A/N: Thanks to my wonderful beta 'ivefoundmygdfish'!

We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore." - Cheryl Strayed

The choices we make

The sound of footsteps outside the door steadily approaching the room reached his ear, but Mycroft didn't move. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on a point far ahead, behind the spotless glass of the window he stood before. He stared, without really processing what he was seeing. It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore.

The steps halted behind him and silence returned. Mycroft didn't need to turn to know who it was. He'd been sure the moment they approached. Light, yet sure steps, proud and gentle at once. How many times Mycroft had heard them, he couldn't recall. But never before had he been so torn between gladly welcoming and dreading their arrival. Nothing made sense anymore.

"There's a decision to be made," a female voice said gently.

"Your Majesty," Mycroft answered in greeting, still not turning around. It was a violation of etiquette, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Nothing mattered, nothing made sense anymore. Logic had escaped him.

"You have come to a decision, haven't you?"

It wasn't a question, not really. She knew that. As did Mycroft.

"It's either Gregory or England," he countered, his voice barely audible.

Out of his peripheral vision, Mycroft saw the Queen nodding. She tilted her head slightly and looked at him. "What do you want to choose?"

He could feel her gaze surveying him and had to keep himself from wincing. She was the only one ever able to do that, to throw him off balance. Mycroft lowered his head, his gaze now fixed on the marble floor of the palace. "It's not a choice, not really."

"I didn't ask what the right choice is," she corrected him calmly. "I asked what you want to be the right choice." She stepped forward to join him at the window. "Tell me, Mycroft, what do you want?"

"Gregory," he breathed without hesitation, her use of his first name having broken the last of his restraint. It was incredibly freeing to say it aloud. "Nothing more. Never more."

"But it's not him you will choose, is it?" No judgement, no resentment. Just understanding.

Mycroft closed his eyes. "No."

"But you wish it was."

"Yes."

They stayed silent for some time, both staring out the window at the silhouette of London. Looking but not seeing. When he'd first started to talk with the Queen about his relationship, Mycroft couldn't recall, nor did it matter. He would doubtlessly have felt mortified just a few years back, but now it was oddly comforting.

Standing still like that, lost in thought, he could feel the weight inside his pocket. It seemed a thousand times heavier than it really was. Carefully, as if afraid a harsh movement might break it, he slid his right hand into his trouser pocket and touched what was hidden there.

It didn't matter anymore now.

The view outside seemed to be mocking him. A cloudless, sunny day, the streets buzzing with activity. Beautiful.

Mycroft wanted to cry.

"You're right," the Queen said thoughtfully, breaking the silence.

"I'm sorry?"

She smiled sadly. "That's not a choice at all. It's a verdict."

Mycroft laughed bitterly. "One I'd had coming for a long time."

"No, even if you might not acknowledge it yourself, you are the best of them. It's why you are the one who has to lose. No one else could."

Her words washed over him and for a brief, wonderful moment, Mycroft felt calm. But it passed as soon as the words had been demoted by his brain, putting self-loathing it its wake. His hand tightened in his pocket and he was suddenly overcome by the urge to justify himself.

"You must know that if the time was different, if there was someone else able to replace me, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would go, and never look back." He'd never cared what others thought of him. If the resented him or admired him had never mattered before.

But everything was different now.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Mycroft. It's him or England, and if you chose him, if you chose love over duty, he would still be lost. Sooner or later. And you'd hate yourself for it."

That's the thing with running away. You can never be sure you'll reach were you're going. Staying, choosing the safe and predictable outcome was the only logical choice.

Then why did it feel so wrong?

"It's ridiculous, for one life to mean so much more than all others combined."

"Is it?"

Yes, was it? Gregory would clearly say otherwise. "He can live without me," Mycroft stated. "England can't."

That was true, of course, the Queen thought. But at what price? She'd known Mycroft Holmes for many years, and he'd changed a great deal since meeting the Detective Inspector. The man had made him calmer, wiser and more sociable, but what was most important, happy. She wasn't obliged to like her employees, but the man holding the most important and most secret position in the British Government had grown on her and she cared for him. It would be devastating to see him revert to his former, cold self. "And you? Can you live without him?"

He smiled ruefully. "I don't matter. I've never mattered."

She was about to object, but stopped when her eyes found his face. Her gaze travelled to his pocket then and, clearly realising what he was clinging to like a drowning man, she looked away.

There was no point in encouraging him to think his decision over again or offering advice on how to convey the news. He'd run it through that brilliant head of his already, of course. He would have planned every word and anticipated every response in return. Only Mycroft Holmes would and could organise a break up like a political operation, without letting his so carefully crafted control slip. In the end, the Detective Inspector would believe the lie and leave without doubting the confessed unfaithfulness of his partner.

What do you say, when the life of a friend was falling apart in the blink of a moment? What could one do to offer comfort? Exclamations of empathy seemed wrong-placed. Besides, both her majesty herself and Mycroft Holmes despised pity for pity's sake, so she simply said, "I am glad it is you."

Mycroft's jaw tightened momentarily and, knowing her support had been noted, the Queen turned and left without another word. Her footsteps echoed in the wide, empty hallway.

Mycroft Holmes exhaled slowly. He could hear the words when he closed his eyes, could picture Gregory entering through the front door. Smiling widely as always. The two of them meeting one last time.

Gregory.

His love's face as he tried to grasp what he was saying burned behind his eyes. The words, so carefully composed, felt bitter on his tongue.

I am sorry.

Hurt, sorrow, anger. All flashing over Gregory's face and tearing Mycroft's heart apart. Gregory believed it, of course he did, Mycroft had made sure he would. No emotions washed over his face, neither as he confessed the untruthfulness of his affections and undying love for another man, nor as Gregory raged and begged. His brown eyes, so loving once, now full of tears.

Oh, what a curse it was to have such a brilliant mind. The things Mycroft would've done for it to fail him just this once. Gregory's face would forever be burned into his mind, the hurt in his eyes hunting him for the rest of his life.

Closing his eyes once again, he let his face be warmed by the sun. If he concentrated, he could imagine Greg's hands caressing his face, his fingers tracing his nose, fluttering over his eyes and coming to rest on his lips. Only to be replaced by soft lips, the two of them enjoying the gentlest of kisses. Loving and pure.

His hand in his pocket let go of the ring it had clutched so tightly. No one would ever carry it, not anymore.

Nothing mattered. Everything was different and yet nothing had changed. He was alone, and he would always be.

Lonely.

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