Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It smelled of burning. It smelled ugly, to a sore throat. Creature struggled to rise from the ashes. He was trembling. He didn't want to turn around. Creature burned everything on its own, there was nothing left, there was nothing to turn around.

Bright red and blue lights ran across the face. The creature turned to them. So many emotions... Huddled in a black shadow pile, it huddled behind the ambulance. In front of him at the remains of the house stood a younger boy, he made strange wet sounds, and an older boy who put his hand on his shoulder.

Cold pierced his right side. Creature turned and growled. A thin girl with deep, inky eyes stared at him intently. The creature was staring at her. "Shut up," it said without sound. "Shut up or I'll end this whole thing."

The skinny girl turned away from him.

Creature snuggled closer to the car. So, having lived in one place for so long... He tried to remember how this older boy counted time. But the thoughts didn't come. Creature is tired. Creature has lived here for so long, and now it's time to seek shelter again. Grow up again. Again, he will have to migrate again. Seek shelter again, equip everything. How much trouble.

There was no strength. The creature regretted that it could not feed on these fears, tears, and grief that now reigned around. At least with the tears of a little boy. But the Creature could only grow, taking roots ever deeper.

When the Being opened his eyes again, it was already a grey morning. Everyone left. The creature, becoming like a thin piece of morning mist, slowly crawled to the nearest burnt tree. And slowly flowed into it, relaxingly settling in the trunk.

Sleep overcame him.

***

Three years later, too quickly for his taste, he was awakened by desperate blows against the trunk. The creature drowsily looked out: below stood a little boy who reminded him so much of someone - he drowsily did not really understand who - and this boy was pounding on the trunk, sobbing.

—  Hey, Johnny-boy! —  behind them in the distance there was a nasty drunk voice. —  Get your skinny ass over here!

The boy clung to the bark and cried. He didn't seem to have the strength to run.

—  Johnny, motherfucking freak, I'll get there!

Heavy fast steps. Little crying boy. The creature felt roots regrow over time. And inhaled.

Little Johnny did not understand how it happened —  a drunken father walked right next to him, not noticing. And then a small flame lit up behind him. Johnny turned around and froze. Out of the darkness, a strange little golden fish swam towards him.

—  Hi, — Johnny whispered.

***

— I saw them, Mycroft, — his brother was completely impossible to understand.

Mycroft's heart was breaking to find Sherlock in this den, in this condition. However, for the first time in many other… “occasions”, as the successful Oxford graduate called them, Sherlock was truly happy. Not capricious, not excited. And desperately light in his happiness.

— Whom? — Mycroft asked grimly.

— Fishes.

— Wh..Whom?

— Fishes.

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock caught his uncomprehending look, and, smiling slightly, folded his arms at his sides, shaking them like fins:

— Fish...

— Oh, shut up, for heaven's sake.

Sherlock chuckled stupidly.

On the way to the hospital, he told his older brother how well he found the exact dosage, that he saw those beautiful fish from childhood again. Mycroft darkened with every word. After making sure that his brother was under the supervision of doctors, he got into a recently bought car and angrily pressed on the gas.

After so many years.

He couldn't believe it. This strange period is left so firmly behind. So it was logical to forget everything. For him, it makes sense. Don't talk about it at every turn and earn yourself a place next to your sister! The brother was really upset for a long time (and Mycroft missed the calmness of that world), pouted and blamed everyone except for the firmly forgotten sister. But as time went on, it seemed to Mycroft that they had become ... normal. As much as possible. Uncle took custody of them. His parents…in fact, they weren't much different from how he remembered them. And the fact that Sherlock was addicted to the natural sciences ... Well, then.

Specifically, this hobby of his could not be approved. Drugs. It turns out that all these "experiments" — in order to see the damn fish of the damn creature — whoever this creature was, he just abandoned them both!

He still remembered the way.

