HOLMESMUSIC

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1. At first, Sherlock was no competition, as much as he desperately tried to be.  After all, he’d just picked up the violin (after roundly declaring the piano to be utterly boring) and was struggling not to make the bow shriek across his E-string, where Mycroft had been playing for nearly eight years, and was practicing for his level seven exam.  It became a point of stubborn pride– even if he couldn’t catch up, he could surpass him. Eventually.  

2. It was rumoured that Paganini and Liszt had sold their souls to play the way they did… Sherlock and Mycroft (respectively) saw it as less of an urban tale, and more of a challenge to master their compositions.

3. Sherlock’s violin is the most expensive thing he owns, bar none.  This hasn’t encouraged him to treat it any more delicately!

4. Contrary to popular belief (well, to people who believe Mycroft hasn’t got an artistic bone in his body, and Sherlock can only torture his violin) both are formally trained musicians, and could reasonably audition for a place in some of the world’s best orchestras.  With the exception of Mycroft’s moment of teenage rebellion when he started university, neither of them has actually considered it.

5. Sherlock composes, his brother doesn’t.  

6. Both tend to pull the most complicated pieces from their repertoire when they’re feeling on edge.  It’s technical precision, demanding concentration, and it helps down out the extra noise.

   1. For example, Ysaÿe’s “Ballade” (Sonate op. 27, Nr. 3) or  Ernst‘s “The Last Rose of Summer” for Sherlock.

   2. Or, Liszt’s “La Campanella”, or Chopin’s “Revolutionary” for Mycroft.

7. Sherlock doesn’t invite an audience, but he doesn’t particularly care if people overhear him playing.  Mycroft actively avoids people hearing him. The exception is his brother, because they have a longstanding competition of transcribing pieces to their own instrument, just for the challenge (and the pleasure of one-upping the other!)

8. Mycroft can play Einaudi’s “Nuvole Bianche” half asleep and by heart.  It’s lulled Sherlock to sleep, both as a child, and while he was going through withdrawal.  For this reason, Mycroft can’t play it without thinking of his brother.

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SENSORYPROCESSING

Both boys have a sensory processing disorder, neither have been diagnosed.  Mycroft tried to help his brother, but he was only seven, and still struggling himself.  Sherlock’s coping mechanisms tend towards sensory overstimulation and burn-out, where Mycroft builds walls to limit everything. 

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Being around people can be almost unbearable, especially in crowds.  It isn’t that Mycroft copes more, he’s just better at pretending to.  

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Neither of them is comfortable being termed ‘neurodivergent’ (and few people dare to say it in their presence).  There’s a shame in it. And the rare occasion that someone, often well meaning, brings it up? Generally they’re informed that Mycroft and Sherlock aren’t typical anything, they’re exceptional.

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A shared childhood, with little social interaction has given both boys an instinctive understanding of what the other needs.  When they can push the line, and when there’s something properly wrong.  

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They would find it difficult to explain, if pressed; but it’s how Mycroft knows when a danger night is coming; or how Sherlock could tell you, just from his brother’s choice of clothing, how close he is to shutting himself up in an attempt at control.

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In school they were ultra-gifted, and skipped ahead to try and keep them challenged.  Unfortunately, it had a profound impact on their social development, and ability to relate to other people.  Of course, leaving them with their own age group would have caused other problems.

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Obviously, they’ve come to believe, people just need to learn simple things. Like not to touch them when they don’t want to be.  Or expect them to eat food with terrible textures. Or dress down when their suits, their coats, are their armor.

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This is not to say they aren’t functioning.  They have found ways to cope, and work, and succeed.

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PAINTING

Mycroft doesn’t paint often.  

Sometimes the lines come first, his pen sliding across the page, picking out the things he sees outside his window.  Hard lines in black ink, precise and neat– his life on a page. And Mycroft’s fingers will itch, a rebellious little whispering part of him craving passionate carmine and ultramarine, gold ochre and vivid, blackened greens.  

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He’ll remember his brother as a child, pointing out the bright red phone boxes and the gold and orange changing leaves.  Excited by the colours.  There was nothing sterile or flat about them, and Mycroft remembered the feeling of wanting to paint.  To put the world down on paper and make it bright.

