Fic: In Silence (Chapter Three)
Title: In Silence (Chapter Three)
Word Count: approx 3,500 for this bit
A/N: Full story info and more author's notes here.
ETA: The amazing Derpytuna drew fanart for this fic!!! (I'm pretty much dying of joy here.) Check it out!
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
In the end, it all comes to a head over breakfast.
"I could make us a fry-up," Gregory says after he points Mycroft toward his espresso machine. (Mycroft was always better at operating it, anyway.) "Might as well, yeah? I don't have anywhere more urgent to be." He says the latter bit jokingly, in a way that only reveals how much Gregory misses his job. Not that this is news to Mycroft in any way.
Mycroft shrugs. The gesture feels utterly foreign to him. He likes that. "Make yourself whatever you like. I'll just have the coffee."
Gregory snorts. "Like hell you will. I can make you something else. What do you fancy?"
On another occasion Mycroft would rise to the obvious bait: say "you," and kiss Gregory. On any other day that kissing would turn into sex in the kitchen, into Gregory bent against the counter and grinning from ear to ear until Mycroft did something that wiped the cheeky smirk off his face.
Instead Mycroft says, "Truly, I'm fine."
(In the Diogenes club he ate very little. His body adjusted to the diet. He genuinely hasn't been hungry these past hours.)
"When was the last time you ate?"
Mycroft rolls his eyes at the concern in Gregory's tone. "Well, someone in this room fed me soup yesterday. Surely you haven't forgotten?"
"You know what I mean, My."
Mycroft eyes Gregory where he leans against the kitchen counter. Somehow he does not believe an explanation of his reduced eating habits over the past week will satisfy Gregory at the moment. Instead, Mycroft hands him the first cup of espresso.
"Human bodies are terribly resilient, you know," he tells Gregory. "There are documented cases of people surviving up to forty days without food, so long as they receive proper hydration." He smiles a tiny bit at that. Gregory does not return the gesture, so Mycroft inclines his head to the side. "I can't imagine you'll have to watch me expire in front of your eyes."
I'll be gone before then, Mycroft doesn't add, as I can't imagine you'll want me around. (Such thoughts are petty and useless, for all they might be true.)
Gregory puts down the espresso and comes up around the kitchen island to stand behind Mycroft. He rests his head on Mycroft's shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist. "That's not funny," he whispers sweetly into the back of Mycroft's neck. And Mycroft's not sure why this of all things should make him break-maybe because he wants Gregory to stay exactly where he is but he can't want that, he shouldn't, not after what's he's done to Sherlock. He doesn't deserve this anymore and Gregory does not deserve Mycroft's brand-new pain by proxy. Gregory doesn't deserve Mycroft's pain, ever.
Whatever the reason, it happens.
Mycroft breaks.
He doesn't cry-he hasn't cried yet, not really, and he won't. Instead, Mycroft Holmes braces himself for fresh heartache. He pours salt in his wounds.
"So sorry," Mycroft whispers back. The words come out quiet, but there's no mistaking his sarcastic tone.
Gregory certainly doesn't miss it. He pulls back from his boyfriend and spins Mycroft around so that now they are face to face. (Now Mycroft has to look Gregory in the eye.)
Mycroft doesn't like this one bit.
"Christ, My," Gregory says.
Mycroft doesn't break Gregory's gaze. He remains silent. This, too, is a form of negotiation. (This was Moriarty's form, for so many weeks, for every week until they did what any desperate high-ranking government official would do and called for Mycroft Holmes.)
Gregory grabs the back of Mycroft's neck. Mycroft shudders, uncertain where this is headed. He loathes that uncertainty.
"It's not difficult. Just eat something."
Mycroft holds firm. "I haven't been hungry."
"Fine. Eat anyway."
Gregory's grip on Mycroft's neck tightens further. He isn't choking Mycroft (that Mycroft could handle, that would be appropriate and inappropriate in the clearest of ways) but his fingers dig into Mycroft's skin. Mycroft wants to push the hand away, it's invasive and unnecessary and warm and too-much-but he does not push it away, and he does not understand why.
"Moriarty killed Sherlock, Mycroft," Gregory says softly. "You didn't."
Mycroft wants to shake his head in disagreement, but with Gregory's fingers digging into his skin and holding him still it isn't an option. That's fine, however. Mycroft will simply wait until Gregory grows bored of this drama. "I helped," Mycroft says.
"Maybe," Gregory says.
Mycroft blinks a few times, utterly shocked.
"But if that's the case, then I also 'helped' Moriarty."
Is that what all of this has been about, then? It would explain why every conversation yesterday occurred in hushed tones. Their words were the conferences between the guilty, as their whispers promised their guilt would never press beyond these walls.
