Chapter Text
Being disrespected is a harrowing experience for most. That doesn't change when the person has been imaginary before. In fact, we tend to crave acceptance and validation more than people who were born into this world. Even as we get accustomed to our new, physically-restricted form of being, we never entirely forget how we came to be. The feeling of not fitting anywhere isn't something a person forgets easily. I know I never did. I don't think I even saw myself as entirely human - I had no mother and father, no ancestors, and only God knows what kind of blood ran through my body, if it was real blood at all and not some sort of red goo.
However, sometimes, being disrespected is the lesser of two evils. You ask yourself, when? What makes a person overlook their sense of pride and appreciate someone else's disregard for their being?
And I'd reply... it can happen to you when you meet Mycroft Holmes.
a
"Come, Sherlock. A carriage awaits. Like I said, I don't have all day, and we have much to discuss." His voice echoed through the hotel lobby. It was stern and calm, but he radiated irritation. He had gotten up from the chair at the hotel entrance and urged Sherlock to follow him in an attempt to remove themselves from this unusual situation.
"You can say goodbye to your friend; I am sure he will find his way home without your assistance. Given he has one."
A low blow, you'd think - likely addressing my less-posh appearance. I was wearing my old attire again - the faded shirt and trousers were pretty comfortable, unlike Sherlock's tailored suits, and I preferred them most days. Mycroft had not looked at me even once since he had caught my attention, which was a clear sign of disdain. Yes, I was slightly offended by the remark, but he didn't talk to me - that was already a win I was willing to take.
I hoped I'd suddenly become invisible again. I was sure Sherry and I would find a way to be happy together even if I didn't have a body - we'd lived like this for fifteen years. We were professionals at imagining things! Trying to manifest that wish, I stepped back as if hoping to fade away into nothingness, only to be grabbed by the arm and pulled back by Sherlock.
"He does have one. He lives with me," he said casually, and for reasons I couldn't comprehend, he seemed all too pleased with himself! I presume he didn't quite grasp how much I dreaded a confrontation with his older brother and why. In the meantime, I had forgotten to breathe.
"I don't mind taking a walk-"
"You will do no such thing. Mycroft is to be a mere guest in our home. He can return to London anytime if he doesn't abide by our rules. Or he could book a room here - ours just got free, and he could afford it without the discount," Sherry said loudly enough for the whole lobby to hear. Then, he gave me the sweetest of smiles, only to avert his gaze a moment later and glance at his brother.
Oh, it was a game between the two. Sherry was challenging Mycroft. I'd seen this hundreds of times before and always enjoyed watching him contest Mycroft's authority, even if it meant putting himself in an awkward position. In another world, I would have smiled back and even applauded him for standing up for himself, but in this world, I was in no position to do so.
You see, Mycroft was intimidating to anyone who wasn't Sherlock or imaginary, and I no longer fit in either of these categories. He wasn't a vile man, but he was a man of endless resources, a man who had begun working for the government at an age at which most boys can't spare a thought on anything that isn't booze or sex: a genius, a prodigy, and the only man who could outwit Sherlock and make him look like a clumsy, ignorant kid without effort.
Mycroft was as cold as ice and as sharp as a blade. Willing to cover up the most prominent scandals at any cost, it was very easy to disagree with his dubious sense of ethics, but disrespecting Mycroft directly was something only Sherlock could allow himself to do. Mycroft was a man to whom the bigger picture justified all means. Casualties were a number written down in an old notebook, which he used to ignite his fireplace in the evenings. A man who had enough potential to rule or destroy nations but who was also loyal enough to serve ours.
And in the eyes of that terrific, remarkable man born for grandeur, I was but a stranger who had spent two nights in a single-bed hotel room with his little brother, likely tainting the latter's spotless reputation forever. It was a mess Mycroft would have to clean up. With tons of money, that is - he never did any actual cleaning. I needn't remind you that relationships like ours were not only frowned upon in Cordona but also utterly illegal in England, which was still Sherlock's home.
I wasn't ashamed of what we had going, but I was an enemy in Mycroft's eyes. Challenging him was foolish because he loved only one thing more than he loved power and duty: Sherlock. Anyone who posed a threat to his brother was to face the consequences, and any potential male beau was a threat with a big, capital T.
