of his attention.

"Don't worry, I'm fully capable of making the effort myself." He straightens, and goes to start rifling through decorations the castle has strung up. "God forbid you strain yourself so early in the morning."

"How unfortunate."

And while his brother busies himself with the door, Mycroft gets out of bed, heading for the small kitchen area. Honestly if they are going to be trapped here may as well have something to keep himself amused as he watched Sherlock work his way out of his room (not that it would happen, if this was castle done obviously they needed to do something in order to get out and it would not be the obvious thing either).

"There is little need to go out of your way for me, Sherlock, I highly doubt we will be, leaving here, any time soon." Logically there was little evidence except for the...wait were those games?

What did the castle think they were? Five?

He's preoccupied with cannibalizing the wire from the decorations. No interest in being toyed with, in letting himself be twisted around the castle's metaphorical finger. Whatever it may or may not have planned for them is irrelevant. He settles in front of the door again and goes to work.

"Might go faster if you'd shut up."

Go right on ahead Sherlock, Mycroft is just going to go about and set a kettle on to make tea. They really aren't going to go anywhere, (though if this were Sherlock's room and not his own he may be arguing otherwise), and it was far more entertaining to tease and watch Sherlock work then to attempt it himself.

"And why should I do that? You are the one deciding this is an, unlivable situation."

"Sixty-two things, Mycroft. I know it's difficult for you, with no third-world unrest to incite, but some of us have actual work to be doing."

The lock is sticky, foreign, internally inconsistent. The first time he tries it's a pin tumbler, then it's a radial, then a deadbolt. He'd be fascinated if it weren't so infuriating.

"And what sort of, things, have caught your attention here Sherlock?"

And he's just digging out small things to eat at the present moment, a small plate of biscuits, and various other things. If they're going to be stuck together may as well be polite.

"And I imagine escape is impossible so I would stop trying."

He ignores the first question entirely and starts again. Wafer tumbler.

"Luckily, I'm not you, so I don't actually care what you would do." Again. Lever tumbler. "If it bothers you so much you're free to ignore me. I welcome it, in fact."

He just shakes his head at that, eyeing the kettle like it will save him from this really.

"And why should I ignore you when you seem of the opinion that I am, on the same level as that, Moriarty fellow to you." It's casual, light, and he just watches the other man work.

There's a sudden gathering of tension in his shoulders. Miniscule, barely there, but he knows that to Mycroft it might as well be a blinking neon sign. (Always the little brother, one step behind.)

"Don't put words in my mouth." His tone is even. He tries the lock again. "You aren't on his level, in any sense."

Busted Sherlock, and Mycroft is not about to leave that alone. He has been wanting to talk about it, John only telling him so much.

"I am not putting words in your mouth," he wasn't honestly. "And no, I am not, at least when I take John somewhere, it is not to, strap explosives to him."

Underhanded tactic, using charged language to provoke a reaction. (A good one. Uses it himself.) It works, unfortunately, a mix of emotion and lingering sense memory bubbling from somewhere beneath his ribs.

(Anger, guilt, frustration, panic, shame. Always did have an excellent memory.)

He's silent for several seconds, processing, forcing the reaction down and away. Then he stands, leaving his makeshift picks hanging in the door, but doesn't turn around.

"How much did he tell you?"

It is, a tool of his trade really, and one he knows his brother uses. As much as they ignore their emotions, they are there, and it's what he is after here.

At the silence he waits, pouring the water teapot as he does so, letting it steep. "All of it."

No it was a lie, but it was enough for him to put it all together, along with the argument. It told him what had happened as surely as if John had. Sherlock must know that by now.

"I didn't ask how much you knew, Mycroft." The words come out like grit, and he has to bite back pettiness. "I asked how much he told you."

Because it's not a subject he and John bring up with each other. Breached it once, left it incomplete, silently agreed to never touch it again. Better that way. (Pointless to talk about when neither of them know the ending.)

He needs to know how much John was willing to share.

"And why does it matter, Sherlock when I know precisely what has happened?" Now he's just baiting him, he knows that. Because they can't put aside petty squabbles for the sake of actually talking.

The castle may just explode if they did that.

So it's easier, really to just say that. Because somehow, they both need to talk, John and Sherlock and no one else is going to touch it with a ten foot pole sadly. Which left Mycroft to deal.

Sadly.

No. He refuses to play this game, not for this. (Too important. Life or death, literally.) He turns abruptly towards Mycroft, his expression dark.

"Answer the question."

Oh is it? Sorry, Mycroft truly does not care right now. If you want an answer then do talk Sherlock, really.

"And why should I? You have given me little reason to do so, Sherlock."

"Shut up." He's approaching, now, hands folded behind his back, struggling to keep the anger under the surface. "He was a moron for telling you anything in the first place, but I'm not so easily manipulated, brother mine. If you're so desperate to hear my thoughts on the matter, answer the damn question; otherwise, shut up and eat your biscuits. I'm not interested in--"

He stops.

The ambient light of the room cuts in half in the space of a second -- the windows that were on the opposite wall suddenly not anymore.

Sherlock practically snarls under his breath, and starts to pace.

He straightens back up to his full height, the perfect picture of calm. Oh this was expected, Sherlock going on, but insulting John like that? Oh dear, it was worse then he thought.

How delightful really.

And just as he is about to refute this (as he should this was his room after all and he was not about to listen to this), the windows are gone. "Apparently the castle, does not like our version of, brotherly love, Sherlock."

"Stating the obvious now?" He suppresses the urge to throw his hands in the air, turns on his heel instead and paces in the other direction. "Is that what this is? You endeavoring to be as annoying as possible? Because if so, you really are outdoing yourself."