He braked angrily at what had once been their home. For so many years, the remains of stairs were covered with stormy vegetation, but still stood. Not thinking that the old steps could fail, Mycroft angrily flew up to the remains of the second floor.

— It was you who brought him to this state! You are guilty! Damn freak! Because of you, he is now a drug addict! Are you happy?!

He yelled into the void - and silence was his answer.

— Someday he will die from an overdose - I'm sure a psycho like you just wanted it! He will die! Will die! Bastard! For heaven's sake, why did we meet you!

He screamed and cried, and he was not so scared yet. He fell to his knees. And hunched over. Silence enveloped him.

Chapter Text

Something dripped onto the surface. Something woke up.

Like a giant shark in troubled waters, the Creature moved his head, trying to find the source of the movement.

There was something.

Something was beating convulsively, like a caught fish. Something made some evil sounds.

To rise to the surface above was to be bound again. So troublesome. So unnecessary.

For almost twenty years, little strength had been accumulated, and the Creature understood that as soon as he went upstairs, to the screams, he would not have time to accumulate and collect anything. It will be troublesome again.

But it was something beating and beating and beating in desperation.

And then suddenly it went quiet.

Like a huge shark, it swam in muddy, yet unformed water. There were no forests yet, no worlds in this dullness, only a muddy void of particles. There were no more forests. Except in dreams.

It cut through the fabric of reality like a shark's fin.

“Well, well, mister, — a calm voice rang out. — Are we breaking traffic rules? Exceeding the speed limit, and the place - the house is old, and it looks like it will fail. Mister, neither mother nor father would have found you here if this roof had collapsed”. The creature swam closer. “They wouldn't have looked,” — someone said bitterly. “Well, no, they would have looked, — the voice stubbornly repeated. — Well, let's go up. You seem to be completely out of your mind. My missus. has a hot kettle. Will you have tea?" — "Fuck tea." — "Well, fine. Here we go”

The sound of departing cars.

But it wasn't those words, it wasn't the sadness in the younger voice that made the shapeless shark freeze. A dark, cold, ink-dirty trail stretched behind the cars.

The creature that had no form widened its eyes angrily.

John was packing. He wanted to leave. From home, from the country, somewhere warm, like in his childhood dreams. Somewhere where the sky is blue, the earth is yellow. Well, why not the Middle East. True, there will be neither fish nor songs. Those fish that once swam to him from the darkness...

From below came the sounds of vomiting and cursing. John shivered and zipped up his bag. Well, the truth is, the drunk old man won't be there either.

Mycroft closed the dossier and nodded to Anthea. This man was strange. Mainly because five years ago, his last digital or any other information trail was cut off. Colleagues consider him strange, but quite familiar. With a strange sense of humour and, as newcomer Sally Donovan noted, a very strange look at times.

“Yes, you understand, — she laughed at the audio recording (as if chatting with an old friend, the role was brilliantly performed by Anthea),— he looks as if trying to gather in his head what is happening. Ha! We laugh - among ourselves, of course - that he drank too much yesterday and doesn't remember anything. Although, you know, — the voice became serious, —in truth, he does not drink with us. That's the problem. And sometimes he walks around as with an aquarium on his head, afraid to spill it, and sometimes, you won’t believe it, it’s even creepy”.

The car was delivered.

On the way to the Yard, Mycroft prepared paperwork allowing him to safely pick up his brother, who was (again) high. Of course, a cell is better than a den full of the very bottom of life, but it was not suitable for Sherlock's stay. Besides, no matter how guilty his brother was, who molested a certain Lestrade the day before yesterday, it was his brother.

And he definitely...

— …Not a murderer, — the strange inspector said with a calm shrug.

Mycroft glared at him.

— Why keep him in a cell then?

— He's not well. I'm not going home yet.

Mycroft frowned.

— I don't see the connection.

