[Now, that is urgent. Douglas stops in his tracks, studying Mycroft's expression: odd as this all sounds, his friend looks and sounds deathly serious.]
If we both arrived, then... then it is possible, I suppose. And-- [he folds his arms, brow furrowed,] how can he not be the brother you remember? Is there something wrong with him?
[when his eyes glance to Cyrus, there's something almost panicked there, the same frantic look that would be there after a night of furious research and study, the one that says he rifled through his very soul and came up with nothing better than what he has before him.]
He is Sherlock Holmes. Of that I am certain. But he is not my Sherlock. Not the man that you and I know. He's three years older, enough is varied in his looks and his voice, and he despises me more than my brother might for what he's been through.
[the last had been the most puzzling. why had his Mycroft behaved the way he did? there was no way to know unless he interrogated the man - the other self - as thoroughly as possible.]
He knows me, but it isn't me. I sound like I ought to be bundled up into the hospital for saying all of this, yet I swear to you, Cyrus, when all the facts are before me, the only conclusion is that we came from worlds that had enough similarities to make this so, but enough differences to render us strangers.
[Douglas hears out the entire explanation quietly, and without any judgment. Mycroft Holmes has never been given to flights of fancy-- not like this. Any skepticism he might've held has already dissipated; even if it hadn't, he couldn't bear to look at his friend with judgment when he seems so... rattled. Even alone together, with no prying eyes or listening ears, this is a side of Mycroft that Douglas rarely ever sees. It's simply unlike him.
Douglas takes a seat on the edge of his bed: arms still crossed over his chest, expression tight, pensive. He breathes out a heavy sigh, then, turning his eyes towards the younger man, gets the most important part out of the way first--]
I believe you, Mycroft. You may rest assured on that point.
[Although that doesn't do much to address the more glaring issue at hand. Douglas frowns.]
He truly despises you? [asks Douglas gently. Brothers should not despise each other. But he shakes his head, as if to clear his thought from his head and begin again.] Or, rather, the Mycroft Holmes he knows and remembers? Have you any idea what you... what he has done?
[it is unfathomable relief to hear Cyrus reassure him that he believes him. of course, he knows Mycroft would not deceive him like this, not with something so fantastical. it means they can move to the next part, how to handle this information that's been so strangely thrust upon them. for, naturally, it's only a matter of time before Sherlock learns about or meets Douglas.]
Well enough, based on the accusations thrown at me and what was said. Sherlock never living up to what he wants and refusing to do what he's told to, refusing to be molded. Saying his Mycroft has eyes and ears everywhere. "Trying to rewrite what is real" - that his brother lied to him for years about their mother. [their mother? god, how strange it is to say.] Information being hidden away from him that he's had to unveil on his own. In short, treated him as more an inferior colleague and not as his brother.
[and yet. one of those lives in his brain even deeper. Don't pretend everything is fine when it is not, and I would rather hear it from you instead of having to deduce everything myself. that's the one promise he can't keep.]
[There's a patronizing part of him that wants to point Mycroft back to his own words: see, my friend, what might happen should you never take your brother into your confidence? Mycroft doesn't need to be scolded, though, so he holds his tongue. His frustrations over magic had his friend burdened enough even before this odd development.]
So what will you do?
[The question is simple enough, but it's loaded no matter what Douglas does. This scenario is one he'd never have dreamed up in a thousand years. One thing, however, is still clear to him:]
Fantastical circumstances aside, he is still your brother. No matter what choices your other self may have made.
Edited (hit enter too soon rip) 2024-04-12 02:36 (UTC)
What I must, I suppose. What is due to him as a Sherlock.
[he folds his arms, exhales slowly, deflates some. the panic is over. now, the rebuilding.]
I offered to teach him to box when I knew not who he was. I have maintained that offer. I know not what the shape of our association will truly be, but...that will remain in his hands, in the end. He has asked that I do not make any attempts to shape him into someone else, so whether we interact as brothers or strangers rests in his decisions.
[his head drops forward, hanging there as if he was again a lad of twenty two.]
"A study in violet" is apparently his moniker on the devices, should you see it.
[another deep breath. recenter. look back up.]
If he chooses to interact with me in a less formal capacity, would you be amiable to meeting him?
Do you know, I think I have. He was concerned about seasickness. I had no idea it was Sherlock, of course; I gave him a couple of ideas for easy remedies.
[Frankly, Douglas is more concerned he'll fall in the water and drown. Again. It's difficult to separate the image of a teenage Sherlock from the grown man this one is.]
But I should be pleased to meet him. He may not be the brother you remember, but... somewhere, he is still Mycroft Holmes' younger brother.
[Which brings him to his next point. Expression softening, he leads, gently--]
What shape are you hoping this takes? [A beat:] You needn't tell me now, if you aren't sure.
