A/N: I adored Mycroft in last night's episode, so this is ode to him. It's a little slap dash, but I hope you get what I'm trying to say. When he thinks, it's not a lack of punctuation - I was just trying to reflect how quickly and flittingly he deduces and processes. I LOVED ASiB! ARGH. So many fic possibilities. Anywho, you're advice/thoughts on this fic would be much appreciated, Mycroft POV isn't really my area (reference o'clock) so reviews are very much appreciated, basically. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.
Warning: Minor spoilers for Series 2 Ep. 1.
Summary: How did Mycroft receive the nickname 'The Ice Man'? aka a brief (and possibly not very deep) study of Mycroft Holmes.
The Ice Man
by
Blackcurrant Bonbons
Walking down the gilded, spacious corridors of Buckingham Palace, Mycroft straightened his waistcoat imperceptibly.
Blue-uniformed staff scurried past as he strode towards to his destination; the aura of power and wealth emanating off him causing them to scrape across the sides of the corridors.
What a bloody fiasco. A Royal sex scandal was the last thing we needed.
Mycroft's shoulders slouched slightly.
He longed for a cool glass of whiskey, to scorch, to burn, to perish.
After all he had sacrificed for this land, surely that was not too much to request?
A Christmas tree in one of the many grand rooms flickered past his vision. A small sigh escaped his lips. What a pointless festivity. Of course, the injection it gave their failing economy was always welcome...
...-but-...
No one to share it with.
Two octaves of familiar laughter reached him. One a throaty baritone, the other a slightly hysterical giggle.
Sherlock-and-John. Two sides of the same coin. Two halves of a whole.
He stood outside for a moment, heart throbbing painfully, his chest constricting.
"I'm seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray..."
His brother chuckled, and the laughter continued.
Mycroft clenches his fists, opening and closing.
-Why did they not understand the seriousness of the situation the responsibility he had the consequences should they fail why could he not have what they had-
His heart clenched, and he swayed, stretching out to balance against the illustrious wall.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, composing himself.
-I am cold cool collected I am cold cool collected-
He forced an air of nonchalance, and casually strode into the room.
"Are we expecting the Queen?" The doctor asked amusedly, just as Mycroft strode into their field of vision.
Sherlock caught sight of him first, and his smile turned into a sneer. "Oh, apparently yes," he mocked.
The pair burst into giggles once more.
Mycroft froze, eyes closing to cut off his emotion.
-windows to the soul-
-why do they mock me add insult to injury am I really worth so little – they do not know what it is like I am always to be mocked why must I play the adult here-
He opened his eyes. They were icy cold.
"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
Mycroft's heart continued to beat, a single life force. He was perfectly at home in the chill coldness of the morgue. He eyed the pale blue cadavers dispassionately.
Envy is an emotion.
He sat alone on his leather armchair. Echoes of the heaving outside world reverberated gently through his empty, dark house.
Outside, the carollers sang joyously.
Mycroft pondered heavily, his only company the crackling red fire.
"In the end, family is all we have, Mycroft Holmes."
He stood there, an island.
Sherlock, John and their frankly insufferable landlady sit apart.
They were a triumvirate. A family.
He was a powerful, rich and influential man. What more could he possibly desire?
In the end, are you really so obvious?
Finis