— You're a secret brother, — Lestrade wiggled his fingers. —  You're hard to find. I can't leave your brother alone. I can't go home with him either. — He met the elder Holmes's eyes, and the older Holmes's heart began to beat strangely. — Do you want to take him?

— I would like to.

Lestrade shrugged. They left the office and went to the elevator to the first floors.

Lestrade's cell phone beeped.

— Oh, it's already three o'clock.

Mycroft's skin was covered in a thin layer of goosebumps. He shrugged.

-— Are you cold? — Lestrade's eyes studied him indifferently.

— Not.

The brother was found in one of the cells. He was chewing something and intensely studied large pictures .... Eye? Mycroft cringed.

— Uh-huh,— he replied to the greeting without looking up.

His phone beeps four times.

— Aha! — He triumphantly, though slightly staggering, approached the slightly smiling Inspector. — Four! It's not yet four o'clock — and I've already solved your case!

The excitement with which Sherlock, confused in words, told about eyeball evidence ("Lestrade, I can’t believe you still believe that the eye retains the image of the killer on the retina!") something unsettled in Mycroft. He suddenly realised that Lestrade wasn't looking at the pictures Sherlock was poking him at, but was looking at him.

— Play for now, — he handed the shots to Sherlock without looking. He, not noticing the appeal, grabbed them and sat down again on the couch.

And Mycroft couldn't take his eyes off Lestrade's hazel eyes.

Chapter Text

— And what does all this mean? — Mycroft asked coldly.

— What is "what" and what is "mean"? —  asked the Creature, sitting in the chair of the inspector of Scotland Yard.

— Oh, stop it, — Mycroft looked him over, — I'm not a child anymore!

He stood at the window and smoked. The smoke was carried out into the street. The creature looked at him expressionlessly. Mycroft shrugged — he should have guessed that this "inspector" was just a front.

—  Why do you need it?

—  What is "it"?

—  Pretending not to understand, —  he put out his cigarette and turned to the Creature. —  Fat otherworldly bastard! —  He leaned on the table and slowly brought his face closer to the “inspector”. —  Decided to take him back to play? And what will you leave of him then? A pile of dirt, how do you like it? You almost killed him! And you... you...

The eyes looked still infuriatingly calm, and Mycroft could not stand it, hitting the table:

— He almost died! He forgot everything but your damn eyes, damn fish. He forgot about sister, about the fire and the house, but in each of his experiments I see your rooms, twilight and other nonsense. He got addicted to drugs to see you, and you bastard, you just left us.

He straightened up.

— Damn quit. Showed something magical and left us behind.

Mycroft took his papers from the table without looking at him.

— You won't work with him. Not a minute if I'm the one who decides. And... whatever you do to that poor Lestrade, let him go. You stole five years from a man.

And he was about to leave.

I just couldn't take a step.

And turned around in annoyance.

The Сreature was still looking at him completely emotionless. Mycroft felt uneasy, so familiar — and so humiliating. It's like he's back in the old days — he's a teenager and tells Uncle Rudy a secret about the worlds hidden in the walls, and Uncle Rudy condescendingly says that it's the psyche trying to cope with the trauma.

— Let go, — Mycroft said.

The creature shrugged, stood up, took the papers from the immobile Mycroft, waved his hand — and he almost fell, instantly gaining the ability to move.

And grabbed the papers.

— Give it back!

— No, - the Creature's voice was even. — You need all these papers here.

— What?

Mycroft even let go of the documents.

—  I have to take Sherlock to my place tonight. For some reason, you can’t just pick up and leave together. They tell me I need passes, permits, papers. They are clearly in your folder. Give them to me.

—  Sherlock is not coming with you.

—  Sherlock is coming with me.

—  Why all of a sudden?

Lestrade the Thing stepped in front of him.

—  Because you asked me to.

Mycroft frowned in confusion.

—  Then, at night. Screamed. Woke me up. Sit down here. Chair. They say that at such moments you need tea, but I drink coffee. Are you what?

