A/N: Personal drama irritated me and I didn't want to work on anything I had going, so I wrote this instead. I've never written anything like this before. I have no idea what to think of it. Have at it. Please don't hate me!
"You existed because we allowed it. You will end because we demand it." The voice rang harshly in Mycroft's ear before the line clicked off, the dial tone all that was left. He sat in the chair of his office, his eyes wide, seeing everything and nothing at the same time. He had known the reality, known that eventually he would become more of a security risk than an asset, but he had not predicted that his day would come so soon.
Pain flashed across his features, etched deeply in the lines of his face. Gregory. What would become of his husband? He would not be left destitute, that was for certain - Mycroft had left his public funds and the entirety of his private assets to him in the event of his untimely demise.
Untimely. Mycroft had always known that being assassinated in the line of duty was a very real possibility. Security risks were eliminated, no questions asked. The majority of his predecessors had departed for that reason. Mycroft closed his eyes, a pain so hot and sharp that he thought for a moment he had been stabbed lancing through his body. His mind searched every nook and cranny of the situation for a way out of his predicament. There was none.
"Sir?" His assistant stood in the door, her eyes cautious, guarded. She must have been notified, must have known what he had been told. Mycroft looked at her for a few seconds, feeling like the single moment stretched over an eternity. "Do you need anything?"
"No," he answered finally. "No." A hand snaked up to rub his temple, emotion welling deep in his chest. "I believe you are dismissed. Thank you for your service." His words had a finality to them, the reality of what had occurred hanging heavily in the air, electric and frightening in its intensity.
"It was a pleasure," she murmured.. "I am sorry," She sounded sincere. Maybe she was. Mycroft merely nodded, eyes returning to the wall, vacant and unseeing. He felt like he was encased in ice, like his world had came crashing to a halt. Twenty four hours. That was all he had left before everything had to come to an end.
Pulling out his mobile, he stared blankly at it, struggling to remember how to text. He did not hear his former assistant quietly close the door as she left, leaving him alone to his thoughts. It took him far longer than it should have to compose a simple message, for he could not trust his voice. 'You are taking tomorrow off. MLH'
It was sent to his husband of seven years, the man he had shared his life with for nearly twelve. They had faced everything together, from Sherlock's faked suicide to his relapse to John's return to Baker Street and his eventual marriage to Sherlock. Mycroft's phone rang, startling him out of his thoughts, and he groaned. "Bloody hell," he told his desk, resorting to pedestrian vulgarity. Nothing mattered anymore. He could not possibly sink any further. "Hello?" he answered smoothly, not bothering with the caller ID. He knew who it was.
"Myc?" Greg's voice was ragged, and Mycroft couldn't help but look guiltily at the clock. He had not realized just how close to midnight it was. "What's wrong? Why did you text me? I can try to take tomorrow off, but...what happened?" Sitting silently at the desk, the mobile pressed to his ear, Mycroft tried to come up with something to say. Something that didn't sound incriminatory but instead was reassuring, light and carefree. His mind was blank. There was nothing he could think of that could make his situation better.
There was a rustling noise on the other end of the phone, and Mycroft was forced back to the present, back to his reality. "Look, you're worrying me. Are you at work?"
"Yes." Mycroft paused, remembering that it no longer officially fit such a designation. "No."
"Fuck, Mycroft," Greg swore, his tone laced with anger and a fear so vivid that it made Mycroft's heart skip in his chest. If only Greg knew what he had to face, what was coming in the weeks ahead. Worrying about Mycroft's location should be the smallest of his priorities. "Are you sitting at your desk?"
That was an easy one. "Yes."
"Stay there. I'm coming to get you." The phone line went dead, the dial tone sounding strangely haunting to Mycroft's ears. He stared at the mobile held in his hand, and then down at the desk in front of him. It would be the last time he worked. He had a day to say his goodbyes, and then he would be over. His country would be safe, and his husband would be a widower. Opening up a small drawer, he pressed his fingertip to a small dip in the wood. It was keyed to the pad of his finger, the small ridges of his fingerprint, able to be opened by him and no other. Nestled in the tiny compartment were two pills, innocuous in their small, white existence. He slipped them into his pocket before returning his hands to the top of the desk. Sherlock. He had to notify Sherlock.
