Comfort
Title: Comfort
Author: aislingdoheanta
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade, Mummy Holmes (Violet)
Summary: Every week Mycroft visits his mother. Every week he remembers she doesn't know who he is.
Rating: T
Word Count: 2086
Notes: Written for the sherlockbbc_fic prompt. However, only the first half is on there since some people do not appreciate some Mycroft/Lestrade. So I posted the whole thing here. I also know Mycroft may seem a little OOC, but this takes place almost 10 years after ASIP, which would mean Mycroft and Greg have been together for close to 16 years by this point, married for the past 5 or so. It's an elaborate plot in my head. Greg has helped Mycroft express his emotions, in the safety of their own flat only though.
Warnings: Mentions of death and dementia, which is similar to Alzheimer's Disease.
Disclaimer: Obviously Not Mine
“Violet? Mycroft is here to see you.”
Mycroft smiled as the nurse announced his presence. He held out the checkers’ board.
“Oh. Lovely.” Violet Holmes smiled at her son. “Checkers, how fun! How are you?” she questioned as they carefully walked to a table.
Mycroft made sure to hold out his arm to his mother to give her some guidance. “Oh, I’m fine.”
“Keeping busy, I hope?”
“Of course.” Mycroft helped her sit down, even thought she didn’t need it. Her eighty-one years had done nothing to hinder her strength. They’d only destroyed her mind. “How have you been?” Mycroft asked even though he knew the answer.
“Oh, you know. Doing a little painting, some card games. Oh, and some of us were taken to the museum to see the paintings! I saw the beautiful picture with the…sunflowers. You know the one?” She asked, beaming.
Mycroft smiled and nodded. “Yes, I do know which one you are talking about.” He couldn’t tell his mother that that had been a few months ago and she had told him every time he’d come to visit since, always talking about how she had just gone. “I believe it was Vincent van Gogh who painted them.”
“That’s right!” Violet set up the board. “Red or black?”
“I think I will be black today,” Mycroft said as he grabbed a handful of black chips.
Violet smiled and clapped. “Wonderful! I prefer to be red.”
Yes, I know, Mycroft thought as he watched her set up her side of the board.
It had been three years since his mother had fallen ill. It had just been a routine visit to her GP but he had noticed her struggles at trying to remember bits of the stories she was trying to tell him. He suggested a few tests, just as a precaution, but he felt it was necessary since, in all the time he had known Violet she had never struggled like that. It had always been said that Violet’s mind was like a database-she could recall the smallest on information.
A few tests later it was confirmed that she had the beginnings of Dementia. There was nothing Mycroft had been able to do except watch over her. Although, eventually that hadn’t been enough and he had to place her in a care home. There she was able to have constant attention doctors on call.
At first there hadn’t seemed to be much change in her. She simply stuttered on a few words, as if half-way through the sentence she had forgotten what she as saying. Other times she seemed to get stuck on a certain word or phrase.
It soon became clear that her memory was going. She forgot certain people she should have remembered. Mycroft still came every week to visit her-even when he’d arrive and she’d look at him as if she knew she should know him, but couldn’t place him. But after he’d introduce himself, she’d remember again. Even thought it made him sad to see his mother in this condition, she seemed to enjoy their visits.
Then one day he arrived told her he was her son, and she went into hysterics. They doctor helped her to her room while Mycroft stood there helplessly. He had phoned Gregory, who had dropped everything to come to him and literally only hold his hand.
Her doctor had come in and told Mycroft that his mother becomes very distressed whenever she’s informed she had a child she doesn’t remember. He said, to some extent, that if Mycroft wanted to continue his visits, he couldn’t tell her he was her son. He hadn’t wanted her to be abandoned, so he had agreed.
He hadn’t known how difficult it was to have your mother sit across from you every week and not have any idea you were her son, just so they could play a game. So he could see her.
Mycroft would visit every week and they would go for a walk, play a game, sometimes even paint together. Mycroft wasn’t very good, but she would help him and try to teach him what she was doing. Occasionally they discussed things like who should be the next Prime Minister, history, sometimes even philosophy as his mother had always had a soft spot for Socrates. Mycroft himself preferred Voltaire. They had some lovely chats.
Wasn’t it strange that her mind could remember how to play gin, chess, and checkers, yet couldn’t remember people and important dates? She couldn’t remember he was her son. She didn’t even remember his name anymore, only when it was given to her can she hold onto it until their meeting was over.
Occasionally his mother remembered she had children-rather a child. She remembered her son who died suddenly. It was never anything more specific than that.
One time Gregory came with-he did sometimes-and she said that they made a lovely couple. She was so happy her friend had someone to go home to.
Gregory had held him the whole drive home and throughout the entire night. He also hadn’t gotten upset when Mycroft didn’t utter a single word until midway through the morning the following day.
“Your mother must be very proud of you.” Violet’s voice brought him back to the present.
“Sorry?” Mycroft tilted his head.
Violet smiled as she jumped a player of his. “You are so sweet, coming to keep me company. It must make your mother proud.”
“Oh…”Mycroft glanced down. “My mother’s been…gone for some time now.”
“I’m so sorry.” Violet reached across to put her hand over Mycroft’s. “I’m sure she knew how much you loved her.” She squeezed his hand.