—  I … what? Mycroft is completely lost. - Ah... Coffee is acceptable.

Lestrade left the office for the coffee machine in the office. Mycroft sat up, trying to remember when he asked...

And then he remembered how he screamed in the room until some kind policeman took him to drink tea ... The stairs in the house were fragile, but they supported his weight when he ran upstairs. The walls were black, damp, swollen like waves. Despair that he had nearly lost his brother came over him then, just as the pain of the memory came over him now.

A cup appeared in front of my eyes.

— Drink, — voice told him.

He swallowed some liquid.

Lestrade sank into the chair across from him with the same mug.

— I told you then that I did not expect you and did not need you. None of you, especially your sister. But I'm not in the habit of kicking out until it gets too much. All I wanted was for her to disappear that evening forever, but you tried so hard to save her.

He took a sip of coffee.

— I lost a lot in trying to pull you all out of the flames of my rage.

— What?

— It was hard, — Lestrade frowned. — And then you with your screams.

— Sherlock almost died that night. — Mycroft stared into his mug.

They were silent.

— You once said that I've been here for a long time. I forgot what "long" means in your words. But - for a long time. On that land, waves of people and animals alternated. But your brother was the first to notice me. Like a small bird, he rushed around the corners of that house, taking away something and visiting everywhere. And you were the first one to talk to me. I even forgot that I could speak.

He sipped his coffee.

— And it's still hard. I don't see much point in the words.

Silence. Mycroft gave him a break from words. Something inside told him that the Creature liked his brother. And that there were reasons for silence. And yet he was offended, betrayed. And chillingly angry.

—  Folder —  give it back, —  his eyes looked at him. —  Sherlock will go to my house.

Mycroft wearily placed the folder on his desk.

—  I will watch over you. Wherever you are, —  he said coldly and held out a card. —  This is my phone number. If you need, you just call. I hope you know how people here do it.

He got up and turned around at the door.

—  What happened to Gregory Lestrade?

—  To whom? —  for the first time doubt appeared in the tone.

Mycroft waved his hand.

—  Who is this detective? Did you…possess him?

The creature frowned. He searched for something with his fingers, trying to understand. Then he relaxed.

—  No. It's me.

—  You are the silhouette of darkness.

—  Until you asked me one day to be visible, —  the Creature replied, and a second later Greg Lestrade's brown eyes looked at Mycroft. Tired inspector drinking coffee.

—  I'll be watching, - Mycroft did not believe.

As he walked down the corridor to the elevator, he was watched by the inspector standing at the door. He sighed the smell —  the smell of burning was clearly hovering over the footprints.

The clock showed four o'clock.

Chapter Text

The list of rules was clearly written on a piece of cardboard, which they called a business card. He carried it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

There were four rules:

“If you don’t know what to say, be thoughtfully silent. Or at least just be silent” (he came to this rule very quickly: in court you can’t say that a black dirty sticky oil trail curled behind the killer ... so silently wave in the direction of the guilty one - and let the team itself collect evidence why he is guilty. Sherlock made it easier at this point).

“Don't text. It's better to call” (it was much more difficult to read the intentions in the text than in the voice, often he could just listen to the sound of speech without delving into these confusing words. With Sherlock, this point became more difficult).

“Remember to blink and do normal things” (for some reason people have a strange attitude towards those who do not blink, and joint coffee helps to seem normal, like everyone else)

The fourth rule was recently written in a different handwriting.

“Don't remind him who you really are” (if he really could - the younger one was completely subdued by his grazing, not paying attention to the suppliers of this food).

Lestrade turned on the light. He was much more accustomed to being in natural light, but a burning lamp in the early morning and evening was the most common thing he had to do. Dark windows 24/7 is "Boss, you're weird again" - "Thank you, Sally."

Interacted with water in the bathroom, and drank coffee. He studied the rules again, put them in his inside pocket, and left the house for the Yard.

