To Hear Me Through The Silence
Title: To hear me through the silence
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warning: SPOILERS FOR SEASON TWO, hurt and comfort
Summary: Mycroft has never asked for someone to comfort him but just this once, maybe he should. He wants it. He needs it.
Author’s note: This was inspired by Only You, the love theme from The Young Victoria which was sung by Sinnead O’Connor. Lyrics quoted here are from the same song.
Thanks for reading and enjoy! ^_^
Mycroft did not sleep through the night, but neither did he get up from bed in the morning. The events of the week before were still stark in his mind and no amount of comfort his surroundings gave him could ease his pain and discomfort.
How had it come to this?
But he knew the answer to that already. It all started with one man, a man who tainted everything with darkness and horror and suffering. A man so like he and Sherlock in brilliance but so far apart in anything that made anyone human.
Moriarty.
The name ran in his mind like a broken record and all it did was to make Mycroft more miserable. How could he have been so blind to the bigger picture? How did he not see that all Moriarty wanted was to destroy everything about Sherlock, even his memory?
Mycroft, you idiot!
He turned on his side and pressed the pillow closer to his cheek. What a colossal mistake he had made, thinking that by sharing stories of Sherlock with Moriarty, he could get him to talk about his criminal organization, his contacts, his clients. He never imagined that Moriarty would use the information to the extent that he did.
No, that wasn’t correct. Mycroft sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the bed. In the back of his mind, there had been a persistent thought that that was possible, that it was even inevitable. But perhaps Mycroft had hoped for too much: that Moriarty wouldn’t go too far, that Mycroft himself would come up with something to dampen the consequences if he did, that Sherlock wouldn’t be forced to take extreme measures.
Silly. Mycroft of all people should have learned that hope, at best, was not the best thing to bank on in his line of work. Look where it led to. Moriarty was dead, unable to account for his misdeeds and Sherlock was dead to the world and on the run.
It was only then that Mycroft noticed that Greg had awoken. He could feel the dipping of the mattress as Greg shifted position to face him. Mycroft was tempted to turn and snuggle into Greg’s warm embrace but he held himself back. See, his mistake had not even spared them both. He had no idea now how it changed their relationship and, honestly, Mycroft wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out.
The night of Sherlock’s arrest and eventual escape to St. Barth’s, Greg had called him. In an urgent voice, Greg had told him to strongly advise Sherlock to turn himself in, otherwise there were grave consequences. Mycroft had promised to do so even though he knew then that nothing would stop Sherlock and before the morning of the next day was over, Sherlock and Moriarty would have collided with one another. Greg must have sensed something because he warned Mycroft that no amount of government influence would give Sherlock immunity from arrest.
Mycroft had ended the call without saying anything. The morning came and his suspicions were confirmed with the news of Moriarty’s and Sherlock’s deaths. He left his office only to claim Sherlock from the morgue and discreetly bundle him off to their ancestral home. Then he had returned to his office where Anthea waited for instructions on the funeral and the travel arrangements for Sherlock. He gave her basic guidelines, trusting her to fill in the details. Then he had withdrawn to his study and locked the door.
He had stayed there the rest of the day, nursing a half empty glass of whiskey in silence. No one disturbed him. No one called. It was near midnight, when he had felt tears run down his cheeks for the first time in a very, very long time.
“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”
Mycroft’s head snapped upwards. Did Greg know? No, of course not. He had made sure that no one knew, not even sweet Molly from St. Barth’s.
“What he’s done… you just can’t let it go, can you?”
Ah. Greg was actually referring to Sherlock’s jumping off the roof of St. Barth’s. Of course. He couldn’t have known that he had to pull strings to declare Sherlock dead and that he had to pull more strings so that Sherlock could finish the task he himself couldn’t. Pretending someone was dead was bad business, even when it was seemingly necessary.
God, he had to bury an empty coffin and watch as Mrs. Hudson broke down in tears and John try to keep his emotions in check. To watch Greg lay a small bouquet of flowers in front of the tombstone, apologizing and whispering that despite all his idiocy, Sherlock was a good man. He could have smacked Sherlock then for all the needless grief if he hadn’t known exactly why Sherlock was doing it.
Then there was this, this keeping the secret from Greg.
Granted, there were many secrets between them. It was an occupational hazard for both of them. But there were some things one couldn’t and shouldn’t keep from another, not if you wanted to build a lasting relationship with the latter. And he wanted that so badly with Greg, wanted it more than he wanted Moriarty to pay for laying waste to everything Mycroft had built.
Sherlock had told him how Moriarty had snuck in a mole in the Yard and how that mole would have gunned down Greg if he hadn’t jumped. Mycroft’s blood had boiled at the thought that it wasn’t enough for Moriarty to hurt Sherlock himself but that he was more than willing to hurt the people who cared for Sherlock.
