Chapter Four

Sherlock ambled over, and Mycroft noted the unlit cigarette his brother held surreptitiously down by his side. No words were exchanged between them as Mycroft followed Sherlock out onto the balcony.

"Technically, this is illegal," Sherlock said, as he pulled the door closed. The whole of east London now spread out in front of them.

"A little violation of anti-smoking legislation is but a drop in the ocean of your criminality, brother mine" he replied.

Sherlock snorted with laughter. He was slightly drunk, Mycroft could see, but his eyes were alive with what even Mycroft could see was happiness. There was a very clear lipstick mark on the side of his neck.

"I thought you'd quit," Sherlock accused.

"Cutting back," Mycroft replied.

"I've quit," Sherlock said, rocking on his heels.

"So what's that?" Mycroft said, pointing at the cigarette in his brother's hand. "A wedding favour?"

"Call it an excuse."

"For what?"

"To talk to my big brother," Sherlock said, pocketing the cigarette.

Mycroft wasn't sure what to make of this, but he recognised that almost all of the relatively good-natured conversations that took place between them were based around their mutual dependence on tobacco.

"So how does it feel, little brother?" Mycroft asked, gazing out over the city. "You're a married man now."

"So are you," Sherlock countered. "Even Eurus couldn't see that one coming."

Mycroft allowed himself a sardonic laugh. Their sister, he knew, didn't have quite the same interest in him as she did in Sherlock – perhaps because there was never really a bond there to be broken, the age difference between eldest and youngest child too great.

"And yet here we are."

"Two old, married man," Sherlock smiled.

"You can't afford to be old yet," Mycroft replied. "You're about to usher the next generation of the Holmes line into the world."

"With any luck, the baby will be more like Molly," Sherlock said. "All I can really offer is good bone structure."

"And hair," Mycroft added, briefly touching a hair to his own head. "Despite all of your many shortcomings, dear brother, I'll concede that you got the hair."

Sherlock snorted again, stuffing his hands into his pockets. A few moments passed in silence as they both looked out towards the Stock Exchange, St Paul's and beyond to the river. Comfortable silence, which was noteworthy in itself.

"I'm bloody terrified," Sherlock laughed, finally breaking that silence. "I'm impatient and excited beyond reason, but I'm also completely bloody terrified."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at his brother's admission of fear. This was now getting dangerous close to the realms of talking about feelings, despite the flippant way his brother expressed those words. This would take some getting used to, and Mycroft feared that he may need something stronger than a low-tar cigarette; a Scotch from the bar would perhaps have helped (a cheap blend though it clearly was).

"I'm certain you are no different to any other prospective father," he offered. "Although that must be somewhat of a chore for you – 'different' being what you thrive on."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll manage to maintain some of my eccentricities and foibles, Mycroft," Sherlock replied. "But I have to accept that I am no longer the centre of my own universe. In fact, I am extremely grateful for that."

Mycroft had to concede that that struck a chord with him.

"I hope you're going to approach your role of Proud Uncle with vigour and aplomb?" Sherlock continued. He was outright teasing Mycroft now, but he refused to rise to the good-natured bait.

"You'll forgive me if I haven't given it a great deal of thought over the years," he replied, tapping his cigarette, which was to his dismay reaching the end of its useful life. "Things being what they've been. You being…well, you."

"In that case, we'll just expect you to be generous with the presents," Sherlock said.

"You're forgetting, Sherlock, that I now have my own parental responsibilities."

"Oh yes, how are the Smallwood boys? Must be a real challenge for you, what with them being past thirty and both living several thousand miles way?"

Mycroft offered his brother a small, smug smile. Once he'd got past the inherent eeriness of his wife's identical twin sons (whom he still could not distinguish from each other in any consistent way), he had found to his relief that Oliver and Miles Smallwood were generally sensible, rational young men. A little too keen on rugby for his liking, but that had been their father's influence. If they bore him any ill will, they did it in their own time – and because they were both overseas in the Diplomatic Service, their own time was usually conducted in a different time zone. Of course, it did help that he was in a position to be professionally helpful to them.

"It's a cross I have to bear," he replied. He could see his brother smirking out of the corner of his eye.

Perhaps it was time. Most people wouldn't choose the last embers of a wedding, but really, no time was going to be ideal. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, furrowed his brow, then closed his mouth again. He gave it another attempt.

