Chapter Text
Telling the truth.
What does that even mean? What even is the truth? And is not telling the truth the same as lying? Does it even make a difference now? Does anyone even care anymore?
He doesn’t.
Not that anyone ever thought he did. He is considered the most uncaring human being known to mankind.
And yet.
Yet it was caring that brought him here. Here where he belonged. A dark and almost empty prison cell on a semi-deserted island with one of the world's most secure safety systems. A system he invented. A prison he should be in control of.
And yet.
Now he is its prisoner. Her prisoner. His own prisoner. If this is the end, he would be fine with it. There is nothing for him to lose anymore. His sister is lost beyond repair and wouldn’t care if he died. His brother was forced to kill him, and almost went through with it. His brother hates him; that is for certain. For keeping their sister a secret all this time, let alone all the misery he caused by allowing her that one Christmas present. For Redbeard. His parents will hate him even more than they already do, once they find out.
He should have died.
And yet.
Yet he is trapped. Trapped in her cell. Trapped in his mind. Trapped in this life. A life not worth living. A life that should have ended a long time ago. A life that never truly belonged to him anyway. A life that belonged to his parents, his brother, his sister, the country… anyone but him.
And yet.
How long was he lying here, on the cold, hard concrete floor? It must’ve been hours by now. Hours since Eurus tranquillised them. Hours since he last saw Sherlock and Dr. Watson. Are they trapped, too? Or is she playing with them still? Are they playing her game still? It doesn’t matter. He can’t help them anymore. He can’t stop her anymore. He’s useless. And nobody will care. Nobody will come looking for him.
And yet.
When, after an eternity, the door of the cell opens, and muffled voices reach his ear, he doesn’t move. He vaguely registers people touching him, taking his pulse, feeling for his heartbeat, but everything feels numb and distant. If he were allowed to make a wish right now, he would like to die. Make it all stop at once. The noise, the people, the thoughts, the consequences that are brewing ahead. His body is moved around, vitals are being checked. He doesn’t object, but he doesn’t cooperate either. He’s just lying there waiting for everything to be over. Waiting for everyone to leave him alone. Waiting for his imminent end.
When Greg was called in for an emergency, he did not expect he’d have to travel by helicopter to even arrive on the scene in a reasonable amount of time. He also did not expect to learn that there was a third Holmes sibling. He did not expect to have to save a chained-down John Watson out of a well near the Holmes ancestral home, find Sherlock and his sister completely traumatised and take her back into a maximum security prison. Yet here he is, dealing with all of that and coordinating everyone around him. The only one missing in the scenario is Mycroft Holmes. His heart sinks further every minute he doesn’t receive the relieving news.
Then his phone finally rings with Anthea’s name on the display.
“Please tell me you’ve found him?”, he almost pleads.
“We have.”, Anthea confirms, and her voice sounds equally shaky. “Eurus locked him in her cell. The paramedics said he’s physically unharmed, but he’s not…”, she hesitates.
“He’s not what?”, Greg presses.
Anthea sighs. “He’s not really… there.”
Greg frowns as he turns. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He spots Sherlock and John in the distance as they step away from one of the ambulances.
“Well, he’s not responding. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge anyone’s here.”, Anthea’s voice sounds strained as she tries to stay calm. “When will you arrive with… her?”
Greg swallows. He’s not very keen on handling Eurus Holmes. She needs to get back into Sherrinford; there’s no way around it. There’s no place with a higher available security system. And he is not one to argue with orders from MI5. He is just the executive.
“The helis will need about two hours, I’ve been told.”, he says.
“Good.”, Anthea replies. She clears her throat and sounds a lot more confident when she continues. “Don’t travel in the same one with her.”, she says, and it’s not a recommendation or a request; it’s another order. “She… manipulates people by simply looking at them. You can not be compromised.”
“I know. You’ve already told me as much.”
“She’s dangerous.”, Anthea insists, a little more urgently. “More than any criminal you’ve ever encountered.”
“I know. I’ve seen the mess here. I’ve seen her. She looks a bit… insane?”
“That’s an underestimation still. She’s even worse than Moriarty.”, she confirms. “I’ll stay with Mycroft until you arrive. Maybe you can get him to talk. Or at least move.”
Greg scratches the back of his head and starts walking towards the ambulances. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, but I’ll try.”
