Mycroft Holmes sat in his desk chair which, like the rest of the room, was worth hundreds of pounds. He wasn't a man who particularly enjoyed standing out, however, in his position in the world, with the job he held, to not have every pointless item in his possession dripping with money would be to stand out rather than blend in.
The London evening was grey and grim, the only light seeping through his half closed curtains was the artificial glow of street lamps. If Mycroft had been a poetic man he might have made some comparison between his own feelings and the sight leaking through his window. The dull and miserable grey of the weather, one might say, perfectly captured the dullness that his life had reached, thick, dark clouds blocking every inch of the natural, warming light that may theoretically be there. Instead the light was replaced with a very obviously fake, sickeningly bright light that was quite blatantly for show yet so ordinary that no one gave it a second thought.
But no state of the weather would change the fact that Mycroft was not a poet and if one would say any of that to him it was highly unlikely he would draw any parallels between it and his own life. Besides, that particular metaphor implied that Mycroft had some deeper feelings than a strive to maintain the greater good of the United Kingdom, and that was preposterous.
Mycroft sat hunched over his desk, piles of paperwork scattered precariously over the desk. His hand flew over the paper, struggling to keep up with his remarkable mind. He maintained some ludicrous discipline, refusing to relent and give in to the pain that was throbbing in his arm. Pain? What pain? It must be some delusion because at that moment he wasn't a man he was a machine, a computer. Computers didn't care if work was boring, machines didn't care if they were 'tired' they didn't get tired, they either had enough fuel to work or didn't. And Mycroft definitely had enough fuel, he'd eaten a disgusting amount in a feast with Lady Smallwood earlier that day. But that was good, it meant he didn't have to distract himself with any petty human inconveniences for a while longer.
Sometimes it was so hard not smoking. Of course, he didn't exercise any restraints on the subject, no delusions of trying to cut down. It's just that Mycroft New that if he indulged in a cigarette any sooner than the moment he couldn't bare not having one any longer then he would soon find himself longing for something more. And unlike his younger brother, Mycroft Holmes found the idea of drugs repulsive. Maybe it was a side effect of witnessing Sherlock's experiences with them, seeing the grave affects it had on his normally beautiful body and amazing mind. And feeling first hand the sheer terror that came with finding his own baby brother slumped over on a pest ridden mattress in some drug den unconscious, fighting for his life against an invisible, self inflicted monster that made an action as simple as breathing an epic task.
Yes, maybe it was watching what drugs did to someone close to him or maybe it was the dislike of not being able to be in control of one's own mind and body, but Mycroft disliked the thought of drugs immensely and exercised precautions against having any impulses on the matter. Besides, there were other better ways to escape one's own mind than burying yourself within it.
And so, here he was, losing himself in an automatic flow of such a simple, boring, tedious task as paper work. Challenging himself to distance himself from his emotions and treat the task as if he were a machine, what an easy life he would lead if that fact were true. He willed himself to go faster. He had to go faster, faster, faster. His mind was going so fast and his hand couldn't keep up, his pen threatened to break.
He was so alone always and all he had to do was keep the government up and running. But after a while that got boring and the tasks could be done by anyone they'd were so simple. So he retreated into his mind, teaching himself new skills that he might find he needed at some point. But even that ran out, he didn't want to polite his brain with facts he didn't need. And now he'd decided to train his body too.
What has the point in knowing 217 different ways to take a gun from someone's shirt pocket when exercise had you out of breath and vulnerable? Mycroft was the British government. He couldn't afford to be vulnerable. His mind was so vast yet his body restrained him, his mind was like a train with no breaks, trapped in thick concrete walls that was his body, battering itself and it's surroundings to ruins.
And yet he praised it. He thanked all the powers that may be to give him such a big fault for him to work on because it gave him something to do. Everything was so boring he could barely stand it. And especially right now. Right now he was completely isolated, he didn't dare think about it and he didn't dare let himself think about why. Because it was his own fault. He wasn't as smart as Eurus and he wasn't as understanding as Sherlock. So there was no point in trying to be. Because he had tried, he used to try in vain to balance the knowledge and skill it took to manage a country with the needs of people, his own family favouritised though he would not admit it. Because after all, as despised a government may he and as heartless it can seem to individuals with their own lives to think about, a government was a charity that put all of its efforts into helping as many people as was possible.
There were laws and guide lines, all he had to do was follow them. And that's where he'd gone wrong. Because he'd started to do things freestyle, tried to understand what would help people the most. He did many things because he considered it a 'kindness' because sometimes laws seemed so cold. And yet, not everyone seemed to agree that his 'kindnesses' were kind. His mum and dad being o- No. He gripped his pen tighter. Computers didn't contemplate their past. So why should he? Besides, he'd learnt from his mistake: stop trying to bring people's emotions into consideration because no matter how hard he tried he would never be able to understand emotions. And that was like playing with fire with no idea how to put one out.
Yes, he was not as smart as Eurus so he should not try to be anything too outstanding or unique. And he wasn't as understanding as Sherlock so he shouldn't try to deal with people or the emotions they had. He was Mycroft. Just Mycroft and he would maintain his minor position in the British government while trying to train his body so that it would be at a compatible standard to his mind.