Written for Mel, who is pretty freaking awesome. No, more than pretty freaking awesome. I'm just saying. You're a rock. (And I know I said I'd probably not publish this, but I feel like others should know just how awesome you are. So yeah, here we are.) Needed some Mycroft angst, because he doesn't get enough love.
I found a list of words that didn't translate into English well, but were beautiful and so poetically staggering that they should be written a whole Hell of a lot more. This actually has a picture that goes with it, but I can't publish pictures on this site, and no one will send me an invite for Archive Of Our Own... (Someone? Anyone?)
La Douleur Exquise:
The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can't ever have.
"It's not like he knows you exist anyways, Mycroft." Sherlock all but snarled, eyes alight with poorly disguised fury and a need to make others bleed. "No one does, not really. You're just a figment of the government's healthy imagination: nothing more than a cruel, all-seeing specter."
Mycroft inhaled deeply and evenly as he shut his eyes.
His brother was correct, after all, he was a specter, a governmental ghost charged with defending and protecting with any means necessary. A license to kill, so to speak, and as much as he was not like 007 or any of those fancy spies in novels that John Watson so loved, he did have a similar purpose. And he'd used it more than once when someone had forced his hand. He did it because it was his job. And if there was one thing that Mycroft knew without a doubt, it was that he excelled far beyond the limitations the word 'good' would put upon the situation. The Best insinuated that there was someone approaching his range of talents. There was no one even setting foot on the same continent as him, let alone an even playing field.
Because he was good at the job he provided, oh so truly good at it, he felt that within his own subconscious he could acknowledge the brilliance he had been gifted with. His father had imparted to him when he had been young that it was sometimes a necessary evil in the world, what they did. That one must do the job their skills allowed to them without falter or hesitation, that to hesitate could only lead to ruin and heartbreak. Heartbreak was something that would only tarnish a perfectly good name. You had to be proud in your work -not to the point of bragging, really- but proud. And dedicated. His Father had been proud, as had his Mummy, and even Sherlock once upon a time.
Now Sherlock did nothing more than loathe every breath that he took and it lashed at Mycroft in a way that even the finest of blades could not duplicate. Scalpels sharpened and honed through years of use and tender care could not cut as deeply as the emotional lashings his brother often dealt him, and neither could the cold bite of steal. Physical wounds could hardly be compared to the pain those unseen holes in his soul caused him, but at least they were easy enough to cover and hide from those on the outside. Even his brother, famed for his acute observational skills and attention to details, had never seen through the facade he held so tightly in place by the sheer force of his will. It was probably a good thing too.
It sort of felt like slowly bleeding out in the shower sometimes.
When the wounds were ripped open like that.
The steady, buzzing sound increasing in your ears as the light brightens before dulling out.
Mycroft was used to it by now.