It's an option, indeed it's an option Mycroft never considered. They could keep the secret between the two of them, never letting each other acknowledge their own guilt. Mycroft could even stay with Gregory, if he agreed to this contract. In a flash Mycroft can see it-eating again, letting Gregory fuck him into the mattress tonight. They would sign their contract with every bite of food and thrust in bed. They would add footnotes in whispers and sighs and the sweat from their intertwined bodies.
Is that what Gregory wants? It seems to be. When Mycroft glances at Gregory he doesn't see any guilt in his boyfriend's eyes. Gregory takes the hand away from Mycroft. He scratches the back of his own neck.
"It's not that I think I'm innocent. It's just…" Gregory shrugs, but it's a gesture entirely for show. Gregory is affecting casualness that he clearly does not feel. Oh. Gregory needs this. He needs this delusion like Mycroft had needed silence.
"I can't fix it now," Gregory says. "I did my best. I warned him, you know, just like you warned John. It's not that I didn't do wrong, but I-we-we work for queen and country, and I-"
"You were just doing your job." The words come out lifeless, like Mycroft doesn't even believe himself in their charade.
No a whispered contract and guilt-laden sex will not do. It's a temporary solution at best, and resentment would build over time. Mycroft is certain of this. It isn't the sort contract that lasts.
If there's one thing Mycroft can recognize, (and abhor) it's the kind of negotiation where nobody wins.
No. He won't eat Gregory's fry-up. He doesn't need the food, does he? He doesn't need anything-or anyone-at all. Mycroft takes a deep breath, comes back into himself.
Gregory is still talking.
"Look, it doesn't matter who's to blame, not anymore," Gregory says. But Mycroft thinks that's rather a matter of opinion.
"Sherlock didn't jump off a building," Gregory says, "so you could starve yourself," and Gregory is finally, actually correct. Mycroft smiles a tiny bit, the type of smile Gregory has assured him looks more like a smirk than anything else.
Gregory is perfectly correct. In fact, everything makes sense in the light of his words. Sherlock wouldn't approve of Mycroft's current actions at all. But then, it's not as though Sherlock leapt off (fell off) a building because he wanted to make Mycroft feel anything. Sherlock didn't care much for Mycroft's feelings, unless they were feelings of spite. No, Sherlock wouldn't have enjoyed Mycroft's hunger strike-Sherlock preferred seeing his brother shame-faced, fresh off another diet, with a stomach filled with too much cake.
That didn't matter, however. Mycroft was meant to care for Sherlock's feelings, even if the sentiment wasn't returned. Mycroft was meant to be Sherlock's keeper. He promised Mummy, shortly before she died, that he would take proper care of Sherlock. At the time he had felt the promise overwrought and unnecessary-of course he would care for Sherlock. It was his duty as a brother. He already knew that much. It was his duty as a Holmes.
Now it's Mycroft's greatest failure.
He's wasting time here with Gregory. He could be repenting. He could even be working. He should leave.
Mycroft hears a low, feral sound. It must have come straight from the back of Gregory's throat. Mycroft's never heard it before. It makes his entire body freeze up.
"Don't you dare," Gregory says. He very nearly growls the words. "Stop doing that."
"What?"
"Stop going into your head. I know we're arguing right now, it's written across your entire face, but you won't say anything aloud so I can't fight back. I know you do that sort of thing on purpose with the rest of them, but I can't-just, don't do it. Don't do that with me."
"We are arguing." Mycroft wants it (needs it) confirmed.
"'Course we are!" (Good: it will be easier to leave now. He'll have obvious motive, Gregory won't feel the need to follow, searching for answers.) "I love you, Mycroft, and I'm trying to help you. I want to make it better for you-only you won't bloody let me!"
Ah. Gregory fights using the dirtiest ammunition of all. Still, Mycroft shall not fall prey to sentiment. That was rather his brother's territory. "I was better on my own."
"No you bloody well weren't! For God's sake, My, on your own-you're planning to starve yourself!"
"And you are overreacting," Mycroft scoffs, turning away. It's a lie, perhaps, but it's also a negotiation. If there's anyone that could negotiate an end to their own relationship, it's Mycroft Holmes.
Gregory ought to understand that he's a lost cause.
Mycroft needs to get his things.
"Fuck. Mycroft, look: we both fucked up, I know you can see that."
Mycroft pauses. He doesn't turn around. Still, Gregory has surprised him.
"But you dedicate yourself to this…behaviour…as if it's not just a way to make you feel better. You act as if it's a way to honour him. That's incorrect, Mycroft. It's flat-out wrong."
