dear_mun | On the intention to app to asgardeventide

We survived together before.

[Statement of fact, he'll not be sharing his thoughts on this idea.]

Days of bliss, to my recollection.

[Sarcasm? From Sherlock? Never.]

[Mycroft just smiles.]

I'm flattered you remember anything at all...

[Since those were the days before Sherlock's drug habit.]

[A drug habit, the detective would claim, that only sharpens his mind and lets him work for days on end without needing to stop for anything (cocaine) or finally allows him a full night's rest when he's at a breaking point even he can't deny (heroin). Not something that's addled his memory.]

I have to have a standard for flatmates. [He's had more than his share.] As long as they're more tolerable than you, I can ignore them in peace.

And what have I done recently to earn such an... antagonistic attitude.

[Oh, Sherlock always had that. But some days were better than others. In the end there is one thing Sherlock can't change: Mycroft will always be older and always the better one at deductions.]

You always fail to recognize what we could accomplish if we worked together.

Good lord. It almost sounds like you think you're not insufferable.

[ He's got a good thirty-some-odd years to attest to the contrary. But Mycroft doesn't smile when he delivers the retort. He doesn't frown, not exactly, but it's most important that he's not smiling. Smiles are for comforting and degradation, of which he supplies neither. But there is consideration, calculation for which he's no doubt been called. ]

A step off the ledge and into Valhalla. I think your valkyrie would consider it apropos. He knew his mythos rather well, for a practical.

Edited (comma I compel thee to thy proper place) 2012-06-17 05:47 (UTC)

I can keep a flatmate.

[...Okay, so that's because he can't be trusted with the entirety of his share of the family money all at once and one condition of the monthly allowance from the trust is that he have a flatmate. Most of whom he has, over the years, gotten rid of in no more than six months.

Eighteen months was quite an achievement... but they're not going to talk about John. Period.

So. Moving on.]

I still have work to do in London.

You can ignore a flatmate, for a time, yes. [ There is a little crinkling around his eyes here. Sherlock, who do you think you're talking to? Who made sure the break wasn't too messy? Whose pockets paid off the fount of indignation or otherwise bricked it up with intimidation? Mycroft's well aware of how ungracious you're inclined to be, but at least spare him such an atrocious lie. Didn't he teach you any better? ] Unfortunately, your... habits... tend to deny you the mutualism you might hope for.

[ John Watson was a singularity, not uncommon by breed or background, but he'd worked better than Mycroft could have ever hoped. And Sherlock will not have another, he's certain of that. Adrenaline junkies? There are dozens. Broken soldiers? Too numerous to count. But John Watson isn't some sweet mongrel that can be replaced anymore; Sherlock's let him burrow in too deep for that.

It's painfully obvious. ]

You would have. But then, it seems to me you have just as much a reason to be in this Asgard as well. The world turns, Sherlock, with or without you. I'll look after them.

[He wasn't lying when he warned John, the first time they met, that sometimes he didn't talk for days. ...The man had probably thought he was for awhile, but John had immediately proven himself different. He'd engaged.

Where others had taken the cheap rent in places of varying quality (and a couple had even taken the ritual offer of more money to report on Sherlock's behaviour), John had taken an interest in his work. Followed him and saved him not more than thirty-six hours after meeting him. And he hadn't ignored the change in habits that signalled the days of uninterrupted work allowed by cocaine or the half days of sleep that heroin induced when even Sherlock knew he needed a break. There had been rows in Baker Street, some loud enough to bring Mrs Hudson hurrying up the stairs, pale with worry. All of the others had been content enough to ignore him until he finally crossed a line. John... had let him cross too many lines too many times yet had never allowed himself to be bullied.

A strange man, one in a million.

Which is why he needs to be in London. Turning from detective to murderer, from champion of the law to Moriarty's equal. Not only killing but destroying the would-be assassins of the people he held dear. But that brings the chilling thought back to mind, and his voice is low. Even cautious.]

He's there, too.

[Not just John. John being there is temptation enough. A want to look after him from the shadows, to protect.

But Moriarty is there too. Which makes that want a need.]

