Death Is A Friend

Direct Disobedience

Sherlock watched his brother quietly, Mycroft who was moving very slowly across the room, pacing as he always did when he was aggravated. Something was on his mind, that was for sure, yet he still had not admitted to what it was. Sherlock was thinking about what Victor had said, how he had asked Mycroft about love. Of course that would prompt some response...well maybe Sherlock could mimic it? Maybe he could manage to squeeze some things out of Mycroft while leaving the man no choice but to respond?
"Mycroft, have you ever fallen in love?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking up towards his brother in a passive, casual sort of way. As if he wasn't out to trap him, but to simply have a conversation. Mycroft's face paled, and for whatever reason he seemed to treat that question as if it was poisonous. All the while he contained himself; he contained his emotions at least, and allowed himself for a cool and casual response.
"Why would you ask such a thing?" Mycroft asked with a little laugh, as if it was a ludicrous thing to ask out of the blue. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, for really he couldn't think of a decent excuse.
"I suppose I spend so much time wallowing in my own love life that I've never bothered to ask you about yours." Sherlock said a bit forcefully. It was entirely truthful of course, yet all the same he wasn't just asking to be courteous, he was self-interested. He wanted to know about Victor and Mycroft, and what their range of conversations had been. Sherlock didn't know about his brother's orientation, yet wouldn't it be strange if perhaps...? No, that would be ludicrous. Sherlock wasn't even going to allow himself to think such things.
"I don't have a love life, surely you knew that?" Mycroft insisted with a nervous little chuckle.
"That doesn't mean you've never fallen in love." Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft sighed heavily, yet shook his head in a tragic, stoic sort of manner.
"I've made a great many mistakes in my day, Sherlock. Falling in love...well perhaps it was one." Mycroft admitted quietly.
"So you have?" Sherlock asked in astonishment, sitting up eagerly on the bed so as to hear more. Mycroft glowed red, yet shook his head in a very secretive manner.
"That's all you're getting from me, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped.
"Oh come on Mycroft, I tell you everything!" Sherlock protested. "Why can't you tell me one thing?"
"You're not telling me everything, I know that for a fact." Mycroft insisted, shaking his head in a disapproving little manner.
"Alright then, but you're not telling me anything!" Sherlock defended. Mycroft sighed heavily, as if he could see when he was beaten. Sherlock could feel the anticipation rising, it was choking out the whole room! This was it, wasn't it? Mycroft's true backstory? The man finally stopped his pacing, sitting down on the edge of the bed with some difficulty, as if he accepted now that the conversation had changed from casual to serious. Yet Sherlock didn't mind, in fact it was a lot easier to discuss such matters in a serious tone, simply because it allowed them to be spoken in the proper connotation. Words that had meaning should be delivered as such; they should hang heavily across the air, and approach the listener's ear with the desired intensity.
"My confession comes with a warning, Sherlock." Mycroft started quietly. "And I beg of you to take it seriously, and to learn from my own mistakes."
"Yes of course. You haven't led me astray so far." Sherlock agreed obediently, eagerly. He could feel his brother tensing, as if he hadn't admitted these things to anyone before, as if he had been planning on keeping them a secret for the rest of his life. Never had he anticipated it coming back to haunt him, never had he expected his secrets to be pried so ruthlessly from his brain, and from his heart! Just the idea of Mycroft falling in love was crazy enough, Sherlock was sure that whatever followed would be equally as such.
"It was four years ago, when I first took over for the church's funeral service...that I first met Victor Trevor." Mycroft admitted quietly, in a manner that made it very obvious that this story wasn't finished yet. However Sherlock's stomach dropped right out of his body, and his heart stopped beating for much longer than it should have. He may have given way to a fit of coughing had even his lungs not realized that what followed this introduction may be the most important couple of seconds of his life. Yet he stayed quiet, deadly quiet, for he knew very well what was going to follow.
"And from the moment I first saw him; I suppose...I was entranced." Mycroft finished heavily.
"You fell in love with Victor?" Sherlock asked in a short breath. Mycroft hung his head in shame, yet there was nothing for him to be ashamed of, really. Sherlock assumed that it was simply Victor's personality that made him irresistible; he assumed that it was just everything about the man that made him a walking bad influence. Yet the idea that someone such as Victor could have possessed Mycroft to show human emotions, the very emotion that he had always spoke of as if it was alien to him! The very idea of Mycroft falling in love had always been so alien, the idea now that it was Victor Trevor himself to have led Mycroft to the very chasm he warned Sherlock away from!
"Sherlock, it was a terrible mistake. While I had no control over the matter...well he seemed to know, and he used it against me. I found myself completely at his mercy, and he's a cunning one, he's a snake." Mycroft said with a shiver. "And when finally it came the climax, when finally I tried to admit what I felt he...he pushed me aside."
"He wouldn't do that." Sherlock said instantly, feeling the need once more to jump in and defend his new friend. There was something of a fiery defensiveness aflame in his heart, a sort of urgency that came to him as almost...well almost unexplainable. He felt the need now not just to protect Victor's character, but to protect himself for whatever reason. As if Mycroft's distrust in falling in love was a personal offense.
"He would. He did." Mycroft growled, his hands turning now to fists as he shook his head anxiously. "There's something wrong with that man, there's something unnatural about him, about the way he treats the living, and the way he treats the dead."
"Maybe you weren't giving him a fair chance. He's been nothing but generous to me." Sherlock insisted, feeling as though now would be a very bad time to admit to his day of fun adventures in the park. Mycroft seemed to be in physical pain now, as if he couldn't bear the humiliation of having succumbed to the pressures of love. As if he couldn't believe how his body had betrayed him, and led him to such a terrible, undeserving partner. But what did Victor's reaction to this mean? Did it mean that he was gay and uninterested, or did it mean that he was straight and afraid? Oh it was impossible to read Victor, and so it would seem that Sherlock was the second Holmes brother who couldn't see into that man's enigmatic head.
"Sherlock it was difficult enough handing you over to that man, it was difficult enough to leave you without your fair warning..." Mycroft shook his head in defeat, rising now to his feet and giving way to a great shutter.
"A warning?" Sherlock wondered, looking towards his brother and waiting for the words that were going to be delivered.
"Don't fall in love with Victor Trevor." Mycroft warned, now turning to Sherlock with the most powerful emotion in his black eyes as Sherlock had ever seen. It was a desperate plea, as if Mycroft assumed his words would go unheard, despite their intensity. He seemed to know that his warning was a lost cause. Sherlock tried to open his mouth to respond, yet once again his body betrayed him. He couldn't force words out of his mouth, whether they be truths or lies he couldn't make his lips move. Instead he just stared, his mouth agape, and wondered at his brother and his vulnerable heart. Yet while Mycroft's confession surprised him, Sherlock wondered even more on how he hadn't been able to pick up on such clues in the first place. He wondered if he had chosen to ignore the obvious history between the two. He wondered if he had always known.