Mycroft finds himself nodding, almost against his will. He turns around to see Gregory pushing a hand through his own hair. Gregory bites his lip and stares at Mycroft for a moment before speaking again.
"I don't know if this is some kind of strange Holmesian ritual or what, but, just, fuck it. You don't want to eat? Fine. You don't bloody have to. Just-Come on. We're going."
Then Gregory grabs Mycroft's hand. He brooks no argument, and he does not let up until Mycroft is situated in Gregory's car.
.
.
.
Mycroft struggles to deduce where they are headed. He stares out the window and refuses to speak. He realizes after two minutes that he has forgotten his phone. He doesn't bother asking whether they can go back and fetch it.
Gregory offers no answers, not verbally. Mycroft reads the truth from his body instead. He's not as good at this as Sherlock, but he is good enough for this. Gregory's hands grip the wheel tightly-he's unsure whether he has made the right decision, taking Mycroft wherever it is they are headed. His eyes glint as with the thought, "Well, at least I can't make the situation any worse."Gregory's mouth is set in a deliberately neutral expression, just the barest hint of a frown. He does not wish to alarm Mycroft.
It's touching, really, how every element of Gregory's body expresses concern. Mycroft bites at the inside of his cheek, where he knows Gregory cannot see. He hadn't realized his boyfriend cared so much.
Gregory had said "I love you" back in the kitchen. Perhaps Mycroft shouldn't be so surprised.
Caring is not an advantage, he told Sherlock once. But Gregory chooses to care anyway, and perhaps Mycroft has been a fool for not understanding that. He has been negotiating with incorrect parameters. Who knows what damage he may have caused?
Oh, Mycroft thinks. He remembers, of course. This isn't the first time sentiment has entered into their equation. Just before Gregory's divorce was finalized, Mycroft had held the man in his sleep as Gregory shuddered, and had wondered desperately what he could do for this man. The oddest answer came to him the next day, after Gregory ended one of many miserable phone calls with his wife. These were the calls that left Gregory sighing deeply and rolling his eyes. Those things did not worry Mycroft. But there was the matter of Gregory's other hand, the free one, which was meant to be taking notes but instead shuddered like Gregory's body had shuddered the night before in bed. Gregory's hand shook, open and empty, and Mycroft knew enough to understand that the hand indicated that Gregory had believed the entire situation out of his control. Mycroft hated that shaking hand, he didn't hate Gregory but he hated his hand. He watched it, helpless to make it stop.
The moment Gregory ended the phone call Mycroft had grabbed his boyfriend's lapel and kissed him deeply: deeply, but only once. It was a negotiation, and it succeeded, because Gregory kissed him the second time, and the third time, and the fourth time. Mycroft let him, Mycroft begged him to kiss him (not in so many words), all so that Gregory might take control of something.
He remembered hoping desperately that it would be enough. He had wanted to give Gregory everything his wife was taking from him. He had wanted to make Gregory his old self, somehow-as if that could even be accomplished through a few kisses. But Gregory had made him want something impossible. Not for himself, not at all, but for this other man.
Where would that Gregory, where would this Gregory, who loved him, evidently, where would this new Gregory Lestrade take Mycroft Holmes? He looks once more at Gregory, and since it's a stoplight Gregory looks right back, just for a second. He must read something into Mycroft's face, (which isn't ideal, people aren't meant to be able to do that…) because he smiles a little at whatever change he can see there. He slips his hand into Mycroft's own.
Maybe wherever they're headed does not matter. Maybe, just maybe, Mycroft can trust this.
It turns out they're headed to Boots, of all places. Gregory parks the car and when they get out Mycroft just looks at him across the top of the car.
Mycroft raises a single eyebrow.
Gregory snorts, undignified, and Mycroft greatly enjoys hearing the sound, knowing he elicited that.
"I need supplies," Gregory says ambiguously. Mycroft nods and follows.
He follows Gregory down the shop's aisles, up the escalator, follows him until Gregory has a box of nicotine patches in his hands and he swipes his card at the register. Suddenly they're outside the door once more. It's sunny outside and the sky is clear. It's a perfect day. Mycroft hadn't noticed before.
"Just felt a compulsion?" Mycroft says, pointing to the plastic bag in Gregory's hands. Gregory hasn't needed a patch in months.
Gregory shakes his head. "Not exactly."
He ushers Mycroft back into the car and Gregory turns the car around. They set off in the proper direction this time, indeed they make a few telltale turns and suddenly it's perfectly clear where they are headed. Mycroft feels a bit foolish for not guessing it before.
"Sherlock wouldn't approve of this," he says.
Gregory shrugs. "This isn't about Sherlock. This is about paying our respects."
"Why?" Mycroft is genuinely curious.