Mycroft had not moved an inch when he heard the door open. His eyes were still wide, frozen in what he was certain was some kind of ghastly expression, and his hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white, his nails digging into his skin. Greg was at his side, gently prying his hands apart and wrapping his arms around Mycroft's shoulders. Mycroft was not able to stifle the sob that forced its way out of his chest. It was a reaction that no one else could have garnered, not even his brother. He would miss Sherlock, but he would miss Greg the most. He would miss the man who completed him, who was his other half. Mycroft could not even contemplate what would happen to his husband when he was gone. It was a terrifying thought, especially having witnessed John in the aftermath of the Reichenbach incident.
"I want to go home," he whispered into Greg's shoulder, clutching the man tightly against him. "I want to go home." He knew he was scaring his husband, knew he had frightened him badly. It was part of the coiled mass of emotions welling up in his stomach, congealing into something he could barely tolerate, let alone begin to comprehend.
"Let's go, love," Greg murmured, gently tugging at Mycroft until he rose mechanically from his chair.
They made it back to their flat. Mycroft did not remember how. The familiar surroundings jolted him back into reality yet again, into seeing the face directly in front of his, haggard from worry and a lack of sleep. Mycroft steeled himself, locking away the pile of emotions as best as he was able. "I am sorry for worrying you," he began stiffly. Greg's eyes dimmed and he shook his head.
"Don't lie to me like that, love. Don't pull away from me." Greg reached out and touched Mycroft's cheek, stroking at thumb across his cheekbone. "Whatever it is, we can face it together. I promise."
That was the problem, Mycroft thought helplessly. They could not take on the situation it together. Mycroft would be gone, and Greg would be left to contend with the problem alone. There would be an autopsy, the detective inspector would insist, but the government would smudge the details. They always did. "I merely feel that you require some vacation." Mycroft's smile was mechanical, but he put as much feeling into it as he could. His last 24 hours and he would have to perform the best acting job of his life in order to hide what was happening. He did not know if he could do it.
They had been together so long, and Greg could read him like a book. It near about damned any effort he could have mustered to project the air of just being tired after a long day at work. However, Mycroft's distress was unnerving his husband. "Well," he murmured, "Come to bed and we can talk in the morning. I'm sure whatever is wrong will look better then, once you've had a proper rest. If I'm taking tomorrow off, so are you." Greg paused and looked at Mycroft. "Right?"
Mycroft stiffly nodded his agreement. "I love you," he told his husband softly. Something strange flickered across Greg's eyes before the silver-haired man smiled.
"I love you too, you berk." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's lips. "Just wish you'd tell me what was going on."
"There's nothing to tell, Gregory."
"Myc. Really, don't treat me like I'm stupid."
Mycroft swiftly pulled his husband against him, crushing their lips together, the kiss leaving both of them breathless and weak-kneed. "Gregory, you are the furthest from a stupid example of humanity I have ever had the pleasure to meet." His eyes were deep and serious, honest and exposed. "I need to see my brother tomorrow."
"Seriously? You said you were going to take the day off. Really want to spend some of your free time arguing with your brother?"
Mycroft sighed in agreement. "I would not say so if it was not important," he told Greg.
"Well, there's a football match on at ten. You can go see Sherlock, and I can watch the telly." Greg's grin was infectious and the politician leaned in to press another kiss to his lips. "What say we..."
"Yes," Mycroft whispered against his partner's mouth. "Yes."
He did not sleep that night, choosing instead to commit every small snippet of Gregory to his memory, burning every detail permanently into the hard drive of his brain. How he snuffled in his sleep, how his eyes moved underneath his eyelids when he was in the REM cycle of sleep, how he scratched his hip and rolled closer to Mycroft as if seeking reassurance. Every little movement, soft sigh, and whispered utterance was forever committed to Mycroft's memory, joining the many others inhabiting his mind palace.
Although he tried his best in the morning, he was certain there was a haunted tint to his expressions and movements. He could not fully eradicate the stress he felt, the pills weighing heavily in his pocket. He dared not leave them where Gregory could find them. They ate breakfast together - Greg's favorite, crepes with nutella and whipped cream. and Mycroft smiled as his partner dug eagerly into the food, making happy noises between bites. Mycroft forced himself to eat one, his gaze focused on the man in front of him. He wanted to make sure that his last thoughts and memories of this life would be of his partner.
