Author's note: After I had published "Two Guilty Men" (don't worry, you don't have to have read that one to understand this story) I was surprised (and a little flattered, I admit it) how many people requested a friendship piece as a follow-up. Maybe this will turn into a series too, I haven't decided yet. But their relationship is certainly fascinating, even if (or maybe because) we don't know anything about it.
So, bromance and Reichenbach feels! Wuhu!
I don't own anything, please review.
After he'd given Mycroft his condolences on that one strange afternoon at the Diogenes Club, going there and drinking brandy with the older Holmes became a ritual, without either of them knowing why.
Usually, Greg would drive to the Diogenes Club, where the footman would lead him to the visitor's room. More often than not, Mycroft would already be waiting for him – maybe he didn't want to go home most of the time, either. Someone like Mycroft Holmes was bound to have his own ghosts to live with.
Greg didn't know why he kept coming back – after all, he had done what he had set out to do, there was no reason to keep Sherlock's brother company, especially since he didn't seem to need it. They didn't even talk most of the time; maybe because they didn't know each other all that well – Greg had only seen Mycroft when the British Government had kidnapped him, and they had only ever had one subject. And that subject was... gone.
Perhaps that was the reason he went to Mycroft all along; Sherlock was gone and he would do anything just to feel connected to him again.
Naturally, they could have talked about Sherlock's suicide, and of their respective roles in it. Also naturally, they didn't, they wouldn't, they couldn't. Living with it was hard enough; talking about it would make it real once and for all.
And still he came back, time and time again, because, although he had tried to banish the thought from his mind, when Sherlock had died, the two most important relationships in his life had died with him.
John – he and John had been friends before Sherlock's – death. He was sure of that. But, ever since they... ever since they had lost him, they had been growing more and more distant. John might not blame him for Sherlock's death – the doctor didn't blame him, at least he could be certain of that – but, whenever they met, there it was, the knowledge how and why Sherlock died, hanging between them like an invisible veil, and neither of them dared to tear it down. Breaking through this barrier would mean to acknowledge the truth, and they wouldn't. They couldn't.
Not the truth that Greg was as much to blame as Mycroft for how things had turned out in the end; no, John, knowing the doctor, probably wouldn't even admit that this truth existed. No, the truth Greg meant was – It was the worst truth he'd ever had to face.
The truth that Sherlock was dead and never coming back. That they had lost him forever.
It was strange, he supposed, that he felt closer to Sherlock when he was sitting in the Diogenes Club, not talking and simply sipping brandy, than at Baker Street, listening to Mrs. Hudson's monologues about "her boy" and John's efforts to make small talk. And yet this was how things were. Somehow he felt more connected to Sherlock's brother because –
Because they had both made a mistake, and they were both paying for it. Greg by keeping Sherlock's brother the company he needed, but didn't get himself (especially since his divorce); Mycroft by accepting Greg's meagre attempts to make amends.
There was no doubt in Greg's mind that Mycroft simply tolerated him, that he annoyed him, even; after all, while he didn't believe the British Government to be a "high-functioning sociopath", he couldn't help but feel that Mycroft didn't need anyone. Although he had seemed to feel a little better after Greg had given him his condolences...
Yet, no matter what he thought, after a hard day at work, or when he didn't have anything else to do (which was more often the case than he'd like to admit), he would drive to the Diogenes Club, and Mycroft would always be there, never saying anything, simply giving him a glass of Brandy and sitting down in his usual chair. They drank together, for about an hour, and then Greg left every time, promising himself that he wouldn't come back. But he always did.
After about two months of this, Mycroft spoke for the first time.
"I am informed that you still see John from time to time" he said. As usual, it was a statement and not a question; both of them knew very well that he still watched over Sherlock's flatmate.
"Yes" Greg simply answered. He had met John for a pint only two days before, trying to hide his shock at how awful the doctor had looked. John had moved out of 221B shortly after the funeral, and despite Mrs. Hudson's optimism, Greg was sure he wouldn't come back. There had been dark circles under his eyes, too, and the Di could have sworn that he saw a slight limp in the doctor's step. John Watson had lost his purpose in life. It was as easy and as difficult as that.
John didn't hold him responsible for Sherlock's death; he apparently thought that he had simply been a pawn in Moriarty's game; but Mycroft – that was another matter entirely. Perhaps the doctor thought that, because the British Government had always had his eyes on his baby brother, had probably known about Moriarty before Sherlock ever heard his name, Mycroft should have been able to predict what would happen. Mycroft shouldn't have let himself be drawn into Moriarty's game. Greg disagreed.