But it wasn't just intimidation that made me want to back away. I had known this man for fifteen years - enough time to become fully aware that he wasn't fond of the person called Jon. He had always tolerated my existence in Sherlock's life, but it had never been more than that. Concerned and likely out of his depth in the parental role which was imposed on him by the death of their parents, Mycroft indulged Sherlock a lot when it came to me. Yet I was nothing but a symptom of madness to him - a flight of fancy, a delusion Sherlock ought to overcome preferably sooner than later.
And yet, still, he was also the only person alive other than Sherlock who knew me. He was the only other person I had ever interacted with through my friend, and to say he hadn't shaped parts of me as well was ego-driven and self-deceptive. In a way, he was also family to me, even if he couldn't stand me. Over time, as the three of us lived and grew older together, a sense of hierarchy emerged. I saw him as my elder, whom I judged and respected in equal measure, and the last thing I wanted was to make him hate me even more than he likely did already.
Needless to say, the scales weren't that balanced for Sherlock. The older he grew, the more defiant he became, and the judgment long outweighed the respect. He was a rebel, if only because he could get away with it. While standing in the hotel lobby and doing everything to spite his older brother, Sherlock viewed my growing unease as an overreaction.
Introducing myself as who I was had already backfired once when I had been put in the position of having to interact with Vogel, so this time, I decided not to speak. I simply stood next to Sherlock, stared at my hands, and trusted he'd know best what to say.
After a while, Mycroft sighed. "Fine. We will do it your way." With these words, he turned toward the exit, very confident he would be followed. Nothing was fine, but he wasn't a man to discuss private matters in public.
Did I want to ride a carriage with him? Oh, at that moment, I'd rather have been boiling in a large kettle in hell with some carrots and celery, but despite how I felt, I couldn't abandon Sherry and let him deal with the consequences of our decision all by himself. Utterly horrified and uncomfortable, I approached the vehicle while holding Sherlock by the arm.
Somehow, this seemed to amuse him.
"Calm down, he isn't going to bite you - I won't let him," he spoke with unmatched confidence and smiled as if he wasn't talking about Mycroft but about Bud, the spice merchant, who had an aggression problem.
"He could let my body disappear, and not even you would find it, Sherlock," I whispered back, once again too aware of my own mortality. My words made him halt, and he looked at me with annoyance. I'd offended him. After a loud huff, he approached the luxurious carriage and opened the door, but he turned to look at me once more before entering.
"I doubt it would come to this, but if it did, I would gladly prove you wrong."
"Gladly? You would gladly look for my mortal remains? What a lucky man I am," I frowned, which earned me a raised eyebrow and a cocky smirk before he disappeared inside. With a heavy heart, I followed.
"It's been only a minute, and I am already plagued by the urge to claw at my face from sheer boredom," Sherlock sighed theatrically and leaned back. The carriage had just started moving through Cordona. It was an expensive thing and a possession of Mycroft himself. Black walnut lining met wine-red, velvet benches, which were more comfortable than most chairs and even a few beds. The satin curtains were drawn and shielded our eyes from the strong Cordonian sun. But of course, I couldn't enjoy the extravagance. I could only stare at my feet and make myself as small as my new (fairly bulky) body allowed me.
"Who are you?" The question roared like thunder, and my vision unfocused for a fragment of a second, so unexpected it came. Mycroft was finally looking at me, but what was I to reply?
"I'm-"
"It's none of your concern!" Sherlock snapped, his arm stretched to the side as if to serve as a wall between me and his brother. I could only look at him in awe - not because I agreed with his offensive approach (I saw it as self-defeating) but rather because the gesture touched me a little. Against Mycroft, he resembled a cat threatening a rottweiler with its claws, but it made me feel warm. When I realised he was most likely doing it because he knew I couldn't deal with the situation and that he hoped he'd redirect Mycroft's rage towards himself, I felt guilty about being a burden to him again.
But I wasn't going to let him fight our fight all alone! So, ignoring Mycroft for a moment, no matter how difficult it was to ignore this unmovable rock of a man, I took Sherry's hand and smiled at him.
"You don't have to defend me, Sherry. I can do that just fine by myself."
"What is the meaning of this?" Mycroft hissed, and while it was unclear if the handholding, the nickname, or both had outraged him, Sherlock jumped in.