It was not long before he departed, long, lingering kisses reminding him of the man he was leaving behind. He had ensured that Dr. Watson would be at work today so that he and Sherlock would be left undisturbed. The knowledge he was imparting to Sherlock was a burden he wanted no other to bear. Sherlock alone would know the truth, for Mycroft could not even hope to hide it. 221B was quiet as Mycroft ascended the stairs, having taken a taxi as he was no longer allowed access to the anonymous black cars he preferred. "Sherlock?" Mycroft inquired quietly, opening the door to the flat.
"What do you want?" his brother snapped irritably, his back to the door. Not bothering to answer, Mycroft moved until he was in Sherlock's line of sight and simply lowered his defenses, allowing the turmoil churning in the pit of his stomach to rise to the top, to be blatantly visible to even the most unobservant of humanity. "Ah." Sherlock exhaled slowly, looking his older brother up and down. "How long do you have?"
"Tonight," Mycroft murmured.
"Does he know?" Sherlock's gaze lingered on the simple platinum band on Mycroft's right hand.
"No. I would prefer it remain that way." The elder Holmes lifted his head to meet Sherlock's eyes. "There shall be an autopsy done - protocol and all, you understand - but my supervisors will ensure that it is viewed as something natural, perhaps a heart attack brought on by stress."
"He hasn't guessed?"
"Gregory is aware that something is wrong. He just does not know what." Mycroft hesitated. "We never discussed this possibility, so I am not certain that he knows this ending was - an option."
"Why are you here, instead of with him?" Sherlock's eyes flickered to the door before returning to his brother.
"While Gregory shall be in charge of final rites and all that will entail, he will need support," Mycroft said quietly. "You and Dr. Watson are in the peculiar position of being able to serve in that position. While Dr. Watson is the most imminently qualified, you do not lack your...assets."
Sherlock studied him in silence for a minute, his odd eyes piercing in their intensity. Mycroft stared solemnly back, having nothing to hide. He was ashamed of none of his decisions and had nothing to regret. Understanding softened the angles of his brother's face, and Mycroft felt the tight ball in his chest loosen slightly. "I will do what I can," Sherlock said finally. Mycroft nodded. "It was..." He trailed off, his voice breaking slightly. "It was not completely horrid, having you for a brother."
"Thank you," Mycroft said simply, knowing it was likely one of the best compliments he had ever received. It ranked up in the top ten, at least, among those given to him by his husband. Sherlock nodded, turning back to studying the arm of his chair. Knowing he was dismissed, Mycroft turned on his heel and made his way back home. Greg was watching his football game and he greeted his husband with a wide smile.
"I see you didn't fight too much," he teased.
"I fear Sherlock might have received some type of head injury," Mycroft murmured, mock exasperated. "He might have paid me a compliment."
"No!" Greg gasped in pretend horror. "He must really be sick. I hope John's watching out for him."
"Indeed," Mycroft mused. Catching himself, he threw a grin in his partner's direction. "If that is what they call what they are doing."
"Myc, you are a naughty man," Greg laughed. "Good thing I love you that way." Reaching out, he drew Mycroft close, kissing him softly, sweetly, until they were both dizzy, out of breath, and trembling with desire. "Would you be against spending the rest of the afternoon in bed?"
"Not at all," Mycroft answered easily, kissing Greg again. Greg flicked off the TV and practically dragged Mycroft to their bedroom.
They spent the next two hours in bed, Mycroft making sure to examine, taste, and touch every inch of Greg's skin. He knew he did not have much longer to savour his husband, and he was determined to treasure what he had. "I love you, Myc," Greg said fondly, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's forehead as they cuddled together, breathless and sticky. "I think we need a shower."
"I love you too," Mycroft murmured softly. "More than you could ever imagine." Ignoring the puzzled expression that flashed over Greg's face, Mycroft darted out of bed in a move worthy of Sherlock and pulled Greg behind him into the bathroom. Words were at least temporarily forgotten.
Once they were cleaned up and properly attired, they went out to dinner at Mycroft's favorite restaurant. It was where they had met for their first proper date, after Mycroft had worked up the courage to ask Greg to meet for something other than a cup of coffee. The restaurant was much the same as it had been that night, Mycroft noted with pleasure. Greg did not seem immune to the nostalgia, judging by the light flush that decorated his cheeks. "Why, Gregory," Mycroft teased. "I fear you are becoming sentimental in your old age."
Greg snorted, his hand linked with his husband's. "Love, you have no room to talk." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's lips. "Do you work tomorrow?"
