The song Sherlock plays for John is an instrumental version of "Make You Feel My Love. You can listen to it here. watch?v=cc-XMNTA2aw

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Sherlock had always refused to play the violin when they were younger. At least, he had refused to play for an audience. Whether it would be even remotely believable to anyone whom hadn't grown up in the same household with Sherlock, there had been a time where the boy would have hidden under any number of tables to avoid having to face spectators. As a small child, when Mummy or Aunty had asked him to put on a performance, he'd mulishly decline with a firm shake of his head and reproachfully narrowed eyes from beneath his mop of constantly unruly dark hair. Usually, as Mycroft remembers, this had happened at family gatherings like Christmas and Easter when both of them had been forced to "celebrate" while stuffed humiliatingly into obnoxiously festive jumpers. As if that hadn't been bad enough in and of itself.

Fortunately for the sake of the entire family's entertainment, Mummy had made it an immediate rule for both of them to learn at least one musical instrument and one foreign language in their primary years, while their neuroplasticity was still spongy and elastic. So while the family wasn't as enthralled with Mycroft's piano playing as they were with Sherlock's violin, Mycroft would end up obliging them anyway by tapping out a mechanically perfect rendition of some church hymn or another just to hush them up. And even though Sherlock seldom acquiesced to their requests, not once did they fail, every bloody year, to tirelessly plead with him before they finally turned with big, rejected eyes to Mycroft.

Mycroft truly didn't mind, was never jealous of the obvious favoritism. He was the oldest and most mature anyway; he was well above feeling envious of his little brother. It had never mattered to him much one way or the other; playing the piano wasn't difficult for him, and he was fairly good at it, but it wasn't particularly something he found any kind of joy or meaning in, either. It was a neutral task for him, like tying up the garbage or putting on his shoes; whereas Sherlock, contrarily, seemed to find immense gratification in playing, holding his talent close to his chest like a personal talisman. As the years went by and their family still persisted in asking Sherlock to play but to no avail, Mycroft began to wonder if it was just the thrill of the chase now more than anything else. "Oh, come now, love. Just one song?" Mycroft remembers Mummy simpering on multiple occasions.

As a surly teenager, Sherlock still did not resign to their efforts, and instead began with a new approach, resorting to vindictively scraping his bow across the strings with purposefully earsplitting discordance when faced again with their unrelenting requests for Silent Night or Amazing Grace. Mummy had not been at all pleased, and eventually she had given up on it, and ceased asking either of them to play on holidays. For a time, Mycroft had wondered if Sherlock's prowess with the instrument was not what his music instructors claimed, and if that was why he so determinedly refused to play. But even though Sherlock was rarely known to practice outside of his music classes, on those nights Mycroft would hear him playing the songs alone in his bedroom when he believed the house to be asleep, a distinctly comfortable expertise in the way he coaxed sound from the violin that proved he had no difficulty at all with the instrument itself. It was perplexing even to Mycroft that his little brother had no issue showing off when it came to his intelligence, but kept his musical aptitude so wholly to himself. Soon enough though, Mycroft had gone off to Cambridge while Sherlock had fallen down a rabbit hole into drugs, and he had seldom had the inclination or the wherewithal to wonder over it since.

Mycroft pulls himself out of the memory with a shake of his head, and purposefully blocks the ones suddenly trying to force themselves upon him; the darker memories of his brother laid out in the cold dinginess of overused drug dens, deathly still and pale, with a dirty needle still hanging precariously out of his forearm. It had not been all that long ago when that was their reality, and he finds himself constantly on edge waiting for a relapse. Mycroft has never found himself to be a sensitive or squeamish man, but the constant worry he feels for Sherlock when those images come to mind is the kind of thing that keeps him awake at night. And not even the Korean elections had been able to do that.

A car's horn honks somewhere to his left, and Mycroft blinks several times in an attempt to clear his mind, safe from scrutinizing eyes in the backseat of the town car as it comes to a stop outside of his destination. He wonders why his mind has decided to betray him with this barrage of thoughts so suddenly (possibly because Mummy has been calling every day for the last week to badger him about coming 'round for the upcoming holidays and it's bringing up memories of years passed), but he pushes the dilemma resolutely away and lowers the partition.

