The Approaching Storm
Title: Approaching Storm
Author: aislingdoheanta
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Mycroft, John, Jim, with mentions of Mystrade
Summary: Mycroft's inner thoughts after John's confrontation about what went on with Jim as well as his own guilt.
Rating: T
Word Count: 2006
Notes: Apart of the Storm series of fics I'm going to write that are based around the Fall but from Mycroft/Lestrade POVs. This one is almost a direct prequel to Lull Before the Storm
Warnings: Talk of torture.
Disclaimer: Obviously Not Mine
Mycroft Holmes was not a fool. He was also not a saint.
He was, contrary to what some believed, a human.
He made mistakes, errors in judgement, wrong decisions, just like everyone else. The difference between Mycroft Holmes and a regular person was that their mistakes were not on a global, or at the very least, national scale. They were made within in their little lives, perhaps occasionally meandering into their professional lives causing their mistakes to be more publicly known.
When Mycroft Holmes made mistakes, they tended to result in deaths, wars, or leaked intelligence. It was why he was always so careful on what he did and said. He had to be.
There were the mistakes that crept up, obviously, and Mycroft dealt with them accordingly. Every situation had at least two back up plans and the ultimate, last-resort-plan. It was his job to think about every aspect of the situations and dealings he was involved in and find ways for it to fall apart and plan accordingly.
This situation fenced him in and there was nothing he could do. And it was Mycroft Holmes' fault.
Despite what others may think, he knew it was entirely his fault. His own brother was now a fugitive, running from the law all because of Mycroft. It was his fault that Sherlock was now going to be considered a fraud who produced a play in which the audience had been enthralled with.
He didn't even want to think about what would happen to Gregory's career.
His brother was hanging onto his life by his fingertips. Mycroft was to blame.
It had started with Moriarty.
Mycroft had been watching Moriarty ever since the events of The Pool, as he deemed it in his head. Or, if he was to go by John's blog, The Great Game. He knew that Moriarty was bigger than Sherlock anticipated, but even Mycroft had been astounded by the vast array of services offered by Moriarty. Even after finding all that out, they couldn't make a move. They had to strategically set in place a plan, a fool-proof plan to capture the man.
Brand new shiny key. Opens everything at one click. Wanna come out and play?
That was the text that had started everything. The text that Mycroft still had memorized, still played behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. That put in motion the series of events that was currently playing out.
He upped Moriarty's surveillance, determined to find a gap. He needed to find a way to get to this man, to bring him in so he could shut down his operations once and for all.
Of course, after the events--the failed events of Bond Air, his plan had to be sped up.
They were able to capture Moriarty after leaving one of his usual--the term usual being applied loosely to anything related to Moriarty--clubs. They took him to the Circus--the old name for the SIS still hung around.
They tortured him for weeks, trying to get anything out of him regarding said key-code. Moriarty wouldn't budge. They had tried even the most barbaric practices on him, which had not been Mycroft's decision. Still nothing.
One day, Mycroft himself went into where Moriarty was sitting and saw the faintest flicker of something across his face. At the time, Mycroft had thought that it was relief. Now, he thought it could have been excitement.
He had sat down opposite Moriarty and just looked at him for a second. He looked so weary and run-down, so unlike his normal immaculate self. It was almost upsetting. "Why must you be so stubborn?" Mycroft had asked him.
Moriarty had smiled. "Perhaps I have nothing to tell."
Mycroft shook his head. "There's always something."
Moriarty tilted his head. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours. Tit for tat, after all." He giggled.
"Why create this key?" Mycroft questioned, knowing that any direct question of where the key was currently would go unanswered. He was hopeful that if he understood Moriarty and the key enough, he would be able to work out the location or even a program to cancel out the key-code.
"Uh uh uh," Moriarty said in a sing-song voice while wagging his finger. "I want something from you first."
Mycroft leaned back in his chair and plucked at the lint on his trouser leg. "What is it?"
Moriarty leaned forward onto his elbows, resembling a school child. "I want to know about Sherlock."
"I'm certain you can find out anything you would like to know through your vast web."
Moriarty giggled again. "It's not the same! I want to learn about who he is, not what he's done."
Mycroft hadn't wanted to, after all this was the man who had tried to kill his brother as well as Dr. Watson. He did quickly understand that Moriarty was not going to share anything at all with anyone but himself and only if he talked about Sherlock.
He did think about it, quite a lot, actually. He debated with himself, thinking over everything that could be going on. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock because it was slightly personal for one. The other thing was that he didn't know why Moriarty watned to talk about Sherlock in the first place.
However it came down to a choice between to things: Sherlock's privacy and National, or even global, security. He could not, morally or otherwise, allow Moriarty to continue possessing the information on the key-code if he had a chance to change that. Moriarty was giving him a way to get information about the key-code and all he had to do was talk about Sherlock for a little while.
