Yeah, not Holmescest, however you spell it, just a small one-shot for you.
[「-」]
As much as the two brothers despised the other for some particular reason, they both held the other close in their hearts... or rather, kept a considerably sized room in their mind palaces for their sibling. That fact was only fueled by their cold-hearted views on people with unobservant, hazy eyes, logic-based lives, and the unusual yet astounding ability to see what others couldn't. Of course, the two knew who was smarter than the other, but both had another respect not to rub it in one's face.
Mycroft Holmes, known as The Iceman, cold-hearted, as could be seen in his pale eyes, the looks he gave were like the small yet noticeable breezes on a winter day. If you truly knew him, those shiver-inducing breezes would become a sign of a wonderland of ivory and joyous holiday spirits.
Sherlock Holmes, The Virgin, an equally mysterious man as his brother on the surface with the same pale eyes and knowing expressions, yet he was almost childish when compared. He never could understand why he has been deemed 'The Virgin' when his brother probably could be named the same way. Soon, it occurred to him that Mycroft avoid any relationship other than business acquaintances whilst he had been so-called 'fraternizing' with people.
Now, it wasn't just the fact they both held up icy expressions as their mask when observed that drove them away, rather, the ice that was thrown around. Mycroft found it would be logically more beneficial to leave for university when he was young and it certainly helped in finding his current position but he had broken a promise to his younger sibling, leaving the crumpled mess of words and Sherlock for a high-ranking school.
Leaving Sherlock was simply where the marble fell, the rolling ball had been released ages ago when Mycroft believed Sherlock would think Redbeard leaving peacefully was the better choice. That was the most erroneous assumption he had ever made.
Soon enough, Mycroft found Sherlock running through the streets with drugs in his system; his mind whirling to solve the mysteries that could keep his boredom at bay. He knew the drugs had done just as well but didn't have that satisfaction to Sherlock. He observed, which he did best. He saw the brilliance he had trained his brother to be in use, which his heart finally recognized as a particular fond proudness.
But the drugs caught up and he dropped down from his seat in the sky and found himself being hissed at, just like the day he gripped the handle of his suitcase, about to get into their father's car. All he did was stroll away, letting the doctors do what he couldn't do, comfort the one he loved. Feeling so pathetic yet he understood that he couldn't do it.
Sherlock had then gone out, telling an old acquaintance about the needed flatshare that was advised by the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard and he found a man who was loyal, honest, hard-working, a man which was brilliant in his own way, a doctor that wasn't like most, a captain with a steady gun-hand.
Mycroft found the name written on the paper's headlines and the camera's pictures, which he then located the man himself, asking for one thing.
For him to look out for Sherlock.
The man had declined and finally, Mycroft realized he needed to let go.
He couldn't.
Lazarus. Traditionally derived from the Hebrew meaning that God has helped. God? Was it him who was helping the man he called his brother? The man whom 'Jesus miraculously raised from the dead in the village of Bethany'? Was his only job really to raise him from the dead?
He got his answer when he smoothed out his tie, staring into Sherlock's equally same pale eyes and knowing expression, his own eyes shouting, 'shoot me, do it,' to the other side. They read, 'there's no way you won't take the chance to get me out of your life after what I did', in cursive, like his signature, which had been penned and perfected down years ago. That was the most erroneous assumption he had ever made.
His eyes meet Sherlock's, who had a gun up to his head.
Panic.
The game had just started, now it was ending.
The game is unpredictable, it is almost ineffable to describe.
He couldn't let go. Simply because the man had Holmes as their last name. His life was logic-based, his life was just like the people with unobservant, hazy eyes. His life was to hold on to Sherlock Holmes with every single fiber of his being.
To be there when he should've been there. He thought he truly won the game, but in all reality, he had lost.
But the game is unpredictable, it is almost ineffable to describe.
"Thank you." Sherlock Holmes, The Virgin, the younger brother, the Consulting Detective, the addict, the childish mysterious man with the same pale eyes and knowing expressions, had said. With an ex-army doctor by his side, a brilliant mind cleansed any drugs, and a Detective Inspector supporting him; a world that ultimately became what Sherlock Holmes wanted.
Because, as much as the two brothers despised the other for some particular reason, they both held the other close in their hearts... or rather, kept a considerably sized room in their mind palaces for their sibling.