But he knew that Mycroft would know all about it anyway, so he simply asked, "Why?"
The older Holmes shrugged and stared into his brandy. "No particular reason. I was simply making sure – "
"Your surveillance team did their homework?" Greg suggested and was surprised to actually find a smirk on Mycroft's lips, a smirk that reminded him of his dead brother.
The older Holmes nodded, the smirk slipping away, and they didn't say anything else until Greg put his glass on the table and left like always, although he couldn't help but feel that, somehow, things had changed between them.
This was confirmed a week later. He had spent the interim solving a murder Sherlock would most likely have solved in a few minutes, and was feeling depressed and tired, but didn't know whether he would have the energy to drive to the Diogenes Club.
A limousine was waiting for him when he walked out of Scotland Yard. Happily ignoring his car, he got in and was driven to a mansion that could only belong to Mycroft – he wondered how he had earned the distinction of being admitted to the British Government's home.
Mycroft was waiting for him and gave him a glass of brandy without saying anything. Not for a few minutes at least. Then, he commented, "It was his first wife, of course."
"Yes, it was" Greg replied.
Mycroft nodded. "Obvious".
Then the older Holmes stared into his glass once again, and Greg couldn't help but smile, because the brothers hadn't been that different, even if they had tried to hide it. Realizing that the older Holmes wouldn't say anything else, he finally asked, "So, how was your day?"
Mycroft looked up from his glass, surprised, and Greg couldn't blame him. He didn't think anyone had ever asked him that question. "Mummy", from the few allusions Sherlock had made, had hardly been the type to worry about her offspring, and Sherlock had had his own problems – had certainly never thought that the older brother who always seemed so invincible needed someone to talk too, now and then.
For a moment, the older Holmes seemed unable to speak, and Greg couldn't help but feel a certain triumph. Then, he cleared his throat and answered, perfectly calm as always, "Fine. I had a meeting with the Minister of Defence – not that you need to know anything about that – and arranged another meeting in Brussels for – but you really don't need to know about that. Later, I went to – "
He stopped and looked out of the window, and Greg realized instantly what he meant. How could he not.
Mycroft had visited his brother's grave.
He still went there once a week, if he could make it, he suspected that John spent far more time than was healthy in front of the head stone, and knew that Mrs. Hudson laid down flowers once a month. He was rather certain that Mycroft didn't find time to go there often. Despite the fact that he was sure that Mycroft was still grieving, just like John, just like Mrs. Hudson, just like him.
So he simply nodded and said, "I was there last Tuesday". Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Greg clarified, "I know you know. But I thought you'd like to know that I want you to know".
Before Sherlock had jumped, Mycroft would probably have been confused why he wanted to clarify this, but now he looked strangely thankful and replied, "Alright".
Because he didn't want them to lapse into an uncomfortable silence again, Greg asked, "You are sure you can't tell me anything about the meeting in Brussels?"
"Of course not, Inspector".
"Greg" he corrected without thinking, and realized only when he saw Mycroft's face that it had probably been a long time since anyone had asked him to call them by their first name. He was proven correct when Mycroft said, "Good, then, Greg", repeating his name as if it was a mantra.
And perhaps it was, considering Mycroft had had Greg brought to his home. Maybe he wasn't as indifferent as the DI had supposed. Maybe he needed someone to connect with too, after all.
So he accepted Mycroft's offer of another brandy, and several more after that, sometimes talking, sometimes silent. Strangely, he didn't feel uncomfortable anymore. Then again – he shouldn't be surprised. Because Sherlock had been the closest thing to a little brother he had ever had. Therefore, his death made him feel like – like an older brother who hadn't done his job properly.
So all in all, feeling connected with Mycroft Holmes of all people was only logical.
He ended up in one of Mycroft's guestrooms, rather tipsy. He didn't care. Neither did he care about the headache he woke up to the next morning or the fact that Mycroft was long gone and his car was standing in front of the mansion when he finally got up. In fact, he was rather happy about it.
Because there was no better beginning to slowly getting over the death of a friend then making another one.
Author's note: I simply felt that them becoming friends would take some time – Mycroft doesn't seem to me to be the type to make friends easily. He certainly doesn't trust many people. Anyway, I'll stop now before I start to ramble again.
I hope you liked it, please review.