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[series]: [BBC] Sherlock
[character]: Mycroft Holmes
[character history / background]: here! Aaaaand his most appearances are also summarized here: [1], [2], [3], [4], if you’d like even more details!

[character abilities]: he can not only meet his brother ego trip for ego trip, but he's occasionally also won better marks in douchebaggery. In his spare time, he apparently rules the world and promotes umbrellas as the ultimate high end male accessory.

Grey-cell wise, Mycroft seems to have very sharp observation and deduction skills (perhaps even more so than does Sherlock), as well as overall fond feelings for purely theoretical exercises and long term strategy. That he is in the habit of passing on tasks to his brother and to his subordinates from Intelligence, while bemoaning the legwork, might suggest that he lacks the energy, patience and inclination for actual investigation.

[character personality]:

If one sibling traditionally gets the brains, and the other the charm, then there must have been a point in time and space when tiny Mycroft Holmes looked his newly born brother straight in his bright eyes, tickled his tummy, then said with great affection, "...no."

While it's very possible that neither Holmes brother is a fully functional social being, Mycroft seems to have found some merit in playing the part – and in playing it well. He defaults to courtesy as both an asset and a weapon, and he networks seemingly without trouble. Why, he even manages the occasional tender apology for having to, ever so sorry, he deeply regrets it - suggest his interlocutor should face, well, torture.

Sadly, these kind of conversations, along with his impatience, obstinacy, touch of snobbery, penchant for irony & even... occasional fit of childishness when riled by Sherlock... all contribute to taking him that many steps away from his otherwise well deserved Miss Congeniality award. Mycroft Holmes is the perfect man to work, scheme, or drink with; he might just not be the one you’d want to talk to.

It’s actually implied that Sherlock attended the Mycroft Institute of Higher Sociopath Learning, whose motto is the Jedi/stoicism-honoured cliché of "Feelings are for the weak." Advanced seminars at this fine institution include talks on why emotional involvement clouds good judgment and should be cast aside; why caring is never an advantage; and why romantic relations are the bane of all logical existence. Please don't worry, with the help of the Mycroft program, hard work and perseverance, anyone can become an automaton in under thirty days (or your money back).

Questionable methods aside, it's unfortunately quite possible that this utilitarian perspective on life was put together by Mycroft as a... defense mechanism (whether for his own sake, for Sherlock’s is entirely up for debate). After all, the Holmes brothers are repeatedly shown as incapable of fully relating to either social norms, or to people, while rationally understanding both what attachment is and what prompts others to it. Rationalizing this failure to connect might reek of self-indulgence, but it also seems like the only option that allows Mycroft Holmes the conceit that he’s not psychologically flawed, but "different." In the end, there's only so much even the most brilliant of minds can do in a human context, if he accepts that his very nature opposes a full understanding of humanity.

In Mycroft's case, while this emotional detachment didn’t earn him a full divorce from morality, it's fairly clear it left ethics and he no longer on speaking terms: he is shown as not above (having others handle) torture, murder, intrusion, deception, or manipulation. He seems to find that the end justifies the means – particularly since, in his line of work, said end involves the welfare of a nation. It’s noteworthy that he’s willing to abuse his power to hush up the part Sherlock played in compromising (inter)national security in A Scandal of Belgravia; likewise, that he (stupidly) used information about his own brother as a bargaining chip against a deranged criminal who was very obviously both capable and willing to later make the most of it; and, given his reassurance that he’d been thorough about making sure Irene Adler was dead this one time, it's not impossible that he played a hand in the arrangements that saw to her amateurish wannabe execution.

In spite of that, Mycroft usually plays within the system, learning the rules of the game, bending them, then creating a new set that favours his purposes – but never quite abandoning the insider's perspective. Peace, order and traditions, however oddly acquired, matter.

He is very aware of his quick, sharp intelligence, but doesn't seem to derive much satisfaction from flaunting it on a regular basis – the 'opponent' has to either be worth it, worth ridiculing, or worth just a little bit of personally delivered humiliation. But have no fear! Whatever maturity points he may have won through that little bit of restraint are quickly rescindable - the man has the kind of (quiet) arrogance that would have won him an honourable mention in the "And then the Gods Bolted Him Down a Notch" section of Ancient Greek mythology. The trouble is, Mycroft's - spoiled. He's so used to everything going just as planned [TM] that he doesn't seem to really think of such circumstances that might get out of his control. For all that he's aware of Moriarty’s genius, that he knows the man is waiting (and baiting) for the slightest advantage over Sherlock – Mycroft seems to have assumed he couldn't be outsmarted and plays the (very poor) game. To his credit, he is often quick enough to take responsibility and try to (however awkwardly and manipulatively) fix his miscalculations, but... at the end of the day, the undeniable truth is that, not unlike the average people he seems to hold in some condescension, Mycroft Holmes is fallible.