Mycroft Holmes knew his rules by heart, and if someone had the fantasy to write them down, a solid volume would come out. And even a few. Like Britannica. He updated and supplemented previous statements with clarifications and references. How to behave at work with staff. How to tell the Prime Minister that he is a fool, so that he himself understands this and would increase his salary. How to always keep a squad of doctors on hand to help Sherlock. How to serve tea to mom so that she climbs less into his life.

With the firmness to follow the rules, he wrote another one: “never think that something will just remain in the past.”

Sherlock Holmes was a man of reason and science. Everything that fits into a logical chain and is not refuted by experience or intersecting data is true. Anything that can't be proven is nonsense. It was about the speed at which milk was spilled, about Sally Donovan's crush. Recently, a new wing appeared in his mind palace: “I haven’t figured it out yet.” Only Lestrade lived there, who was ... strikingly ordinary (but not a spy - boring!), empty and attractive. In addition, the above person for some reason allowed him to play in the Yard's sandbox. Not that it was weird. But a couple of reservations, a lingering glance, a sharp but carefully concealed social ineptness - all this did not allow Lestrade to be transferred to the wing of the castle called "Clear" or to the wing "Bullshit", where, for example, Anderson languished, along with superstitions, an important date the battles of Eric the Red, which, like Anderson himself, could sometimes be needed, and then throwing them out did not make sense at all.

John Watson's rules used to take up four pages. Then they were reduced to a piece of paper from a notebook. Now his rule was simple and fit into one sentence: do not die and do not let fellow soldiers die.

