If you had asked Mycroft Holmes at eighteen, 'do you think you'll ever be in love?' he would have replied with a withering look and a scathing remark which would have made you feel two feet tall. Eighteen years old and already sick to death of most of the human race. Around 98% of the people Mycroft had met had proved to be incompetent buffoons, too heavily reliant on their own feelings to get anywhere in life. Mycroft saw this almost everywhere he went, and scorned it; people driven to near madness by love. Love! What was the point in it anyway? Mycroft's father had walked out on them when Sherlock was six years old and Mycroft was scarcely a teenager, not fit to be man of the household. One day at dinner, Sherlock had looked up and asked why the lipstick on father's collar didn't match the shade of lipstick mummy wore? And that was that. Two human beings could not be in love and keep their sanity or their hearts intact. It didn't happen.
And yet, here he was. Quite in love, and quite mad. Sherlock, of course, had known he was in deep long before he knew himself.
'Mycroft I had thought better of you,' Sherlock drawled one day, seemingly indifferent but Mycroft could see the disappointment in his brother's eyes.
'What ever do you mean?' asked Mycroft with sinking feeling in his stomach.
'You. In love. With him.' Sherlock half snarled before looking up, scowling and turning to walk in the opposite direction, long coat billowing theatrically behind him. Mycroft turned to see who had made Sherlock react in such a way, half dreading what he would see. And of course it was him. Was it really that obvious that Mycroft was in love with him? Was it only Sherlock who had noticed the pathetic excuses he made to ensure he was around the man, even when he had no need to be? Or the way he would stare at him when he thought no one was looking? Or the way he smiled for just a second too long after reading a text from him, or saying goodbye to him? Mycroft was furious at himself. He should have known better than to make his feelings so obvious.
'What's wrong with him?' asked Gregory, coming to stand beside Mycroft, looking at the swiftly retreating figure of the consulting detective.
'When it comes to my brother, I'm afraid we can only guess,' Mycroft replied coolly, feigning indifference by taking out his mobile and looking at it rather than the detective inspector.
Gregory sighed. 'Sometimes I wonder why I bother risking my job letting him in here if he's going to be so bloody difficult.'
Mycroft looked up at Gregory, fighting a smile. 'When has he ever been anything else?'
They looked at each other for longer than was really appropriate and Mycroft realised how stupid he had been. How had he allowed himself to develop feelings for someone? Let alone someone so ordinary? Obviously he had been too lenient with himself. Somehow he would have to force these feelings into the part of his mind where they would be buried and changed, and rendered useless. He could not allow them to take over his life. He would isolate himself from this man, this man that had come to mean so much to him. This man, this seemingly ordinary man that occupied the majority of his waking thoughts.
Mycroft dropped his eyes.
'Are we still on for tonight then?' Gregory asked.
'I'm afraid something of great importance needs my attention.' Mycroft replied rather harshly, still not looking at him.
'Oh, right. Maybe later then, yeah?' Gregory asked. Mycroft could hear the disappointment in his voice and tried not to think about what that could mean.
'I shall be in contact,' he replied. 'No I won't' he thought. He had to cut the Detective Inspector out of his life for as long as it took to get rid of these stupid feelings.
Mycroft turned away and left, feeling horrendously rude and selfish. 'But it's for the best' he kept reminding himself. Just as he was about to leave the crime scene to get into his car, he gave in to temptation and glanced behind him to see the DI staring after him. Mycroft sighed. Why on earth had this happened to him?