Speaking of weakness, there's one that stands out from many kilometers away: for all that he talks a good talk about the pointlessness of affection, Mycroft cares rather deeply for his brother. He checks up on Sherlock's whereabouts and welfare often, knows him well enough to predict a number of his actions, and even arranges for a convoluted cover up so that his brother'll be spared grief over Irene Adler's alleged murder. And yet Mycroft also frequently calls on his Sherlock to give up everything else and take on a case, and then (however unintentionally) sacrifices his brother's security – and doesn't even provide an apology in person for it. Even beyond this heavier instance of betrayal of trust, their bond was never... traditionally tight: when in the same room, they mostly chewed each other out, and contact beyond the 'necessary' didn't even seem to include a courtesy call during holidays. Mycroft named childhood feuds and attendant resentment as the source of their conflict, but no further details were ever given. One of them took the other's toy cadaver and never put it back in the nursery, possibly.

[point in timeline you're picking your character from]: in the aftermath of The Reichenbach Fall, after Sherlock's final gambit.

[journal post]:

[ private cellphone outbox (4) | bounced back ]

contact: 'anthea' | 14:09:38

Assume everything compromised within 48 hours.

contact: 'anthea' | 14:10:14

Preempt execution footage with declaration of death within 72.

contact: 'anthea' | 14:11:27

My apologies to HRH for missed billiard, please.

contact: 'anthea' | 14:11:41

Thank you.

[ public network post | also text! ]

I take it we can't all reconcile our small differences with quantum mechanics promptly enough to honour dinner reservations in a parallel universe?

More the pity.


[third person / log sample]:

This is how the game will play: Mycroft Holmes will have missed a treaty of interest to – shall we say, maybe – global security in 45 seconds.

This unpleasant incident will mean a number of consequences: papers will go unsigned, an armed conflict will continue on another continent, planes will be held from take off, presidents will have to revise their monthly schedules, and the CIA will –inevitably - sulk.

More importantly, there will be a good deal of spam in Mycroft’s phone inbox.

Mr. T.T.J of Copenhagen will call to leave a message within the hour: three times without fail, the fourth short and staggering, the fifth only casually desperate – because diplomats of Mr. T. T. J’s standing, Mycroft has come to realize, never assume patriotism as a personal calling. The best they can manage before international crisis is the polite sense of urgency of a retail professional whose 9-to-5 schedule has been tragically and indefinitely dragged into unpaid overtime. Mycroft has a fondness for Mr. T.T.J's unobtrusiveness: here is a man who knows his place on the board and who only just so happens to be ruling a country while at it.

Mr. L.P. of Kolding, T.T.J's primary secretary, will leave a message eleven times, eight of which spent in apology, the ninth verging on insult. There are often faint traces of ink on Mr. T.T.J's dominant hand from signing papers fresh from print – something any proper secretary will discourage, unless he only gives his superior official copies of his documents at the final hour. Given that Mr. L.P. has not been dismissed on grounds of incompetence for over five months, this must suggest a habit of doing and redoing Mr. T.T.J's papers until they meet a private standard – a perfectionism and anxiety that will prompt Mr. L.P. to be rather unforgiving of Mycroft's unmotivated absence from their rendez-vous in Denmark. Mr. L.P. will only call Mycroft eleven times, because his twelfth will be to the EU, screaming murder against Britain's indifference.

(Mr. L.P. of Kolding will have to be sent a case of fine liquor and a dinner invitation upon Mycroft’s return. Mr. T.T.J won't hold office forever, and fretful underdogs have a habit of becoming fearsome successors. )

Mrs. B. M. de F. of Bruxelles will call thrice, because Mr. L.P. will prove that cumbersome and because one has to stall when checking whether Mycroft Holmes isn't, perhaps, resolving war somewhere. But, Mycroft remembers, Mrs. B. M. de F wears her blazer dark, fit and snug with a stiffly ironed collar and Université de Louvain cufflinks always on both sleeves. She must therefore be a good old girl, proud of her traditions - and good old girls wouldn't gossip to the U.N. Secretary-General before having a chat with MI6.