He was ashamed to think it now, but at the time, he hadn't thought it was a big deal. As much as he loved his brother, he could not stand by and let his country down by ignoring what needed to be done. His job was to acquire the key-code and he was going to do everything in his power to do it.
It started quite small actually: How they were named, what Sherlock middle name was, how old was he when he did his first experiment, favourite colour? Moriarty asked questions of that nature: simple, harmless, and childish. Mycroft did create parameters, allowing only five questions per session and demanding that Moriarty answer at least one of his questions before their time was over. It wasn't perfect, but it worked well enough.
After a few weeks of that, the questions turned more story related. What was Sherlock's first crush like? How did he feel when he first understood how to work and use a microscope? University stories? Mycroft had obliged him, delving into story after story of Sherlock and his childhood--as much as Mycroft had been privy to.
And damn it, Mycroft enjoyed their chats after a while. He didn't have anyone to talk to about Sherlock, not like this. Not someone who wanted to learn about the boy, the man, Mycroft had grown up with and had loved. Who had loved him in return. John only wanted to talk about his brilliance or how Mycroft was a horrible brother--a bit like the pot and the kettle in Mycroft's mind. Gregory tended to be exasperated by him by the time Mycroft returned in the evenings. Besides, talking about one's brother truly killed the mood.
It was and still is a horrible thing to think, but Mycroft truly began looking forward to their chats. Occasionally he let a little more than he meant to slip out because he became caught up in a story, but he hadn't thought anything of it. He really had thought that Moriarty was simply obsessed with Sherlock and had just wanted to learn more about him--like a schoolboy crush. He had, after all, taken to writing Sherlock's name all over the walls.
Mycroft Holmes had been wrong. He should have paid more attention, should have realized that, of course Moriarty was planning something. But he hadn't. He was only human; there was no possible way he could know everything.
Mycroft had panicked when he received the orders to release Moriarty. He had been afraid of what he might do to Sherlock, so he upped his surveillance on him. That didn't help for Moriarty sure knew how to disappear within a crowd.
Mycroft took a long sip from the glass he was currently holding as he stared out of the window in his office at the Club. He hadn't meant to sit here today and dwell on the past, but John Watson's friendly visit forced him to change his plans.
John was under the impression that Mycroft did not care about Sherlock's life, as he was the one to endanger it by speaking with Moriarty. He needed to come here and make sure Mycroft knew just how much damage he had caused. While it was sweet of John to come all the way to the Club to explain it to Mycroft, it truly wasn't necessary.
Mycroft knew he had made a mistake. A grave one, in fact, and basically put the target on his brother's back. He knew that he was the one to blame, he did it himself. It was his decision to talk with Moriarty.
He took another drink. John thought Mycroft felt no guilt, no ounce of remorse. He was utterly wrong, for Mycroft felt remorse and guilt, was practically ill with it, every minute of everyday since Moriarty's release. Especially in the past few days.
His guilt and feelings, however, do not matter to the job at hand. He had been required to do everything possible to get his hands on that key-code and he did it. What he had to do went against his own morals, but that was what the job entailed.
That was the thing about John, he didn't quite understand how much responsibility Mycroft had to deal with. How many decisions he had to make and have to face the consequences, both good and bad.
He knew that it was entirely his doing that everything was falling to pieces. He had been there after all.
Mycroft drained his glass and poured himself another--John had only been gone eleven minutes. Despite him not understanding everything that went on behind the scenes, Mycroft was still shaken by his visit.
He didn't have anyone to confide in, not really. He had Gregory, of course, but this wasn't something one could just casually bring up in a conversation. Not to mention the question of what he would say.
Mycroft had been carrying this burden alone. Then John had arrived to make sure he felt the full weight of it.
John had this strange idea in his head that Mycroft had nothing else to worry about except spying on his brother and taking care of all those pesky little details about the illegal things him and Sherlock got into. He had made it clear that Mycroft should have put his brother, Sherlock, before everything else. Before putting away a criminal mastermind. Before national security.
Mycroft's job did not work that way. As much as he loved his brother, which he did, he could not potentially sacrifice a whole country for the sake of his brother.
Knowing that he had made the correct political decision didn't stop the sick, guilty feeling from sweeping over him knowing he had made the wrong personal one.
That was the trick with decisions: you cannot have it both ways. You can gain one thing but at the cost of another. He saved, at least for now, a whole nation at the cost of his brother's privacy and life. It could have easily been the other way around and Mycroft could have protected his brother's privacy yet caused the downfall of a nation.
Mycroft drained his second glass in swallow. He knew the showdown was coming to a head and that John might understand the weight of decisions much, much clearer. He filled his glass again.
Moriarty wanted Sherlock to fall and there was no telling who was going to have to fall with him.