[ A calculable effort by the good doctor, that brave little soldier, but nonetheless admirable. Mycroft hadn't lied either: John would be the making of his brother, or make him worse than ever. He did both. The man before him now isn't the boy he helped to raise, nor the addict questing for constant stimulation. He wasn't a stranger by any means -those things were still there- but he was more now, something new. Something volatile, aching for revenge. Mycroft isn't sure how much he likes it.

The fault lies on John Watson's uneven shoulders, in James Moriarty's wicked grin, and Mycroft Holmes' manicured hands. They shaped this man, condemned him, burned him. Now he moves restlessly in the ash, and Mycroft's not sure he wants to reach his hand in. Ice and embers, there's only one way it can go.

But his eyes do narrow at the mention of him. The gears in that well-oiled machine stick for just a moment -blink, and you'll miss it- before grinding through. Assuredly, Sherlock isn't the only Holmes who has been offended by his loss to the spider.

He laces his fingers beneath his chin, blinking slowly. ]

You've never killed anyone before.

[ It's only a fact. ]

Assuming you could succeed in eliminating him, what then? Peace, do you think?

For them. [Somewhere along the way, in a fashion Sherlock himself could not even explain, he had learned something of selflessness and sacrifice.]

He wants me to become him. [Mycroft knows. Sherlock's not fool enough to think he wouldn't have found the evidence, the recording his phone took in his pocket. Everything. Every word. Until he'd made a call. He'd left his phone on the roof, meant for it to be found by the right people.

There would be no record of that, not that anyone would ever see. Moriarty-- or an agent-- had one. He was sure. Because they'd have wanted to make sure Sherlock pulled no trick, make sure everything went according to plan. would have been ready to kill if he'd veered off script during that last conversation with John.

All he can hope is that Mycroft uses only a fraction of that phone call. Redeems Lestrade with just enough evidence. But has discretion enough to conceal the motives the last two-thirds of the recording provided. It's a strange amount of trust for the man who decided that what Moriarty had, whatever it was, was worth his life. Sherlock's sure it was to save many. More than he chose to die to save. At the end of the day, they made the same decision. One life was expendable.] I will not disappoint him.

[ One life for the many. It hadn't been easy. Sherlock hadn't loved him for a very long time, if he ever did, and yet it still wasn't easy for Mycroft to give him up. Logically, he had always been aware that one day, something would occur and he'd no longer have a say in whether Sherlock lived or died. The man lived vicariously at best, and while Mycroft didn't necessarily approve, he'd sank into the background and let his younger brother run free. Logically, he knew that the man was a weakness, and yet it didn't bother Mycroft quite so much until Irene Adler stabbed him with it. The process had been good - he could see how Moriarty planned it now. Shake him up, make that little misnomer stand out, then give him the right story to make cutting it away seem to be the only choice. Beautiful.

What a terrible miscalculation that had been. It'd have been worse on him if Sherlock hadn't survived. Now it's just a mistake to be covered over, a debt to be paid. Weakness.

It's true that he has the phone, the recording, even the final goodbye, in his possession. Mycroft understands what he's meant to do with them and he's working it into something systematic. What he hears from Sherlock now is objectionable, but it's no longer his place to say. All he can do is correct. ]

Safe, Sherlock, it will make them safe.

It's not the same as peace.

[ And it wasn't what he was asking. Mycroft can't give a damn about Sherlock's friends, really, beyond what they've done for his brother. It's an ugly truth, but there it is. ]

Will you be settled?

Four murders. [Moriarty and each of his gunmen. Only once they are dead can he stop, can he let himself stop. By then... He knows what he'll be. He will be everything he's ever been accused of being and more. He will be beyond all hope of human compassion and any sort of redemption.

To win against Moriarty now to any degree that will satisfy him, he will have to destroy himself.

And it's worth it.] Then I'll be... [settled? happy? able to go home? no. none of those things.] content.

And none of you will hear from me again.

No more messes to be cleaned up. [Because as resentful and spiteful as he could be and as harshly as a boy's attachment to his older brother had died, he has never hated Mycroft.] Keep them safe.

