Calm After the Storm
Title: Calm After the Storm
Author: aislingdoheanta
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Mycroft/Greg
Summary: Mycroft's still suffering after the events of The Fall. Greg's trying to help.
Rating: T
Word Count: 1169
Notes: Part of the Storm series. There will probably be a longer fic, series type, that follows this because they just are not in a good place. And I can't just leave them.
Warnings: SPOILERS for the Fall.
Disclaimer: Obviously Not Mine
Here's the first four stories in the series--don't need to read them to understand this one, but it helps:
The Approaching Storm
Lull Before the Storm
Weathering the Storm
Eye of the Storm
Greg Lestrade woke during the middle of the night. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. He reached over to find Mycroft, but his side of the bed empty. And cold. This isn’t good, he thought as he glanced at the clock and saw that it was just after two in the morning.
Greg shuffled into the living and saw Mycroft sitting on the sofa. He was sitting in the dark in the middle of the night. Mycroft probably didn’t even realize he was crying, Greg thought as his heart clenched. Mycroft hadn’t really grieved his brother.
“Mycroft,” Greg whispered as he sat down next to his partner. He gently placed his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, pulling him slightly closer. “It’s alright to mourn him.”
Mycroft turned to Greg, wrapped his arms around him. Greg placed his hand on Mycroft’s face and gently pushed it to his shoulder. Mycroft shook with silent sobs and Greg could do nothing but watch. Mycroft dealt with his emotions and feelings much differently than everyone else. He would not talk about anything until he was absolutely ready to talk.
Mycroft had not been ready or willing to talk about Sherlock since his death two weeks ago. It wasn’t as though Greg had expected anything drastic, but Mycroft had stayed composed and professional during everything. The only sign that he was upset during Sherlock’s funeral was how tightly he gripped Greg’s hand. He hadn’t cried or said anything. Mycroft had said on the way back home that he hadn’t known what to say and Sherlock would have much rather had John speak than him. That was the end of that.
Even now, whenever someone brought up Sherlock or mentioned his name, Mycroft left the room or pretended as though he hadn’t heard the statement or question and changed the topic. Greg couldn’t tell if people giving their apologies was better or worse than someone telling Mycroft how lucky he was to have had Sherlock as his brother. Neither one made Mycroft feel particularly good; he would just shut down.
Greg was worried about him, afraid that if he continued to pretend as though Sherlock hadn’t died, he would never face it and be able to move on from it. Not entirely anyway. Mycroft did not need to have a huge public display of mourning, but Greg just needed to know, somehow, that Mycroft was dealing with this. All he knew was that Mycroft was doing whatever he needed to do alone.
Greg tightened his arms around Mycroft and kissed his head, trying to offer whatever comfort he could. If Mycroft finally chose to let him in, Greg was going to do everything in his power to make Mycroft realize that that was what Greg was here for-to be the comfort or support Mycroft needed, whatever the situation. Sometimes Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft really knew that.
They had been together for four years.
After a few more minutes, Mycroft finally stopped shaking but the tears continued to run down his face. Greg pulled Mycroft to him and maneuvered them down to lie on the sofa. He reached behind them and pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa. He threw it over them and lay down on his back, pulling Mycroft half on top of him. He stroked his back with one hand while keeping the other gently running through his hair or wiping away the tears. Mycroft rested his cheek on Greg’s chest and curled into him. Greg could only try and hold him tighter.
“He hated me,” Mycroft whispered. His voice was harsh and rough from all the crying.
Greg shook his head. “No. He didn’t. You were his brother.”
Mycroft chuckled. It was a haunted sound, something Greg never wanted to hear again. “You mattered more to him than I did.”
“No.” Greg tipped Mycroft’s face toward him. “Maybe that was what it looked like on the surface, but you should know better. He had a hard time acknowledging you cared for him. He had an even harder time showing he cared for you. It was easier for him to think of you as an enemy than someone who was just looking out for him.” He kissed Mycroft.
“He still didn’t love me.” Mycroft picked at Greg’s shirtsleeve.
