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Mycroft was already on his way out. Hand on the doorknob, umbrella in the other, the Holmes family dignity still intact — though hanging by a thread. But then he stopped. He didn't turn round fully — just enough for his profile to be silhouetted against the yellowish light of the hallway
''Can you apply the ointment yourself, or is your autonomy yet another one of your delusions?''
The silence that followed was so absolute you could hear dust settling on the furniture. Sherlock, still leaning against the fireplace, felt every muscle in his body contract. The teacup trembled slightly in his hand
''I'm not going to dignify that with a response''
''You already have, by not responding''
Mycroft twirled the umbrella between his fingers, an old habit Sherlock loathed. Twirl to the left. Twirl to the right. The polished wooden handle gleaming
''I ask as a matter of efficiency'' Mycroft continued, his voice perfectly modulated, as though reading a budget report before Parliament. ''The anti-inflammatory tablets will take approximately forty minutes to take effect. The topical lidocaine, however, acts within seven. You are visibly unable to sit down, which suggests the location is... posterior.'' He paused, minimally, almost sadistically. ''Areas of difficult access without significant contortion. And considering you haven't eaten in at least twelve hours and are dehydrated, your motor coordination is likely compromised''
Another pause. Mycroft rested the umbrella on the floor, both hands on the handle, like an aristocrat appraising a painting
''It's a logistical offer, Sherlock. Not a sentimental one''
Sherlock went red. Not from embarrassment — Sherlock Holmes did not blush from embarrassment — but from an indignation so profound that the blood vessels in his face short-circuited. The flush crept from his neck to his ears in a fan of humiliation that Mycroft registered with the detachment of a naturalist observing a rare phenomenon
''You are suggesting'' Sherlock's voice came out strangled, the words wrenched out one by one, ''that I allow you, my brother, the man I have actively avoided for three decades, to put your hands on my—''
''I shan't put my hands on it. I'll wear gloves. I brought them with me''
''You brought gloves'' Sherlock blinked. ''You came here prepared for this. You knew''
''I deduced it'' Mycroft opened his overcoat and withdrew from an inside pocket a pair of disposable blue nitrile gloves. The packaging was discreet, but there it was. ''Do you honestly think I wouldn't notice? Three days without leaving the flat, John away, the cushion you never use placed upon the armchair, your unnatural posture. Really, Sherlock, you insult me''
Sherlock opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again
''I would prefer surgical intervention''
''Don't be dramatic''
''I'm being dramatic? You are standing in my sitting room offering to apply ointment to my haemorrhoid!''
''Perianal venous thrombosis'' Mycroft corrected, with an almost imperceptible satisfaction. ''If you're going to suffer, at least use the correct medical term''
''I hate you''
''Feeling duly noted and filed'' Mycroft sighed, a long, weary sigh, originating from somewhere very old. ''Sherlock, I have seen you nearly die at least four times. Once in childhood, three times in adulthood. I have seen you in withdrawal, in delirium, in collapse. I saw you vomit in an alleyway in Belgrade and pretend it didn't happen. Do you honestly think an anal inflammation is going to rattle my composure?''
''Mine will. My composure is rattled. It's in tatters. It's—''
''Seven minutes'' Mycroft interrupted. ''Seven minutes and you'll have relief. The discomfort you're feeling now, that throbbing pain that prevents you from thinking clearly, that makes you blink more slowly and breathe more shallowly, seven minutes and it will become bearable. You'll be able to sit down. You might, perhaps, sleep. Refusing help out of pride when help is here, available and discreet, isn't strength. It's stupidity''
Sherlock stared at his brother. Mycroft stared back. The clock went tick. Tock Tick Tock
''You won't tell anyone'' Sherlock's voice came out low, defeated
''I won't''
''You won't hold this over me in future arguments''
''That would limit my repertoire. But I accept the terms''
''You won't make jokes. You won't smile. You won't emit a single sound that could be interpreted as satisfaction''
''Naturally''
''And if you breathe a word of this to anyone,'' Sherlock stepped forward, eyes blazing, ''I swear I will find out what you're hiding in the safe in the Diogenes' secure room and disseminate it across the internet. Do not doubt me, Mycroft''
''I never have''
They stood there, face to face, two men who knew each other so well that any word was redundant — and yet there were far too many words
Sherlock looked away first. He went to the side table, picked up the tube of ointment and held it out in his brother's direction without looking at him. The gesture was brusque, almost violent, as though he were handing over a weapon
''Just get on with it''
Mycroft took the tube. He tore open the glove packet with a dry rip
''You'll need to position yourself. Turn round. Leaning over the sofa would be ideal''
Sherlock ground his teeth. The sound was audible
''I'm not lying down''
''I didn't suggest you lie down. Bent over will suffice. Unless you'd prefer the kitchen table''
Sherlock went to the sofa. He turned his back to Mycroft. His hands gripped the upholstered backrest so hard his knuckles went white
''This is a nightmare,'' he murmured
''It's medicine.'' Mycroft pulled on the gloves. The snap of latex against his wrists made Sherlock shut his eyes tightly. ''I'm going to need you to lower your trousers''
''I know what you need me to do''
''Then do it''
Sherlock took a deep breath. Once, twice. His hands went to the waistband of his pyjamas — an old pair, blue, that John had threatened to burn. His fingers hesitated
''Mycroft''
''Yes?''