"Because that's what people do when their brothers die, My. This is how they're meant to mourn."
Mycroft can't find it in himself to argue with that.
The car pulls into the car park and Gregory shuts off the ignition. Before they can get out of the vehicle he grabs Mycroft's hand. "I think we should do this. I really, genuinely do. But we don't have to."
"It's fine," Mycroft says. He means it.
They exit the car, Gregory stopping to grab his recent purchase from the backseat, and they advance through the cemetery. It's very green here. It must have rained earlier this morning because they trek though muddy grass. Their shoes will be ruined.
They arrive at a gravestone Mycroft has never seen before, the one his brother almost certainly wouldn't care about.
There is his brother's name, etched deep into the shining black marble. Mycroft ordered the tombstone, of course, so the materials aren't any surprise. Still, the finished product is striking; as impugned as it was in the papers, his brother's name looks suitably noble chiselled in stone. Mycroft gets a kind of grim satisfaction from that.
Mycroft can see their twin reflections, his and Gregory's, in the shining black slab. He can feel his own eyebrows rising as Gregory's reflection bends down, placing the plastic bag at the foot of Sherlock's grave.
"It's a tribute," Gregory says when he straightens up. "Only I have to keep bringing more every time because some bastard keeps nicking them."
Mycroft hears a foreign noise emerge from his own throat. It sounds like a whimper. He clears his throat and then realizes Gregory has taken his hand. Mycroft clears his throat once more. He doesn't not let go.
"How often do you come here?" he asks.
"Well, er…This'll be my fourth time, not counting the funeral." Gregory winces at Mycroft's look of surprise. "I know it's a lot. I just...I like to think that somebody's here to look after him. And I kept hoping I'd see you here, to be honest. I worried about you."
Mycroft stares at their reflection, at the Boots bag cushioned at the seat of his brother's tombstone. "Thank you," he whispers. He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.
Gregory's reflection nods. "Of course," he says. "I meant what I said, before, My. Even if it came out wrong."
Mycroft stares at their reflections. He takes a slow, shuddering breath.
"Thank you," he says again.
Gregory nods. He squeezes Mycroft's hand once (silly as it is, Mycroft squeezes back) and then lets go. Mycroft doesn't feel abandoned. He does not feel alone. He feels better, actually, like he's ready to move on to something. To what, he isn't certain. He finds he does not mind this uncertainty, which is the most surprising thing of all.
Then Gregory bends down again, fussing with the plastic bag around the patches, possibly trying to make certain the bag is tight enough to be waterproof, and Mycroft looks down at the earth around the grave.
Mycroft sees, nestled between blades of muddy grass, a single strand of hair. He leans down to examine it. Maybe they can ascertain the person who has stolen Gregory's patches. It looks too long to be from John Watson, too dark to be from Mrs. Hudson…Mycroft plucks up the strand. When he straightens back up and gets a better look at it, he must do his best not to gasp.
He knows this hair. He grew up with this hair. It's thin and long and black and curly, and it could only have come from the head of one Sherlock Holmes, or at the very least a close impersonation of his brother's head. It does not do to presume, Mycroft knows this, but he also knows his brother's hair.
He checks that Gregory is still fiddling with the bag, and then he whips his own head around until he sees it. Him. The ghost.
The ghost glares straight back at him, which is how Mycroft knows it's certainly Sherlock's hair. His brother, the perpetual idiot (for all his high IQ would have you believe), didn't even bother hiding himself properly. His brother, who is very much still alive.
Mycroft does what any good sibling would do. (Well, any Holmes sibling, anyway.) He glares, very obviously mouths "Leave here," and then turns back to his boyfriend and pretends he hasn't seen anything at all. He'll need to come back later to talk to Sherlock alone.
Mycroft and Gregory stare at the grave side by side, as though nothing's changed.
That's where Gregory's nicotine patches have gone, then. Goodness.
He will never stop caring for his brother, never, because his brother will never stop being an utter fool.
Mycroft isn't sure what emotions pass over him, exactly. Relief, he supposes. There's shame, for hiding away inside, for not realizing sooner. Then there's something much stronger, much more ridiculous, the most familiar emotion of all. Annoyance.
In the end, however, Gregory leans into Mycroft's side. Mycroft puts an arm across his boyfriend's shoulders, drawing him in. In the end he cracks a smile because his baby brother is alive and well enough to walk. His baby brother is running around like an idiot, leaving visible hairs at his grave and alarming Mycroft once more. Of course he is.
Sherlock would never do anything less.
Mycroft looks over at Gregory, wondering if his boyfriend will be alarmed at his smile. Gregory isn't. He nods once at Mycroft, looking proud, of all things. They don't say anything at all, and Gregory smiles back.