"He is my partner. In romance. He is my romantic partner," he stated matter-of-factly and squeezed my hand. It wasn't like we had established what we were already, but he would say anything to irritate Mycroft even further, so I could only nod in return.
A groan filled the small carriage and made the thick air vibrate. "So you have finally gone mad. Is that what this is?"
"Do you mean like our mother? Would you like to send me abroad and tell the world I suffer from consumption as well?" Sherlock spat.
I will be entirely honest: this wasn't the direction I hoped this conversation would take. After Sherlock's cleverly weaponised remark, it derailed and ended up in a screaming match between the two. Accusations rained down like the icy raindrops from two nights before, and naturally, when we reached Stonewood Manor and entered the garden, they weren't nearly done. At least, I didn't matter for the time being. I could pretend I didn't exist again - the sound of their bickering was so familiar that I didn't even have to try hard. I was basically teleported back in the '70s the moment I heard phrases like "responsible adult" and "unscrupulous lackey".
It wasn't the first time, but it was exceptional nevertheless. There was a newly found rage in Sherlock - one I hadn't seen before, primarily due to the fact that Mycroft had kept Violet's illness a secret. Sherlock had bottled up a lot of his frustration over the course of the last two months, and it was finally boiling over. Yet, Mycroft wasn't the only one who kept secrets.
But how could I tell him everything when I believed he wouldn't be able to handle the whole truth? As I watched the quarrel unfold even further near some unfamiliar wooden crate in our garden (what was that enormous thing doing there all of a sudden?), I came to realise a terrible thing: we'd come to Cordona to find out the truth about her. Even though my transformation had posed a great distraction, Sherlock would soon apply himself to his ultimate goal. And when he found out about the way she had died, then...
"My name is Jon. I have been his friend for fifteen years," I exclaimed, overcome by intense desperation and the urgent need to make them stop yelling. Too many lies were placed on my shoulders, and I couldn't carry yet another one without buckling under their pressure. I succeeded - they stopped fighting, but the sudden silence was so oppressive that I believed I'd gone deaf.
"More importantly, I know you. And you know me. Indirectly. Somehow, I became a real person."
Nothing good was to come out of this - that was what the look in Sherlock's eyes told me. He stared at me, troubled by my confession, but it was too late to take it back.
"He is right," his voice quivered as he spoke. "It seems impossible, but he is..." Yet he couldn't continue. And how could he? Two months later, we still had not found an explanation for my metamorphosis. I closed the distance between us and put a hand on his shoulder to soothe his evident distress. No matter how disobedient and bold Sherlock appeared before his brother, Mycroft's opinion wasn't that irrelevant to him, after all.
"Let me handle this. I can do it on my own," I whispered. It concerned me, above all. I was done being Sherlock's burden to carry.
In the meantime, Mycroft hadn't said a word. He stood there, unshakable and composed, with both hands behind his back, and observed our every move. Shaky and with a racing heart, I stepped towards him, but before I could open my mouth and try to reason with him, he spoke.
"Is it money?"
"What?" I looked dumbfounded. The question made no sense in the context.
"I am asking what you hope to gain from taking advantage of my brother's delusions. Is it money? Or is it blackmail material? Have you taken pictures of whatever you've done in that room?"
"Neither! I-"
"Get away! Leave my home and my life!" Fast like the wind, Sherlock posed himself between us. His whole body was trembling, but it wasn't fear that caused this severe reaction. It was cold fury caused by Mycroft's appalling accusation.
But what had I believed would happen if I came out with the truth? Who would believe it? How massively had I messed everything up? At that moment, I felt like I had irreversibly destroyed our lives. In retrospect, I suppose we should have seen this coming. Mycroft had made up his mind about me long before I had spotted him in the hotel.
"It's my home, I own this house. I could have both of you removed if I wanted," Mycroft returned calmly. It wasn't a threat - he was merely informing us. Of course, I couldn't let it sit either way. His words had stung me badly.
"Do you think I would leave Sherlock if we were to end up on the street? I won't," I quavered. This conversation made me feel dirty and gross - like some rare kind of leech. But such thoughts had never crossed my mind! I couldn't make him believe my story, but it didn't really change anything for me. His mistrust only made our lives more difficult, but we weren't thinking about giving up. "I don't care for your money. You can't keep me away from him even if you offered me the whole world in return."