“His mood always improves when you’re around. He will never tell you, but it is the truth.”, Anthea replies.
“Alright.”, Greg sighs. “I’m making sure Sherlock and John get home, and then we’ll set over to Sherrinford.”
“One more thing before you hang up.”, Anthea says hastily. “Don’t tell his brother about his status.”
Greg rolls his eyes. This is probably one of Mycroft’s emergency protocols. ‘Whatever happens, don’t tell Sherlock I’m not indestructible.’
“What am I supposed to tell him then?”, he asks.
“He’s fine, you’ve just spoken to him, no need to worry.”
Greg shakes his head but agrees. Then he hangs up as he approaches the younger Holmes. Sherlock and John are both watching the scene, their back turned towards him. He takes a deep breath before he speaks.
“I just spoke to your brother.”, he says confidently and waits for them to turn around.
“How is he?”, Sherlock asks immediately.
“He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She didn’t hurt him; she just… locked him in her old cell.”, Greg replies and almost stumbles over his own words. He just wants to get this over with.
“What goes around comes around.”, John remarks, obviously pissed.
“Give me a moment, boys.”, Greg says to deflect and strides past Sherlock.
But the latter turns and says: “Uhm, Mycroft… make sure he’s looked after.” The words sound strange coming from his mouth. Sherlock has never been one to show compassion towards his elder brother. “He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”, he adds.
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”, Greg agrees and is about to walk off again.
“Thanks, Greg.”, Sherlock says, and those words do make him stop for just a moment.
Sherlock had never used his correct name before. Greg quickly nods and then moves ahead to give more orders to finally get everyone away from here. He makes sure Eurus Holmes is transported first. Even though he has been elected to be the leading detective in this mess, from all that he has heard about her, he is not particularly inclined to meet her in person. But she was a problem he would handle later. He turns back once more and watches Sherlock and John get into one of the vehicles and being driven back towards London. Then he makes his way to one of the helicopters.
The flight is quiet except for the general noise of the rotor, and he has time to sort out some paperwork. It’s tedious, but it keeps his mind focused on something other than what lies ahead. Something other than Eurus Holmes. The secret sister. The forgotten Holmes. Sherlock didn’t seem to remember her prior to this mess. But what about Mycroft? According to his assistant, he was in charge of the prison island on which she was kept. Why did he never speak of her? Not once? Not even as a warning? Nothing?
When the helicopter lands, he watches a team of heavily armed guards escort Eurus inside. He waits until she is out of his sight before he opens the door and leaves the vehicle himself. He takes a look at the entrance, and a shiver runs down his spine. This building looks exactly like it came straight out of a horror movie. The full moon and the cold headlights don’t help in the slightest. When he enters, Anthea is already waiting for him. She leads him towards the lift. They’re accompanied by another team of armed guards. No one says a word until it’s just the two of them in the cabin.
“Every single guard has been removed and replaced. We have no idea which of the old ones are compromised, if not all of them.”, Anthea answers Greg’s obvious unspoken questions. “Yes, we do have that many available; yes, we also have technicians currently checking on the security and surveillance system.”, she adds, almost with pride at how well it was working out so far. A few hours ago, before he had headed towards Sherrinford, Mycroft had explained the situation to her and made her the only one eligible to act on his behalf if anything went wrong. And wrong it went. But she was prepared for the worst. She planned ahead; she assigned every single position to a new person, she prepared a new cell for Eurus Holmes, she took care of everything. She was not prepared for the current situation, though.
The lift door opens, and they both step outside to take the last few steps down the hall until they reach the door to Eurus’ old cell. Two guards and one of the paramedics are waiting outside.
“His condition has not changed since you left.”, the latter says, and Anthea nods, not showing any sign of emotion on her face. She swipes a card over a panel, and the door opens. It’s sort of a cabin, really, and Greg eyes it warily. Anthea motions for him to step inside. When he does, and she follows, the door closes behind them and, in one motion, opens in front of them again.
Greg draws in a sharp breath at the sight before him. It’s a circular, mostly dark-painted room, except for one lighter piece of floor. A black frame with glass panels parts the room in the middle. There’s nothing inside except one bed at the far end, and a table with a bench to their left. But those are not the things that make Greg uneasy, no. It is the very familiar body lying on the floor in the middle of the room, between the bed and the partition. He is not moving, exactly like he has been told. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think he’s dead.