Fin.
Word Count: approx 3,500 for this bit
A/N: Full story info and more author's notes here.
ETA: The amazing Derpytuna drew fanart for this fic!!! (I'm pretty much dying of joy here.) Check it out!
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
In the end, it all comes to a head over breakfast.
"I could make us a fry-up," Gregory says after he points Mycroft toward his espresso machine. (Mycroft was always better at operating it, anyway.) "Might as well, yeah? I don't have anywhere more urgent to be." He says the latter bit jokingly, in a way that only reveals how much Gregory misses his job. Not that this is news to Mycroft in any way.
Mycroft shrugs. The gesture feels utterly foreign to him. He likes that. "Make yourself whatever you like. I'll just have the coffee."
Gregory snorts. "Like hell you will. I can make you something else. What do you fancy?"
On another occasion Mycroft would rise to the obvious bait: say "you," and kiss Gregory. On any other day that kissing would turn into sex in the kitchen, into Gregory bent against the counter and grinning from ear to ear until Mycroft did something that wiped the cheeky smirk off his face.
Instead Mycroft says, "Truly, I'm fine."
(In the Diogenes club he ate very little. His body adjusted to the diet. He genuinely hasn't been hungry these past hours.)
"When was the last time you ate?"
Mycroft rolls his eyes at the concern in Gregory's tone. "Well, someone in this room fed me soup yesterday. Surely you haven't forgotten?"
"You know what I mean, My."
Mycroft eyes Gregory where he leans against the kitchen counter. Somehow he does not believe an explanation of his reduced eating habits over the past week will satisfy Gregory at the moment. Instead, Mycroft hands him the first cup of espresso.
"Human bodies are terribly resilient, you know," he tells Gregory. "There are documented cases of people surviving up to forty days without food, so long as they receive proper hydration." He smiles a tiny bit at that. Gregory does not return the gesture, so Mycroft inclines his head to the side. "I can't imagine you'll have to watch me expire in front of your eyes."
I'll be gone before then, Mycroft doesn't add, as I can't imagine you'll want me around. (Such thoughts are petty and useless, for all they might be true.)
Gregory puts down the espresso and comes up around the kitchen island to stand behind Mycroft. He rests his head on Mycroft's shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist. "That's not funny," he whispers sweetly into the back of Mycroft's neck. And Mycroft's not sure why this of all things should make him break-maybe because he wants Gregory to stay exactly where he is but he can't want that, he shouldn't, not after what's he's done to Sherlock. He doesn't deserve this anymore and Gregory does not deserve Mycroft's brand-new pain by proxy. Gregory doesn't deserve Mycroft's pain, ever.
Whatever the reason, it happens.
Mycroft breaks.
He doesn't cry-he hasn't cried yet, not really, and he won't. Instead, Mycroft Holmes braces himself for fresh heartache. He pours salt in his wounds.
"So sorry," Mycroft whispers back. The words come out quiet, but there's no mistaking his sarcastic tone.
Gregory certainly doesn't miss it. He pulls back from his boyfriend and spins Mycroft around so that now they are face to face. (Now Mycroft has to look Gregory in the eye.)
Mycroft doesn't like this one bit.
"Christ, My," Gregory says.
Mycroft doesn't break Gregory's gaze. He remains silent. This, too, is a form of negotiation. (This was Moriarty's form, for so many weeks, for every week until they did what any desperate high-ranking government official would do and called for Mycroft Holmes.)
Gregory grabs the back of Mycroft's neck. Mycroft shudders, uncertain where this is headed. He loathes that uncertainty.
"It's not difficult. Just eat something."
Mycroft holds firm. "I haven't been hungry."
"Fine. Eat anyway."
Gregory's grip on Mycroft's neck tightens further. He isn't choking Mycroft (that Mycroft could handle, that would be appropriate and inappropriate in the clearest of ways) but his fingers dig into Mycroft's skin. Mycroft wants to push the hand away, it's invasive and unnecessary and warm and too-much-but he does not push it away, and he does not understand why.
"Moriarty killed Sherlock, Mycroft," Gregory says softly. "You didn't."
Mycroft wants to shake his head in disagreement, but with Gregory's fingers digging into his skin and holding him still it isn't an option. That's fine, however. Mycroft will simply wait until Gregory grows bored of this drama. "I helped," Mycroft says.
"Maybe," Gregory says.
Mycroft blinks a few times, utterly shocked.
"But if that's the case, then I also 'helped' Moriarty."
Is that what all of this has been about, then? It would explain why every conversation yesterday occurred in hushed tones. Their words were the conferences between the guilty, as their whispers promised their guilt would never press beyond these walls.
