The Puppeteers (Mycroft Holmes)

Prologue

Act One - The Devil's Waltz. Prologue.

Mycroft held a cigarette up with a gloved hand. Sherlock turned towards him slightly.

"Just the one." He offered.

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"Merry Christmas." He smiled and rummaged for a lighter.

"Smoking indoors isn't that... One of those law things?" He bent to light the cigarette and then took a deep draw.

"We're in a morgue." Mycroft murmured, looking out at the snow that should have felt peaceful. "There's only so much damage you can do." He paused a moment, focusing on his brother as he exhaled. "How did you know she was dead?"

"She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up."

Mycroft's brows rose. "Where is this item now?" It could very well be of use to him, especially if it was the phone.

Sherlock avoided him, turning to look through the glass doors on the far side at a grieving family. "Look at them." He muttered. "They all care so much..."

Such a shame to have to die on Christmas, Mycroft thought suddenly.

"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock wondered.

Sometimes.

"All lives end." He replied. "All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage... Sherlock." He turned towards his brother, seeing past him and into the snow. He had learned his lesson painfully and suddenly. It still sat like a cold pit in his chest and burned in his hand from time to time. He tensed his hands and resisted the urge to glance down at the offensive object that sat on his finger. Caring had never helped anyone. It hadn't stopped those bright brown eyes from rolling back and it hadn't stopped them from staring blindly. If anything, it had only made him weaker.

Sherlock made a sound of disgust, drawing him out of his memories. "This is low-tar."

"Well! You barely knew her."

Sherlock's laugh was short and humorless. He walked away. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "And a happy new year." He called, waiting for his brother to leave before pulling his phone out. He sighed and made a call.

*

"Are you expecting me to beg?" The Woman burst out.

Mycroft glanced up from her mobile to watch his brother carefully. He appeared relaxed and almost... Indifferent. Because it took too much effort to hate someone when they had cut you to the core. Because your only weapon after that was to the let them think you didn't even care enough to hate them.

"Yes."

The Woman swallowed. "Please. You're right. I won't even last six months." Her voice trembled just slightly.

Sherlock turned towards her, his eyes flat. "Sorry about dinner."

The final blow, the one thing that allowed him to leave with his dignity and his armor, though tarnished and broken, seemingly intact.

Mycroft turned away, wondering how different it could have been had he been able to do the same.

He sighed and closed his eyes briefly. He could all too vividly remember when he had allowed himself the weakness that had so recently broken his brother and the woman behind him. It hadn't ended well. In fact, it hadn't even ended.

Not yet.