After the initial shock, Anthea gently pushes him a bit forward, out of the entrance. “Eurus had the glass screens removed. It was her grand trick.”, Anthea whispers. “You can step right through.”, she says, trying to encourage him.
But Greg doesn’t really know what to do. He takes a few steps until he reaches the body. He kneels down beside him. Mycroft is lying on his side, facing the direction of Greg, his eyes staring somewhere into the distance, glassy and empty. His knees are drawn a little upwards, his arms are spread in front of him. His suit jacket is nowhere to be seen, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His skin is paler than usual, Greg notices. Almost in unison with the floor. It’s eerie. Greg doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like they are close. Mycroft probably doesn’t even consider him a friend, even though that’s possibly the most accurate description of their relationship. Greg slowly and carefully reaches for one of his hands. Mycroft doesn’t object. He doesn’t even flinch. He does exactly nothing. The hand is cold and sweaty, and feels entirely unreal. Greg turns his head to face Anthea, a big question mark hovering over him.
“Talk to him.”, she says softly. “About anything, really.”, she adds. She has not moved any further, still residing in front of the entrance, carefully watching them.
Greg turns back to the man below him. “Sherlock is alright.”, he says, because it’s the one thing he is certain Mycroft will care about. “He’s unharmed, and he’s safe. He’s back home. So is John. We saved him.”
Nothing changes.
“We took her back into custody. Twice as many guards, new ones, with better armour and weapons, Anthea tells me.”, Greg continues. “Your sister… she doesn’t talk anymore. Much like you right now.”, he remarks in a quiet tone. “But… in contrast to you, she still moves.”
At that, Mycroft’s eyes fall shut. The first time he shows any kind of response since he was found here. Greg once more turns to Anthea, who motions for him to continue.
“She’s been brought into a new cell. It’s over now, Mycroft. She can’t hurt you anymore.”, Greg tries to calm him.
Then Mycroft’s lips quiver ever so slightly. “As long… as she’s alive…”, he eventually croaks, his voice barely audible. “It’s… never… over.”
Greg tightens his grip around the other’s hand. Then he hovers with his other hand over Mycroft’s head and, after another moment of consideration, begins to gently stroke through his hair. “What happened to you?”, he whispers absentmindedly.
Mycroft’s lids flick open again, and his eyes start to roam until they lock with Greg’s. It’s a sight he has never seen before: Mycroft Holmes is terrified.
“I… want… to…”, Mycroft croaks again. “…end this.”
Greg holds his gaze, as he is confused by what exactly he means. End what? Eurus is imprisoned again, Sherlock and John are safe, and everything else can be dealt with later. But then his eyes widen instantly when he realises. That is certainly not something he had expected to hear. Then Mycroft’s eyes fall shut again as if the last willpower is slowly leaving his body. Greg swallows hard before he turns to look at Anthea. He isn’t sure she heard a single word Mycroft had spoken, but when he sees her mouth agape and her eyes as frightened as his own, he knows she did, and he knows the words were real. Panic starts to rise in his chest. He’s seen Sherlock like this plenty of times. After every overdose and in rehab, he’s been through every possible scenario. But he’s never seen Mycroft like that, at the brink of giving up. Mycroft always seems unbreakable, almost immortal. Above everything and everyone. The walking epitome of the word confidence. He was not one to give up on life like that. But looking at him now, he seems like a completely different man. Distant, broken, barely a shadow of himself.
Greg takes a deep breath before he makes a decision.
“I’m taking you home.”, he says gently.
Home. The word rings shallow in his ears. What’s the point of going home? What’s the point of going anywhere, really? The damage is done, the cards are dealt, the die is cast. He had watched five people die today. Four of them were murdered, and one committed suicide. All of them were Eurus’ doing. She almost made him murder someone. The image still evokes nausea inside him. She made Sherlock point a gun at him. He had expected as much the moment she had gifted it to their brother. He had not expected Sherlock to turn it against himself in the end. If she hadn’t stopped him, his brother would have died. If that had happened, he would have never forgiven himself.
This is all his fault.