"Jameson," he says to the driver, and the young man glances dutifully back at him through the mirror, as per usual. "You can expect me back in…" he glances at his watch, allows a sigh at the expectation that he will be chased out of the flat fairly quickly. "Oh, ten minutes, at the most. I shall call to inform you if I will be needing any longer."

"Very well, sir," Jameson nods, and restarts the car, presumably in preparation to drive around the block once or twice more while he waits.

When Mycroft steps out of the town car and onto the pavement thinly veiled with snow, there is the tempting smell of cinnamon and apple coming from the cafe just in front of him, and a young, frayed looking violinist playing "Joy to the World" just up on the corner of Baker Street, his case open expectantly at his feet. Irony, Mycroft thinks somewhat wryly, and continues on towards the door to 221. Sherlock had played better at eight years old, though he'd never have let on.

So, when Mycroft enters the foyer of 221 just a mere few seconds later on that Sunday afternoon, he pauses at the bottom of the stairs at the startling sound of soft music, and for a moment irrationally wonders if the average violinist from the corner had followed him inside. But no, he thinks. It may be sentimental of him to recognize, but Sherlock's playing had always been unmistakable as his own, and the sound of it resonates undoubtedly from the upstairs flat now.

Mycroft brushes snow flurries off the shoulder of his waistcoat and cocks his head to the side, listening closely. The song is slow and sweet, but he racks his mental inventory and finds the melody completely unfamiliar as he flicks through all the classics. Not Bach, or Vivaldi, or any of the other numerous artists he has filed away in his library. He's aware that Sherlock composes occasionally, though he has never had the personal experience of, or much interest in, listening to such a creation. Even so, the music coming from the flat upstairs seems entirely too sweepingly romantic for his callous little brother to have put together himself.

Mycroft had initially come by to cajole Sherlock into taking a high-security case which he himself had no time to deal with—or rather, he would give the case file to Dr. Watson and let him do the cajoling, at which Mycroft would inevitably fail. He had not had many explicit opportunities thus far to observe the personal interactions of his brother and his new flatmate, but he had noticed rather quickly that Dr. Watson seems to hold the rare power to sway Sherlock's inclinations one way or the other, which confounds him to no end. He tucks the case file in his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and quickly alters his plan of approach, an unaccountable curiosity suddenly raging in him. The case and the obligatory brotherly bickering will just have to wait for a moment.

As he creeps silently up the seventeen steps, customary umbrella positioned over his shoulder, he expects Sherlock to be alone in the flat, going by his stubborn reluctance to play in front of an audience in the past. Though, Mycroft rethinks, both the lack of tread on the pavement just outside the door and the position of the door knocker suggest that Dr. Watson hasn't left the apartment in the last few hours. The snow on the pavement was fresh and untouched when Mycroft's car had pulled up to the curb, and the door knocker had lain flat and crooked against the door, not slightly upraised as it becomes when the doctor uses it to pull the door closed on his way out. Mycroft's surveillance team hadn't informed him of the man's departure before he had left his office, either.

Even with this aforementioned evidence, Mycroft is somehow still bemused to see Dr. Watson lounging comfortably in the armchair facing away from the doorway, Sherlock pacing near the window with his violin clutched between his chin and his shoulder. The door to 221B is carelessly cracked open, and Mycroft can see just enough to observe the scene before him without being too obvious. They are both still in their pajamas, a steaming cup of tea—Dr. Watson has just made it up—sitting on the cluttered desk, another ensconced between the doctor's hands. His brother's eyes are closed and his hair mussed across his forehead, an expression of total absorption etched across his features, lips and eyebrows pulled down in concentration. His bow arm moves effortlessly across the strings in time with the melody he plays, and Mycroft cannot help but think that he looks oddly graceful standing there next to the window as snow falls lightly outside, his too long pajama bottoms brushing against the carpet and his fingers moving with such fond precision over the neck of the violin.

