Mycroft missed his own gaze in the mirror, his wrists like tiny birds

against the cold countertop

winking red at his weakness.

His eyes were rimmed, and curved down.

He could not let anyone see,

least of all Sherlock.


Threads of time caught

on invisible hooks,

and the fabric bunched itself.

The cuffs of his uniform

covered

the little gaping mouths,

the tiny tracings

of old months.


Like manila moths

little silver tears

flew out

when he opened the hidden

cabinets of his mind

and shook out

his old clothes

to look at them.


If the pursing of his lips

was a little tighter,

no-one had yet noticed.


Sherlock kept giving

him probing glances.

Mycroft

pretended to feel normal

and only worried

behind

a closed door.


Looking into the mirror

of the bathroom

with familiar

countertops, too white,

and not to be spoiled,

he saw himself

as he believed.