It was funny, though, in a sad way, that Moriarty never considered hurting Mycroft so that he could get to Sherlock. Perhaps Moriarty knew better than both of them that they were part of a circle and the hurt to one was pain for all. It was a low blow and Mycroft barely knew how to deal with them properly.
And all this, all these heartaches and secrets could be laid before him, Mycroft the great mover and shaker in government who couldn’t even keep his own loved ones safe.
“You can’t tell me, can you?”
Mycroft shook his head, afraid that Greg would take his silence the wrong way if he didn’t answer. It wasn’t that he couldn’t tell Greg. It was just that he didn’t know how and if it was safe at all.
“Come here, you big oaf.” Greg whispered as he scooted closer to Mycroft.
He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, pulling him close so that his chest was warm against Mycroft’s back. Mycroft sighed and tentatively touched Greg’s arms. Greg kissed his ear and laid his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to tell me everything.” He whispered. “In fact, I don’t want to know everything. I just wish you wouldn’t withdraw from the world-from me-whenever you’re troubled.”
Greg began rubbing circles on Mycroft’s arm. “I know this week has been taxing for you. Your brother has died but you couldn’t even have a whole day’s off from work to mourn him properly. That doesn’t mean you’re alone, you know. You’ve got Anthea and John and Mrs. Hudson. You’ve got me. All you’ve got to do is ask and we’ll be there for you.”
Greg fell silent, which made Mycroft worry a little but before he could say anything, Greg was talking again.
“A lot of the times I think that maybe I had a hand in what happened. There was a moment of doubt in the brilliance of a man I had known for five years and I think that cost everything. And this haunts me, Mycroft, and I think something similar haunts you too.”
Mycroft closed his eyes, “You did nothing wrong, Greg. Everything started with me. All the fault lies with me.”
“Maybe…But never think you’re alone in it. Don’t go hiding away-” Greg gently tapped Mycroft’s temple “-where I can’t follow. We promised each other that we’d be there for each other, didn’t we?”
Mycroft nodded and a small smile flitted on his lips, “I remember. We were on the London Eye.”
Mycroft could feel Greg smiling against his shoulder at the shared memory. Those were the days, when everything seemed perfect and the shadow of Moriarty was far and fleeting. But the maelstrom had come and the only thing left to do was weather it and pick up the pieces after it.
Mycroft tilted his head so that he was looking straight at Greg. “I’ll try.”
Greg raked his fingers through Mycroft’s hair and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be right beside you when you do.”
Only you know how
To hear me through the silence
You reach a part of me that no one else can see…
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warning: SPOILERS FOR SEASON TWO, hurt and comfort
Summary: Mycroft has never asked for someone to comfort him but just this once, maybe he should. He wants it. He needs it.
Author’s note: This was inspired by Only You, the love theme from The Young Victoria which was sung by Sinnead O’Connor. Lyrics quoted here are from the same song.
Thanks for reading and enjoy! ^_^
Mycroft did not sleep through the night, but neither did he get up from bed in the morning. The events of the week before were still stark in his mind and no amount of comfort his surroundings gave him could ease his pain and discomfort.
How had it come to this?
But he knew the answer to that already. It all started with one man, a man who tainted everything with darkness and horror and suffering. A man so like he and Sherlock in brilliance but so far apart in anything that made anyone human.
Moriarty.
The name ran in his mind like a broken record and all it did was to make Mycroft more miserable. How could he have been so blind to the bigger picture? How did he not see that all Moriarty wanted was to destroy everything about Sherlock, even his memory?
Mycroft, you idiot!
He turned on his side and pressed the pillow closer to his cheek. What a colossal mistake he had made, thinking that by sharing stories of Sherlock with Moriarty, he could get him to talk about his criminal organization, his contacts, his clients. He never imagined that Moriarty would use the information to the extent that he did.
No, that wasn’t correct. Mycroft sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the bed. In the back of his mind, there had been a persistent thought that that was possible, that it was even inevitable. But perhaps Mycroft had hoped for too much: that Moriarty wouldn’t go too far, that Mycroft himself would come up with something to dampen the consequences if he did, that Sherlock wouldn’t be forced to take extreme measures.
Silly. Mycroft of all people should have learned that hope, at best, was not the best thing to bank on in his line of work. Look where it led to. Moriarty was dead, unable to account for his misdeeds and Sherlock was dead to the world and on the run.
It was only then that Mycroft noticed that Greg had awoken. He could feel the dipping of the mattress as Greg shifted position to face him. Mycroft was tempted to turn and snuggle into Greg’s warm embrace but he held himself back. See, his mistake had not even spared them both. He had no idea now how it changed their relationship and, honestly, Mycroft wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out.
The night of Sherlock’s arrest and eventual escape to St. Barth’s, Greg had called him. In an urgent voice, Greg had told him to strongly advise Sherlock to turn himself in, otherwise there were grave consequences. Mycroft had promised to do so even though he knew then that nothing would stop Sherlock and before the morning of the next day was over, Sherlock and Moriarty would have collided with one another. Greg must have sensed something because he warned Mycroft that no amount of government influence would give Sherlock immunity from arrest.
