It happened. It finally happened. Mycroft should have known this day would come. He knew they'd been careless but he'd been enjoying himself too much to realise the danger they'd put themselves in. Mycroft read the text over and over and over again as if to be sure it was real.
I have Detective Inspector Lestrade. Saint Bart's rooftop. Come alone. JM
They should have been more careful. They both knew it all along, always talking about how they needed to be less public about their relationship, but they never actually did.
Not knowing what else to do, the elder Holmes grabbed his coat and got a cab to Saint Bart's. All he could think of was that he could have prevented this; he shouldn't have been so naïve. But worrying about what he could have done was useless now, so he instead forced himself to be present in the problem at hand.
When Mycroft got up onto the rooftop Jim was pacing back and forth near the ledge. Mycroft's eyes found Greg, bound and gagged with two of Moriarty's henchmen standing beside him. Bruises were forming on Greg's face. One of Jim's men had a bloody nose; Lestrade had not let them take him without a fight. Mycroft felt a twinge of pride, despite the rage he felt for what Moriarty had done to his lover.
"Hello, Mr Holmes," started Jim. "I was starting to think you weren't going to come. But of course you would, wouldn't you? For your precious Detective Inspector," he said, shooting a glance at his captive.
"You two were awfully sloppy, weren't you?" he went on. "Kissing and hugging and holding hands in public. I'd have thought you'd know better. But then again, we all have our flaws, don't we, Mr Holmes? And it seems I've found yours."
Mycroft bit back his rage and forced himself to put up the same civil, emotionless front he always exuded.
"To what do I owe your…attention, Mr Moriarty?"
Jim ignored Mycroft's question. "Nice spot, isn't it? Lovely view…" he remarked.
Mycroft sighed, growing impatient. "If you hadn't already noticed, I don't really care about the scenery. What do you want from me?"
"You should care, Mycroft," said Jim. "After all, your little brother is going to die here." He paused, watching Mycroft as if gauging his response. "If all goes as planned," he continued, "about a month from now Sherlock Holmes is going to throw himself off this building. Right there." He pointed to the ledge. "But, in order for that plan to work, I'm going to need some information."
"And you expect me to give you the information you require?" asked Mycroft.
"Well, you're the only person who can give me the information I require."
"I won't."
"Oh, I think you will," said Jim. He glanced over at the two henchmen beside Lestrade and one of them pulled out a gun, pointing it to Lestrade's head.
Mycroft froze.
"There are two people in this world you really care about, Mycroft Holmes," said Jim. "If one of them lives, the other dies. If one of them dies, the other lives. Your choice."
Sherlock or Lestrade. Sherlock or Lestrade. Mycroft couldn't bear the thought of losing either one of them. Think of something clever, think of something clever, Mycroft. But he couldn't think of anything. Damn him for being so stupid before, damn him for thinking they could be open about their relationship. He knew better.
He sighed and paced back and forth though it did nothing to help him think. Finally, he turned and looked at Lestrade. "I'm sorry Greg."
Greg looked at him understandingly. He knew how important Sherlock was to Mycroft. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the bullet about to pierce his skull. Mycroft looked at Moriarty.
"Take him downstairs."
Jim smiled. "You heard him, boys."
Greg was grabbed hostilely by the two men and dragged down from the roof back inside the hospital, to an unoccupied room.
"What do you want to know?"
Jim grinned. "I want to know all about Sherlock's life. Growing up, his childhood, family, friends, trauma, girlfriends, boyfriends..everything. His entire life story."