“Of course he did. He just wasn’t able to show it like you could. But he did love you,” Greg said fiercely. “Remember how upset you said he was when he realized how much trouble he had caused for you back with that woman? You said he called you ‘Brother.’”
Mycroft nodded. “He did.”
“He did care about you Mycroft, and he did love you. He just wasn’t very good at showing it.” Greg kissed the top of his head again before falling silent, letting them both drift off.
Unknown to Greg, Mycroft was still wide awake and more upset than before.
Mycroft remembered the disaster that was Irene Adler. Of course he did. He also remembered what Sherlock had said and how he had said it as a show of power for Ms. Adler. Not as any sign of affection for Mycroft.
That hurt. Everything hurt. Mycroft had to suffer through everything alone. Everyone else thought Sherlock was dead, never to come back again. Mycroft, however, knew differently. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t dead, but he couldn’t tell anyone.
Sherlock probably hadn’t even expected Mycroft to have been able to correctly identify the fact that the poor chap who had been laying on that slab wasn’t Sherlock.
But no one else knew that. They all had the belief that he wasn’t coming back. Mycroft longed for that comfort-to be able to have that finality, the ability of being able to move on.
Mycroft had to live with the knowledge that Sherlock was alive, but he wasn’t sure where or in what condition. Had Moriarty or his men taken him before he had jumped? Had they merely taken his body? Or had Sherlock orchestrated this whole thing as a way to escape? Bring down Moriarty? What?
Maybe if he had some answers things wouldn’t hurt so much.
Mycroft had to live everyday with this knowledge and the regret that he failed his brother-he hadn’t protected him. There were so many things he could have done differently, but he hadn’t. He had done what he wanted in the moment and now he was paying the price.
The price was incredibly painful.
It was more painful than having to suffer every day with the knowledge his brother was gone but not dead, knowing there was nothing he could do for Sherlock anymore.
It was more painful than knowing about the snipers Moriarty had trained on John, Mrs. Hudson…and Gregory. He could have lost Gregory that day. That was a reality Mycroft had to live with.
But all that pain was nothing to the heartbreaking knowledge that his own brother didn’t care about him. There had been no sniper meant for Mycroft.
Previous Part
Author: aislingdoheanta
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Mycroft/Greg
Summary: Mycroft's still suffering after the events of The Fall. Greg's trying to help.
Rating: T
Word Count: 1169
Notes: Part of the Storm series. There will probably be a longer fic, series type, that follows this because they just are not in a good place. And I can't just leave them.
Warnings: SPOILERS for the Fall.
Disclaimer: Obviously Not Mine
Here's the first four stories in the series--don't need to read them to understand this one, but it helps:
The Approaching Storm
Lull Before the Storm
Weathering the Storm
Eye of the Storm
Greg Lestrade woke during the middle of the night. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. He reached over to find Mycroft, but his side of the bed empty. And cold. This isn’t good, he thought as he glanced at the clock and saw that it was just after two in the morning.
Greg shuffled into the living and saw Mycroft sitting on the sofa. He was sitting in the dark in the middle of the night. Mycroft probably didn’t even realize he was crying, Greg thought as his heart clenched. Mycroft hadn’t really grieved his brother.
“Mycroft,” Greg whispered as he sat down next to his partner. He gently placed his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, pulling him slightly closer. “It’s alright to mourn him.”
Mycroft turned to Greg, wrapped his arms around him. Greg placed his hand on Mycroft’s face and gently pushed it to his shoulder. Mycroft shook with silent sobs and Greg could do nothing but watch. Mycroft dealt with his emotions and feelings much differently than everyone else. He would not talk about anything until he was absolutely ready to talk.
Mycroft had not been ready or willing to talk about Sherlock since his death two weeks ago. It wasn’t as though Greg had expected anything drastic, but Mycroft had stayed composed and professional during everything. The only sign that he was upset during Sherlock’s funeral was how tightly he gripped Greg’s hand. He hadn’t cried or said anything. Mycroft had said on the way back home that he hadn’t known what to say and Sherlock would have much rather had John speak than him. That was the end of that.