''If you make a single comment...''
''I won't''
Sherlock lowered his trousers. The bare minimum humanly possible. Exposing only what was necessary, with the surgical precision of someone ceding minimum ground
Mycroft approached. The tube was opened. A soft sound of ointment being squeezed onto gloved fingertips
''I'm going to begin''
''I don't require a running commentary''
''I'm being polite''
''Don't be''
The first touch was cold. The ointment, not the fingers — but Sherlock flinched all the same. His free hand gripped the back of the sofa harder. His forehead pressed into the upholstery. His eyes were shut, squeezed tight, as if he could will himself elsewhere through sheer force of will
''Breathe'' said Mycroft, his voice oddly softer
''I am breathing''
''You're holding your breath. That will make everything worse''
''Nothing could make this worse''
The application continued. Mycroft worked with the efficiency of someone filling out a bureaucratic form. Precise, economical movements, no unnecessary contact. The ointment was applied in small amounts, spread carefully, covering the inflamed area without pressing too hard
''It's very tender'' Mycroft commented, in a clinical tone
''I know it's tender. It's been tender for three days. That's why I'm here, with my back to you, with my trousers down, while you massage my—''
''I'm not massaging. I'm applying. Precise terminology''
''Shut up, Mycroft''
''Silence won't accelerate the process''
''But it will preserve what remains of my sanity''
Mycroft didn't reply. He continued the application. The tube was squeezed once more. Sherlock felt the cold of the ointment again and bit his lip
''You know, Sherlock'' Mycroft spoke, and his voice was different now. Slower. Closer to something that might be called human, ''when we were children and you had chickenpox, I was the one who put the lotion on your back as well''
''I didn't have chickenpox''
''You did. You were five. High fever. Bedridden for a fortnight.'' A pause. The application continued, but the movements were almost gentle now. ''Nanny wanted to do it, but you wouldn't let anyone touch you. You'd scratch, bite, scream. You'd only accept it when it was me''
Sherlock said nothing. His forehead was still pressed against the sofa, but his eyes were open now, fixed on an invisible point in the upholstery
''I don't remember that''
''You were feverish. Delirious. But I remember.'' Mycroft paused, withdrawing a little more ointment. ''You used to call me Mycky. You couldn't pronounce my whole name''
''That's a lie''
''It isn't. You said, 'Mycky, it hurts.' And I said, 'I know, I'll make it better.' And you believed me.'' Another pause. ''You believed in me, back then''
The silence that followed was different. Not the silence of embarrassment. The silence of an old memory floating between the two of them, fragile as dust
''Why are you telling me this?'' Sherlock's voice came out muffled against the upholstery
''Because I want you to know that this isn't new to me. Looking after you.'' Mycroft squeezed the tube one last time. ''Despite your heroic efforts to make the task impossible''
''I don't need looking after''
''Evidently''
The application finished. Mycroft straightened up, removed the gloves with a snap, disposed of them in the kitchen bin. He returned, washing his hands at the sink, the sound of the tap echoing through the silent room
Sherlock was still bent over the sofa, his trousers still down, his forehead still pressed to the upholstery. He didn't move
''You can get dressed now'' said Mycroft, drying his hands on a handkerchief drawn from his pocket. ''Unless you're enjoying the draught''
Sherlock pulled up his trousers in an abrupt motion. Adjusted his dressing gown. Turned to face his brother, his face still flushed, his eyes still blazing — but there was something else there. Something that wasn't anger
''This never happened'' said Sherlock
''What?'' Mycroft pocketed the handkerchief, picked up his umbrella. ''I don't recall a thing''
''I'm serious''
''So am I'' Mycroft walked to the door. ''Don't forget the tablets. Forty minutes. And the prunes, Sherlock. I'm not joking about the prunes''
''Get out''
''I'm going''
But before he left, Mycroft stopped. He didn't turn round. Just stopped, his hand on the doorknob, his silhouette cut out against the hall light
''Mycky'' he said, quietly, almost to himself. ''You haven't called me that in thirty-two years''
And he left
Sherlock was alone. The ointment was beginning to take effect — a numbness spreading, easing the throbbing pain. He could feel the relief arriving, wave after wave, like a sigh his body had been holding in for days
''Mycky'' he repeated to himself, his voice laden with a directionless anger. ''Utterly ridiculous''
But there was something else there. Something he wouldn't name. Something that made him look at the empty teacup, at the bottle of tablets, at the cushion still resting on the armchair. Something that, were John to ask later, ''Did anything happen while I was out?'' he would answer ''Nothing'' — and it would be the greatest lie he'd ever told
Because Mycroft, the insufferable brother, the British government, the heartless brain, had just applied ointment to his haemorrhoid
And, worse: had done it with the same naturalness with which he'd applied chickenpox lotion thirty-two years ago
Sherlock sat down — carefully, on the cushion — and for the first time in three days, closed his eyes without pain
''Damn you, Mycky'' he murmured
But there was no venom in his voice. There was only exhaustion. And, perhaps, an almost invisible thread of gratitude