"He is right," Sherry, who had calmed down a little, moved beside me and mirrored my stance. "You are out of your depth. You should go home and leave us alone. You are unwanted here!"
After eyeing us thoroughly, Mycroft snorted. "Then go ahead. Destroy your life for a man. I had such high hopes for you, Sherlock, but in the end, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Soon, the beautiful carriage took off, leaving only the two of us behind.
"Just a little more," Sherlock grunted.
"It's easier for you to say," I replied, breathing heavily. "Want to switch positions?" My foot almost slipped, but I regained my balance before falling back, which would have led to my inevitable and excruciating death. "I need a break," I gasped once I had secured the feet of the large bed on the third step of the staircase. I still had to support it with my whole body weight, but that wasn't as difficult as having to push that enormous thing up the stairs. It was made from sturdy mahogany and weighed more than two cows. I mean, I assume it weighed more than two cows. I've never actually carried two cows.
Still, the realisation that the task would be more challenging hadn't changed Sherlock's mind.
"It won't fit through the door," I said for the tenth time. It was a nightmare to imagine dragging this thing all the way up, only to be forced to carry it back down when it didn't fit. Unlike Mycroft's room, ours only had a normal-sized door.
"Would you like to bet on it?" Sherlock replied, but his tone sounded angry and not at all playful. That didn't motivate me to bet on anything, and a joke replacing 'bet' with 'bed' seemed too out of place on that day.
The confrontation with Mycroft still lingered in Stonewood Manor. The moment the carriage left the premises, Sherry ran inside the house like a madman, heading straight to his older brother's bedroom. I followed him shortly after.
"I am done sleeping on an old, hard bed made for children!" He yelled. "This is my house! He doesn't get to claim the best pieces of furniture and then let them rot like he did with our mother! Actually, he doesn't get to have a room at all from now on."
I grimaced but didn't say a thing. Did I agree with the accusation regarding letting Violet rot there? I didn't, but there was no point in reasoning with Sherlock whenever he got so passionate. As long as he didn't do anything more dangerous than stealing Mycroft's old bed, it was best to indulge him.
Of course, being accused of being a sponge searching for blackmail material didn't inspire me to defend Mycroft, either. I needed a hot bath to wash away the filthy feeling of being accused of something this awful.
And like this, we ended up dragging Mycroft's gigantic bed up the stairs and to our room.
"I will turn his room into a laboratory. Or a library! Both would be more useful than anything he's ever done!" Consumed by the fiery speech, Sherlock let go of the bed and started gesturing and pacing around.
I felt myself buckle under its weight and yelled: "Please, hold the bed!" while my short life started flashing before my eyes.
Fortunately, he reacted on time and grabbed the thing by its headboard.
"Can we get this over with? I'm over this day," I whined once I realised I would live (for now). Sherlock obliged wordlessly. I suppose it finally hit him - anger wasn't a good advisor.
The bed did fit through our door, meaning I would have lost the bet either way. We positioned it next to the wall and then moved Sherry's old childhood bed down to Mycroft's room. All in all, the whole endeavour took us at least three hours, and once we were done, we were done.
At least the bed was remarkably cosy. Being able to sleep comfortably was going to improve our lives immensely.
But the distraction of hard, physical work only helped us this far. Sherlock was disappointed and hurt by his brother, and my spirit was utterly crushed by the events. The day passed in silence, and when evening approached, we didn't find ourselves in the mood to dine out.
Instead, we stilled our hunger with old biscuits and tea, and although I loved their taste, I found myself unable to stomach them at the moment. That had never happened before. Later, I'd find out that there was a difference between hunger and appetite.
"It's not your fault," Sherry eventually said. We had finally changed into fresh clothes, and he had taken upon changing my bandages - something we hadn't done in days. I was lucky that my wound wasn't infected despite all the neglect.
I sighed, "I don't know if I agree." I regretted being honest with Mycroft, for I didn't feel the truth had changed anything for the better. "But even if it's not my fault, this day couldn't have gone any worse."
"I beg to differ. We could have died on our way here, hit by lightning," Sherry joked, and although I wasn't in the mood, I was glad he was feeling a little better and smiled at him. At least all the destructive fury had mellowed.
I was deeply distressed because I didn't want to imagine a future where Mycroft was no longer a part of Sherlock's life. Despite the former's negative traits, I knew his love for Sherry paralleled only mine. I feared I had destroyed this.
