I was seven years his senior, and from the moment Mummy gently placed him in my arms, I adored him.
“You will watch over him, won’t you, Myc; always.”
It wasn’t a question but a hidden instruction.
“Yes, Mummy,” I said very seriously. “I will protect him at all costs. Forever.”
“That’s my boy,” Mummy said.
Moments later, my baby brother - William Sherlock Scott Holmes – opened his peculiar eyes and looked at me with a scrutinising gaze. His tiny hand curled around my finger, which made a warm sensation bloom in my chest.
“I will always be here for you, Lock,” I whispered; I didn’t want Mummy to hear me use a pet name on him. It would remain a secret between the two of us, I decided.
***
Keeping an eye on Sherlock when we attended school was almost impossible. Back then I didn’t have access to CCTV, and I knew that my parents looked after him. Mummy had not meant that I should track him down at such a young age after all.
But the time came when I made good on my word. Sherlock started university at Cambridge, and I had become crucial to the government. My occupation granted me every access I craved, and from that day, Sherlock was always in my peripheral vision. Cameras followed him, not constantly, but enough for me to have a clear indicator of his whereabouts. I had also recruited one of his peers to keep a keen eye on him. In hindsight I should have known that Sherlock would see through it immediately. My brother told Victor about his father’s secret, which ensured that the two never crossed paths again.
Really, Mycroft. Your tactics are appalling, not to mention; offensive. SH
***
It was easier for Sherlock to hide in London, the immense number of cameras notwithstanding. His ability to avoid them grew by the day, and my promise to Mummy decades ago crumbled before my very eyes.
But one night, emergency lights flickered on the screen to my left catching my attention. My stomach plummeted when I realised that said camera had found my brother. I sighed, instantly planning my next steps to get a hold of him. On closer inspection, though, I saw a police officer - dressed in civilian clothes - having a heated conversation with my brother. The silver-haired man looked sceptical at Sherlock who waved his arms, looking like the addict he was. Sadly, the footage was visual only, so I turned away and retrieved my phone to call for a car.
Myc. Pick me up at home in thirty minutes and drive me to rehab. SH
***
The first time I met John, I told him: “I worry about him. Constantly.”
Three months later, my peripheral vision picked up on a curious scenario. My brother and John stood outside that Italian place they prefer to dine. Of course, Sherlock knew about the camera across the street; he also knew that I was watching. The cameras always moved when I was in my office, and when he and/or John were walking past. Or running. Or snogging each other senseless, like they did outside the restaurant. It made me both embarrassed and pleased.
“Finally,” I muttered under my breath.
***
On my first visit to Baker Street after the incident, John pulled me aside while Sherlock went to the bathroom.
“I know you worry about him, Mycroft, but I can take it from here. By the look on your face, you are very much aware of the development between us. You know I want only what’s best for him. I was a soldier, and I am a doctor; surely that counts for something.”
“Thank you, John. I appreciate your offer. However, I am bound to a promise I made the first time I held him in my arms, so you see, I cannot oblige.”
To my surprise John didn’t argue but smiled a curious smile. It was directed inwards almost. Private. As if he had expected my answer all along.
“An anomaly,” Sherlock told me once and I finally understood what he meant.
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Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Written for prompt FFF326 Peripheral Vision of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
For the sake of appearances, Greg was lying on the sofa, head resting against the armrest, reading an old detective novel. He had not turned a single page in the last fifteen minutes or so.
The reason for his distraction was his husband, who was also seated just a few feet away and was steadily typing away on his laptop. It was not as if Greg minded the tap-tapping of the keyboard in the slightest. But this sense of competence and quiet concentration that Mycroft radiated whenever he was dealing with something at work just worked for him and right now, even having to resort to stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, Greg was absolutely basking in it.
He really was so lucky.
Greg risked another discreet sideways glance at his partner and turned, yet again, to the first line of the page he had flipped to. He couldn’t perceive a single word; the letters were just blotches of ink on paper. He couldn’t help the twitch of his lips though.
It wasn’t long before he heard a voice over the tapping of the keyboard.
“Darling.”
Greg would never fail to get a thrill out of it when Mycroft called him an endearment. Hearing a word so soft and lovingly said like that from the voice that had called him ‘Detective Inspector’ or ‘Lestrade’ for more than a decade would always send a skitter through his pulse. He turned a page, unread, trying to appear nonchalant. “Hmm?”
“We have been married for three years.”
For a panicked second, Greg wondered if he had missed their anniversary. He had not.
“Yeah?” he prompted cautiously.
“You are allowed to look, you know. I would like to assume that the stage of shy glances and averted eyes are well behind us.”
Greg laughed and flipped himself over on the sofa to actually look at the man, dropping the book in the process.
“Got it,” he said, watching Mycroft try to stop himself from smiling and work at the same time. “I’ll just lay like this and gaze at you while you do your thing.”
“On the condition that you do not distract me and let me actually do my thing, as you put it.”
“Not fair, ‘cause you started it, but yeah, I guess.”
Mycroft huffed a laugh, shaking his head at his husband’s ridiculousness. But Greg could see Mycroft was now stumbling at the task quite a bit.
Greg bit his lip, knowing very well that Mycroft was having the same kind of problem.
“Hey,” he ventured.
“Absolutely not.” Mycroft ducked his head to seem like he was way too immersed in whatever he was doing on his laptop. He wasn’t. Greg could tell.
“You’re literally backspacing an entire paragraph as we speak.”
“I am not.”
“Come on now,” he sing-songed. “You know you want to.”
“It’s the middle of the day, Gregory!”
“So?”
“What do you mean ‘so’?”
Greg wiggled his eyebrows at the exasperated man. It was all it took for Mycroft to slam the lid of his laptop shut and stride over to his delighted husband.
