Prompting Part XXIV
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
He hoped Sevastian would be able to stand against his father because he was far too weak right now to face 'THE MONSTER' - that’s what Sherlock as a child would call him. ‘Mycroft’, he would mutter in his ear in the middle of the night - ‘Mycroft, may I sleep with you, I don’t want the monster to find me in the morning.’ Monsters didn’t come at night, with Sherlock, they did in the morning and they had his eyes and hair.
And what he wouldn’t give to have this little boy again. At least, little as he was when he was young, nothing seemed be able to injure Sherlock. He was the safest child of the whole world. Mycroft took care of that.
Growing up, Sherlock had become full of passion and Mycroft had failed numerous times at keeping him safe.
And at the end he had killed him.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying not to allow the sobs to get through his lips.
Mycroft didn’t want to see his father - he would gloat, admonished him for his behavior, guilt him (and god, he didn’t need more of that) and never once express any kind of feeling regarding Sh- no. No, he wouldn’t come in.
He straightened when he heard his P.A.’s voice and the low baritone of his father’s one answer in a harsh way. Mycroft smiled a little and allowed himself to relax, his head resting on the seatback as his eyes wandered on his Manor’s ground.
The dull pain of the hunger was almost making him smile, as it was, and he could almost hear Sherlock’s berating him about food control and anorexia. Oh, the little sunshine had searched everything and everywhere about this affliction. Sherlock had never been more invest in something else than a case except for this one time. He had read, and asked and met people who could help him understand why his brother would sometimes stop eating.
Control. That’s what he came up with after having thought about all the information he had gathered from his research. It was all about control. Mycroft wasn’t much in control of his life at the time (and Sherlock had been 11 or 12 when he had begun researching) so he had to find control over something else.
It had been the food.
Sometimes he ate too much, sometimes not at all. And every time Sherlock would meet him - it being outside, inside, in public, in private, in bed - no, don’t think, no - each time they would see each other, Sherlock would ask Mycroft how his diet was going and Sherlock would read his face and see - see if it was a bad cycle, or an easy one, if it was about to begin, or finally over.
Sherlock would know.
Sherlock knew him.
Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his fingers on his eyelids until he could see bright sparkles behind them.
He wasn’t sure he was ever going to get better - he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
And then, a new voice came from the hall and he tensed. No, certainly it couldn’t be -
“Ah, Greg Lestrade and John Watson.” Said his father and Mycroft whimpered - he did, he did and he couldn’t - he - no. He couldn’t face John Watson. He couldn’t face him and act as if everything was alright and as if - as if he hadn’t thought his brother unfaithful because of the army doctor and had fought with him about it and - and let him die.
He didn’t know how long he tried to regain his breath, to not faint again, but when he did, the door to his rooms was opening and he could hear four pair of foots crossing his living-room.
They paused a second in front of his bedroom door before Isabel - she was Isabel at home- rattled her knuckles against the door’s wood and entered.
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“Mycroft,” Isabel said, and as they were at home, she could certainly use his first name. She had always done so, since the first time they met her until now -and she had always been their little Isabel running everywhere after them and liking them no matter what.
“Isabel, lovely to see you.” He said. He knew why she was here, he knew what she wanted to do - try to do - but he didn’t intend to help.
In a way, he just wanted to die already and be done with it - he thought and the pain in his chest worsened a little.
There was a silence and then someone fell in front of him, on their knees, and a pale, calloused hand, reached both of his, which he was clenching tightly.
“Look at me, Mycroft.” He heard and it was John Watson’s voice and he couldn’t - He shook his head and tried to take his hands away. And god, what must the soldier think, seeing him in this state and -
“I am so sorry for your loss, Mycroft.” John said again, and the soldier’s voice was broken now and Mycroft was certain he was crying as well, the sobs from earlier finally free to shake his body.
“I - “He tried to say something, but his voice broke and failed him and he just kept weeping, and he hated himself because it was so very common and he was ashamed but god, how he wanted to scream his brother’s name now and ask him to come back, to not be dead and -
“Lord, I know Mycroft. I know. Hush, please. You’re going to faint again if you don’t breath. Shh. Look at me - in and out.” The doctor said and he breathed in and out slowly. Mycroft stared at him and tried to control - control control - himself enough to match his breathing with John’s.