"I hope you know, Sherlock, that it gives me immense happiness to be here today…"

To Sherlock's credit, he did not try to interject with a snide remark, but instead held his silence with a slightly incredulous look.

"After all, I bear much of the blame for everything that has come before. I realise that my actions - my deceptions, my obfuscations as you may see them - are not of the type that are easily forgiven. But if not your forgiveness, I am asking for your…tolerance."

Now Sherlock was looking at him, really looking at him, to the extent that Mycroft looked away with a flinch. The next thing he knew, Sherlock's hand was tapping the elbow of his suit jacket. When he looked down, his little brother was offering him his unlit cigarette.

"That must have been agonising for you, Mycroft," he said, the slightest quirk of a smile on his lips. "I think Lady Smallwood would permit you another one of these in the circumstances."

Mycroft took the proffered cigarette gratefully, but hesitated before lighting it. Instead, he tucked it into his inside breast pocket; it was a peace-offering, and he was going to treat it as such.

"You have my forgiveness, big brother," Sherlock said. "That phrase 'the past is in the past' is patently stupid – it's always with us, it informs our lives – but it doesn't have to define us. And luckily, Molly seems to like me anyway, despite all that, despite my many and various personality defects. There is plenty of time for us to re-tread the past, and Molly tells me it's something I need to do if I'm ever to fully reconcile myself with my childhood, but I don't intend for it become a stick with which we beat each other."

"It warms my heart to hear it," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock looked at him in mild disbelief.

"Go easy on the free bar, old man," he smirked, clapping him on the back. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock took his sentiment as sincere.

"Marriage must be suiting you, Mycroft," Sherlock added. "You're looking well."

"Well done for forcing that compliment past your lips," he replied. But he had to hold back a smile of his own – things like this mattered to him, even if he wished they didn't.

"Lady Smallwood likes to bake for weekend relaxation," Mycroft continued. "I'm afraid the treadmill has become a daily necessity."

He saw Sherlock raise an eyebrow, and he knew it related to the fact that he chose to refer to his wife by her formal title when in company. It was quite a different matter at home, of course, but nobody else needed to know that.

At that moment, the door to the balcony opened, and Molly stepped out to join them. She was carrying her soft ballet-style shoes in one hand, and her small bouquet of daisies and wildflowers in the other.

"Hello, Mycroft," she said, greeting him softly.

She did look exquisite, almost other-worldly.

"Molly," he replied. He leaned down and placed a kiss on her cheek, noting her surprise and – it seemed – pleasure at this gesture. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. And thank you for coming."

Molly and Sherlock naturally gravitated towards either other, their fingers lacing together. Mycroft saw his brother gently stroking the back of his wife's hand with his thumb, and suspected that Sherlock regularly expressed himself through such gestures.

"You look beautiful," Sherlock told her, leaning in to place a kiss on her lips. "My wife."

Molly laughed shyly - the shyness, Mycroft suspected, was probably down to his presence, and his well-known aversion to public displays of affection. She put a hand to the swell of her stomach, which Mycroft took to mean that the child was being particularly active.

"Recognises Daddy's voice," Molly said with a smile, addressing her husband.

"Is he hungry?" Sherlock said.

"Famished," Molly replied, her face breaking into a broad grin.

Sherlock laughed, wrapping his arm around Molly's shoulders as she slipped her arm around his waist. Seeing his little brother with his pathologist, Mycroft conceded, you'd have to have a hard heart indeed not to believe in perfect symmetry. And his heart was no longer up to that job.

"Now if you'll excuse me, Mycroft," Sherlock said, taking Molly's shoes in his spare hand. "I'm going to take my wife out for chips."

Before he turned and left, Mycroft saw that Sherlock sought his gaze, and their eyes locked for a brief moment. He understood his meaning instinctively; he valued their brotherhood and it was something that he was committed to nurturing as they both moved forward with their lives.

Mycroft stood for a moment more on the balcony, knowing that as soon as he retrieved his phone from his pocket, there would be several national and international incidents requiring his attention. The city lay sprawled in front of him, and Mycroft breathed it in – London was a capricious mistress, cuttingly cruel and limitlessly beautiful. But he believed it had been tipped slightly in the favour of the angels today – it was his job to keep it that way, for the sake of the next generation of his family, but instead of regarding this as a burden, he rather considered it an honour.

THE END