Mycroft had ended the call without saying anything. The morning came and his suspicions were confirmed with the news of Moriarty’s and Sherlock’s deaths. He left his office only to claim Sherlock from the morgue and discreetly bundle him off to their ancestral home. Then he had returned to his office where Anthea waited for instructions on the funeral and the travel arrangements for Sherlock. He gave her basic guidelines, trusting her to fill in the details. Then he had withdrawn to his study and locked the door.
He had stayed there the rest of the day, nursing a half empty glass of whiskey in silence. No one disturbed him. No one called. It was near midnight, when he had felt tears run down his cheeks for the first time in a very, very long time.
“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”
Mycroft’s head snapped upwards. Did Greg know? No, of course not. He had made sure that no one knew, not even sweet Molly from St. Barth’s.
“What he’s done… you just can’t let it go, can you?”
Ah. Greg was actually referring to Sherlock’s jumping off the roof of St. Barth’s. Of course. He couldn’t have known that he had to pull strings to declare Sherlock dead and that he had to pull more strings so that Sherlock could finish the task he himself couldn’t. Pretending someone was dead was bad business, even when it was seemingly necessary.
God, he had to bury an empty coffin and watch as Mrs. Hudson broke down in tears and John try to keep his emotions in check. To watch Greg lay a small bouquet of flowers in front of the tombstone, apologizing and whispering that despite all his idiocy, Sherlock was a good man. He could have smacked Sherlock then for all the needless grief if he hadn’t known exactly why Sherlock was doing it.
Then there was this, this keeping the secret from Greg.
Granted, there were many secrets between them. It was an occupational hazard for both of them. But there were some things one couldn’t and shouldn’t keep from another, not if you wanted to build a lasting relationship with the latter. And he wanted that so badly with Greg, wanted it more than he wanted Moriarty to pay for laying waste to everything Mycroft had built.
Sherlock had told him how Moriarty had snuck in a mole in the Yard and how that mole would have gunned down Greg if he hadn’t jumped. Mycroft’s blood had boiled at the thought that it wasn’t enough for Moriarty to hurt Sherlock himself but that he was more than willing to hurt the people who cared for Sherlock.
It was funny, though, in a sad way, that Moriarty never considered hurting Mycroft so that he could get to Sherlock. Perhaps Moriarty knew better than both of them that they were part of a circle and the hurt to one was pain for all. It was a low blow and Mycroft barely knew how to deal with them properly.
And all this, all these heartaches and secrets could be laid before him, Mycroft the great mover and shaker in government who couldn’t even keep his own loved ones safe.
“You can’t tell me, can you?”
Mycroft shook his head, afraid that Greg would take his silence the wrong way if he didn’t answer. It wasn’t that he couldn’t tell Greg. It was just that he didn’t know how and if it was safe at all.
“Come here, you big oaf.” Greg whispered as he scooted closer to Mycroft.
He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, pulling him close so that his chest was warm against Mycroft’s back. Mycroft sighed and tentatively touched Greg’s arms. Greg kissed his ear and laid his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to tell me everything.” He whispered. “In fact, I don’t want to know everything. I just wish you wouldn’t withdraw from the world-from me-whenever you’re troubled.”
Greg began rubbing circles on Mycroft’s arm. “I know this week has been taxing for you. Your brother has died but you couldn’t even have a whole day’s off from work to mourn him properly. That doesn’t mean you’re alone, you know. You’ve got Anthea and John and Mrs. Hudson. You’ve got me. All you’ve got to do is ask and we’ll be there for you.”
Greg fell silent, which made Mycroft worry a little but before he could say anything, Greg was talking again.
“A lot of the times I think that maybe I had a hand in what happened. There was a moment of doubt in the brilliance of a man I had known for five years and I think that cost everything. And this haunts me, Mycroft, and I think something similar haunts you too.”
Mycroft closed his eyes, “You did nothing wrong, Greg. Everything started with me. All the fault lies with me.”
“Maybe…But never think you’re alone in it. Don’t go hiding away-” Greg gently tapped Mycroft’s temple “-where I can’t follow. We promised each other that we’d be there for each other, didn’t we?”
Mycroft nodded and a small smile flitted on his lips, “I remember. We were on the London Eye.”
Mycroft could feel Greg smiling against his shoulder at the shared memory. Those were the days, when everything seemed perfect and the shadow of Moriarty was far and fleeting. But the maelstrom had come and the only thing left to do was weather it and pick up the pieces after it.
Mycroft tilted his head so that he was looking straight at Greg. “I’ll try.”
Greg raked his fingers through Mycroft’s hair and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be right beside you when you do.”
Only you know how
To hear me through the silence
You reach a part of me that no one else can see…