Next Part
Author: aislingdoheanta
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Mycroft, John, Jim, with mentions of Mystrade
Summary: Mycroft's inner thoughts after John's confrontation about what went on with Jim as well as his own guilt.
Rating: T
Word Count: 2006
Notes: Apart of the Storm series of fics I'm going to write that are based around the Fall but from Mycroft/Lestrade POVs. This one is almost a direct prequel to Lull Before the Storm
Warnings: Talk of torture.
Disclaimer: Obviously Not Mine
Mycroft Holmes was not a fool. He was also not a saint.
He was, contrary to what some believed, a human.
He made mistakes, errors in judgement, wrong decisions, just like everyone else. The difference between Mycroft Holmes and a regular person was that their mistakes were not on a global, or at the very least, national scale. They were made within in their little lives, perhaps occasionally meandering into their professional lives causing their mistakes to be more publicly known.
When Mycroft Holmes made mistakes, they tended to result in deaths, wars, or leaked intelligence. It was why he was always so careful on what he did and said. He had to be.
There were the mistakes that crept up, obviously, and Mycroft dealt with them accordingly. Every situation had at least two back up plans and the ultimate, last-resort-plan. It was his job to think about every aspect of the situations and dealings he was involved in and find ways for it to fall apart and plan accordingly.
This situation fenced him in and there was nothing he could do. And it was Mycroft Holmes' fault.
Despite what others may think, he knew it was entirely his fault. His own brother was now a fugitive, running from the law all because of Mycroft. It was his fault that Sherlock was now going to be considered a fraud who produced a play in which the audience had been enthralled with.
He didn't even want to think about what would happen to Gregory's career.
His brother was hanging onto his life by his fingertips. Mycroft was to blame.
It had started with Moriarty.
Mycroft had been watching Moriarty ever since the events of The Pool, as he deemed it in his head. Or, if he was to go by John's blog, The Great Game. He knew that Moriarty was bigger than Sherlock anticipated, but even Mycroft had been astounded by the vast array of services offered by Moriarty. Even after finding all that out, they couldn't make a move. They had to strategically set in place a plan, a fool-proof plan to capture the man.
Brand new shiny key. Opens everything at one click. Wanna come out and play?
That was the text that had started everything. The text that Mycroft still had memorized, still played behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. That put in motion the series of events that was currently playing out.
He upped Moriarty's surveillance, determined to find a gap. He needed to find a way to get to this man, to bring him in so he could shut down his operations once and for all.
Of course, after the events--the failed events of Bond Air, his plan had to be sped up.
They were able to capture Moriarty after leaving one of his usual--the term usual being applied loosely to anything related to Moriarty--clubs. They took him to the Circus--the old name for the SIS still hung around.
They tortured him for weeks, trying to get anything out of him regarding said key-code. Moriarty wouldn't budge. They had tried even the most barbaric practices on him, which had not been Mycroft's decision. Still nothing.
One day, Mycroft himself went into where Moriarty was sitting and saw the faintest flicker of something across his face. At the time, Mycroft had thought that it was relief. Now, he thought it could have been excitement.
He had sat down opposite Moriarty and just looked at him for a second. He looked so weary and run-down, so unlike his normal immaculate self. It was almost upsetting. "Why must you be so stubborn?" Mycroft had asked him.
Moriarty had smiled. "Perhaps I have nothing to tell."
Mycroft shook his head. "There's always something."
Moriarty tilted his head. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours. Tit for tat, after all." He giggled.
"Why create this key?" Mycroft questioned, knowing that any direct question of where the key was currently would go unanswered. He was hopeful that if he understood Moriarty and the key enough, he would be able to work out the location or even a program to cancel out the key-code.
"Uh uh uh," Moriarty said in a sing-song voice while wagging his finger. "I want something from you first."
Mycroft leaned back in his chair and plucked at the lint on his trouser leg. "What is it?"
Moriarty leaned forward onto his elbows, resembling a school child. "I want to know about Sherlock."
"I'm certain you can find out anything you would like to know through your vast web."
Moriarty giggled again. "It's not the same! I want to learn about who he is, not what he's done."
Mycroft hadn't wanted to, after all this was the man who had tried to kill his brother as well as Dr. Watson. He did quickly understand that Moriarty was not going to share anything at all with anyone but himself and only if he talked about Sherlock.
He did think about it, quite a lot, actually. He debated with himself, thinking over everything that could be going on. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock because it was slightly personal for one. The other thing was that he didn't know why Moriarty watned to talk about Sherlock in the first place.
However it came down to a choice between to things: Sherlock's privacy and National, or even global, security. He could not, morally or otherwise, allow Moriarty to continue possessing the information on the key-code if he had a chance to change that. Moriarty was giving him a way to get information about the key-code and all he had to do was talk about Sherlock for a little while.