And so Mycroft told Jim Sherlock's life story, in the hope that, when everything fell into place, Sherlock would come up with some clever way out of it all. He told Jim about their mother dying when Sherlock was three, and how that was when Father started drinking. He told about when Father lashed out at them and how Sherlock always got the worst of it because he didn't know how to keep his mouth shut. He told him about Sherlock wanting to be a pirate. About Father dying when Mycroft was twenty and Sherlock, thirteen. That was when Mycroft officially became Sherlock's guardian though he had been a parent figure to him long before. He told Jim about Sherlock getting bullied at school and how he never had a boyfriend or girlfriend - or any friends - to Mycroft's knowledge. He just stayed up in his room with his violin and his chemistry set, dissecting the neighbour's cat or whatever dead animal he'd found God knows where. Mycroft told Jim about Sherlock's façade of arrogance and insolence and how he falsely classified himself as a sociopath…all were lies which perhaps even Sherlock himself had long since forgotten of their untruth.
When he'd finished telling all there was to tell, Mycroft closed his eyes, shoving his guilt to the back of his mind. Greg was what mattered right now. He would take care of Sherlock later. Sherlock will think of something clever, he kept telling himself.
"Thank you, Mr Holmes," said Jim with false cordiality.
"Let. Him. Go." demanded Mycroft in almost a growl.
"Very well then," said Jim, pulling out his phone and sending a text to his men below.
Mycroft gave Jim one last icy glare before turning and running down the steps to the next floor down. He quickly found Greg in a supply closet, still tied up, but no sign of the henchmen anywhere. Mycroft untied the blood-stained cloth on Greg's mouth first and pressed his lips to the detective's forehead.
"Are you alright?"
"Did you tell him?"
"That's not important right now. Are you alright?"
"You did! You told him, Mycroft!"
"Sherlock will be fine. He can take care of himself."
"And I can't?"
"Not in the state you're in right now, you can't."
Mycroft moved around behind Greg and untied his hands. There were bruises on his wrists from the ropes. "Jesus Christ…" breathed Mycroft. He moved back around in front of Greg. Greg felt Mycroft's hand on his cheek as he leaned in for a kiss.
They sat there, foreheads pressed together just listening to the sound of each other breathing. For a moment they could stare into each other's eyes and see their souls. It made Mycroft feel uneasy, but it was beautiful all the same. They stayed like that for what felt like years until Mycroft broke the spell and stood up. He helped Greg to his feet and looked at him protectively.
"You'll stay at my place for the next few nights," said Mycroft. "Just to be safe." It was not a question, nor a demand and required no answer, just Greg's fingers intertwining with Mycroft's as they went outside. Mycroft called one of his own cars, not liking cabs and feeling more assured of Greg's safety with at least two body guards in the front seat of the car.
Mycroft lied on the king-sized bed in his room, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Lestrade was taking a shower.
Mycroft heard the door open and Lestrade came in, wearing a t-shirt and boxers they'd picked up from his flat before he'd been brought here: the Holmes Estate. Mycroft inherited it after their parents died. It was a good-sized mansion with many rooms and corridors where one could easily get lost.
Greg came in and crawled on top of Mycroft, planting a kiss on his lips. He started to unbutton Mycroft's shirt but Mycroft stopped him.
"Not tonight, love."
Greg nodded obligingly and rolled onto his side next to Mycroft.
"I could have avoided this," said Mycroft after several moments of silence.
"It wasn't your fault."
"I should have been more careful."
"We both should have."
Mycroft rolled onto his side and looked at Greg. His face was marked with bruises. Mycroft gently kissed his lips and Greg pulled him into his arms, the elder Holmes resting his head against the detective's chest.
"What do we do about Sherlock?" asked Greg.
"Moriarty will know if we try to warn him."
"So we do nothing?"
"We do what we can, without Sherlock's knowledge."
One month later.
SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS
Mycroft had gotten the phone call a few nights ago.
"…threw himself off a building…" Just like Jim had said he would. John knew Mycroft had given Jim the information. Sherlock's life story. Mycroft had told him it was in exchange for important information. Government stuff..that was all. He couldn't let John hold this against Lestrade.
SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS
It was all his fault.
SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS
The words rang in his head over and over again, haunting him.
SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS
The funeral was today. Mycroft didn't want to go. He didn't want to go anywhere or do anything ever again. He wished he could disappear. He wished he'd been the one to throw himself off that building. It was a terrible thing to think, but it was true.
Lestrade gripped Mycroft's hand tightly as they walked into the church. This was all wrong. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted his funeral in a church. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted them to bury him. Mycroft had heard Sherlock say on numerous occasions that he intended to donate his body to science, but some girl named Molly Hooper insisted on having him buried. This wasn't right. They'd done it all wrong.
John went up to speak first. Mycroft was expected to after him, and then Lestrade.
John cleared his throat. His eyes were swollen and red.
"Sherlock told me once that he was a sociopath. Sometimes I almost believed him." He laughed a hollow laugh. "But after knowing him for the short few years I did…" He paused, regaining control of his breathing. He was struggling not to cry. "Sherlock was the kindest…most caring person I've ever known. He was brave, far braver than I ever could have been. And clever…God was he clever. And I loved - " He stopped just for a moment. Barely a second but Mycroft could see him changing his mind. Choosing a different ending to that sentence. " - the time I had with him. I wouldn't trade those few years for the world." Tears rolled down John's face as he went to sit down.
Mycroft was next.
He stared out at the sea of black funeral attire. Family members and faces he didn't recognise. There shouldn't be this many people here, he thought to himself. Sherlock didn't have this many acquaintances; he probably wouldn't even remember this many people with the way he constantly deleted things he thought useless. Mycroft felt angry but he had to put up a front, be the same cold, distant Mycroft everyone expected him to be.
He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.
"This is wrong," he said finally. He'd been saying it in his head, but the words had accidentally slipped off his tongue.
"This is all wrong," he repeated. "This isn't what Sherlock would have wanted. Sherlock hated churches. He was not a religious man; he thought religions were stupid and ridiculous. This priest saying we all go to heaven is wrong. I know my little brother won't go to heaven. They're going to bury him in the ground and he's going to rot. He's going to sit there in a coffin, useless until there's nothing left of him and that isn't what he would have wanted. He didn't want to be useless, not ever, especially not now…" This wasn't what he'd written. This wasn't what he was supposed to say. Everyone was staring at him like he'd murdered someone right in front of their eyes but he was right. This was not what Sherlock would have wanted at all.
Mycroft crumbled into noiseless sobs, tears drenching his face. He was shaking so badly he couldn't read the speech in his hands even if he tried.
Lestrade came to his rescue, coming up beside him and giving his hand a gentle squeeze and whispering that it was alright, before leading him back down to his seat. Greg let them skip his speech, staying by Mycroft's side until it was over.
Mycroft didn't go to the burial.
Greg and Mycroft took one of Mycroft's cars back to the mansion. As soon as they got inside, Mycroft attacked Greg with his lips, kissing him desperately.
They went into the bedroom and Mycroft tore of Greg's clothes and his own. There was no build-up or slow beginning, just intense, heated sex. Mycroft, who was usually more submissive in bed, took control, marking every inch of Greg's body with kisses.
Mycroft rolled over so Greg was on top of him and Greg looked around for lubricant. When he didn't see any handy, he spit on his fingers, which seemed to be fine by Mycroft, and got Mycroft lubed up before thrusting into him. Mycroft let out a cry of pleasure and Greg groaned at how tight Mycroft was around him. Mycroft came first, cum spilling all over his chest and stomach and then Greg came with a loud moan.
Mycroft curled up next to Greg, who comfortingly ran his fingers through the younger man's hair. Mycroft leaned on Greg's shoulder, tears streaming down his face.
"It's alright…" murmured Greg. "You can cry if you need to, Myc," he said, knowing how much Mycroft held everything in all the time.
Mycroft sobbed quietly into Greg's shoulder. Greg held Mycroft close knowing the best thing he could do right now was to let Mycroft get it all out and be there whenever his lover needed him.
The end