It's an option, indeed it's an option Mycroft never considered. They could keep the secret between the two of them, never letting each other acknowledge their own guilt. Mycroft could even stay with Gregory, if he agreed to this contract. In a flash Mycroft can see it-eating again, letting Gregory fuck him into the mattress tonight. They would sign their contract with every bite of food and thrust in bed. They would add footnotes in whispers and sighs and the sweat from their intertwined bodies.
Is that what Gregory wants? It seems to be. When Mycroft glances at Gregory he doesn't see any guilt in his boyfriend's eyes. Gregory takes the hand away from Mycroft. He scratches the back of his own neck.
"It's not that I think I'm innocent. It's just…" Gregory shrugs, but it's a gesture entirely for show. Gregory is affecting casualness that he clearly does not feel. Oh. Gregory needs this. He needs this delusion like Mycroft had needed silence.
"I can't fix it now," Gregory says. "I did my best. I warned him, you know, just like you warned John. It's not that I didn't do wrong, but I-we-we work for queen and country, and I-"
"You were just doing your job." The words come out lifeless, like Mycroft doesn't even believe himself in their charade.
No a whispered contract and guilt-laden sex will not do. It's a temporary solution at best, and resentment would build over time. Mycroft is certain of this. It isn't the sort contract that lasts.
If there's one thing Mycroft can recognize, (and abhor) it's the kind of negotiation where nobody wins.
No. He won't eat Gregory's fry-up. He doesn't need the food, does he? He doesn't need anything-or anyone-at all. Mycroft takes a deep breath, comes back into himself.
Gregory is still talking.
"Look, it doesn't matter who's to blame, not anymore," Gregory says. But Mycroft thinks that's rather a matter of opinion.
"Sherlock didn't jump off a building," Gregory says, "so you could starve yourself," and Gregory is finally, actually correct. Mycroft smiles a tiny bit, the type of smile Gregory has assured him looks more like a smirk than anything else.
Gregory is perfectly correct. In fact, everything makes sense in the light of his words. Sherlock wouldn't approve of Mycroft's current actions at all. But then, it's not as though Sherlock leapt off (fell off) a building because he wanted to make Mycroft feel anything. Sherlock didn't care much for Mycroft's feelings, unless they were feelings of spite. No, Sherlock wouldn't have enjoyed Mycroft's hunger strike-Sherlock preferred seeing his brother shame-faced, fresh off another diet, with a stomach filled with too much cake.
That didn't matter, however. Mycroft was meant to care for Sherlock's feelings, even if the sentiment wasn't returned. Mycroft was meant to be Sherlock's keeper. He promised Mummy, shortly before she died, that he would take proper care of Sherlock. At the time he had felt the promise overwrought and unnecessary-of course he would care for Sherlock. It was his duty as a brother. He already knew that much. It was his duty as a Holmes.
Now it's Mycroft's greatest failure.
He's wasting time here with Gregory. He could be repenting. He could even be working. He should leave.
Mycroft hears a low, feral sound. It must have come straight from the back of Gregory's throat. Mycroft's never heard it before. It makes his entire body freeze up.
"Don't you dare," Gregory says. He very nearly growls the words. "Stop doing that."
"What?"
"Stop going into your head. I know we're arguing right now, it's written across your entire face, but you won't say anything aloud so I can't fight back. I know you do that sort of thing on purpose with the rest of them, but I can't-just, don't do it. Don't do that with me."
"We are arguing." Mycroft wants it (needs it) confirmed.
"'Course we are!" (Good: it will be easier to leave now. He'll have obvious motive, Gregory won't feel the need to follow, searching for answers.) "I love you, Mycroft, and I'm trying to help you. I want to make it better for you-only you won't bloody let me!"
Ah. Gregory fights using the dirtiest ammunition of all. Still, Mycroft shall not fall prey to sentiment. That was rather his brother's territory. "I was better on my own."
"No you bloody well weren't! For God's sake, My, on your own-you're planning to starve yourself!"
"And you are overreacting," Mycroft scoffs, turning away. It's a lie, perhaps, but it's also a negotiation. If there's anyone that could negotiate an end to their own relationship, it's Mycroft Holmes.
Gregory ought to understand that he's a lost cause.
Mycroft needs to get his things.
"Fuck. Mycroft, look: we both fucked up, I know you can see that."
Mycroft pauses. He doesn't turn around. Still, Gregory has surprised him.
"But you dedicate yourself to this…behaviour…as if it's not just a way to make you feel better. You act as if it's a way to honour him. That's incorrect, Mycroft. It's flat-out wrong."
Mycroft finds himself nodding, almost against his will. He turns around to see Gregory pushing a hand through his own hair. Gregory bites his lip and stares at Mycroft for a moment before speaking again.