He was ashamed to think it now, but at the time, he hadn't thought it was a big deal. As much as he loved his brother, he could not stand by and let his country down by ignoring what needed to be done. His job was to acquire the key-code and he was going to do everything in his power to do it.
It started quite small actually: How they were named, what Sherlock middle name was, how old was he when he did his first experiment, favourite colour? Moriarty asked questions of that nature: simple, harmless, and childish. Mycroft did create parameters, allowing only five questions per session and demanding that Moriarty answer at least one of his questions before their time was over. It wasn't perfect, but it worked well enough.
After a few weeks of that, the questions turned more story related. What was Sherlock's first crush like? How did he feel when he first understood how to work and use a microscope? University stories? Mycroft had obliged him, delving into story after story of Sherlock and his childhood--as much as Mycroft had been privy to.
And damn it, Mycroft enjoyed their chats after a while. He didn't have anyone to talk to about Sherlock, not like this. Not someone who wanted to learn about the boy, the man, Mycroft had grown up with and had loved. Who had loved him in return. John only wanted to talk about his brilliance or how Mycroft was a horrible brother--a bit like the pot and the kettle in Mycroft's mind. Gregory tended to be exasperated by him by the time Mycroft returned in the evenings. Besides, talking about one's brother truly killed the mood.
It was and still is a horrible thing to think, but Mycroft truly began looking forward to their chats. Occasionally he let a little more than he meant to slip out because he became caught up in a story, but he hadn't thought anything of it. He really had thought that Moriarty was simply obsessed with Sherlock and had just wanted to learn more about him--like a schoolboy crush. He had, after all, taken to writing Sherlock's name all over the walls.
Mycroft Holmes had been wrong. He should have paid more attention, should have realized that, of course Moriarty was planning something. But he hadn't. He was only human; there was no possible way he could know everything.
Mycroft had panicked when he received the orders to release Moriarty. He had been afraid of what he might do to Sherlock, so he upped his surveillance on him. That didn't help for Moriarty sure knew how to disappear within a crowd.
Mycroft took a long sip from the glass he was currently holding as he stared out of the window in his office at the Club. He hadn't meant to sit here today and dwell on the past, but John Watson's friendly visit forced him to change his plans.
John was under the impression that Mycroft did not care about Sherlock's life, as he was the one to endanger it by speaking with Moriarty. He needed to come here and make sure Mycroft knew just how much damage he had caused. While it was sweet of John to come all the way to the Club to explain it to Mycroft, it truly wasn't necessary.
Mycroft knew he had made a mistake. A grave one, in fact, and basically put the target on his brother's back. He knew that he was the one to blame, he did it himself. It was his decision to talk with Moriarty.
He took another drink. John thought Mycroft felt no guilt, no ounce of remorse. He was utterly wrong, for Mycroft felt remorse and guilt, was practically ill with it, every minute of everyday since Moriarty's release. Especially in the past few days.
His guilt and feelings, however, do not matter to the job at hand. He had been required to do everything possible to get his hands on that key-code and he did it. What he had to do went against his own morals, but that was what the job entailed.
That was the thing about John, he didn't quite understand how much responsibility Mycroft had to deal with. How many decisions he had to make and have to face the consequences, both good and bad.
He knew that it was entirely his doing that everything was falling to pieces. He had been there after all.
Mycroft drained his glass and poured himself another--John had only been gone eleven minutes. Despite him not understanding everything that went on behind the scenes, Mycroft was still shaken by his visit.
He didn't have anyone to confide in, not really. He had Gregory, of course, but this wasn't something one could just casually bring up in a conversation. Not to mention the question of what he would say.
Mycroft had been carrying this burden alone. Then John had arrived to make sure he felt the full weight of it.
John had this strange idea in his head that Mycroft had nothing else to worry about except spying on his brother and taking care of all those pesky little details about the illegal things him and Sherlock got into. He had made it clear that Mycroft should have put his brother, Sherlock, before everything else. Before putting away a criminal mastermind. Before national security.
Mycroft's job did not work that way. As much as he loved his brother, which he did, he could not potentially sacrifice a whole country for the sake of his brother.
Knowing that he had made the correct political decision didn't stop the sick, guilty feeling from sweeping over him knowing he had made the wrong personal one.
That was the trick with decisions: you cannot have it both ways. You can gain one thing but at the cost of another. He saved, at least for now, a whole nation at the cost of his brother's privacy and life. It could have easily been the other way around and Mycroft could have protected his brother's privacy yet caused the downfall of a nation.
Mycroft drained his second glass in swallow. He knew the showdown was coming to a head and that John might understand the weight of decisions much, much clearer. He filled his glass again.
Moriarty wanted Sherlock to fall and there was no telling who was going to have to fall with him.
Next Part