"Yes," he answered, deciding that a lie was easier to justify than the truth. "After a particularly difficult situation yesterday, my supervisors insisted on my taking the day off."
"Sometimes I forget there are people higher up than you," Greg laughed. They ordered and the food appeared quickly. It was delicious, the conversation so steeped in normality that Mycroft felt intoxicated by its effects. The pills were still in his pocket, their reality weighing heavily on his mind. He had to take them soon, or he risked them not reaching their full potential. He could not risk Greg finding him awake, still present in the morning. The thought was horrifying.
If he had read the situation correctly, they were going to go home and cuddle on the sofa for a while before retiring to bed early. Greg had been pulling overnighters lately and could use the extra sleep. So when Greg excused himself to the loo, Mycroft pulled the capsules out of his pocket and slipped them into his mouth. Wine washed them down, hiding the slight aftertaste.
The reality of what he had done, the finality of his actions settled hot and heavy in his stomach. It had not seemed real, not until the pills had slid down his throat, and he tried not to choke. Part of him had believed that he would be able to find a way out of the situation. Yet the inevitability of what he had done was in no way comforting. The only thought that comforted him was that with the capsules swallowed, he would no longer have to fear an assassin murdering him in his own home if he was still alive come midnight.
He was thankful that he had eaten most of his food, because there was no way he could down another bite. Greg returned all too soon, the casual conversation resuming as easily as it had halted. They finished eating not long after, riding back to their flat in a taxi in a companionable silence.
He was not wrong in his predictions, for he and Greg ended up cuddled on the sofa. His husband had a book in his hands, resting the base on Mycroft's back. He was dozing sprawled over his husband, arms wrapped around his sturdy body and head resting in the crook of his neck. "I love you," Mycroft murmured insistently. Greg smiled at him, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.
"I love you too. Now sleep, Myc. Don't think I didn't notice that you didn't sleep a wink last night." Greg fixed him with the sternest look he could muster, ignoring Mycroft's horrified expression. "You can't keep much from me, you know."
Mycroft was horrifyingly aware of exactly how much he could hide from his partner. Yet he could not allow himself to think of it, could not allow himself to face the truth that was unraveling faster than he could stop it. It was far too soon before he felt drowsy, sleepiness threatening to pull him over to the other side.
He fought to regain his grasp on the tendrils of his consciousness. His eyes were half-open, the images beyond them hazy except for Greg's smiling face. Mycroft struggled to recall how his partner's eyes looked when he was serious, when he was sad, when he was happy. How they looked when he was aroused, when he came. No longer able to keep his eyes open, he let them close, surrendering. Everything drifted away, leaving a sea of blackness as his only companion.
-
The next several days passed in a blur. Greg could not have told anyone the events of that time period, not after waking up to find Mycroft cold and still next to him. Sherlock had stepped up and taken care of all the necessary arrangements. He had been polite, even sensitive over the death of his brother. Greg would have thanked him for it, if he could have remembered anything beyond what it felt like that morning, discovering that the love of his life had passed from this world.
He could not cry anymore. He had no tears left to shed. Standing in the grass, Greg stared at the slate gray tombstone that marked the resting place of the man who had completed life and made it worth living. He could think of nothing to say, nothing that would make it better. Crouching down, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the cool marble. "I love you," Greg told the rock. Someone had lovingly etched Mycroft's name (Mycroft Lestrade-Holmes), his date of birth, and his date of death into the marbled surface of the expensive tombstone. Only the best for his husband.
John had suggested adding an engraving later, when Greg had time to think it over. He had agreed, as he had to everything else. Nothing mattered anymore, not with Mycroft gone. "I wish you hadn't left me," he murmured, fingers caressing the smooth curve of the stone. "I wish you could come back to me. I wish...we swore until death do us part, but I know you'll be waiting for me." Greg's breath caught in his throat, and he choked back a sob. "Wait for me, love. I miss you."
Pressing his lips against the headstone again, lingering for a few more seconds, Greg stood up and walked back to join Sherlock and John. He felt the military doctor's hand on his shoulder, solid and comforting. Fighting to quell the emotions writhing about inside him, Greg leaned into the touch briefly before pulling away. Every little thing reminded him of Mycroft.
As they left the cemetery, Mycroft stood and watched the man he loved so dearly walk permanently out of his life. Taking a deep breath, he turned and strode in the opposite direction.