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On the very rare occasion that Mycroft sits down to paint, he doesn’t bother with the lines.  He lets the world build itself in soft layers of watercolours; one on top of the next until they blur softly at the edges and become something slightly.. new.

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His mother still has a few of his paintings at the house, unsigned and hanging on the walls.  They’ve been there so long that Mycroft has all but forgotten them, and rarely looks at them at all.  Part of the wallpaper. Because he isn’t an artist, he thinks; just someone who quietly likes the colours.

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MINDPALACE

Mycroft doesn’t delete memories or information.  He can never quite be sure when something is going to be useful in the future– and besides, his mind doesn’t easily relinquish things.  

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Instead, he sequesters them away.  Neatly inventoried rooms with pigeon holed walls, and rows of tiny indexed post boxes with their doors tidily labeled.  Old phone numbers and addresses, names in his spiky handwriting and formerly important dates. It’s all there if he needs it, but it isn’t readily accessible.  There are long, winding corridors and courtyards between him and those rooms.

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Some memories are quarantined.  Infectious things that could undermine the stability of the whole.  Toxic rooms with foul fumes that seep under the doors and echo with things he would rather not consider.  Mycroft keeps these rooms apart. Behind high walls and heavy doors, and he knows better than to open them.

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But a mind palace is not a static thing.  Sometimes things shift, the topography of his mental landscape shaken by seismic shifts.  Where there should be a 14th century Botticelli, all muted tans and pastels, there would be a family portrait in a cracked frame.  Or turning a corner to the room of numbers and addresses would leave him inexplicably in a dim, dusty corridor. The air smelling of the artificially ‘fresh’ Calgon body spray that Claire had always worn when she came over for tutoring.  

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It’s a useful tool, but his mind palace isn’t always a comfortable place to be.  Still, it’s his mind– and for the vast majority of the time, Mycroft Holmes is very much in control.

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CRYING

Mycroft has never been the crying sort.  It doesn’t solve anything, and it gives him a splitting headache and turns his skin blotchy.  There is precisely nothing to be gained from crying (he finds the ‘crying as a release’ theory to be utter nonsense) and so from a very young age he learned to avoid it.

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So it seems all the more pathetically ironic that Sherlock’s ‘death’ should be bookended with tears.

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It was the funeral that did it, at first.  Which was endlessly frustrating because, honestly, Sherlock was fine and obnoxiously anxious to get to work.  In fact, he’d probably ignored his express order to stay at his house, and was watching the funeral with a sort of ghoulish interest.

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He didn’t cry at the service, no.  But the terrible grit of the gravedigger’s shovel stuck in his head.  For all their planning, neither of them could truly predict what would happen.  The world was vast and Moriarty’s web ran deep. Goodbye might truly be goodbye.  And so Mycroft had found himself pushing open his brother’s bedroom door. Just a crack.  Just enough to see the sleeping figure beneath the blankets.

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They both knew it was the best plan, but it was a cold comfort.

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The next morning he woke with tracks on his cheeks from tears he didn’t remember crying.

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For the next two years, through every radio silence and near miss, Mycroft forced back the razor lined knot in his chest.  He had to keep his head if they were going to get Sherlock back alive. Play the part, because Sherlock needed him to. Biting his tongue and venturing out into the field because he’d be damned if he trusted Sherlock’s safety to anyone else. 

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It was like holding his breath all the way back to London.  And when Sherlock– cleaned up and ready to rejoin the world– walked out of his office?

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He had to focus, had to work.  Had so many things to do, and people depending on him.  

But all he could do, sitting behind his desk in the basement of the Diogenes, was fold his face into his hands and weep.

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BROTHER/CRIME

Mycroft had known from the beginning that his brother would be someone he had to take care of.  It was his lot as the big brother (even though he’d never actually asked for a sibling, and his parents had spent that entire Christmas getting things ready in the nursery).  They seemed to think it was very exciting. Their existing son tried for indifference. 

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Then his parents brought Sherlock home, and oh… That changed everything.  Nobody had told him that his baby brother would stare up at him like he knew him already; or that his tiny hands would grip Mycroft’s fingers so he could see the impossibly small, perfect little nails.  And certainly nobody had told him that there would be days that Sherlock would only stop screaming if his brother was holding him.

