Archive of Our Own

People were idiots, and Mycroft's minions were no exception. Sherlock steered clear of his brother's office to the best of his ability, but sometimes, his presence was unavoidable. Today, for example, he was desperate to see the back of a banal, unimaginative espionage case. However, due to matters of national security, his verdict had to be delivered here, within the institutional, old-money wealth of Westminster, rather than the comfort of Baker Street or, better yet, by text message.

He flicked his tail in annoyance, scowling at the screen of his phone and trying to ignore the way several different individuals in bland-but-expensive suits stared at him. Subtly, of course, but to him they may as well have gawked. The frequency of Felisians within the human population was moderately high: one in ten thousand or so – practically mundane. There was no need to gaze at him as if he were an exotic creature in a zoo.

Only John's company stopped Sherlock from actively berating the staff in Mycroft's outer office. A few well-placed words illuminating various affairs, scandals and unsanitary habits, and the place would be deserted. However, John would give him that look of rumpled disapproval that never failed to stir the shallow reservoirs of Sherlock's guilt. No, better to avoid upsetting his flatmate, especially after the thing with the liver in the fridge that morning.

'You can sit down, you know.' John gave him a faint smile, jerking his head to the chair next to him. 'All that pacing's making people think you're up to something.'

Sherlock glanced at the torture device in which John was currently sprawled. 'Bucket seats,' he explained dismissively, dashing off a text to Lestrade demanding a new case before flicking his phone in his palm and slipping it into the pocket of his Belstaff. 'Not ideal for those of a tailed persuasion.'

John's expression did that strange twist: a half smile-cum-grimace, as if he were berating himself for failing to consider Sherlock's physiology. It wasn't that John forgot, exactly, but familiarity with Sherlock's form meant he had a tendency to dismiss the relevance of his differences. He always seemed surprised when Sherlock reminded him of some inconvenient incompatibility, like unsuitable furniture or the abomination embodied by hats.

Sherlock's ears twitched at the memory of having one crammed on his head as a child. Muffled hearing and itchy wool against sensitive, velveteen fur. No one had tried to put a hat on him since, not after he'd bitten the nanny responsible.

'Funny.'

'What is?' he raised an eyebrow, swaying idly where he stood.

'Well, you'd think Mycroft would be more considerate. I mean he is your family, or is this a new angle in the weird war of attrition you two have going on?' John folded his arms and stretched out his legs. 'Just another way to get under your skin?'

'No doubt my brother would like you to believe otherwise, but I'm not a petty man, Doctor Watson.' Mycroft's smooth voice came from the oak-panelled doorway to his office, polite and emotionless to a fault. His gaze darted in Sherlock's direction as he lifted one eyebrow, daring him to argue. 'Nor am I so juvenile. Won't you both come in?'

Sherlock snorted in disbelief, sharing a brief, knowing glance with John before stepping into the inner sanctum. It was a canvas, something created with meticulous precision to provide all the reassurances a visitor would need. It reeked of professional antiquity: wisdom through the ages. Totally fake, of course, just like Mycroft.

'It's the Bulgarian Ambassador,' he said without preamble, perching on the arm of one of the wingback chairs and crossing his legs at the ankles. Partly, he did it for comfort, but mostly he wanted to highlight the difference between himself and his next of kin. His tail was left free rather than curled uncomfortably in the seat, the light was such that he knew his pupils would be oval, instead of human and round, and his sneer pulled his lips back to reveal sharper-than-average canine teeth: he was everything that Mycroft was not. 'He's the buyer of your dirty little secrets.'

'Missile deployment strategies are hardly “little secrets”, Sherlock. I already suspected as much when I gave you this case; I'd hoped you'd be able to discover the identity of the seller, but I suppose –' Mycroft fell silent as Sherlock threw a USB pen onto his desk, where it skimmed to a halt by his brother's palm.