Mycroft has always known that his own detached relationship with music differs quite a bit from his brother's convoluted one, and he finds himself almost covetous of that ability now as he observes the contentedness in Sherlock's body language as he sways in time with his own flowing composition. What it must be like, he thinks, to find such an absolute level of satisfaction in something as tedious and inconsequential as well-placed notes and chords. Mycroft himself doesn't mind a bit of something classical playing in the background while he's sat at his desk doing paperwork or pouring himself a nick of scotch, but it's only just that with him-background. For Sherlock, it is something infinitely more. He has always seen it; the polar difference between them, the added depth present in his little brother, of which Mycroft unfailingly lacks; no matter how strongly Sherlock tries to deny his own humanity, he certainly possesses a more potent amount of it than Mycroft ever has.

Sherlock had discovered the definition of the word "sociopath" at age ten while hiding out in the library from the other children, latched onto it like the desperate mask which it was, and had never gone back. And he does a convincing enough job of proving it to everyone but Mycroft; but he has always seen through him, and always will be able to.

Watching his brother now, he doubts that anyone would be fooled by the sociopathic act if given the chance to see him in this element. Emotion radiates off of him in an unguarded way that he hasn't seen since Sherlock was a small child, and the tune he plays is full of longing and single-minded devotion, so much so that even Mycroft can hear it clearly in the glide of the bow over the strings. Mycroft's eyes stray knowingly to Dr. Watson, who watches Sherlock with rapt attention, a very fond smile on his lips as he picks up his tea and blows on the surface of the liquid to cool it. Mycroft feels a peculiar mixture of bewilderment and dread pooling in his stomach. He could be the making of my brother, he recalls saying of the doctor, and it seems to ring even truer now as he watches them. But there is a pit in his stomach now, too. With the capacity to care comes the capacity to hurt, and Mycroft recalls distinctly the catastrophe of a hurt Sherlock Holmes, the dark alleys and rampant self-destruction that come with it. Caring is not in any way an advantage, after all.

Sherlock brings the piece to an end with an overly complex flare, intended to impress his small audience; but Mycroft sees the nervousness it was meant to mask when his brother lowers the bow tensely to his side and rocks back slightly on his heels. "So, that's the whole of it, for now. Thinking of adding a bridge," Sherlock says, an uncharacteristically rushed chattiness to his tone as he busies himself with tucking the violin back into its case and avoiding his flatmate's eyes, which are trained on him intently.

There is complete silence for a moment before Dr. Watson sits forward with hands cupped over his mouth in a gesture of some kind of awed wonderment. When he moves his hands to rest under his chin, there is a wide smile turning up his lips. "Sherlock, that was just...yeah. Wow. It was absolutely beautiful. Thank you...so much, for playing it for me."

Mycroft tilts his head in a nod of grudging agreement with the doctor's fawning proclamation. He habitually avoids using terms which are full of such effusive sentimentality, but even he can hardly find another word to describe the euphonious composition his brother had just performed.

Sherlock clicks the latches on the violin case closed with a snap, and turns to lean his back against the desk with artificial nonchalance. He picks up his tea and fiddles with the string hanging down the side of the cup.

"You really think so," he says, and though it seems like it should be a question, he says it with a kind of mystified certainty. The pompous inflection which usually accompanies his voice when speaking of himself is absent. His whole countenance is changed, and instead of seeing his insolent, boisterous, infuriating brother—Mycroft almost glimpses the one from before; in an instant he is shockingly redolent of the frightened, shy, and altruistic little boy who refused to tell Mycroft the names of his schoolyard bullies in fear of drawing too much attention or causing a fuss.

Dr. Watson scoffs disbelievingly, leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other as he shakes his head. "Well—yeah, Sherlock, of course." He looks befuddled. "Of course I think it's beautiful. It's amazing. You're just—"

He comes to a loss for words and clamps his mouth shut, and Sherlock's eyes focus in on him immediately, dangerously sharp. Mycroft—who has shamelessly insinuated hidden bugs and cameras into his brother's personal space for years now—feels suddenly like he is being horribly intrusive.