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These were things, Mycroft had thought with annoyance at the time, that his parents should have mentioned.

But babyhood didn’t last long, and soon he was was walking- talking- running through the house.  Perpetual motion and constant noise, orbiting Mycroft, his ever captive audience. And it was his big brother that patched his skinned knees and rescued him when he’d climbed one of the big trees in the yard and lost his boots.  

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Sherlock was curious about everything.  He was a dozen types of trouble wrapped up with quick growing angles and wild black curls.  And as his older brother, and this protector, Mycroft knew it was his job to clean up after him. Otherwise their parents would get angry, and Sherlock would be in trouble.. and he did hate it when his brother cried.

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Mycroft has always known that Sherlock was drawn to trouble, and as they got bigger, so did the stakes.  Lying to Mummy to protect him became lying to the dean of the university. Became a job in the government, because it was the most effective way of making sure he was in control of all the variables.

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Which includes mouthy members of Scotland Yard that seem to think it’s alright to whisper about his baby brother.  Sherlock might be difficult, but God help anyone else to who says it.

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SOBER

It’s hard for Mycroft to admit his temptations when he’s seen what harm they can cause.  

He’s been the one to sign the order to place his brother in rehab.  And he clearly remembers his uncle’s boisterous, too-loud laughter and the sidelong looks his parents would give each other.

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At the time he was too young to really understand.  

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But as much as he tries to deny his own vices, Mycroft is only human.  A glass of wine is a social thing. A good scotch is refined– an allowed indulgence.  He tries to uphold a one-drink limit, because he can see the slippery slope just in front of his toes.

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Addictive personalities run in his family.  And he still can’t quite bring himself to stop smoking (that, he rationalizes, doesn’t effect his ability to do his work).  

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Because he likes the softly slowed, faintly numb feeling that comes with a few good drinks.  And it would be very easy, so very easy to slide into a hole of his own making.

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MAGNUSSEN

Sometimes you just have to make a deal with the Devil. 

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 Magnussen took a few swings at Mycroft before he caught a trigger point– Mycroft spent most of his life living from work to home, quietly.  He didn’t have any mistresses or illegitimate children. No scandalous taste for young girls, or boys.. He wasn’t skivving off the government accounts, and when he took the obvious jab at his sexuality? Mycroft simply rolled his eyes, because yes, it would be embarrassing.. but it was hardly illegal. 

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Then his brother went missing.  And more than the drugs or the rehab or the reflected shame it would bring on the family, was fear.  Magnussen had finally gotten his hooks into Mycroft’s nearly impervious armor, and intended to twist the knife for every inch of effort it had taken.

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The deal was simple.  All Mycroft had to do was turn a blind eye, and Magnussen wouldn’t breathe a word.  And where Mycroft could gamble with his own reputation, his career, and his safety? He wouldn’t, couldn’t, do that to his brother.  So he agreed, and for years he tried to ignore what was happening. And to justify what he couldn’t ignore.

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Magnussen wasn’t causing too much trouble. He wasn’t upsetting the stability of the nation. He was just preying on people who shouldn’t have… in the first place.

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It’s amazing what you can stomach when you have no other choice.

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And for a while, Mycroft thought it would be alright.  His brother was safe; that was the important thing. But years later, high and rambling and dragged out of yet another drug den, Sherlock announced that he was going after Magnussen.

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He tried to ward him off, tried to downplay everything, and distract him, and it just didn’t work.  

Everything seemed to go to Hell so quickly after that.

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FIELDWORK

Just because Mycroft doesn’t enjoy field work doesn’t mean he was bad at it.  However, it’s in his self interest not to correct them! 

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He was tall, with relatively steady hands (strange, the applications of musical muscle memory) and after a few weeks of basic training, even Mycroft could admit that he was in the best shape of his life.  He was never going to be a crack agent, but he did manage to finish his training and pick up some useful skills on the way.

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But if given the chance between sitting behind his desk with a cup of tea, and pulling the strings of the world (a collection of tin pot dictators dancing and dancing away from the Commonwealth), or having his brains splattered across the pavement in South America?