If he hadn’t let Moriarty near her, if he hadn’t fed Moriarty all the information about his little brother, none of this would have happened. Or would it? Would she have still found a way to escape? A motivation to lure them in? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore. When he opens his eyes again, he also doesn’t know when or how he got into a helicopter. He’s too tired and too weak to keep his eyes open, so he blinks very slowly to figure out his surroundings. He notices Anthea across from him, typing away on her laptop, which she had positioned on her thighs. He doesn’t see Greg, but he doesn’t have to, as he hears his voice right beside his ear.
“I’m here.”, Greg murmurs. “You’re not alone, and you’re going to be okay.”, he whispers.
Anthea briefly glances at them and then returns her focus to her screen. So he didn’t imagine those words and that voice. Only then does he feel a small squeeze on his left hand. Achingly, he lets his eyes wander lower until he finds their joined hands in his lap. His chest tightens immediately. He doesn’t deserve this kindness, and Greg doesn’t deserve this mess. This was his sister’s doing; therefore, his problem. Greg shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t sit here and hold his hand. He shouldn’t be trying to comfort him. Not after he fucked up all of this. The tiredness overcomes him once more, and he barely feels his head land on the other’s shoulder, not strong enough to resist, not strong enough to hold back.
The next time he wakes, he is actually home. Before he opens his eyes, he registers the familiar smell of his living room. He hears the fire cackling and feels the warmth spread through his entire body. The cold and the emptiness from earlier seem to slowly fade out of him. He cracks one eye open, carefully eyeing his surroundings. Then the other. He blinks a few times and then confirms that he is indeed lying on his sofa in his own home. He has no recollection of how he got here, even though he had to be moved at least three times to arrive here. He doesn’t move just yet. As he lets the memories of the previous hours settle in the back of his head, he notices three things.
One: He hasn’t died so far.
Two: He feels far too comfortable right now for the amount of pain he should be feeling instead.
Three: He isn’t alone.
He is lying sideways on his sofa, and someone is sitting beside his head, rustling through some paper and tapping rapidly on what sounds a lot like a phone screen. Anthea, then, he assumes.
After a few more minutes, he finally finds the strength to lift himself up into a sitting position, while the blanket someone had draped over him slowly slides off him. He needs a moment to adjust. He stretches himself and cranes his neck, which feels stiffer than ever before.
“Slept well?” a familiar voice asks quietly, and Mycroft freezes instantly. That is not Anthea. He carefully turns his head and finds Greg smiling at him apologetically. Mycroft stares blankly, too confused to understand the situation.
“Well, someone had to keep an eye on you.”, Greg huffs out a laugh, but Mycroft notices the underlying pain. “I’m just keeping up on some paperwork and thought I could easily do it here while keeping you some company.”, he explains a bit more seriously.
Suddenly, the faint and blurry memories of the cell return to his mind. Greg’s scared eyes, his shaky voice. Shame washes over him when he remembers what he said to him while he laid on the ground. He averts Greg’s gaze.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”, Greg says, as if he could read his thoughts. And even though nothing is okay, it’s exactly what Mycroft expected him to say. Greg was far too kind to be dealing with the pitiful excuse of Mycroft himself.
“Anthea?”, Mycroft whispers in an attempt to change the topic. His voice is strained and breaks instantly.
“I sent her home.”, Greg replies unbothered. “She needs some sleep. She’ll be here again in a couple of hours, taking over.”
Mycroft sighs. He instinctively knows the implication of those words. Taking over, as in taking the next watch, the same way Greg is here on his watch now. Because Mycroft has to be watched now. Now that they think he is weak, that he is breaking. He really can’t blame them, though, as he doesn’t feel very well right now.
“Are you okay?”, Greg’s voice suddenly interrupts his train of thought.
Mycroft’s eyes flick up and meet his. Greg’s expression is soft but deeply worried, his eyes tired, decorated by dark circles underneath. Deep lines run over his forehead.
Mycroft nods once, and they both know it’s a lie.
Greg seems disappointed, but also like he expected that kind of an answer. He also nods, not further following up on the topic.
Mycroft’s face falters as he doesn’t know how to respond. He swallows and feels the sudden urge to leave. It’s all too much, too overwhelming. He stands and immediately falls back on the sofa again when his head starts to feel dizzy.
“Hey, hey, easy there.”, Greg says and puts a supporting hand on Mycroft’s arm to help him up.