"Just what?" Sherlock asks lowly. His mug lands with a dull clunk on the desk as he straightens his posture, and Mycroft sees his hand tremble very, very slightly as it comes away. Careful, brother, he thinks, and watches with bated breath despite himself.

There is a long silence in which Mycroft stands completely still, wary of any wayward creaking floorboards which might give away his hidden position behind the door. Then, Dr. Watson chuckles in a few nervous sounding puffs of breath, breaking the silence. "Go on and embarrass yourself a little more, John," he mutters self-consciously to himself. He sighs heavily and looks at the floor before continuing, but his voice is still clear and strong. "Yeah, okay. Not that you don't already know this, but, simply put...you're amazing, Sherlock. I think you're probably the most remarkable human being I've ever known if I'm being completely honest. You must know that."

There is a long silence wherein Sherlock stands frozen, like a glitching automaton.

Then all of a sudden, his eyes widen and he makes a sound like choking on air. After another momentary pause, he clears his throat and explodes into motion, nearly sprinting to his music stand to straighten an already tidy stack of sheet music. "Um, th-thank you, John, that was um. A very nice thing for you to say even though it clearly isn't finished yet but I suppose if you'd like I could play it for you when it is. Well, that is of course if you even care to hear it." Sherlock shrugs jumpily as he fiddles with the latches on the window. He is acting like a complete maniac, thinks Mycroft.

Dr. Watson stands cautiously, and walks over to where Sherlock stands suddenly frozen at the window to place a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, calm down, it's fine. I'd love to hear it again when it's finished, okay? I really would."

Sherlock continues to stare blankly out the window with his eyes narrowed, and Dr. Watson steps closer with concern. He looks like a cat who's spotted a bug trapped in the window pane. "Sherlock?" He snaps his fingers close to his flatmate's face, and sighs exasperatedly. "Right. Are you even in there or have you leapt off to your mind palace again in the middle of a bloody conversation?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock hisses venomously, and Mycroft feels the uncommon urge to run. Oh, Lord, the car must be back, he thinks frantically. It had been at least ten minutes since Jameson had dropped him at the curb and Mycroft had let himself be distracted by his brother's touching little concert. He had wasted time being stupidly inquisitive over trivial matters and hadn't even made it into the flat yet, let alone thought to let poor Jameson know he would be needing a few more minutes.

"What?" Dr. Watson's head reels back on his shoulders and he steps back with a puzzled frown.

Sherlock presses a finger up against the window accusingly, sneering. "Mycroft's town car has been sitting at the curb for at least the last one minute and thirty-two seconds, and yet he hasn't climbed his fat-arse out yet. Which can only mean—" Mycroft knows he is about to be caught out. Sherlock is going to turn around any second, march to the door, and throw it open. He must act quickly if he's going to save any shred of his dignity.

He stomps lightly in place to poorly create the illusion of his natural footsteps, and knocks on the door with the tip of his umbrella. Sherlock's footsteps boom across the flat, and the door swings fully open to reveal him, Dr. Watson still standing confused on the other side of the room.

Mycroft lets his mask slide into place, and gives his brother a typically unctuous smirk. "Ah, hello, brother mine. How courteous of you to answer the door," he drawls. "May I come in?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow on him suspiciously, his gaze flicking rapidly everywhere from Mycroft's head to his toes. He raises his eyebrows dispassionately in response, privately pleased that his little brother can't quite seem to determine whether or not he's been eavesdropping outside the door.

He watches the way Sherlock's jaw moves as he grinds his teeth, an old habit dating back to primary school. If Mycroft really wanted to get under his skin, he would take the opportunity to remind him how badly Mummy used to chastise him for it. Best not to push it, he thinks.

"What could you possibly want with me today, brother?" he spits the last word, and leans against the doorjamb in a deliberate fashion as to block his way through.

Mycroft's eyes roll extravagantly. Back to being difficult. Back to the real world. "Sherlock—"

"Oh, come off it. Just let him in," Dr. Watson sighs from where he's crouched by the window, gathering the scattered sheet music from the carpet where Sherlock had presumably dropped it in his haste.