Four murderers put down.

[ Musing is the tone, but not the meaning. His eyes drift as Sherlock continues on, and he sits up again, crossing one leg over the other. Listening, no doubt, but that requires the ears, not the eyes. His thumb finds the smooth grain of the handle to his umbrella.

No more messes, and there's a swallow, a blink. That's all for a moment. It's agreed.

But then Mycroft inhales, because he's human and because he must. And because he never wanted Sherlock to die. ]

He'd forgive you.

[And...

As much as he hates it, as much as he tries to push himself beyond it, as much as he overloads his system with work and drugs, as much as he has tried to cut himself from everything.

...Sherlock is just as human.]

I know.

[John might try and stop him, if he knew what his plans were. Not out of any compassion for the people who would have killed him and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. No. But because John Watson got pulled into the same vicious, unforgiving task so many others had. He got pulled into trying to save Sherlock Holmes from himself. He would try to stop him. But if Sherlock went to him after the fact, revealed himself and laid bare his crimes... John would be angry. Furious. But he would forgive him.]

I won't ask him to.

[Somehow, despite all the attempts prior by people from a hundred walks of life... a damaged soldier had taught Sherlock to put others before himself.]

[ There's a laugh, just one, short breath of it. ]

If you've ever asked for anything, I've never heard it.

[ He is fantastically worried about you, Sherlock. Why is it always so much drama with you? Another road to self-destruction, paved with shining intentions, but folly nonetheless. It really doesn't benefit you at all, brother, dear. Not that he's a great example of how to live a fruitful life, but he has his work; you both do.

The umbrella rises and falls not even a few centimeters from the floor. Thump. He reaches into his waistcoat, pulls out the pocket watch. ]

Your way, then, I suppose.

[ He owes you a debt. The fight isn't over, but he's got other places to be, and the mun is feeling knackered. Sling all the arrows you want, but he's fairly certain you'll be back. Nowhere else to go now, and you'll want his resources. You'll want to know how they're all doing. Sentiment. ]

Regarding your other predicament, well, I take a bit of issue with the idea of you speaking on my behalf. Between the two of us, it's sure to look like a bipolar disorder.

[Oh, good. A topic he has no real emotional connection to. Far, far easier to talk about, and there's the subtle shift in his posture to show the slide into an easier manner of speaking. There's less strain, more presumptive arrogance.]

Well, I need some name to go under if I'm going to keep my head down in this city. People put so much meaning into names, even on internet-like networks where they've no guarantee as to the person's identity.

[...And because he's Sherlock, he'll do it whether Mycroft is there or not. Really, despite his mun's own plotting, he feels it would be far easier to get away with if Mycroft isn't there to say something to contradict what he was doing under his name.

He's more than capable of functioning without someone looking out for him.]

[ He didn't do it for you... Alright, possibly a little. Really, though, he's frowning now. Not Impressed. ]

All the aliases, genuine, fictional, or fabricated, and you choose Mycroft Holmes.

[ He's not sure whether he's irritated, flattered, or amused. His tone is chastising, however, and as familiar as the arrogance in Sherlock's. Bratty little brother, this will not do. Your idea is stupid. Mostly because it's his name.

Sherlock will use his name anyway, but then, Moriarty will come looking, won't he? John Watson will come looking... maybe. And if the true owner is not there, well, the whole thing falls in upon itself, doesn't it? Not a very long-lasting pseudonym to those he wants to put off in the first. ]

Edited 2012-06-17 18:51 (UTC)

[Of course Moriarty will come looking. That's part of the whole point.

...Granted, the alias works best if his big brother is there. If there is a Mycroft Holmes going about the town. It would also be a reliable, mostly unbiased view of what is going on in the city.

He will have his network. He will make one. But he will need a baseline, and he can hardly go out often himself. Just in the middle of the night. He'll need someone who can walk about in the day, run errands. Which, of course, his brother will protest. But it will be either Mycroft doing the favours or someone else.

Someone who might not be able to curtail the addict.]

It's a useful name.