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Really, there’s no competition.

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PLACES/HOMES

House, Knightsbridge: The terraced house in Knightsbridge is Mycroft’s primary residence.  He bought it in his late 20s, and still finds in comfortable enough.

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Public Office: Mycroft keeps an office in Whitehall for his official business.  It’s quite traditional and formal; the sort of place where Anthea makes sure he isn’t disturbed too often, and he can be sure his guests won’t see anything he doesn’t want them to.  A concealed closet holds his kit, as well as a spare suit and a few ties– sleeping on his office couch has become something on an unavoidable evil. It’s neat and tidy, and gives people the disconcerting impression that Mycroft has everything entirely under control.  

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Private Office: In a dark, private corner of the Diogenes, Mycroft does his real work.  This is the place where secret documents are protected, and the fate and future of the free world is planned.  It’s a dim space, windowless and utilitarian.. but it serves its purpose.

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Thornfield: A beautiful old manor in rural Sussex, Mycroft inherited the house from his uncle.  It’s been in the family for generations, and generally Mycroft claims that it’s simply more room than any one person needs (his Mummy usually reminds him how happy his own childhood was, away from the city.  And how it wouldn’t seem so empty with more people in it…)

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Musgrave Hall: Technically, Mycroft is going to inherit what remains of Musgrave, as well as the collected lands and outbuildings.  It’s a formality, and he has no intention of doing anything with it.

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** Lately, Mycroft has been considering leaving his Knightsbridge house for something on Pall Mall.  It’s conveniently the right side of St. James’, and minutes from both work, and the Diogenes. There is even a lovely graceandfavour spot that would work quite nicely for him.  

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*** Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock is his brother’s sole heir, and will inherit everything on his death.  

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MOREMUSIC

Mummy always made Mycroft play for them on the holidays.  It all started when Sherlock was very small, and Mycroft had stopped letting his parents hear him; preferring to practice when they were out of the house to avoid waking his baby brother, and to escape their praise when all he was doing was elementary scales.  Routine, fingering practice, and his mummy would away say that it sounded ‘wonderful, Mycie dear’.

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Christmas.  And Sherlock was having a fitful day, crawling around the house and sniffling for attention.  He’d been plastered to Mycroft’s side all day, and exhausted their parents, and with a brief respite for dinner, it had looked like the evening was going to continue in the same vein.  Mummy and Father had looked so worn and frustrated that he hadn’t quite been willing to argue when she’d suggested that some music might be nice.

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He hadn’t anticipated his baby brother curiously demanding to be put up beside him, watching Mycroft’s fingers moving across the black and white keys with a rapt expression.  And none of them had expected Sherlock to calm, stretching out on the bench and draping his legs across his brother’s lap, before falling asleep.

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Myc still doesn’t like playing for an audience, but some things have become tradition, and so he makes an exception on the holidays.  Immediate family only. After all, he doesn’t want to disappoint his Mummy– but he has to draw the line somewhere!

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TREASURE

After their grandfather’s passing, Mycroft inherited a small wooden box of his cufflinks and tie pins; and though initially tarnished, his mother had them professionally cleaned, and brought back to their high polish.  He liked the glitter of them, the subtle elegance– something he could add to make his school uniform a little less drab (he had been a little jealous of the jewelry the girls had been able to wear).  

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Sherlock, on the other hand, saw treasure.  Bright, shining treasure that he could scoop up in his hands and let trickle through his fingers.  And every pirate needed to have treasure! Mycroft would even let him play with them, as long as he promised not to lose them.. or bury them.. (which had been a point of contention, since how else was he supposed to find the X and dig them up?!)

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He still has one pair. They’ve traveled with him from his parent’s to Cambridge, to his first flat in London, and 221B.  He never wears them, but they’ve become something like a good luck charm. A very small piece of sentiment, in a box, on his shelf.

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APPEARANCE

As much as Mycroft tries not to be vain, it’s still vaguely irritating that his brother won the comparative genetic lottery.  

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Sherlock is tall and lean, and while Mycroft is hardly large these days?  Well, that wasn’t always the case.  

Between the auburn hair and the generous lashing of freckles, the sunshine is not his friend– his mummy used to despair that her oldest boy would burn at the mention of daylight!