The gentlemen and ladies of MI6, who are perfectly aware Mycroft Holmes would never miss the signing of a treaty he has singlehandedly elevated from political disgrace, won't be calling at all.

They will, if anything, take their time with a very long drink.

Then, they will wonder whether Mycroft hasn't suddenly taken ill (improbable, he is watched); whether he hasn't been abducted or executed (impossible, he is guarded); or whether he hasn't mysteriously taken leave on count of depression owed to... mourning.

However much of a secret to society at large, Mycroft Holmes has, in fact, only just lost a brother.

And there are aspects of grieving that kinder, if not better persons have told Mycroft can drive a man to a sort of madness. He has thought – hoped distantly, maybe – he might experience something like distress: that he might fall on his knees, rip something from his clothes or his hair, and finally, inexplicably break (and be done with it). People grieving are always pitied, always excused, and when neither pity, nor excuses are forthcoming from a live audience, mourners can simply claim them. Brilliant. Self-indulgent, but brilliant, and somehow less... bothersome than this lucid acknowledgment of everything that's been gained, but mostly lost.

Of course Sherlock's death is a matter of the conditional, not the circumstantial. Mycroft is the remaining living relative: he will see the body, he will investigate adequately, because Sherlock, well - Sherlock wouldn't be beyond the dramatics of a purely public suicide. Sherlock would devise a perfectly proper ending to all of this, Sherlock –

...Sherlock would see himself killed, if only just to spite him. To slap him against the face with the reality that there are games and games and games, and sometimes (only sometimes), even Mycroft Holmes loses. Sherlock would not drag on the sentimentality of a speech on betrayal, Sherlock wouldn't point a finger and blame him, no, no, no. Sherlock would be perfectly aware that any fighting words between them would only give Mycroft the ground to become angry – that anger would wash away his... guilt. Sherlock would know that the very best revenge he could ever hope to take on his brother is to leave Mycroft to his own doubts.

Sherlock is utterly childish like that. And as revenge strategies go, Mycroft must admit, this would be brilliant. Also self-indulgent, and also brilliant.

Because he does understand, contrary to the good Dr. Watson's expectations, that on some level what he did was 'wrong' (that all rational miscalculations take a moral edge when lives are involved). But Dr. Watson's vantage point happens to be very blessed – very narrow-minded and very blessed, like that of most plebeians, because his only, limited concern is for the way in which what he does now can impact a future event. He does not have to think, like Mycroft does, of a multitude of possibilities beyond logic and causation. No. Not at all. Never. Dr. Watson doesn't quite grasp that politics is less like the mystery and great adventure with which Sherlock and he bother. Those have a clear beginning, an end, a plot, an officer Lestrade waiting to give his hand in help, and newspaper headlines quick to declare that In the Battle of Good VS Evil, Evil Has Been Defeated. Politics, Mycroft has learned, is more like playing blind chess on multiple boards, where a fortunate move in one game can land you in checkmate in another. At the (inter)national level Mycroft defends, it's all as much about deciding which battle to throw and which to win, and about knowing, as the woman had said, when you are beaten.

Zoom out, Dr. Watson, and it's all fairly simple. Somehow, in the greater scheme of such things, Sherlock can be an asset, and a sacrificial pawn, and Mycroft's brother - all at once. That this isn't intended disloyalty, only economy and error and... and strategy. But Dr. Watson doesn’t understand that. No, Dr. Watson doesn't understand much of anything, really. And Sherlock never cared to understand. Like that brilliant (and self-indulgent, but brilliant) madman, Moriarty, he fell to the trick of fascination before Alexander's qualm: once the best opponent has been conquered, what more is there to live for?

You fool, Mycroft sometimes wishes he'd taught his brother the hardest of all lessons, It's never about the opponent and always about the game.

And the game has rules of priority.

It's not about figuring who's relocated Mycroft now, and where, and how, and why, and what his odds are for escape or release.

It's not about remembering details, deciphering the character of Denmark treaty officials and predicting their courses of action, or about wondering, briefly, how to later make amends.

No. It's about fighting for mobile coverage and sorting through his bloody inbox for a message from his men at the morgue, the men who'll check up on his brother’s body for him -

And maybe, what the game's about isn't grieving, but grief.