He could feel his hand running across his face as he looked into the mirror, staring into his own eyes. He felt his smile as his muscles contorted, felt it with his fingers, and he wanted to move his eyes, wanted to break contact, wanted to get away what had he done.
He couldn't look away. He could feel himself start to laugh, and all he wanted to do was scream.
("It was my fault."
"And what are you willing to pay to fix it?")
He was in a meeting with the Israelis and the Americans, playing the mediator as the Israelis pushed to launch a pre-emptive strike and the Americans continued to insist on waiting for the sanctions to take their proper toll on the Iranian populace- he could hear himself talking but had long since stopped listening to the words. He couldn't anymore.
("I hear the usual running rate is ten years.")
Ever since he'd come back, Sherlock knew that something was wrong with him and knew he'd had something to do with what had happened. He never brought it up, but he could see it in Sherlock's eyes, the way he looked at him, the way he acted around him now. He saw much less of him than he used to, given the circumstances, but he thought sometimes he could detect a hint of worry about Sherlock's character- for him, or for the effects of what Sherlock suspected he'd done, he couldn't be sure. He wished he could talk to him. Apologize. Tell him that he hadn't meant for any of this to ever happen. Sherlock probably knew anyways, but he wished he could say it. He wished he could tell him he loved him. Maybe even ask him what it was like. Anything.
("Oh, Mycroft Holmes. You think just because I'm a demon I don't know who you are? You have so much more to give than years.")
He was staring into the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands, and the demon made sure he caught his own eye, smiling at him from the outside in. He stared into that mirror and realized that he was face to face with the man who sold the world.