“I hope so,” he said softly, gazing down at their hands.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’d be proud if you were my son.”
Mycroft swallowed. “Thank you.”
“Anytime dear.” She patted his hand like she always used to before continuing their game.
Mycroft returned home and dragged himself inside. He dropped his keys, coat, and shoes wherever they landed before he made his way to his bed. He curled up on Gregory’s side, pulling the covers up to his chin.
Visits with his mother always drained him of energy and emotion. They filled him with incredible sadness and heartbreak. All he could do--wanted to do was curl up in bed, pull the covers over his head like he had when he was a young boy, and wait for everything to go back to normal.
It made him feel childish.
You mother must be very proud of you.
He felt a few tears spring to his eyes, but he was not going to weep. It never helped anything.
Inhale. He was fine. Exhale.
Mycroft focused on his breathing: in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Inhale. He was fine. Exhale.
Inhale. He was fine. Exhale.
I’d be very proud if you were my son.
The tears, trembling, and sobs came all at once. He curled into Gregory’s pillow and pressed his face against it. He didn’t want to be weeping, it wasn’t necessary, but it was all he could do.
He felt two arms wrap around him and pull him tightly against a warm chest. Gregory’s lips pressed against the back of his neck as he just laid beside him and held him. Like a child, Mycroft thought bitterly. He hated feeling this way.
“It’s all right to be sad, Mycroft,” Gregory whispered to him.
One of the wonderful things about Gregory was he always knew what Mycroft needed, either to say nothing or reassure him .
“She said she’d be proud if I was her son.”
“Oh, Mycroft.” Gregory turned him to face him and gently kissed his head.
Mycroft pressed his cheek to Gregory’s shoulder and pulled himself closer. “She doesn’t remember me.”
Gregory hummed and rubbed at his back. Mycroft knew why Gregory was remaining silent. What could you say to a grown man when he knew his mother had forgotten him months ago. It was ridiculous that it still affected him so much.
Mycroft cried quietly until he couldn’t anymore. Then he just lay there in Gregory’s arm, letting his mind wander.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Gregory asked softly.
Mycroft shrugged which was such an awkward gesture for him. “Why?”
“Because I love you and care about what you’re thinking and feeling.” Gregory kissed his forehead. “But you meant…”
“Why does it still bother me so much? It’s been over six months now. Surely I should stop feeling this way.”
Gregory sighed. “There’s no magic formula, Mycroft. I know you wish there was, but there isn’t. Every time you visit her it hurts because she’s still your mother.”
“I know…but I’ve dealt with this for three years, Gregory. I’m tired of feeling like this.”
“No one wants to feel sad and upset. Unfortunately that’s a part of life.”
“Well, it’s stupid.” God, he sounded like Sherlock.
Gregory chuckled. “Yeah, it is.”
Mycroft sighed and wiped at his face. He was struck by an early memory of crying alone, terrified of Gregory finding him-that would have been acting weak in front of someone else and that was unacceptable. However, when Gregory found him, he actually made him feel better. Not any less sad or upset, but more at ease with what he had been feeling.
It had been like Gregory being there gave him strength to face what was hurting him. Like he was doing now.
“Will it ever get any easier?” He asked softly.
Gregory sighed. “It’s hard to say.”
“It didn’t take me this long to move on from my father’s death.”
“Well, death and dementia are two separate things, Mycroft,” Gregory said softly, tightening his arms slightly. “With Death, you are upset and angry because they’ve been taken from you. However, you learn to live without them because they are no longer there. With your mother…It’s like you trying to learn to live without your father, but having him continue to pop up every so often. And every time you see him, you have to start over.” Gregory sighed. “You are trying to learn to live with how things are, but every visit just serves as a reminder of what you’re missing. What she used to be like.”
Mycroft thought about that for a while. Was that it? Was that why this was so difficult for him? It made sense, certainly, but was it correct for him?
Mycroft dealt with things much differently than most people. It always consisted of thinking through every possibility, analyzing the positives and negatives of each course of action as well as all the potential outcomes.
It was always more difficult when his emotions were involved. He could think through everything and determine what was the easiest, and best, course of action. However, there were times, like this one, where what he wanted to do and what he was doing were two very different things. He wanted to be able to be a grown man about this and visit his mother without needed to come home and be comforted. However, all he seemed to be able to do was come home and wallow in his sadness.
He detested wallowing. It was a waste of precious time and did not accomplish anything. It made him feel useless, childish, and weak.
“Thank you,” Mycroft said softly. He had realized he had been silent for over twenty minutes and Gregory had just been waiting for him to say something, anything .But Gregory hardly ever pressured him to talk-only when he knew anger was what Mycroft needed to face whatever was troubling him. He only would sit there, lay there, or hold him until he was all right.
That in itself had taken quite a while for Mycroft to, not only get used to, but actually like. It was…comforting to know that Gregory was there.
“No thanks needed.” Gregory squeezed himself closer to Mycroft and threw his leg over Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft just curled into his warmth. He knew that he would be fine in a little while, but he just didn’t want to leave the bed, the comfort, Gregory.
Besides, he had prevented a war today, he deserved a break. With that thought, he reached up and pulled Gregory’s face to his and kissed him, showing him exactly what he wanted to do since they were already in bed. After all, it seemed a waste not to.