Crash and Burn
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. At all. Sadly.
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Mycroft was tired. Looking back, (and he could, thanks to his excellent memory) he hadn't ever been this tired before.
The last few years of guarding Sherlock as well as being responsible for a large part of British intelligence and security had taken their toll. A few grey hairs here and there, lack of sleep and any fat he gained that Sherlock noticed was a result of caffeine and sugar rushes. Where Sherlock used drugs, Mycroft used sugar.
In theory, life should have been easier after his brother met John Watson. Mycroft recalled meeting him for the first time, a traumatised soldier, and remembered Redbeard anew. His brother would take in the stray and help him flourish and in return, Watson would restrain him. He also received a further boost in Mycroft's estimation when he refused the not-inconsiderable bribe to spy on Sherlock.
Any thoughts that this would keep Mycroft less involved in his brother's life were quickly dashed. Within days, he had to upgrade the surveillance on both Sherlock and John. As cases continued, he added, for he was nothing if not thorough, Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Molly Hooper. The subsequent paperwork almost drove him to despair at times.
When Sherlock decided to fake his death to save his friends and stop Moriarty, Mycroft worked his fingers to the bone to put the arrangements in place. As utmost secrecy was called for, Mycroft worked alone, with limited contact with his brother, to plan out the deception. He then spent two years tracking his brother around the world and sending help when possible while the country grieved Sherlock's death.
Even after Sherlock's resurrection it never stopped. John's new fiancée, later wife, had to be added to his lists, although subsequent events proved he wouldn't have to worry about her. Then Sherlock shot Magnussen.
Mycroft once again worked tirelessly to prevent his brother's imprisonment, or secret execution. After all he had done, after everything Sherlock had done for Britain, all he could give his brother was six months of freedom. On a suicide mission.
Saying goodbye at the airport was hard, if he was honest. But the relief that he was now no longer responsible for his brother's life was undeniable.
Did you miss me?
Son. Of. A.
'Well,' Sherlock said as they arrived back at Baker Street, 'now to solve the Moriarty puzzle. You see...'
'Perhaps later,' John interrupted. 'Tea first. Especially you and Mary. Mrs Hudson, would you mind?'
'Just this time dear, I'm not your maid,' came Mrs Hudson's familiar reply as she disappeared down the stairs (having learned from experience not to use Sherlock's kitchen). She returned with tea, biscuits and Mycroft and Anthea, who had just arrived. They both took a seat, but had Sherlock been watching he would have noticed how Mycroft fell into his chair more than usual.
Mycroft felt even more drained than before. In fact, he hadn't realised they were going to Baker Street until he'd agreed it to Anthea. Needing a bit of sugar, he quietly accepted a biscuit from the plate being handed round.
'Shouldn't you be cutting down on those?' came the expected jibe. Mycroft just sighed and took a bite. He hadn't eaten for days trying to save his brother and the resultant hunger coupled with the fright of his brother overdosing again AND seeing Moriarty was giving his blood sugar unacceptable lows for a functioning adult male. Plus, he needed to hold something. His hands were shaking.
The biscuit didn't taste very nice. Putting it to the side of his saucer, Mycroft concentrated on the tea. He could feel Anthea's eyes on him; he never normally refused a biscuit but he was too tired to fake interest when she was watching.
Sherlock though, was a whole different matter. He put on his best mask and said in a cheerful manner, 'So brother-mine, as fascinating as your theories would be, I really don't need any more drug-induced ravings today. Once was quite enough. Perhaps we'll speak again in the cold light of day.'
'I really am on very good form right now,' Sherlock resisted. And he did look fine, almost annoyingly so for someone who had just taken more illegal substances than anyone ever should.
'Nevertheless, I have more important matters to attend to,' Mycroft said, abandoning his empty teacup. More work, and less time to sleep. So begins the cycle again. 'So if you'll excuse me,'
He stood up, and his vision greyed around the edges. Leaning slightly against the umbrella, and praying to a God he didn't believe in that Sherlock hadn't spotted it, he said briskly, 'Contact me when you're sober, Sherlock. We will discuss this matter further.'
As they entered the black car waiting outside, Mycroft slumped down as much as he was able. Abandoning his usual courtesy, he instructed the driver to take him home first, ignoring Anthea's searching eyes.
Upon returning home, Mycroft worked on his paperwork for his customary six hours before ritually scrubbing himself free of the day in the shower. Deciding to forego food, he sought his bed. He was asleep as his head touched the pillow, trying to gain the maximum refreshment from so little time.
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This is my first Sherlock story. Please review!