[instead of answering, he falls to silence, looking into nothing as if it will unravel the spool of his mind and yield a clear answer. he does not want a replacement for his own brother, and this Sherlock would agree that such is an intolerable concept. but he doesn't want to be the adversary if it can be helped. that would benefit neither of them. finally, after a long contemplation, he responds.]
I can no more immediately fold him into my own familial tree than he can me. But I would like to be able to speak with him, when problems arise. It...strikes me strange, how his Mycroft treated him. I can only hope there was a greater purpose for it all.
[Douglas finds it difficult to believe anything could be worth such an estrangement. Rather than push that discussion-- it's not this Mycroft's fault-- he rises, then rests a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.]
If you continue to speak with him, I'm certain you'll be able to put that other Mycroft's motivations together. He is you.
[He gives Mycroft's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.]
Perhaps it'll give the two of you a new perspective on your own brothers.
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no subject
[Now, that is urgent. Douglas stops in his tracks, studying Mycroft's expression: odd as this all sounds, his friend looks and sounds deathly serious.]
If we both arrived, then... then it is possible, I suppose. And-- [he folds his arms, brow furrowed,] how can he not be the brother you remember? Is there something wrong with him?
no subject
[when his eyes glance to Cyrus, there's something almost panicked there, the same frantic look that would be there after a night of furious research and study, the one that says he rifled through his very soul and came up with nothing better than what he has before him.]
He is Sherlock Holmes. Of that I am certain. But he is not my Sherlock. Not the man that you and I know. He's three years older, enough is varied in his looks and his voice, and he despises me more than my brother might for what he's been through.
[the last had been the most puzzling. why had his Mycroft behaved the way he did? there was no way to know unless he interrogated the man - the other self - as thoroughly as possible.]
He knows me, but it isn't me. I sound like I ought to be bundled up into the hospital for saying all of this, yet I swear to you, Cyrus, when all the facts are before me, the only conclusion is that we came from worlds that had enough similarities to make this so, but enough differences to render us strangers.
no subject
Douglas takes a seat on the edge of his bed: arms still crossed over his chest, expression tight, pensive. He breathes out a heavy sigh, then, turning his eyes towards the younger man, gets the most important part out of the way first--]
I believe you, Mycroft. You may rest assured on that point.
[Although that doesn't do much to address the more glaring issue at hand. Douglas frowns.]
He truly despises you? [asks Douglas gently. Brothers should not despise each other. But he shakes his head, as if to clear his thought from his head and begin again.] Or, rather, the Mycroft Holmes he knows and remembers? Have you any idea what you... what he has done?
no subject
Well enough, based on the accusations thrown at me and what was said. Sherlock never living up to what he wants and refusing to do what he's told to, refusing to be molded. Saying his Mycroft has eyes and ears everywhere. "Trying to rewrite what is real" - that his brother lied to him for years about their mother. [their mother? god, how strange it is to say.] Information being hidden away from him that he's had to unveil on his own. In short, treated him as more an inferior colleague and not as his brother.
[and yet. one of those lives in his brain even deeper. Don't pretend everything is fine when it is not, and I would rather hear it from you instead of having to deduce everything myself. that's the one promise he can't keep.]
no subject
So what will you do?
[The question is simple enough, but it's loaded no matter what Douglas does. This scenario is one he'd never have dreamed up in a thousand years. One thing, however, is still clear to him:]
Fantastical circumstances aside, he is still your brother. No matter what choices your other self may have made.
no subject
[he folds his arms, exhales slowly, deflates some. the panic is over. now, the rebuilding.]
I offered to teach him to box when I knew not who he was. I have maintained that offer. I know not what the shape of our association will truly be, but...that will remain in his hands, in the end. He has asked that I do not make any attempts to shape him into someone else, so whether we interact as brothers or strangers rests in his decisions.
[his head drops forward, hanging there as if he was again a lad of twenty two.]
"A study in violet" is apparently his moniker on the devices, should you see it.
[another deep breath. recenter. look back up.]
If he chooses to interact with me in a less formal capacity, would you be amiable to meeting him?
no subject
[Frankly, Douglas is more concerned he'll fall in the water and drown. Again. It's difficult to separate the image of a teenage Sherlock from the grown man this one is.]
But I should be pleased to meet him. He may not be the brother you remember, but... somewhere, he is still Mycroft Holmes' younger brother.
[Which brings him to his next point. Expression softening, he leads, gently--]
What shape are you hoping this takes? [A beat:] You needn't tell me now, if you aren't sure.
no subject
I can no more immediately fold him into my own familial tree than he can me. But I would like to be able to speak with him, when problems arise. It...strikes me strange, how his Mycroft treated him. I can only hope there was a greater purpose for it all.
no subject
If you continue to speak with him, I'm certain you'll be able to put that other Mycroft's motivations together. He is you.
[He gives Mycroft's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.]
Perhaps it'll give the two of you a new perspective on your own brothers.