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His brother’s hair is dark, instead of embarrassingly gingery; and his curls are handsome, where Mycroft cuts his short to avoid looking like a clown (in his opinion).  

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Sherlock most certainly didn’t inherit their uncle’s nose.  

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They do have the same blue eyes, and the same sharp, cupid’s bow mouth.  The same ears, and unfortunate hairline that Sherlock can still cover up (while Mycroft has little choice but to admit defeat to his maternal side genetics).  

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It is, Mycroft has to admit, very easy to see your own shortcomings in the mirror.

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COLOGNE

Along with his perfectly tailored suits, Mycroft has a respectable selection of aftershaves and colognes.  However, he’s a bit of a creature of habit– and he knows what he likes. Generally he favours bright, fresh scents with notes of citrus and cedar.  Classic scents, with a bit of personal flair.

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For daily use, he usually uses Marylebone Wood; with its classic cedar and sandalwood elevated with grapefruit.  It’s woodsy, fresh, and traditional enough to be comfortable (even when you’re stuck in a meeting all bloody afternoon!).

 

In the evenings, when a little more expression is socially acceptable (and he can let his hair down, as much as he ever does) Mycroft often indulges in Sartorial.  Despite its familiar notes of honey, cedar, lavender and old wood, it’s made entirely unique with the addition of ozone and metal, ginger and cardamom.  

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LONELY

Mycroft doesn’t know what it means to be lonely.  Not really.

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What he calls ‘loneliness’ is a tangible, gnawing thing that lives in your belly and aches.  It’s the feeling of knowing you’re entirely alone in the world, and that will never change.

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It’s a child’s hopeless absence of connection.  Of knowing that nobody could ever understand the world the way you do.

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And then his brother was born.  Same blood, same marrow; same cells shaping the two of them.  Same mind, rushing through the world, drawing parallels and making connections.  Understanding.

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What Mycroft thinks loneliness is, would be utter despair to most people.

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But he doesn’t feel that way anymore.  The world may be full of goldfish, but he’s not entirely alone in it.

So of course he isn’t lonely, by his understanding.

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It never occurred to him that he might be wrong.

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UNTOUCHABLE

People think that Mycroft is untouchable.  The ice figure at the top of the mountain. And they don’t want to climb the steep and treacherous path to reach him, because it’s filled with sheer cliffs and switchbacks, and really– would it be worth the effort?

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They don’t think so.

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They might be right.

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He spends his days, and most of his nights, at work.  In the corridors of Whitehall, he needs to be that man.  People rely on him for that– their safetydepends on his ability to watch the world without his heart.

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He feels the gravity of that responsibility.  It isn’t a weight he can put down at the end of the day.

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But Mycroft doesn’t feel invincible.  If he was, this would come easily. The world wouldn’t have a thumb on his pressure point.  If he was all powerful, he’d fucking know what to do for his brother. Because he knows he’s going to lose him.

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One day he isn’t going to be fast enough.  And there’s going to be nothing left for him to do but grieve, and hate the fact that he failed him.  

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He had an assistant once who left notes on the edge of his desk.  Pamphlets from the NHS with hopeful titles like "This Isn’t Your Fault" and "Loving an Addict".  The support group for families meets Tuesday nights at 7pm, in the basement of St. Michael’s Church.  We can help.

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He doesn’t regret firing her.  

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Mycroft controls the world, because he knows that one day?  It won’t be enough.

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HOUSEKEEPER

Mycroft employs a housekeeper and a cook; both are profoundly deaf.  Most of his colleagues see this as a manifestation of paranoia– some control freak assurance that he won’t be overheard on the phone.  Mycroft makes no effort to correct them.

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In actuality, it was a handy coincidence.  When the agency asked Mycroft if he had any particular language requirements.  He said no, thinking that, with 26 spoken languages and two forms of sign, he should be fine.  And if not? It would be an excuse to learn another language from a native speaker.

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He pays them a very generous wage, is hardly home, and is generally polite when he is.  And for Mycroft? Well… there’s something nice about coming home to a house that hasn’t been abandoned all day.  He’s aware that it’s some primitive instinct– some part of his brain that recognizes fire, and people, as safety– but he chooses to indulge it.