“That’s it, that’s good Mycroft, everything’s fine, it’s alright.” Nothing was fine, nothing was alright - Sherlock was dead. And they both knew it.
He clenched John’s hand with both of his and closed his eyes.
“I don’t think you can help me.” He said in a hoarse voice. Because he really doubted he wanted to survive this time.
“Well, we’ve got a month to do so, because if you’re not better by then, if you haven’t called your father before the end of this month, he is taking custody and intend to send you in a psychiatric clinic.” Isabel said. And John hadn’t been sure until now that Mycroft could ever look paler. He could, he was sickly white now.
“We won’t let it happen, Mycroft, believe me. Even if you’re not better by then, we are not going to let anything happen to you.”
And Mycroft wanted to say ‘too bad’ but he shared a glance with Lestrade and the man seemed shocked beyond words and very much broken. So Mycroft held his tongue.
“Alright, I - I will do my best.” He said. And he was really going to try and hold his promise, because his brother would want him to. Because Sherlock would say, ‘how’s the diet?’ and Mycroft didn’t want to feel ashamed and tell him that he had relapse again.
Well, not that Sherlock would ever ask him anything again - but he would try anyway.
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Whenever it was time to eat, John or Greg or both of them would be there - the other one reading in the same room. He sometimes preferred to just deal with one of them - and they would ask him politely to eat at least half the plate.
They were always eating at the same time and it was always one of them who had cooked, which was a way to coerce Mycroft into eating because he couldn’t be disrespectful and ignore the effort.
Sometimes they would eat in the kitchen, sometimes, when it was a bad day, they would eat in Mycroft’s rooms.
They slept in his living-room which was in fact more of a library just outside his bedroom than a living-room. His butler had installed two beds there, and John and Greg were always present for him.
Sometimes, it was a bad day for all of them. It was rare, because Lestrade was usually very good at hiding his feelings, and John wouldn’t make a sound when he was in pain, except some broken gasp sometimes in the silence of the rooms.
But there were times, rarely, when they would all feel Sherlock’s absence at the same time and it would be like a chill going through their bones and god, they were all grown-ups and they should be able to accept it, deal with it - how the hell did other people do? It was like they were the last humans on earth - but they still would all end up in Mycroft’s bed, trying to breath, trying to forget Sherlock had ever existed.
Or they would try talking about every annoying thing he had ever done and end up crying all over Mycroft’s pillows but damn, was it good.
They were broken men.
It was one of the mornings following a bad day that Mycroft called his father. And his voice was steady, hard and clear.
He was still 25 pounds underweight.
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They all shared Mycroft’s bed.
It was not in a sexual way or anything, but they really barely left Mycroft’s rooms and the bed was so large they could still welcome a family of four.
And it was a way to prevent John from waking up in the middle of the night, yelling after Sherlock and asking him not to jump.
The day following that nightmare, none of them had eaten anything.
The night following that nightmare, they had agreed all to sleep in the same bed, an anchor to the real world.
And then, step after step, relapse after relapse, slowly, they got better.
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It was Sherlock’s death anniversary and they had hesitated a long time before coming here.
It was the first time they came since John and Greg had been asked by Isabel to help Mycroft and as hard as it was, they were all aware of the big step they had just done.
They all lived together now, a big flat near Embankment station, with a nice view on the Thames.
They all had separate rooms at first, but now Greg and John shared one, the second one was for Mycroft and the third one belong to a little addition brought into their life two years ago.
“So? Da?.” The little blond boy asked as he deposited some flowers in front of the grave stone.
Greg smiled softly and approached his son, kneeling down on the grave. The little boy then turned around and jumped into his daddy’s arms.
“Thank you, Sherringford.” Mycroft said, and the little two years old held his arms toward his uncle.
It had been a gift to have this little wonder come into their lives. Harry had found herself pregnant after sleeping with a men when she was too drunk to tell gender apart.