"I don't know if this is some kind of strange Holmesian ritual or what, but, just, fuck it. You don't want to eat? Fine. You don't bloody have to. Just-Come on. We're going."
Then Gregory grabs Mycroft's hand. He brooks no argument, and he does not let up until Mycroft is situated in Gregory's car.
.
.
.
Mycroft struggles to deduce where they are headed. He stares out the window and refuses to speak. He realizes after two minutes that he has forgotten his phone. He doesn't bother asking whether they can go back and fetch it.
Gregory offers no answers, not verbally. Mycroft reads the truth from his body instead. He's not as good at this as Sherlock, but he is good enough for this. Gregory's hands grip the wheel tightly-he's unsure whether he has made the right decision, taking Mycroft wherever it is they are headed. His eyes glint as with the thought, "Well, at least I can't make the situation any worse."Gregory's mouth is set in a deliberately neutral expression, just the barest hint of a frown. He does not wish to alarm Mycroft.
It's touching, really, how every element of Gregory's body expresses concern. Mycroft bites at the inside of his cheek, where he knows Gregory cannot see. He hadn't realized his boyfriend cared so much.
Gregory had said "I love you" back in the kitchen. Perhaps Mycroft shouldn't be so surprised.
Caring is not an advantage, he told Sherlock once. But Gregory chooses to care anyway, and perhaps Mycroft has been a fool for not understanding that. He has been negotiating with incorrect parameters. Who knows what damage he may have caused?
Oh, Mycroft thinks. He remembers, of course. This isn't the first time sentiment has entered into their equation. Just before Gregory's divorce was finalized, Mycroft had held the man in his sleep as Gregory shuddered, and had wondered desperately what he could do for this man. The oddest answer came to him the next day, after Gregory ended one of many miserable phone calls with his wife. These were the calls that left Gregory sighing deeply and rolling his eyes. Those things did not worry Mycroft. But there was the matter of Gregory's other hand, the free one, which was meant to be taking notes but instead shuddered like Gregory's body had shuddered the night before in bed. Gregory's hand shook, open and empty, and Mycroft knew enough to understand that the hand indicated that Gregory had believed the entire situation out of his control. Mycroft hated that shaking hand, he didn't hate Gregory but he hated his hand. He watched it, helpless to make it stop.
The moment Gregory ended the phone call Mycroft had grabbed his boyfriend's lapel and kissed him deeply: deeply, but only once. It was a negotiation, and it succeeded, because Gregory kissed him the second time, and the third time, and the fourth time. Mycroft let him, Mycroft begged him to kiss him (not in so many words), all so that Gregory might take control of something.
He remembered hoping desperately that it would be enough. He had wanted to give Gregory everything his wife was taking from him. He had wanted to make Gregory his old self, somehow-as if that could even be accomplished through a few kisses. But Gregory had made him want something impossible. Not for himself, not at all, but for this other man.
Where would that Gregory, where would this Gregory, who loved him, evidently, where would this new Gregory Lestrade take Mycroft Holmes? He looks once more at Gregory, and since it's a stoplight Gregory looks right back, just for a second. He must read something into Mycroft's face, (which isn't ideal, people aren't meant to be able to do that…) because he smiles a little at whatever change he can see there. He slips his hand into Mycroft's own.
Maybe wherever they're headed does not matter. Maybe, just maybe, Mycroft can trust this.
It turns out they're headed to Boots, of all places. Gregory parks the car and when they get out Mycroft just looks at him across the top of the car.
Mycroft raises a single eyebrow.
Gregory snorts, undignified, and Mycroft greatly enjoys hearing the sound, knowing he elicited that.
"I need supplies," Gregory says ambiguously. Mycroft nods and follows.
He follows Gregory down the shop's aisles, up the escalator, follows him until Gregory has a box of nicotine patches in his hands and he swipes his card at the register. Suddenly they're outside the door once more. It's sunny outside and the sky is clear. It's a perfect day. Mycroft hadn't noticed before.
"Just felt a compulsion?" Mycroft says, pointing to the plastic bag in Gregory's hands. Gregory hasn't needed a patch in months.
Gregory shakes his head. "Not exactly."
He ushers Mycroft back into the car and Gregory turns the car around. They set off in the proper direction this time, indeed they make a few telltale turns and suddenly it's perfectly clear where they are headed. Mycroft feels a bit foolish for not guessing it before.
"Sherlock wouldn't approve of this," he says.
Gregory shrugs. "This isn't about Sherlock. This is about paying our respects."
"Why?" Mycroft is genuinely curious.
"Because that's what people do when their brothers die, My. This is how they're meant to mourn."