"No! Why?" Sherlock cocks his head as if actually waiting for a valid reason. Good God, he should've just slipped the file under the door and been done with it, Mycroft thinks.

"Because," Dr. Watson grunts, levering himself back to his feet and glaring at them both in turn. Mycroft blinks, mildly offended by the accusatory look. "I'm not in the mood to watch you two bitch at each other over the threshold for the rest of the day. At least do it in the flat, for God's sake."

Sherlock reluctantly moves aside to let him pass and makes his way towards the leather chair facing the one Dr. Watson sat in before. He sits as if lowering himself onto a throne, crosses his legs, and steeples his hands beneath his chin.

"Great," Dr. Watson says. "Tea?" he directs this towards Mycroft, who merely inclines his head with a wan smile of gratitude in response. Once the doctor has disappeared into the kitchen, he makes a move to sit in the seat across from his brother.

"No," Sherlock states crisply just before his bum hits the cushion, and Mycroft gasps indignantly, mouth floundering unattractively for a moment.

"Pardon?"

"John's chair."

"Oh, you have got to be joking,"

Sherlock gives him a brief rictus grin, uncrossing his legs to lean forward over his knees. "We both know that I rarely joke, brother dear. Not that you would know one from the massive stick permanently stuck up your arse."

Mycroft sputters at the sheer indecency, wishing again for a moment that Mummy were there to reprimand him. He briefly shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Sherlock is always able to bring out the most childish parts of his personality, and Mycroft always, always lets himself get caught up in a futile argument, which only ever serves to entertain his brother's juvenile hunger for conflict.

Before they can antagonize each other any further, Dr. Watson strolls back in the room, pausing and looking back and forth between them with expectantly raised eyebrows. Mycroft's cup of tea is steaming in his left hand. "Um, I didn't know how you take your tea, so I just kept it simple. Wasn't sure if Sherlock's affinity for copious amounts of sugar was specific to him or if it ran in the family, so…"

He holds it out to him and Mycroft takes it with a tense smile, opting to stand over next to the mantle lest his brother attack him like some kind of feral dog defending its territory. But John doesn't sit, just stares at him quizzically.

"Mycroft, why don't you take a seat, make yourself comfortable?" He gestures to his chair across from Sherlock's with a smile, seeing as every other surface formerly known as a sitting area seemed to be covered with books, file boxes, and various other miscellaneous items that could probably all be classified as junk.

Mycroft shakes his head politely in response, though his feet are throbbing from his extra time on the treadmill that morning. Sherlock scoffs, "You sit, John. Trust me, he doesn't need to sit on his fat arse any more than he already does. I suppose if he really had to, he could sit on the floor like a dog." He chuckles dryly at his own joke as he sips at his lukewarm tea.

Mycroft feels his ears go hot with instant rage, but before he can open his mouth Dr. Watson has already taken control of it, and his posture and demeanor morph into something else, in a way Mycroft has not yet seen. His spine goes ramrod straight, and the look of calm disbelief he shoots Sherlock not only makes Mycroft himself want to take a step back, but has Sherlock looking at the floor in a rare display of instant regret.

"Sherlock Holmes," Captain Watson says in a frighteningly level tone. "Enough. That was inordinately rude, and I know your mother has raised you better. I will not have that kind of petty, childish bullshit said to any guest of mine. I don't care if he's your brother, he's our guest. Apologize, now."

Sherlock looks up to him in indignant disbelief, but Dr. Watson merely blinks at him in silence. Sherlock sighs, face scrunched up as if he'd bitten into a lemon rind. "Mycroft, I'm sorry I called you a fat arse and compared you to a flea-ridden beast." Mycroft balks at him. He isn't actually sure Sherlock has ever apologized to him except for at the behest of their mother, and even then, never so quickly. He looks to John with an unusually red face, seeming flustered. "Happy now?"