'One of your underlings who goes, at the moment, by the name of Hugo. Like your other peons, he changes how he introduces himself every week, but Lucas Jacobs is on his birth certificate.'

Slowly, Mycroft picked up the small storage device, saddened displeasure twisting his mouth as he turned it over, scrutinising its alien presence in his tidy work-space.

Sherlock sighed, already bored, his gaze skimming around the room in search of anything new. The whole place was remarkably bland. Even Mycroft's desk was practically empty, containing a sleek computer, a blotter, a fountain pen and one photograph in a frame, angled carefully away from prying eyes. Sherlock couldn't see it from here, but John, who was making himself scarce by feigning interest in the contents of the bookshelves lining the walls, stared at it with undisguised intrigue.

'The information about Hugo is classified. How did you get access to it?'

Sherlock peeled his gaze away from his flatmate, his face locked with indifferent disdain. 'None of your business. You asked me to solve your case, and I have. Remember your side of the agreement, Mycroft. No interference in our lives – unless I ask for it – for the next two months.'

His brother's lips pursed, giving the impression that he was suffering from bowel discomfort, but he eventually gave a reluctant nod. 'As you wish, Sherlock, but do call Mummy, won't you? I'm sure she'd love to hear from you.'

'Unlikely.' Sherlock turned to go, his tail lashing once in a swipe of triumph: a gesture he knew his brother wouldn't overlook.

'Goodbye Sherlock, Doctor Watson.' Mycroft's voice was flat as he nodded in farewell, already reaching for his phone to deal with his breach of security as they slipped out of the door.

No one called out to them, and Sherlock set the pace as he strode from the building. John kept up with ease, clattering down the marble steps and holding his silence. It was only when they stepped out into the sunlight that he spoke, squinting against the glare as Sherlock hailed a cab.

'All right, so you're probably going to take the piss about the fact I'm only asking this now, but why isn't Mycroft like you?' John shoved his hands in his pockets, tipping his head down and looking up at him. It was an annoyingly endearing habit, one which John had used with increasing frequency over the past couple of months, much to Sherlock's chagrin. 'Don't get me wrong, I noticed the two of you were different when I first met you, but I always assumed you were –'

'The odd one out?' Sherlock asked, a mirthless smile tilting his lips. 'A common assumption. What made you change your mind?'

A taxi pulled up in front of them, and John slipped into the back, shuffling all the way along so that Sherlock had room to get comfortable. Normally, he preferred to lie on furniture, or curl his feet up under him and sit back on his heels to give his extra vertebrae additional space, but that was impractical in vehicles. He had to compromise and bear the discomfort as best he could, leaning forward as he perched on the edge of the cab's seat.

John quickly gave instructions to return to Baker Street, glancing at Sherlock for confirmation before settling back and rubbing his palm over his knee. 'The photo on his desk. It's of – well, I'm assuming your mum and dad.'

Sherlock hummed in agreement. 'Yes, there is a strong resemblance, especially between my father and brother.'

'Except not. Your parents were both Felisian, and the genetics...' John trailed off, waving his hand vaguely. 'Okay, they're fairly complicated, but Mycroft should be like you. Ears, tail, the works. Why isn't he?'

Sherlock squinted, his brow wrinkling as he considered his answer. There was no lie he could give that John would accept, but he doubted Mycroft would be happy if Sherlock provided the truth. Not that it mattered; his brother's peace of mind was of little relevance. John's openness and friendship on the other hand – well, that meant more to him than he was content to admit.

'He was, once,' Sherlock replied at last, his voice quiet so as not to reach the cabbie. A quick glance in John's direction showed that he was twisted in his seat, equally rapt and baffled.

'The moment Mycroft was legally an adult, he underwent surgery to remove his tail and ears. It was painful, and not without its side-effects, but that, along with the dental work, cartilage prosthetics to mimic human ears and the use of contact lenses to hide the nature of his pupils, meant he lost almost every outward trace of his Felisian heritage.' Sherlock shrugged, remembering the day Mycroft came home after the treatment. It had been a slap in the face, because if his brother was willing to go through all that just to be normal, then how could he see Sherlock as anything but repulsive?