Chapter Text

The Creature had one of those «meetings» with Mycroft in a small cabinet in place called Diogenes Club. It went like it goes everytime — dry talk about Sherlock, no passion, no sharing something personal, until that strange phone call.
Creature — Lestrade (he started to like this name, besides, he did not have any before) — knew what he had to do. That was one of the Secrets Calling, and Mycrift told him to keep himself to himself while he, minor-position-the-British-Government, answered and never told anyone what he might hear. So, Lestrade, recognising the melody of the call, decided to make coffee for himself. He almost left the room, heading into the small kitchen, when something gave him a strange dangerous feeling down his spine. 
He came into the kitchen, set the kettle on and glanced gently over his shoulder. Mycroft stood near his chair, all his pose was about big tension and something ... Lestrade narrowed his eyes — some strange dark substation dripped from the phone to Mycroft’s shoulder. He returned to his coffee. 
Lestrade saw it a few times before. Once Mycroft returned from some place, and they met at Lestrade’s office. The Creature felt something wrong at the first second when a red haired man came into the doors. Something was deeply wrong about him, and after a few minutes Lestrade noticed that — his shoes, used to be shiny as usual, were in the black mud. Lestrade’s old wild nature alerted. This black viscous mud, which stayed on his floor, dried up for about three days, and went only on the fourth. He noticed that mud again after months — it was on Mycroft’s papers. Each time it alarmed The Creature, attracted attention, and everything inside him was on high alert.
And now it dropped from his phone. 
He returned into the room with two cups of the coffee. Mycroft ended the call and sat on his chair deeply in his mind. 
 — That.
Mycroft raised his head and met with the eyes. 
 — Thanks, — he took the cup. 
 — This call. Who was it? 
Mycroft gave him a half surprised, half angry look.
 — You know, you can’t ask me about that. That is the High Secret Call, as I told you before. What did we do when I had the High Secret Call? Right — we keep yourself to...
 — I don’t care what you decided, which country it is, or what institution, I...
 — You asked «who was it», that’s clear evidence that you cared about it and I can’t tell you, as you know. 
Mycroft frowned. Lestrade took a deep breath. Damned language... It was so hard sometimes.
 — Look, I’m not good at it. Let’s try another way. 
 — Well, let’s try. And, please, be short on it — I don’t have much time for you and your mutterung.
Lestrade’s eyes get darker.
 — Don’t talk to me like I am one of your people. 
Mycroft waved his hand.
 — God forbid! We all knew that you are some old creature from the past, etcetera, with huge powers, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And there we are, humble mortals. So — stop it and try your other way. I have a pretty little time for you now. I have a crisis to resolve.
Lestrade started to wonder how that man, who was such a nice boy some years ago, starts to be so irritating... 
 — Give me your phone. 
 — What?! You’re mad! This is...
 — High Secrets and... what did you say? Etsite..ra? Give me it now, — his voice turned more deeply with a growl at the end. — Now. 
 — I will not!
 — You, idiot! I don’t care about your secrets! I just want to have it in my hand! That’s all!
 — For what purpose? — Mycroft pressed hand with the phone to his chest.
Lestrade made a sharp jerk and grabbed a cell phone. He pressed other hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and kept him in the chair, while the younger man shouted at him.
Lestrade brought the cell phone up to his nose, inhaled (at this gesture Mycroft stopped struggling and screaming), carefully examined. Mud was everywhere on screen and smelled like an old house burnt down in fire. He gave the phone to Mycroft and sat in his chair. 
Mycroft took the phone and straightened his jacket.
 — Explain all this, — he said, voice cold like ice.
Lestrade took a sip from his cup. He was on the edge. He gave all his power and all his house to take down that girl, and after all she was not only alive, but somewhere near his man. 
 — You met with her, — he said.
 — Whom?
 — Your.. sister? 
Mycroft’s face lost its colour.
 — W-what? How do you... what?
 — I gave all to save you and your brother, all I have. But she is alive and you even met with her. 
 — But how...?
 — Mud. 
 — What? — Mycroft looked at his phone, clean and shiny.
 — You were able to see that many years ago, but now you have lost many abilities. Do you remember the black mud your sister played with?
 — Y-yes. — Of course, he remembered his scariest nightmare. He wants to forget, but he can’t. 
 — I saw it on you from time to time. And now it is on your phone.
Mycroft laid it on the table, startled.
 — Answer me. Did you meet with her? Did your brother meet with her?
 — Christ, no, — Mycroft said quietly. — He doesn’t remember he had a sister. 
Lestrade kept silent, and it pissed him off.
 — That’s not your business, but I’ll tell you. You keep saying how this was hard to you, you poor creature. And you never want to know how terrible it was for us! We were kids, for God’s sake! Kids, whose house was burnt, whose parents were lost, and nobody believed us. And who would be? «Hey, mister, can you take away my parents — they aren’t truly alive, you see, they are just a puppet made from the black mud, and, of course, I would be so happy if you will kill my sister — that nice girl near you, — because she is that mud puppet master». Uncle Rudy took her to prison on the island. I can’t tell you more — and I don’t want to. And if you will still say something about the world you lost or something, I’ll try to kill you, I swear. 
 — You can’t kill me.
 — No matter. 
Lestrade took another sip from the cup.
 — She is on the island, — he said. — But why did you meet her? You know how dangerous she is. Now is more dangerous than she once was. 
 — She is terribly smart. She helped us sometimes. 
 — She is terrible — I agree with that. 
Mycroft chuckled. They spent a few minutes in silence, finishing their coffee. Mycroft look at the clock and said:
 — I need to go.
They took the cups into the kitchen. Before he leaves, Lestrade stays near the closed door. When he started to speak, his voice was tired but calm.
 — I agree with you. We both lost our past lives in that fire. But for what reason did we have to lose something again? She is now very powerful. Be careful with her, you are still in danger. Maybe now you can’t see this, but deeply in your heart you can feel this.
Lestrade sighed and put his hand on the doorknob.
 — Put her away from other prisoners, if they are still alive, because I am afraid he already ate theirs. Take care.
And he left Mycroft alone in the room, totally confused and with ringing phone on the table. He picked it up:
 — Yes, lord Frederick?