John takes a breath, and his posture relaxes. He shakes his head exasperatedly, but it's obvious he has put the Captain away, his service no longer required for this particular conversation. Mycroft swears that past the residual anger, he can see the reluctant beginnings of a smile on the doctor's face. "It's like having mental patients for children with you two twats, I swear. Mycroft, just sit already for God's sake."

Nobody argues this time around and Mycroft takes a seat, opening up his file and starting in on the case he'd brought them. John chooses to lean against Sherlock's chair instead of any other surface, which Mycroft notes with a bit of intrigue. Sherlock stays otherwise quiet, only rolling his eyes when Mycroft mentions the amount of legwork involved. Dr. Watson nudges him good-naturedly, and Mycroft is quite astounded at the level of comfort present between the two. Sherlock especially had never been so lax and adjustable with anyone; not with anyone Mycroft had ever met. Hell, he thinks, the last time mother chastised him, Sherlock had ignored her calls for seven months just out of spite. With John Watson, though, they were back to laughter and secret looks within minutes. Very, very intriguing, indeed.

When he finishes explaining the details of the case and holds the file out to Sherlock, he predictably doesn't take it. Instead, he turns his head to the side with a scoff and crosses his arms over his chest. So, John Watson is almost immediately forgiven for veritably spanking him, but Mycroft will apparently have to wait as long as anybody else for Sherlock to even look at him.

Dr. Watson stands to full height with a sigh, and Mycroft realizes the man had seamlessly relaxed to sit on the arm of the leather chair, very nearly in Sherlock's lap. Mycroft's eyebrows arch upward. He holds his hand out and Mycroft places the file in it. "Don't mind him. Probably just needs to be put down for his nap," he says, playfully kicking the side of the chair Sherlock sits in. Sherlock huffs disgracefully at the comment, but Mycroft sees him turn his face pointedly away, his cheek turning up slightly.

Mycroft stands with a sigh, straightening his waistcoat absently. "Suppose I shall leave it to you, then. Best of luck, Dr. Watson," he says gravely. "I'll speak with you later, Sherlock." Unsurprisingly, he receives a moody huff in return and nothing more.

Dr. Watson groans and holds the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if he has developed a sudden headache. "We'll call as soon as we have something. Thanks, Mycroft," he calls, and Mycroft waves over his shoulder. He passes the threshold and leaves the door cracked as it had been before. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and when he looks at the screen, sees there is a brand new text message from Jameson.

Is everything alright, sir? It reads. Well, isn't that the loaded question of the decade, Mycroft thinks dryly.

He glances up through the crack in the door and sees Dr. Watson toss the case file down on the coffee table before walking over to roughly ruffle Sherlock's hair. Mycroft blinks in astonishment. Sherlock tugs his head away in annoyance and tightens his arms over his chest. "You're an utter arsehole, you know that?" Dr. Watson comments casually.

"Mm. Yes, just as you are an unbelievable idiot," Sherlock snaps, but his voice lacks the usual scorn.

Dr. Watson only shrugs, and says, "Like I said. Arsehole."

"Idiot."

There is silence for all of five seconds, before they glance at each other and begin laughing in unison. Dr. Watson flops into his chair with a sigh and rests his head on his fist. "So, do you want to watch something on the telly, or do you want to play me another song, hmm?" Sherlock's face turns red and he reaches for the remote control, turning the television on. The doctor grins mischievously when Sherlock refuses to make eye contact.

"Let's hope we can find something other than that horrible Jeremy Nile show," he grumbles.

"It's Jeremy Kyle, you twit. And you love it, don't pretend you don't."

A scoff. "I most certainly do not."

"Do so!"

Mycroft shakes his head and looks back to his phone, heading down the staircase and away from the bickering men in the flat. Who would have thought that all it takes to control Sherlock Holmes is a stuffy little army doctor with distasteful fashion sense? Mycroft is beginning to see now, despite himself, what Sherlock sees in him. Perhaps he isn't so ordinary as Mycroft had originally believed.

Everything appears to be quite alright, yes. Heading out now.

-M.H.

/

Thank you for reading, and staying with me as I take forever to upload this story. Please, please send me some reviews. They mean the world to me! ;)

-thegoatlady