[ Oh, Sherlock, him doing the legwork around this city of yours? That doesn't sound like him at all. You're the vivacious one; he's really more of an armchair detective. But he does take walks, this much is true. And he's aware of how to employ diplomacy, even if he's more the sort to make decisions. ]

It'll mean nothing there and, as it happens, neither will yours.

[ Except to two. What are you going to do when John Watson tries to meet, Sherlock? Tell him Mycroft won't see him? He's due to figure it out sometime, Sherlock. You told the man Mycroft preferred to call. Seeing as that's how they checked in with one another on the Danger Nights, he knows this is true. ]

Is death a permanent fixture in this new world? As I understand it, some of these [ That small notebook in his pocket, he licks his thumb a and flips the pages ] 'jamjars' prefer more of a yo-yo mortality.

Edited 2012-06-17 19:27 (UTC)

[Who else is going to remember to actually have food in whatever housing he ends up in?

He won't remember to buy it, and anyone he gets to do proper legwork for him won't be told to get him meals or things he can make meals of. Especially once he hones in on Moriarty and begins the new, dangerous chess game.]

I don't know. Only one way to find out.

[ If this is a joke about his weight...

Oh. Well. Yes, if Mycroft did have to pick the aspect of John Watson he misses the very most with this severence, it's how great of a nanny he was to Sherlock. It's too imbedded within Sherlock raising to forsake things like hygiene for very long, but sitting him down to a meal had always been rather difficult.

There's a roll of eyes at the suggestion, but he sighs. ]

Foresight has never been your forte.

[ It's his. He does see why you need him, even if it's beyond you to really ask. ]

You've got your work cut out for you.

[ The book is clapped shut and tucked silently away. He climbs to his feet, leaning partially on the stem of his umbrella while tucking his other hand into his pocket. His eyes cast down the younger, before flicking up to meet his gaze again. ]

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

[ A serene arch of brows, pointed and expectant. ]

Keep in touch.

[A calm, cool reply, though perhaps with a trace of emotion around it:]

What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.

[ There is a graceful smile, which does not quite reach his eyes; those seem a little distant. ]

Though no less wasteful. Think it over.

[ That said, the eldest Holmes does move to take his leave. The world continues to turn. ]

Being in Asgard merely tolerable?

[ he rises a brow, mildly amused. ]

Tread carefully. Some may find that ... nearly insulting.

[Sadly, Sherlock has no knowledge of Norse mythology in the slightest. He might have learned it once, yes, but... since then, like basic astronomy, it's been deemed useless and "deleted."]

I have better places to be.

[ Well, this was a curious mortal. ]

Some would consider being shown the city of gods a great privilege.

[ he could say he, as God of Mischief, might have been insulted. Might have played insulted, anyway. Asgard was no longer his home, after all. He was simply curious. ]

Kidnapped to a city by "gods," who are no more than fairy tales to explain phenomena now answered by science.

I think I'll pass.

You think gods fake?

[ oh don't tempt the trickster now, Sherlock.]

Of course they're fictional.

If it's any consolation, I already know. So we can put that aside.

[That is not a comfort, really.]

She's delighted at the idea that I won't know that.

Along with the fact that we have one of "your biggest fans" living in our flat? There's probably a lot of things you'll need to get up to speed on.

[ it's this kid. yeah. ]

Define "fan."

[He has one fan too many there he already knows about.

But if this one is living with John... That's either very bad or decent.]

A kid with some talents that might just rival yours. You inspire him, apparently.

[ there were many "adoption" jokes going around at one point. ]

A kid.

[So not amused by this idea.]

How old? Still a young idealist or old enough to be starting to realise that crime can pay so much better than detective work? [Hello, cynicism.]

Six. And yet he's taken on and solved most of the murder cases the city's seen. Along with you and I when you were still there, that is.

I swear to God, he's got an adult's brain in a kid's body.

Six. [You better be kidding, John. That's what that look says. This better be a joke.]

And he's living with us. Well. You, currently.

Well I wasn't about to just turn him away. He's... grown accustomed to us. And frankly, he's good company.

[ eyebrow raise! ] Humour me. You might just get a good conversation out of him.

On the intention to app to asgardeventide

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