"I need to take a walk," I said once he was done treating my wound, and silence had started creeping into the room again. Then I added, "I will not try to sleep in the gazebo again. I just need some fresh air. I will be back quickly."
Sherlock hesitated but eventually nodded in agreement. He disliked letting me go anywhere all by myself, and if I'm honest, I disliked being all by myself, too. Still, having the independence to have ten minutes for oneself was something we both saw as crucial if we wanted to lead normal lives. Acting as if I was still an ethereal being was contra-productive.
And like this, I left the house after giving him a short peck on the lips. That little gesture turned out to be the best part of my day. The large crate still stood tall in our garden. Somehow, we'd all been too occupied to pay it any attention.
But before I exited our garden to enjoy an energising stroll through Cordona's streets, something else caught my attention. There was a new letter in our mailbox, which had been empty only a few hours prior - Sherlock made sure to check it a few times a day. There was no mail service this late. I frowned, but I was too curious to ignore it. To my surprise, the card I found inside was addressed to "Jon".
"You are late," Mycroft said calmly. With a cigarette in hand, he was leaning against the back of the carriage, which seemed empty. I couldn't help but look around, but nobody was there - only the two of us. The confusion I displayed made him snort again.
"You couldn't have known I would come," I replied, slightly defensive and irked by his condescending demeanour. His eyebrows rose ever so slightly as if to disagree, and I could swear I would have been able to tell he was a Holmes even if I hadn't met him before. It was their general smug aura which could make anyone's blood boil. Unfortunately, it reminded me too much of Sherry to hate. I took a deep breath.
"You have to listen to me-" I began, only to be interrupted.
"I don't have to. I choose to."
That made me frown.
"Do you? You have been interrupting me all day, which leaves the impression you only choose to listen to yourself." I thought I should turn back and leave the smartarse behind - Sherry awaited me back home. And yet, I felt I had to do this. Despite how he had treated me all day, he was Sherlock's brother. He was family.
My reply seemed amusing to him. "So you've got a bite, after all." That was it. A mere remark, which I chose to brush over and skip to what I wanted to say, although it felt good to get a little acknowledgement from him.
"I did not lie," I started again. "I'm Jon. I know how improbable it sounds that someone like me would suddenly become a real person with a real human body, but this is what happened! We have been trying to find a reasonable explanation for months but have yet to succeed. But, Mycroft, you know me!"
I paused for a moment to take a breath. So far, his expression betrayed nothing - he simply stood there and listened, emotionless and unmovable like a mountain. If that was what Sherlock aimed to become, he had a long way to go, and I hoped he would fail.
Although I felt like a rambling lunatic compared to him, I didn't let his silence discourage me.
"You have seen hundreds of pictures of me. Every single sketch, every single painting Sherlock has made to portray me, you know. I could describe every corner of our house back in London, every peck of dust the housekeeper tends to forget to clean. You know how I look, and even if you didn't know how I sound until now, you know my manner of speech. But above all, you know him. You can't possibly believe he is so mad that he would fall for the trickery of an imposter pretending to be me. And where would Jon be if I wasn't Jon? He wouldn't disappear in the most inconvenient of times and let some scum fool Sherlock! You know your brother doesn't talk to anyone but you about me. How would anyone get to know me well enough to impersonate me without his consent? And so fast, too? We have only been here for two months!"
My breathing was heavy; the message - was too important to convey without getting emotional and a little desperate. I didn't know what would happen if I failed to make Mycroft believe me, but I knew I had only this chance.
"I have seen your pain whenever she favoured him," I almost choked on my words - walking on very thin ice, I feared I'd crash down and drown. But I had to keep on walking and praying for the best! "I have seen how much his grief after her death smothered you. I have seen your guilt and your love for him even if you fail so miserably at showing it-"
"Stop it!" He finally snapped. Suddenly, he was closer to me, and I stepped back without intending to. I had irritated him too much for my own good, and his once-calm face was now entirely twisted by hostility. Neither of them liked to have their vulnerabilities pointed out. Sherlock had gotten used to it when I did, but Mycroft had not.
But had I convinced him? I didn't know.
And so I continued.