In a second attempt, he finally manages to stand, and after a few moments, he is finally able to walk. He doesn’t spare Greg another look before he heads towards the stairs. When he reaches his bedroom, he feels sick as the images run through his head again. Eurus’ cold and empty stare. The governor’s last moments. His body. Sherlock pointing a gun under his chin. His head starts spinning again, and his stomach gives a loud grumble. He can feel the bile rise in his throat as he reaches the bathroom and barely manages to open the lid of the toilet before the entire contents of his stomach unfold into the bowl. Tears start rolling down his cheeks while his eyes are pressed shut tightly. His body starts shaking, and he is battling for air in between waves.
When the worst is over, he still heaves a few times, which eventually turns into coughing. His throat is burning, his head spinning, and eventually his knees give in, and he sinks to the ground, barely being able to hold onto the rim of the toilet. Guilt and shame are all he feels. They consume his body and his mind as he starts to sob heavily. He almost feels relieved that no one can see him like this. This broken, pathetic excuse of a man. The man who ruined both his sister’s and his brother’s lives. The man who lied to his entire family, who, in return, will never forgive him. The man who is indirectly responsible for so many deaths. He really doesn’t deserve to still be alive. It should have been him. Sherlock should have shot him. Or Eurus. Or the governor. Anyone really.
But then he feels something warm and reassuring on his shoulder, and he knows. He can’t open his eyes, and he can’t stop sobbing, but he knows it’s Greg. He knows he must’ve heard him, and he knows he must worry, and, despite his best efforts, his last piece of dignity vanishes into thin air as if it had never existed in the first place. He doesn’t want anybody to see him like this, but out of all people, it has to be him. He tries to control his breathing, but the sobs turn into cries, and suddenly, he’s too weak to control anything anymore. He feels strong arms wrap around him and recognises faint whispering, but can’t make out any words. Eventually, he gives up and lets himself be held.
Greg watches Mycroft leave. He waits until the other reaches the top of the stairs before he turns to his phone and sends a status update to Anthea. He knows he sent her home to rest, but he is sure she won’t be able to sleep either. His suspicions are confirmed when a ‘Thank you.’ pops up on his screen only seconds later.
Then a sudden agglomeration of noise alarms him and draws his attention to the stairs again. Before he realises what he hears, he’s already jumped out of his seat, heading upstairs. ‘He’s not as strong as he thinks he is’, echo Sherlock’s words in his head. With a heavy heart, he follows the unhealthy sounds until he finds Mycroft slumped down on the bathroom floor. The other’s body is shaking heavily as he desperately tries to hold onto the toilet. The sobs are alarming, as Greg has never seen Mycroft so much as even shed a tear. The sight is so utterly gut-wrenching, he kneels down beside him and lays a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder. He sees Mycroft flinch for a moment until the sobbing increases.
“It’s okay.”, Greg says softly. “I’m here.”, he adds. But it always gets worse before it gets better, and so do Mycroft’s cries. Eventually, Greg takes Mycroft’s hands off the porcelain and, without hesitation and for lack of a better idea, pulls him into his arms. The other doesn’t reciprocate, but doesn’t resist either. He holds him even tighter and starts whispering soft reassurances into his ears as he starts stroking his back in soothing motions. He’s not sure Mycroft registers any of this, but he does it anyway.
After a while filled with heavy crying, Mycroft slowly starts to calm down, and the sobs turn into controlled breathing and eventually stop entirely. They remain in each other’s arms, completely still, for another few minutes until Greg carefully pulls back to check up on Mycroft. The latter still has his eyes closed as he lets himself be adjusted to rest with his back against the bathtub. Greg stares at him for a moment before he reaches for a towel, quickly wets it under the tap and gently starts cleaning Mycroft’s face. He can feel the other pressing his eyes shut even tighter and trying to turn away his face.
“Hey, it’s okay.”, he whispers as he softly turns Mycroft’s head back. “I don’t mind, and you don’t have to be ashamed.”, he says and sees Mycroft swallow hard. Then he returns to cleaning his face. “You’re unwell, and I’m taking care of you.”, Greg continues. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I won’t tell anybody, if you’re worried about that.”, he adds for good measure, knowing how important it is for the other to uphold a certain image. “Right now, right here, you don’t have to worry about anything. Not with me.”