The overhead lights in the kitchen flicker.

"If this is annoying Sherlock, then John surely is a saint for having to deal with your, constant questioning," it's more heated, Mycroft starting to lose his own cool as Sherlock starts in on him. Very much not caring about those flickering lights.

"And you are not much better, with your, childish tantrum now."

"Oh, I see. Of course, of course. Incessant, inane questions are only acceptable when you're the one posing them. How about this, then?"

He moves swiftly as he speaks, heading for the armoire and rifling through it, searching. The kitchen lights struggle to keep dim, brown light available.

"Does it make you feel better? In control? Fussing about my affairs like it makes any difference, like it will change anything? What would you like me to say? That I fully expect to have been inside an enclosed space with several pounds of semtex and a madman -- who is, by the way, leagues more interesting than you will ever be -- at the time of an explosion, but that, oh, your brotherly concern has made it all so much easier to handle?" The bedside lamp goes out. "Hm? Come on, Mycroft, don't leave me guessing."

Edited 2012-02-12 20:51 (UTC)

"No Sherlock, I do not expect my brotherly concern to leave you feeling so much better over this affair."

He's moving now, giving up on making his breakfast. This is far more important, and his voice is raising as he goes on, closing in on Sherlock and ignoring the struggling lights. Even if things went pitch black, this conversation would go on. "No it does not make me feel better, Sherlock. This, conversation is nothing more then what our talks usually are. The fact that it has, meandered to a topic you find particularly aggravating, is not my problem. The fact that these events are indicative of a threat to national security -- which is much more important then your welfare I feel the need to inform you -- is my concern. So grow up and talk."

He jerks his head out of the armoire and stares, his expression suddenly stony. He's silent for a good ten seconds, and then he lifts one of his suits off the rack. Closes the door delicately.

"Well. Should have said that from the beginning." He runs his free hand down one of the sleeves, inspects it for damage. (Not even a stray thread.) "You'll be pleased to hear that the explosion that irreparably harmed or killed me, depending, likely did the same to him. If not worse. Proximity, and all that." He lifts his gaze back to Mycroft, tilts his head like a challenge. "No need to thank me."

The lights in the kitchen go out.

He rolls his eyes at that, tugging his pajamma top however so the arm is straight, waiting. The quiet is expected and he's just about to turn to his breakfast (it's much more cooperative really), when he talks.

"Should I have?" It's a start and he takes a sip of tea, mostly to pause in thought. "And how do you know he did not escape? That you were incapacitated somehow?" All the little things, he's not holding back now, tilting his head up, "And I will thank you if we, ever learn of it. Though, I wonder, how has it impacted your, relationship, with John?"

Being in the dark is such a comforting thing for him, so even as he talks and the lights go out he seems perfectly at home.

He actually scoffs aloud. (His relationship with John: still none of Mycroft's business. Will never be his business. Persistence will get you nowhere.)

"That's hardly an issue of national security, is it?"

He turns away, picks his way back towards the bed. Phone, phone, where is his phone?

"If the bomb went off the way I remember it, he didn't escape." He rifles through the drawers of the bedside table. Ah -- there we are. He gives it his full attention, his voice turning cheerfully sarcastic. "You'll simply have to trust me."

He shakes his head at that. (It will always be his business. Someone needs to keep an eye on Sherlock, John is the best candidate. If he leaves who else would fill that gap?)

"Oh come now Sherlock, it is so."

Because what effected Sherlock did Mycroft. Sherlock just never seemed to understand that.

"You say that as if your memory is the best thing possible in this circumstance." Trauma, stress, while their minds were amazing, things could happen unexpectedly. And Mycroft just rounds shakes his head at that, another sip of tea. His room isn't divided into seperate rooms, easy enough to watch Sherlock as he makes breakfast. "I believe I will start trusting you as soon as you start to trust me."

"That's because my memory is the best thing possible in this circumstance."

He's the one with the most information, after all, the most acute sensory perception. (Always thought modesty was a pointless virtue.)

"I've given you all the information I have pertaining to the nation. Done my civic duty. Take it or leave it, Mycroft."

Edited 2012-02-16 03:55 (UTC)

"Is it Sherlock? We both know what panic, and adrenaline can do to ones mind."

Oh no he's going to argue this because it proves a point. Sherlock is not infallible.

"And what you have shared is hardly worthwhile, Sherlock. Besides the name of a terrorist."

"Fortunately for you, I'm not so inexperienced that I'd let those things blur my data."

His phone buzzes in his hand and he flips it upright in his palm again. Texts and talks at the same time, gives Mycroft the only kind of attention he deserves: divided.

"Not my problem."

"Are you? I think one could beg to differ with your present attitude, Sherlock."

Oh no it's perfectly alright really, divided attention. Mycroft's hasn't been fully on Sherlock ever since he started to eat.

"I, again, beg to differ Sherlock. What is your assessment of the castle?"

The first comment doesn't get a response. (Not panicking. Only stress he's under is having to deal with Mycroft and his incessant chatter.) He stares resolutely at his phone until it buzzes again.

"Don't see what my thoughts on a supernatural, interdimensional castle have to do with the state of the nation."

"And if you do not see the connection, Sherlock than I do believe you need to rethink certain things."

Mostly as Mycroft was curious what the other thought, and he also well, couldn't help but want to start setting something up while there. Surely Sherlock knew him well enough to know that. Really.

"I've said it before, I'll say it again: not here to do your work for you, Mycroft."

He fires off another text, then finally deigns to make eye contact.

"Is that all, or is there another inane question you'd like me to ignore?"

The Brother's Holmes

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