'I don't – I – I know there are medical procedures for that kind of thing,' John stammered, his features pleated with a frown. 'But why would he do that?'

'Why does Mycroft do anything?' Sherlock asked, sighing at John's confusion. 'To advance his career in his chosen field. Firstly, despite their prevalence, Felisian characteristics are distinctive. They make people look twice.'

'I did notice you were getting stared at. It wasn't negative attention, though.' John's shoulders hunched, and he turned to glare out of the window. If he was attempting not to sound sullen, he failed miserably. 'Most of Mycroft's aides couldn't take their eyes off you.'

'Precisely. Mycroft deals in secrecy and power. He didn't want to stand out. The other reason is equally logical. It's relatively easy to stifle facial expressions, but most of our other features act as tells, giving away our emotional state. I learnt control. Mycroft simply disposed of what he saw as his weaknesses.' Sherlock glanced up as the cab came to a halt in front of Baker Street. He leaned forward to pay the driver before climbing out, raising his voice so John could hear him. 'My brother wanted to blend in, so he took steps to do so. I'm surprised he keeps a picture of our parents, though. It seems strangely sentimental.'

John wandered around the cab to the door of 221 and shoved the key in the lock before standing aside to let Sherlock pass. 'He's clever, not heartless,' he pointed out. 'I guess just because you change what you look like, it doesn't mean you change who you are, or where you came from.'

'How profound,' Sherlock murmured, pulling out his phone and glaring at the blank screen. No messages from Lestrade, and that meant no new cases. With a huff, he trotted up the stairs, placing the device on the kitchen table and shrugging out of his coat. John followed, slow and thoughtful, giving Sherlock a grim look as if he wanted to ask something but wasn't sure where to start.

'Spit it out, and put the kettle on while you're at it,' he ordered, his heart sinking as his friend obeyed, rather than protesting his commanding tone. 'John?'

'Did you ever consider it? Doing what Mycroft did?'

Anyone else of their acquaintance would have dismissed the idea before they gave it voice, no doubt assuming that Sherlock's animosity towards his brother would lead him to rebellion instead of emulation. John, it seemed, knew better and realised that their sibling dispute was more convoluted than most would believe.

Silence stretched around them, and John's face grew more lined, his lips pursing tighter with every passing minute. 'You don't have to say, if you don't want to. I just –' He shrugged, his face crumpled and hurt, as if the very idea of Sherlock walking Mycroft's road of reinvention was painful to consider. 'I never thought it was something you'd do.'

John turned his back, making tea with steady hands as Sherlock hesitated. His lack of response had been rather telling, but he deeply suspected that John was drawing the wrong conclusions. When he needed them the most, words rarely came easy, and Sherlock took off his jacket, pitching it over the back of the chair before grabbing John's wrist. Firmly, he guided the hand in his grasp towards the base of his right ear and the faint, jagged scar at its root.

John's entire body went rigid in surprise. Until a few weeks ago, they barely touched at all, and though Sherlock hadn't said they were off limits, John restrained himself from laying a finger on his ears or tail. A particularly aggravating case had changed all that. John had bullied Sherlock into a friendly embrace of comfort, one which had ended with the two of them sprawled on the couch together, Sherlock's purrs unashamed as John stroked his head.

Since then, the boundaries between them had suffered a steady erosion. Yet it was always John who reached out. This was the first time Sherlock had initiated anything, and even if it was about demonstration rather than affection, it didn't feel any less significant.

He shoved the thought aside, dismissing it as sentiment as he stepped into John's personal space. Perhaps John had noticed the scar before and not realised its cause, but now sadness dimmed his eyes as he charted the path a knife had once cleaved through Sherlock's flesh.