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Besides, he has no time for cleaning, and his cook is very, very good.

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THEACCIDENT

Mycroft had always known that he would be joining the civil service after university.  That had been the plan, though what he planned to do there? That had changed a few times over the years!

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By the time he was 22, Mycroft was working in translations; a good fit, considering his aptitude with languages, and ability to keep a secret.  A place where the higher ups could keep an eye on his work.. and judge his suitability for greater things.

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It was his third assignment outside the safety of England, and her allied countries.  Mycroft knew that El Salvador was dangerous, it was obvious. What nobody guessed, was that several powerful cartels were very unhappy with the trade negotiations.

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Ridding the delegation of their quiet, young translator seemed like a good way to derail the discussions.  

In the middle of the night, a group of men murdered the guards outside, broke into Mycroft’s room and threw a bag over his head.  He could hear them arguing about what to do with him– what would make the biggest impact. Something more than the liberal application of their boots.  In the end, that was exactly that they decided. An impact.

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They took the bag off, just to let Mycroft see the sheer drop from the rooftop, before they pushed him over the edge. In those few seconds, with the concrete rushing to meet him, and his heart in his throat, Mycroft was certain he was going to die.  

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But he didn’t.  

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Three days later, Mycroft was back in London, in his own comfortable flat.  And avoiding his parents like the plague. He had no good explanation for his injuries, and he’d be damned if he told them the truth.  El Salvador was a world away, and they didn’t need to know. It would only worry them.

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At first, he attributed his exhaustion to jetlag and poor sleep.  The pain- well, everything hurt already. But as the nausea persisted, his wits dulled, and the bruising in his stomach spread instead of healing, Mycroft began to suspect that something more serious was at play.  

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He was admitted to hospital, and eventually, even his uncle’s best attempts to distract his parents weren’t quite enough.  They swore not to tell Sherlock, but even at the time, Mycroft didn’t believe them. Even if they didn’t tell him directly, his brother was too perceptive not to know something was wrong.

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Four weeks and three surgeries later, the doctors were able to stop the slow internal bleeding that had been caused by the blunt force trauma from the fall.  Mycroft left the hospital thirty pounds lighter than when he’d left for El Salvador; and with the knowledge that he would need a low dose medication for the rest of his life to counter the damage they hadn’t been able to repair.

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It’s been years since the accident, and Mycroft doesn’t think about it very often.  It certainly hasn’t stopped him from accomplishing his goals.

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And if he double checks his hotel security when he has to leave the country?  Well… that’s just common sense.

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ATHOGWARTS

House: Slytherin

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Wand: Elder wood with a dragon heartstring core, 14" and unyielding flexibility

Elder: The rarest wand wood of all, and reputed to be deeply unlucky, the elder wand is trickier to master than any other. It contains powerful magic, but scorns to remain with any owner who is not the superior of his or her company; it takes a remarkable wizard to keep the elder wand for any length of time. The old superstition, ‘wand of elder, never prosper,’ has its basis in this fear of the wand, but in fact, the superstition is baseless, and those foolish wandmakers who refuse to work with elder do so more because they doubt they will be able to sell their products than from fear of working with this wood. The truth is that only a highly unusual person will find their perfect match in elder, and on the rare occasion when such a pairing occurs, I take it as certain that the witch or wizard in question is marked out for a special destiny. An additional fact that I have unearthed during my long years of study is that the owners of elder wands almost always feel a powerful affinity with those chosen by rowan.

 

Dragon heartstring: As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.

 

Patronus: Wolf

The wolf is a bit of a darker and mysterious soul, with the strength of a fighter. A person with this patronus has had a lot happen in their life, and do to that they wear a mask over their emotions. They do, however, have a very big heart that is full of both passion and fire. They have a lot of emotion within them that they are willing to give, but only once they completely trust you, and since they have been made cynical over the years this can be difficult. 

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** The Holmes family are mostly pureblood, though they’re nowhere near the Sacred 28.
** When Mycroft was paired with his wand, his parents were quite disturbed… Mycroft, on the other hand, wasn’t.  He isn’t afraid of his wand, and it works well for him.

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