This is what I get for listening to sad songs all night. My inspiration for this was "Set Fire To The Third Bar" by Snow Patrol. It you have a moment, listen to it. It's a strong, powerful song. Nothing belongs to me, everything belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and ACD.
"I miss you." Greg says. Those three little words carry so much pain on their shoulders. "I hate it when you leave me, even if for a day. A day, a month, a year, it doesn't matter." He finds himself tearing up, holding his hand to his mouth as a single tear falls down his cheek. It's not the pain of missing him that hurts; it's the pain of not knowing when Mycroft will come back. He never said; Mycroft never told him. Greg sits down on the bed. Their bed. It creaks loudly underneath him. He smiles. The sound is all too familiar to him. His smile fades; his memories deplete. Reality comes bleeding back to him.
Greg hates this feeling. It's like it's pulling away at him, piece by stupid piece. It was like watching a little baby bird leave the nest. He was scared for Mycroft; he was probably scared too, but he didn't let on. This is stupid, Greg thought, I shouldn't be fucking feeling like this. He wouldn't want me to feel like this. He broadens his shoulders and looks up towards the ceiling. The ceiling fan has been turned on. He's not sure why, because it isn't hot out. He realises there is a silence. "I just want you to come back soon. That's all I'm asking. That's all I want." Greg lowers his head again and wipes another tear from his eye.
"I must sound like a bloody idiot right now." He laughs for a brief moment. It sounds empty; almost forced.
He looks around the room briefly before his eyes settle on a photograph on the bedside table. Greg picks it up. It's a simple picture; they're sitting together on the couch, smiling at each other. He can't remember who took it, but he's eternally grateful for it. It's probably his favourite picture of them.
Greg carefully sets it back down. "I know this makes me sound stupid, and probably like a teenage girl, but, I never feel right without you here. It's like," He takes a deep breath, but it comes out shallow. "It's like I'm not complete." Greg abruptly stands up, the bed creaking again as his weight comes off it. He walks towards the tall window in the bedroom. Greg carefully places his left hand against it and stares out the window. It's raining; how fitting. Sad days are always supposed to be rainy days. Greg sighs, leaning his head against the windows. He closes his eyes tightly. He can still feel the pain. It burns away in his heart.
He hates silence. Before it was a godsend. But then he met Mycroft, and silence became boring. Mycroft made his days exciting. Before, he would come home to an empty flat, and it would stay empty. Now, there's always someone there. Well, there was.
Greg is pulled back out of his thoughts. There's still silence. He opens his eyes, taking his hand off the window and running it through his hair. More memories keep flooding back to him.
Mycroft's hand in his hair as he lies underneath Greg.
The feel of Mycroft's lips against his own.
The memories are all too painful. He turns around, looking at the bed and the suit lying on top of it. It's one of Mycroft's old suits. One of his best suits. The suit he wore when they first met. He walks towards it, the only noise being the creaking of the floorboards underneath his feet. He eyes the suit, observing it carefully. Greg's hand lingers above it. He doesn't want to touch it. He can't bear to touch any of his things.
There's still silence.
The tears begin to silently flow from Greg's face as he looks at the suit. His legs give out, and he falls to his knees beside the bed and the suit. He buries his face into the bed, letting the tears take over. Greg chokes out a loud sob. The pain is taking over, making his whole body shake violently with sadness. It's not a pain that he is used to, but he will eventually learn to coincide with it.
There's no more silence.
The tears begin to slowly stop. Greg sits back up, running his hands over his face, removing every tear on his face. He sniffs.
"You're a bloody idiot, you know that? I can't do this without you Mycroft, I know you think I can but I just can't. It's too painful, and I need you back." His anger is building. He stands up and begins to pace, back and forth walking between the bed and the window. The floorboards still creak beneath him. "I hate that you left me. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it." He runs a hand through his hair again. "You don't understand how this is affecting me, and that's what hurts the most. This is fucking killing me Mycroft."
Greg stops in front of the bedside table. He sees the photo again, and drops to his knees in front of it. "I just want you back Mycroft. That's it. Out of everything I want in the world, that's all I want. I'd let a thousand people free just to see you walk through my door again." He chokes back another sob. He feels stupid, talking to a picture. But it's the only way to talk to him now.
The silence has returned.
He sits in silence for a few moments. He spends his moments thinking everything over. Every little stupid detail of the past few weeks. The coroner's report, the doctor's report, everything. It hurts to think about it. To know that this happened because of one tiny little mistake, makes it hurt even more than it should.
There's a knock at the door. It opens, and Greg turns to see Sherlock standing by the door, wearing his best black suit. "Are you ready?" He says.
"Yeah, just give me a minute?" Sherlock nods and closes the door behind him.
Greg stands up slowly. He grabs the cloth from the table and wipes at his face. He steps in front of the standing mirror, fixing his crumpled suit. He silently scratches his nose as he takes a surveying look at the bedroom. He turns to the door, but abruptly stops. He walks back to the bedside table, and grabs the tape recorder. He presses the stop button. Enough has been recorded. He ejects the tape from the recorder and stuffs it into his suit pocket. He plans to put it in Mycroft's casket once they get to the funeral home, in hopes that he'll somehow be able to hear him. Greg sniffs and rubs at his nose before exiting the bedroom, tightly closing the door behind him.
The silence is unbearable.