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.