Mycroft stills, trying to focus on his breathing, trying to calm down even further. He tries to forget the images in his head and focuses on Greg’s voice instead, on his hand on his chin and on the gentle strokes of the soft fabric against his skin. He doesn’t deserve this kindness, this gentleness, but being too weak to resist, he allows it. Just for one moment, he allows himself to be taken care of, while loving and hating every second of it. When he feels the motion stop, he slowly opens his eyes again. The lights are still off, the room only illuminated by the bedroom lights he managed to turn on before he ran here. As his eyes adjust, he sees Greg put away the towel before their gaze meets again. They look at each other for a long moment, and for that one single moment, everything feels bearable. Not okay, but bearable. Then Greg holds out his hands to help him up, and instinctively, Mycroft doesn’t want to move again. He feels sick just thinking about getting up. But something about the other’s presence gives him the strength to reach for those hands and let himself be pulled up in one swift motion. When he comes to stand, they’re much closer to each other than either of them expected. They’re still holding each other’s gaze, and suddenly, Mycroft feels overwhelmed once more. Overwhelmed by the warmth, the care, the gentleness. He wants to move away as quickly as possible, but his body betrays him.
“You should get some more sleep.”, Greg breaks the silence eventually.
Mycroft still feels tired, and so he simply nods in agreement. Before he can resist, Greg is already supporting him and guiding him back to the bedroom. When they reach the bed, he lets himself drop down instantly, his body feeling even heavier than before. As he sits there, he remembers he’s still in his formal clothes except the suit jacket, so he reaches for his tie and tries to undo the knot. But his hands are still slightly shaking, and he lacks focus, and he feels monitored, and the more he tries, the more frustrated he gets. The tears are slowly returning, giving him blurry vision, which is not really helping his case at all. He wants to scream, he wants to peel the skin off his body, he wants to throw or break something, but nothing happens. His voice is gone, his body numb, and he feels like he is suffocating.
“Here, let me.”, he hears Greg say, but the other’s hands are already on his before he can object. They are steady and warm and soft, and therefore the complete opposite of Mycroft’s own. For a moment, Greg just holds them in place before he gently guides them down. Then he effortlessly unties the tie and frees Mycroft of it as fast as possible. The latter lets out a relieving breath.
“You need, uhm…”, Greg says, and his eyes wander down Mycroft’s chest. “Any more help?”
Mycroft needs a moment to process the offer, and when he does, his eyes widen in fear. He quickly shakes his head and swallows hard. Needing assistance is embarrassing enough, but the possibility of someone seeing him without clothes… without his armour… that can’t happen. Not ever. Too many marks are covering his body that would inevitably evoke questions he was neither ready nor willing to answer. He shakes his head rapidly until he gets dizzy again.
“Okay.”, Greg says. “Do you manage to change on your own then?”
Mycroft hesitates a moment, almost considering just lying down in the clothes he’s still wearing, but then nods.
“Good. I’ll get you some water in the meantime.”, Greg answers. He stares at him for another moment but leaves eventually.
Once the door closes, Mycroft lets out another deep sigh. Then he starts unbuttoning his vest and then his shirt. He heaves himself off the bed, and when he feels steady enough, walks over to the dresser on which he placed his pyjama this morning. He strips himself free and throws the shirt and the vest on the armchair beside the mirror. Usually, he would’ve neatly hung them in their right place, but right now, he doesn’t care about wrinkled or dirty clothes. When he turns back, his eyes land on his reflection in the mirror. The view is even more disgusting than usual. He’s lost a few pounds, and yet a taunting voice remains in his head, ever-present. How’s the diet? You’ve gained weight. You’ve clearly got a new waistcoat. Take another piece of cake, will you?
“Stop it.”, he whispers to himself. He forces the voice back into the corner it came out of. But then he sees the scars along his stomach and another voice breaks free. It’s your fault, Mycie. How could you be so stupid? Shouldn’t you be more mature? Why aren’t you taking more responsibility? You’ll never find someone if you don’t put in more effort.
He swallows and forces himself to look away, look anywhere but the mirror. He quickly puts on the pyjama top in hopes of suppressing the urge. The everlasting urge to make it stop. Make everything stop. The voices, the thoughts, the pain.