When she had found out, she had called John and asked him about abortion. The man had convinced her to keep the baby, and they all had helped her to stop drinking for the remaining 7 months of pregnancy.
It had been a blessing, to be able to focus on someone else’s pain entirely, and then to be rewarded by the life of this little cherub.
Sherringford laid his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and stared at his fathers with a comforting smile.
They still slept together sometimes, when the night was too hard on Mycroft, or when the only way for John to not have a nightmare was to recreate the cocoon they had found themselves into at the beginning of Mycroft’s convalescence.
They stayed silent for a while and Sherringford fell asleep on Mycroft’s shoulder, the man smiling softly at his godson.
Then, their mobile phones all rang at the same time. John was the quickest to react and he read the text, frowning.
“Isabel wants us to come to the Manor right now.” He said.
Greg scowled and shared a concerned glance with Mycroft. “If it’s your fucking father again, I’ll rip him a new one.” He said. And Mycroft smiled while John nodded. He would certainly help.
They turned their back to the grave, and it was harder than it looked, and made their way slowly to the car. Mycroft’s Manor was 10 minutes away.
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“Any idea what Isabel has gotten herself int-“ Then the car abruptly stopped and John’s hand shot up quickly to prevent Sherringford to be hurt by the sudden stop.
“Greg!” Mycroft and John exclaimed at the same time, their eyes running over Sherringford’s waking form. The boy whimpered and opened his eyes, before smiling at his father and Uncle.
“Mycroft.” Came the whispered - harsh, row, broken - voice of Lestrade, and Mycroft and John refocused their attention to him.
Greg was staring at the Manor, his hands clenching the steering wheel and tears were running on his cheeks.
“Greg, what - “ John began, standing awkwardly and reaching for Greg. But then, Mycroft’s soft cry interrupted him and he, too, reported his attention to the Manor.
And there - there was -
-No.
No. No. No.
“Mmh. No.” John’s sobs betrayed his body before he could even think about it.
“Da.”
“John, John. What is - what the - “
But Lestrade couldn’t come up with the right question because Sherlock was there.
Sherlock was there.
Sherlock, alive, was there in front of the Manor’s doors, talking softly to Isabel, and watching with exhaustion as three MI5 agent walked past them carrying a stretcher, with an obviously dead body on it.
Mycroft slowly opened the door, and then he was walking, hesitant, his right hand clenching his Umbrella with all his force. John made a quick work in freeing his son and coming out of the car.
He came to Greg and opened the door quickly, forcing his partner to stand as well.
And then, they were all clenching at each other and Sherlock was still alive, not 2000 foot away.
“He is - Am I dreaming? I am, right?” Greg asked, his hand clenched in a fist on Mycroft’s sleeve.
“No. He lied.” Mycroft said, his voice strangely calm but hoarse.
“He had to lie, he had to hide and hunt Moriarty’s man down and couldn’t tell us he was alive, because we were being watched and threatened. The body, it’s Sevastian. He must be the last one. He lied.”
And Isabel had turn her head, finally, and seen them, and she was crying as well. She muttered something to Sherlock and the man - their exhausted, thin, sick, piece of god - raised his head and looked at them.
They didn’t move - couldn’t move. And John wanted to throw up and yell and cry and - Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock - but Sherlock made quick steps, shattered, broken, uncertain, towards them and he seemed so far away but then he was there and Greg let himself fall on the floor and Mycroft stepped forward and held his arms and Sherlock whispered “Can I kiss you? May I kiss you, My?” in a strangled sob and Mycroft nodded and they kissed and Greg was watching smiling, sobbing while John had his head hidden in his son’s neck, afraid to look up and wake and -
-And then, Sherlock’s arms were around him and Mycroft was helping Greg stand and they all shared tears, and sobs and broken words.
And then they lived.
Together, a little bit broken, a little bit afraid, a lot more happier, and far more peacefully.
They lived.
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The story is quite moving and I liked your characterization!
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And I am happy you liked the story!
Cheer!
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