He's woken early, by the song of a bird. It's the 30th of January and when he opens the window cold air hits him that is tinted with the smell of rain. A soft clatter of dishes comes from the kitchen (his housekeeper, making breakfast) and he briefly lets his thoughts wander to other places before he closes the window abruptly.
...
It's quarter to seven when he puts on his coat and takes his umbrella in his hand. His car must be already outside so he quickly taps the umbrella on the ground three times to check whether everything's still in working order. The umbrella is its usual sturdy self and a small smile flits across Mycroft's face. He likes it when things are in order, it makes life easier.
...
His PA has arranged everything for him on his desk by the time he enters his office and for the next few hours he's busy entering new information into his brain and processing it. He's made it an art, storing as many things on his hard drive as possible because experience showed that almost everything will come in handy at one point or another. He likes being in his office, he knows it like the back of his hand and his condition isn't a problem here.
...
Overall, it's an unspectacular morning. Telephone conference at ten, meeting at eleven, lunch with some cabinet ministers at noon. The umbrella is always with him, hanging on the back of his chair or leaning against the table, accompanying him everywhere, subtly providing help.
...
"Sir, there's news - about your brother."
Back at the office Mycroft listens patiently as she fills him in, tells him about a flat in Baker Street and a stranger by Sherlock's side.
"We're already running the background check" she assures him before she leaves.
For a moment he thinks about these new information, hands steepled in front of his face. Then, on a whim, he pulls out his mobile and presses the speed dial.
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock doesn't answer.
...
There's more, late in the afternoon. A doctor. A soldier. Accompanying Sherlock to crime scenes.
He feels curiosity, worry but also hope. His hand grips the handle of the umbrella tightly as he ambles to the lift in order to check with surveillance.
...
It's prentence, always a prentence. No one must know, it'd be too dangerous, for him and everyone else. That's why he hides behind a thousand eyes, keeps a close watch on every inch of this city. He's compensating, obviously, although he'd never admit it.
He leans forward and speaks into the receiver.
"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"
...
He enters the car park at the back entrance, the tip of the umbrella scraping along the wet concrete wall. The car's already approaching but he nevertheless leans on the umbrella to give his leg a bit of a rest. It's about making an impression, after all, because that's what prevents people from seeing what's actually there. It's a simple slight of hand that every stage-magician knows but it works almost every time.
John Watson's words are defiant; his hand is dry and steady. He, too, has a cane. Mycroft knows that this doesn't mean anything and he shouldn't let it influence his judgement but he can't help but feel sympathy, from one invalid to another.
...
"Your impression?"
They're in the car, on their way back to the ministry.
"I think he's a decent man. Quite the trooper, actually," she chuckles, not typing away on her BlackBerry for a change.
Mycroft gives a curt nod, his shadowy image of John Watson fills more and more with colours.
"Good."
...
When Mummy came home with Sherlock from the hospital and Mycroft got a first look at his new brother he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"He's as big as a loaf of bread!" he blurted out and Mummy chuckled.
"Yes, that's because he's a baby and you're a big boy now." Then her face got more serious. "You have to keep an eye on him, Mycroft, watch him, that's what big brothers do. Will you do that for me?"
He promised Mummy that he'd always keep an eye on him so of course he goes to the crime scene to see if everything's alright. Judging by Sherlock's behaviour, it is.
...
It's late at night when he eventually returns home. The streets are deserted, his house is quiet. He leans the umbrella against its spot on the wall and sets his briefcase on the small table next to it. Wearily, he rubs his eyes, his silver ring hard and cold on his eyelids, before he shrugs out of his coat. It's been a long day and the night will be short.
He walks down the hallway, loosens his tie on the way and takes off his jacket. Carelessly, he drops both on the living room table, knowing that they'll be gone by the morrow, taken to the dry cleaner's by the helping hands that surround him.
"Let's face it, Mycroft, you're basically a nursing case now." Sherlock's mockery is suddenly loud in his ears and he stiffens before he forces the memory away. He's many things but not helpless.
He pours himself a drink and sinks down on his sofa. After a few minutes in the dark and quiet of the room he can hear his own heartbeat and the clock's too loud ticking. He quickly takes a gulp from his glass and astabbing sensation shoots through his right front molar that makes him draw in his breath. Carefully, he puts the tumbler aside and prods his cheek with his fingertips while his tongue traces the offensive tooth.
Another project, for another day.
...
The mattress sags softly when he sits down on the bed in his pajamas. He still switches the lamp on the bedside table on, just like he still picks up papers in order to read them or turns his head when something catches his attention. It's a habit but it's also safer that way.
The sheets are crisp and cool and he's about to slip under them when his mobile beeps.
He knows that Sherlock texts him only to annoy him but he smiles anyway when he listens to the message, imagining that it's read out in the dark timbre of Sherlock's voice.
He should have become a singer, Mycroft thinks when he eventually lies down and closes his eyes - not that he needs to, for to him the world is always dark.