Even now, whenever someone brought up Sherlock or mentioned his name, Mycroft left the room or pretended as though he hadn’t heard the statement or question and changed the topic. Greg couldn’t tell if people giving their apologies was better or worse than someone telling Mycroft how lucky he was to have had Sherlock as his brother. Neither one made Mycroft feel particularly good; he would just shut down.
Greg was worried about him, afraid that if he continued to pretend as though Sherlock hadn’t died, he would never face it and be able to move on from it. Not entirely anyway. Mycroft did not need to have a huge public display of mourning, but Greg just needed to know, somehow, that Mycroft was dealing with this. All he knew was that Mycroft was doing whatever he needed to do alone.
Greg tightened his arms around Mycroft and kissed his head, trying to offer whatever comfort he could. If Mycroft finally chose to let him in, Greg was going to do everything in his power to make Mycroft realize that that was what Greg was here for-to be the comfort or support Mycroft needed, whatever the situation. Sometimes Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft really knew that.
They had been together for four years.
After a few more minutes, Mycroft finally stopped shaking but the tears continued to run down his face. Greg pulled Mycroft to him and maneuvered them down to lie on the sofa. He reached behind them and pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa. He threw it over them and lay down on his back, pulling Mycroft half on top of him. He stroked his back with one hand while keeping the other gently running through his hair or wiping away the tears. Mycroft rested his cheek on Greg’s chest and curled into him. Greg could only try and hold him tighter.
“He hated me,” Mycroft whispered. His voice was harsh and rough from all the crying.
Greg shook his head. “No. He didn’t. You were his brother.”
Mycroft chuckled. It was a haunted sound, something Greg never wanted to hear again. “You mattered more to him than I did.”
“No.” Greg tipped Mycroft’s face toward him. “Maybe that was what it looked like on the surface, but you should know better. He had a hard time acknowledging you cared for him. He had an even harder time showing he cared for you. It was easier for him to think of you as an enemy than someone who was just looking out for him.” He kissed Mycroft.
“He still didn’t love me.” Mycroft picked at Greg’s shirtsleeve.
“Of course he did. He just wasn’t able to show it like you could. But he did love you,” Greg said fiercely. “Remember how upset you said he was when he realized how much trouble he had caused for you back with that woman? You said he called you ‘Brother.’”
Mycroft nodded. “He did.”
“He did care about you Mycroft, and he did love you. He just wasn’t very good at showing it.” Greg kissed the top of his head again before falling silent, letting them both drift off.
Unknown to Greg, Mycroft was still wide awake and more upset than before.
Mycroft remembered the disaster that was Irene Adler. Of course he did. He also remembered what Sherlock had said and how he had said it as a show of power for Ms. Adler. Not as any sign of affection for Mycroft.
That hurt. Everything hurt. Mycroft had to suffer through everything alone. Everyone else thought Sherlock was dead, never to come back again. Mycroft, however, knew differently. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t dead, but he couldn’t tell anyone.
Sherlock probably hadn’t even expected Mycroft to have been able to correctly identify the fact that the poor chap who had been laying on that slab wasn’t Sherlock.
But no one else knew that. They all had the belief that he wasn’t coming back. Mycroft longed for that comfort-to be able to have that finality, the ability of being able to move on.
Mycroft had to live with the knowledge that Sherlock was alive, but he wasn’t sure where or in what condition. Had Moriarty or his men taken him before he had jumped? Had they merely taken his body? Or had Sherlock orchestrated this whole thing as a way to escape? Bring down Moriarty? What?
Maybe if he had some answers things wouldn’t hurt so much.
Mycroft had to live everyday with this knowledge and the regret that he failed his brother-he hadn’t protected him. There were so many things he could have done differently, but he hadn’t. He had done what he wanted in the moment and now he was paying the price.
The price was incredibly painful.
It was more painful than having to suffer every day with the knowledge his brother was gone but not dead, knowing there was nothing he could do for Sherlock anymore.
It was more painful than knowing about the snipers Moriarty had trained on John, Mrs. Hudson…and Gregory. He could have lost Gregory that day. That was a reality Mycroft had to live with.
But all that pain was nothing to the heartbreaking knowledge that his own brother didn’t care about him. There had been no sniper meant for Mycroft.
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