"But that's not all. I...," I faltered. If I played my cards unwisely, I'd end up dead. Because what I was about to say was Mycroft's biggest secret. My biggest secret as well. Ultimately, it was something only Jon - I - would know. "I was in the garden on the day she..."
"Don't!" he cried out. Even if I wanted to finish my sentence, I was stunned.
"I know what happened, I-"
"Don't say a word!" Mycroft roared, his right index finger shooting up and pointing at me.
Time stood still. At least it felt like it wasn't passing for me. Exhaling deeply, I looked down at my feet. The animated speech had overexerted my nerves, and I felt dizzy.
The park was too silent for my taste. Not even the crickets came to keep me company that evening. Suddenly tired and in dire need of sleep, I only wanted to go home to Sherlock. To the comfort only he could give me.
"Does he know?" Mycroft asked after some time.
"No," I shook my head.
"Are you intending to tell him?"
"No!" I exclaimed without hesitation. Saying it out loud made the guilt I already felt almost unbearable. "He is not ready," I sighed. "He would come to the wrong conclusion."
A relieved sigh left his lips. Without saying anything for a while, he took out another cigarette from his etui and lightened it.
It's funny what kinds of thoughts can cross one's mind, even in such intense moments. Back then, I simply thought about how I had not tried out smoking with my new body yet. All the mess had kept my mind too occupied.
"I admit I have always underestimated you, Jon," he said after a while. "I knew you were mouthy, but I must admit you possess some common sense regarding my brother."
He said it so casually, but I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I gasped and took a step towards him.
"Does it mean you believe me?"
"Believe you? You misunderstand me, Jon," he blew out some smoke before throwing the butt of the cigarette to the ground. He didn't bother stamping it out. "I knew who you were from the beginning. For what do you take me? An idiot?"
I was shocked. I tried to speak, but instead, I stared at him with my mouth open widely. What was the point of this sick game he was playing? I believe I wanted to run home and cry myself to sleep after I'd put so much effort into convincing someone who didn't need to be convinced.
"What? Why?" It was all I could say at that time.
"Because I had to know if you were worth keeping around. It seems we are on the same page: Sherlock must never find out. And whether I like it or not, he cares for you. I'd rather spare him the pain of losing you."
"What would you have done had I wanted to tell him about the garden?"
"I can be very persuasive."
"Oh, no!" I cried out in disgust. Such threats were very repulsive to me, even if they were hypothetical. "Keep this to yourself and your shady associates. Otherwise I'll lose all the respect I have for you." I shuddered.
"I don't need the respect of people as reckless as the two of you. Holding hands on the street? Engaging in intimacy in a public gazebo? Jon Jonson?"
My whole face was set on fire. He knew about everything, about every step and misstep we had taken. Of course, he'd had Sherlock followed! How ignorant of me to believe that won't be the case while having him in our lives!
"You could have asked me without the charade," I said defeatedly.
"I don't do anything without a reason, Jon." He remained silent after this. I couldn't make sense of it at the time, but even then, I didn't believe he had toyed with me for fun. Mostly because I didn't think he was capable of having fun. Yet he wasn't going to open up and tell me why. There was no point in asking again.
"I need to go home. Sherry is waiting," I exhaled and rubbed my eyes with my thumb. "Just to inform you, I will tell him I met you. I don't lie to him for no reason. But first..." My head was buzzing too much to continue talking to him, but this part of the conversation still made little sense. "How did you know? You don't strike me as someone who accepts miracles without questioning them. I know he didn't, and you two aren't as different as you imagine to be."
Mycroft sighed, seemingly contemplating his following words. Just when I was about to lose patience and simply walk away and forget I'd ever asked, he replied, "You are not as unique as you think, Jon."
Unable to process even more new information, I didn't feel as surprised by the implication of his words as I would have felt under different circumstances. It left me untouched at the moment.
"Are you saying there are others like me?"
"Good night, Jon."
I groaned. "Yeah, you too." Talking to him had drained me entirely. Was this how Sisyphus felt after a long day of climbing and bouldering? Poor guy. I knew I ought to try to find out more, but it seemed like a futile discussion to start. Instead, I turned around, eyeing the park exit.
"And Jon..." I heard him call. I stopped and turned to look at him one last time.
"I shouldn't be telling you this, but you two have been too careless. If anyone finds out how you've come into being, not even I would be able to help you. Greet my brother from me."