'What happened?' he whispered, abandoning the tea and all pretence of uncertainty as he pulled Sherlock's head down into range, parting hair and fur so he could visually assess the tissue.

'I was twelve, Mycroft was nineteen. He'd had the surgery about eight months prior, and then buggered off to university. He came home for the summer and we started to fight. Stupid sniping at first, but –' Sherlock shrugged restlessly, jolting in surprise when John's voice flew forth, harsh and furious.

'Are you telling me Mycroft hurt you?'

Sherlock reacted instinctively, whipping out of John's grasp. His tail bristled and his ears flattened defensively. 'No, of course he didn't. Mummy would have murdered him.' He straightened up, folding his arms across his chest and forcing his body to do as he commanded. 'I did it to myself.'

He shrugged, feeling exposed as John stared at him, looking horrified and confused in equal measure. 'Well, sort of. Mycroft was being superior, acting like he was better than me because he looked so ordinary and I was still –' He waved a hand towards the top of his head in vague indication before letting it fall. 'I grabbed a letter opener and held it against my ear. It was just a threat. I said anyone could carve themselves up if they wanted, and that he was an idiot for thinking otherwise. He tried to rip the knife out of my hand, I struggled and...' He trailed off, staring at the floor before meeting John's gaze.

'I didn't intend to hurt myself. I was merely trying to upset him.' The memory of his brother's denial, a roar made all the louder by terror, rang through his head. They'd both wept that day, Sherlock from pain and Mycroft from grief – though whether it was for what Sherlock had almost lost or what he himself had given up, Sherlock still wasn't sure. 'It worked.'

'Of course it bloody worked,' John breathed, cuffing a hand over his face before reaching out, bold and utterly unapologetic. With a few well-angled shoves, Sherlock found himself in the living room, lying on his front on the couch while John hunkered down at his side. He expected John to chastise him, but professional probing gradually took on a comforting slant as John ceased exploring the old trauma and instead began to smooth over soft fur, slow and repetitive. 'I'm surprised it's still attached.'

'They're remarkably resilient. A few stitches and some pain-killers, and it was fine. I made Mycroft promise not to tell our parents. We put together a story, and no questions were asked.' His breath left him in a rush as John's clever fingers dug in a little harder, making his shiver with pleasure. 'I did think about it though, later, doing what he'd done.'

John's ministrations stilled in his hair, and Sherlock groggily lifted his head to blink at him. 'What stopped you?'

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock shifted his head, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye. 'The whole point was to allow my brother to blend in – to become something generic. Do you honestly think, that even looking like you – human all the way – I'd manage to be just like everyone else?'

A huff of laughter escaped John's lips. It was quiet and a little strained, but full of mirth all the same. 'No chance,' he replied, his smile softening before he cleared his throat. 'I'm glad you didn't follow in Mycroft's footsteps,' he said at last, reaching out to gently tweak Sherlock's other ear.

'Why's that?' he mumbled, frowning in disapproval when John returned to the kitchen, his intrinsic need for a cup of tea no doubt rearing its head.

'Because you're arrogant, tactless, self-absorbed and brilliant: a species unto yourself, half the time.' Sherlock propped himself up, shooting a glare in John's direction, one which faded as John caught his eye and smiled. 'But you know what? I truthfully couldn't imagine you any other way. Tea?'

With a hum of agreement, Sherlock flopped back down, the sinuous length of his tail curling along his back as he hid a smile in the sofa cushions. John was a sentimental man of contrasts, caring yet lethal. He was of moderate intelligence, limited guile and loyal to a fault. All qualities which allowed him to stand in their flat and say, without a single qualm, he wouldn't want Sherlock to be anything but himself.

In the darkness below Sherlock's ribs, a fragile realisation bloomed: the feeling was mutual. If someone said he could change John, make him more logical or alter his key traits, he'd turn down the opportunity in a heartbeat. They were, both of them, less than content in their own skin at times, but in each other's eyes, there was nothing lacking.

Hopefully, that would never change.