He takes a deep breath and then changes his bottoms before any other thoughts are able to make their way to the front. Before he goes back to his bed, he once more walks over to the bathroom and is equally embarrassed yet happy that Greg seems to have taken care of his mess earlier. After using the loo and washing his hands, he once more stares into a mirror, yet this time he stares at his face. His pale and empty face. He leans forward and grips the edges of the sink to support himself. His skin looks dry and even wrinklier than this morning. He feels ten times older anyway. His eyes are still red, and the deep, dark circles beneath them do nothing to improve the picture.
It’s your fault. A third voice returns. You chose to lie, you chose to keep secrets. Mycroft takes a deep breath. You chose to imprison your sister. “No.”, he whispers angrily. You chose to keep her imprisoned then, the voice corrects. You chose to tell Moriarty about your brother and, therefore, make his life a miserable hell. He sees his nostrils flare. You chose to let Moriarty meet your sister and therefore made everyone’s life a miserable hell. Mycroft grips the sink harder until his knuckles almost turn as white as the porcelain. You dug your own grave. He swallows once more before his gaze wanders down, roaming around the various bottles until it lands on the razor. How easy it would be to just grab it, retrieve the blade and… make it stop. Only one simple cut to release the tension, release the pain.
You’re too weak to resist anyway, the voice continues to tease him. He won’t like you anyway.
That is new. Mycroft blinks a few times at the thought he has never had before. Not in that way.
Then he hears the bedroom door open and is finally strong enough to pull himself off the sink again. He doesn’t spare his image another look and walks straight back into the other room. He stops at the sight of Greg placing a glass of water on his nightstand, followed by a steaming mug.
“It’s chamomile.”, he says as he turns to face Mycroft. “Thought you could use something calming.”
Mycroft continues to stare at the mug, then turns to stare at Greg. He doesn’t know what to say or do. It’s another thing added onto the list of nice things Greg did that he didn’t deserve. Lacking a fitting response, he nods and continues to the bed. As he slips under the covers, his gaze wanders back to Greg, who’s standing much closer to him than he had anticipated.
“I’m just going to be downstairs then.”, Greg says. “Scream if you need anything.”, he adds.
Panic starts to rise in Mycroft’s chest. Greg might be in the house still, but he’d be alone in this room again. Alone with his thoughts, alone with the voices. His brother’s voice. His mother’s voice. His… own voice. Alone with all the pain and regret and the shame and disgust. And the bathroom is so close. The sweet release is so close. But he can’t do it with him here. He can’t do that to him. The one person he hasn’t disappointed so far. One of the two people who still seem to care about him.
“Stay.”
The word is out faster than he can think about it.
Both men are equally surprised by the sudden request.
“Where do you want me?”, Greg asks as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
After a long moment of silence, Mycroft scoots over just enough for Greg to sit down on the edge of the bed. The latter obeys completely unbothered. Then he reaches for the glass of water and holds it out to Mycroft.
“You should really drink something. I don’t want you to dehydrate. You’ve already lost too much fluid.”
Mycroft takes the glass and sips on the water. Little sips at first, but eventually he realises how thirsty he really is and drowns the rest in one go. He hears Greg huff out a laugh as he sets down the glass again.
“I’m going to get you another one later.”, he says with a satisfied smile.
Then Mycroft reaches for the tea and blows on it a few times before taking the first sip. Greg was right; it’s calming him instantly. He takes another, larger sip and then sets the mug back on the nightstand.
Mycroft stares at Greg. He’s not sure why he is here in the first place. He’s not sure why he’s the one who took him home. Why he’s the one taking care of him. And while he still refuses to accept that he deserves any of his care, he wants to thank him. He wants to thank him, but no words come out of his mouth. Defeated, he reaches for the other’s hand and squeezes it. Their eyes meet upon the touch, and a soft smile appears on Greg’s lips again. It’s a sight Mycroft has seen a million times, yet never appreciated as much as in this exact moment.
With his other hand, he reaches for the switch and dims the lights. Dark enough for him to fall asleep, yet bright enough for Greg to see if he wants to leave later. Then he settles down, still holding onto the other’s hand and closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how or why, but even though it’s probably the weirdest situation he’s ever attempted to sleep in, it’s also the most calming.
“Goodnight, Mycroft.”, Greg whispers, but Mycroft barely registers the words anymore.