Mycroft can't find it in himself to argue with that.
The car pulls into the car park and Gregory shuts off the ignition. Before they can get out of the vehicle he grabs Mycroft's hand. "I think we should do this. I really, genuinely do. But we don't have to."
"It's fine," Mycroft says. He means it.
They exit the car, Gregory stopping to grab his recent purchase from the backseat, and they advance through the cemetery. It's very green here. It must have rained earlier this morning because they trek though muddy grass. Their shoes will be ruined.
They arrive at a gravestone Mycroft has never seen before, the one his brother almost certainly wouldn't care about.
There is his brother's name, etched deep into the shining black marble. Mycroft ordered the tombstone, of course, so the materials aren't any surprise. Still, the finished product is striking; as impugned as it was in the papers, his brother's name looks suitably noble chiselled in stone. Mycroft gets a kind of grim satisfaction from that.
Mycroft can see their twin reflections, his and Gregory's, in the shining black slab. He can feel his own eyebrows rising as Gregory's reflection bends down, placing the plastic bag at the foot of Sherlock's grave.
"It's a tribute," Gregory says when he straightens up. "Only I have to keep bringing more every time because some bastard keeps nicking them."
Mycroft hears a foreign noise emerge from his own throat. It sounds like a whimper. He clears his throat and then realizes Gregory has taken his hand. Mycroft clears his throat once more. He doesn't not let go.
"How often do you come here?" he asks.
"Well, er…This'll be my fourth time, not counting the funeral." Gregory winces at Mycroft's look of surprise. "I know it's a lot. I just...I like to think that somebody's here to look after him. And I kept hoping I'd see you here, to be honest. I worried about you."
Mycroft stares at their reflection, at the Boots bag cushioned at the seat of his brother's tombstone. "Thank you," he whispers. He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.
Gregory's reflection nods. "Of course," he says. "I meant what I said, before, My. Even if it came out wrong."
Mycroft stares at their reflections. He takes a slow, shuddering breath.
"Thank you," he says again.
Gregory nods. He squeezes Mycroft's hand once (silly as it is, Mycroft squeezes back) and then lets go. Mycroft doesn't feel abandoned. He does not feel alone. He feels better, actually, like he's ready to move on to something. To what, he isn't certain. He finds he does not mind this uncertainty, which is the most surprising thing of all.
Then Gregory bends down again, fussing with the plastic bag around the patches, possibly trying to make certain the bag is tight enough to be waterproof, and Mycroft looks down at the earth around the grave.
Mycroft sees, nestled between blades of muddy grass, a single strand of hair. He leans down to examine it. Maybe they can ascertain the person who has stolen Gregory's patches. It looks too long to be from John Watson, too dark to be from Mrs. Hudson…Mycroft plucks up the strand. When he straightens back up and gets a better look at it, he must do his best not to gasp.
He knows this hair. He grew up with this hair. It's thin and long and black and curly, and it could only have come from the head of one Sherlock Holmes, or at the very least a close impersonation of his brother's head. It does not do to presume, Mycroft knows this, but he also knows his brother's hair.
He checks that Gregory is still fiddling with the bag, and then he whips his own head around until he sees it. Him. The ghost.
The ghost glares straight back at him, which is how Mycroft knows it's certainly Sherlock's hair. His brother, the perpetual idiot (for all his high IQ would have you believe), didn't even bother hiding himself properly. His brother, who is very much still alive.
Mycroft does what any good sibling would do. (Well, any Holmes sibling, anyway.) He glares, very obviously mouths "Leave here," and then turns back to his boyfriend and pretends he hasn't seen anything at all. He'll need to come back later to talk to Sherlock alone.
Mycroft and Gregory stare at the grave side by side, as though nothing's changed.
That's where Gregory's nicotine patches have gone, then. Goodness.
He will never stop caring for his brother, never, because his brother will never stop being an utter fool.
Mycroft isn't sure what emotions pass over him, exactly. Relief, he supposes. There's shame, for hiding away inside, for not realizing sooner. Then there's something much stronger, much more ridiculous, the most familiar emotion of all. Annoyance.
In the end, however, Gregory leans into Mycroft's side. Mycroft puts an arm across his boyfriend's shoulders, drawing him in. In the end he cracks a smile because his baby brother is alive and well enough to walk. His baby brother is running around like an idiot, leaving visible hairs at his grave and alarming Mycroft once more. Of course he is.
Sherlock would never do anything less.
Mycroft looks over at Gregory, wondering if his boyfriend will be alarmed at his smile. Gregory isn't. He nods once at Mycroft, looking proud, of all things. They don't say anything at all, and Gregory smiles back.
Fin.