Definitely in need of a hug
"Sherlock". Mycroft blocks his path by keeping standing in the plane corridor. Sherlock looks at him. Really looks. They both need to stoop for they're too tall to stand upright inside the private jet. Mary and John still remain seated but Clara stands behind Sherlock, one hand on his arm. They're about to rush into the next adventure, the next puzzle a dead Moriarty had prepared for them. They can feel it. Clara can see it in John's and Mary's faces: the anticipation, the excitement. She can feel her heart beating faster, pumping her blood harder through her veins. Her fingers shake at the thrill which is about to come along but she can't fight the sting of fear inside her chest. A worrying which is so bitter that it keeps her from smiling.
The detective is high again. He had been returned from exile only five minutes ago, drifted to his mind palace, trying to figure out how Moriarty could have possibly survived shooting himself in the head, only to wake up and find that there is no solution. Moriarty is dead. They all know. But they all have this part of them that fills their knowledge with doubts. "Promise me", Mycroft tells his brother. Clara is watching him. His face is open, all open. His armour is completely down, the Ice man is no longer present. There is only Mycroft Holmes, the man who loves his brother. And he's begging him to stay alive. Shame and guilt are written across his features because he knows that if he had taken better care of him, if he had only been there for him maybe, just maybe his younger brother wouldn't have used again. He believes it's his fault.
Sherlock hesitates. The Holmes brothers stare at each other for what feels like hours, a heavy silence filling the plane. John, Mary and Mycroft's gazes are fixed on the detective, waiting for him to react. But Clara can't tear her eyes away from Mycroft's face, his expression melted, so soft and so full of love. And above all else he looks worried. Worried and afraid.
"I can't", Sherlock murmers quickly before he pushes through and walks past his brother out of the plane. Mary and John follow. Clara resists the urge to run right after them. There's something holding her back. Someone. John is already at the plane stairs when Mycroft turns: „Doctor Watson". Adressed one stops and looks at Clara briefly as if to make sure she will follow before his gaze meets the politician's. John's sure that she will follow eventually because it's what she always does. She's part of their team, she's their friend and she will always go where they go. But right now Clara herself isn't sure about that anymore. "Take care of him". She cannot see Mycroft's face when he says it but she can tell from the tone of his voice that he's about to break. A barely audible "please" frees itself from his mouth and John nodds looking at her expectantly once more before he leaves the private jet as well. Clara finds that she cannot move. She doesn't want to. She wants to stay for she feels that Mycroft shouldn't be alone right now. The politician turns, ignoring her completely, not adressing the fact that she does not make any attempt to go after her friends or the fact that her gaze is still on him. He crouches down to pick up the pieces of his brother's list and puts them in a small pocketbook made of red leather. Clara sees the word REDBEARD written on one of the pages for a moment and wonders when the Holmes brothers came up with the idea of Sherlock making a list. Mycroft stands, his head bowed. Right now, she thinks that she can see everything of him. All the things he never shows to anybody, all the worry, all the pain of past days comes bubbling to the surface and it causes a deep shadow upon his face. His expression is still open. His armour is down, laying broken in pieces on the floor just like the pieces of paper only seconds ago. Her feet start to move on their own accord. He steps aside as much as possible in the narrow plane corridor to let her leave and looks briefly at her. When she stops right in front of him, he tries a smile but fails, as if to show her some empathy. As if he understands her worry for him, as if he appreciates it even though she has not said a word. Slowly, very slowly, Clara raises her arms to put them around his neck. She stands on her toes for better reach as her hands come to rest on the back of his shoulders. Mycroft freezes and for a moment she believes she can feel him holding his breath but he doesn't protest. He doesn't run. He stays there. His free hand which is not carrying his umbrella comes up and rests itself on her back with just the lightest amount of pressure. Clara reaches up a bit more, trying to pull him a little closer, hold him just a little bit tighter because she can feel that he needs this even though he would never admit it. "Don't worry", she whisperes close to his ear and it's all she can think about to say. He doesn't answer, he doesn't move. Mycroft just keeps standing there with his hand on her back, the warmth of his body slowly reaching her skin through their clothes. She can feel his heartbeat. It's calm, almost peaceful. She holds him for a few seconds longer until she believes it's starting to get uncomfortable for him before she lets go. Taking a step back towards the plane stairs she looks at him and finds his expression blank with the slightest sign of confusion in it. "What was that about?", he asks but his tone is gentle. He's not angry with her. Clara can't help but smile. She wonders when it was the last time for Mycroft to be hugged by somebody. "You looked like you needed a hug. I gave you one". He knits his brows in confusion but doesn't say anything. So, she shrugs and steps out, following Sherlock, John and Mary which are standing in front of the car, waiting for her. Her smile doesn't seem to fade.
Oh yeah, definitely in need of a hug!