Disclaimer: I do not own the original works for which I post fanfiction on this site, and write with the intent of enjoyment and further interaction with the original work.
A/N: For those of us with migraines, please be forewarned that I'm writing from the POV of Mycroft with a migraine. I get them, and I channeled the feelings I could think of, as well as of people I know, to write this. Three cups of coffee while editing this chapter...
This started out as a prompt from Lavender_and_Vanilla and kind of ballooned from there. She's been kindly enough to give advice and put up with my rambling. So much rambling...
The bus was crowded, and the beat of everyday life bustled about Mycroft Holmes and pounded in his ears. The faint smell of tar clung to the rough work shirt he was wearing, and he was sure that there was new asphalt scuffing the soles of his boots. The final insult was the fact that he was wearing uncomfortably tight jeans, to him at least. Anyone else would say they simply fit him.
Nothing about the outfit felt right—he was posing as some sort of blue collar worker. Just a touch of careful makeup to hide his pallor, and there was some greasy pomade slicking back his hair. Everything clashed, so he hoped that no one would see him until after he had changed back into his suit in his office.
Legwork was not his milieu, as he often liked to say, but he had lost a bet.
And now, he was trapped in the center of a crowded bus during the lunch rush hour—the miasma of everyday life invading every sense, the many people touching him. Everyone oblivious to him as they went about their business, his foot occasionally being stepped on by some unnoticing person. Mixed with the multitude of body odors was the cover of cheap perfume and aftershave. There hadn't been space for him to sit, so he stood in the fray of undulating bodies that knocked into him and pushed him whenever there was a bump or a tight turn. He'd swear that the old woman passing him by as she hobbled off had pinched his arse.
It had started with pain in his right jaw – where his wisdom teeth had been– the muscles tensing and tingling. The surgeon had confirmed that there was no reason for worry when he'd had his last root canal, but it didn't change the fact it still felt wrong whenever this happened. It was his warning that the chain reaction of a migraine had started, and his stomach tightened with the first stirrings of nausea when he remembered the only Migraleve he had left was at his flat. He'd taken the last of it at the turn of spring. The joys of allergies and the changing of seasons to set off blooming grasses, flowers, and trees with the humidity to hold it all in the air.
Slowly, but surely, the sensation had spread up his cheekbone until it settled for a little while, luring him into a false sense of ease. He leaned on the arm gripping the bar above his head tightly to look around the person beside him to look out the window without having to actually move. At least he was almost at his stop.
It was when he had identified things he didn't want to think or know about strangers simply by sense of smell that he knew the air pressure was changing. Nothing more than a light rain. He sagged against his extended arm this time because his umbrella in the office for the sake of the meeting. The rain coupled with the bus, the asphalt, the greenery, and the fact he hadn't stopped to eat since breakfast all came to bash him over the head from the shadows.
Next, din of regular life around Mycroft went from pounding in his ears to stabbing his ear drums like icicles shredding through his nerves. Automatically, he shifted his hand to reach for an open strap as he moved slowly closer to the door. He tightened his grip on the strap to be able to shift his weight off his right shoulder some, looking from the window down to the floor before finally closing his eyes.
After what seemed like an eternity, his stop was finally called. It was two stops before the one he wanted to use, but he couldn't get back too close to Whitehall. As it was, he would have to go back through the old tunnels of an adjacent building to make it back to his office. He ducked into an alleyway, his hands in his pockets, glancing up at a CC-tv camera before ducking into an ajar side door and firmly shutting it behind him. Mycroft slowly walked down the long flight of stairs, gripping the metal railing until his knuckles were white.
A vague feeling of nausea pulsed through him when he hit the tunnels – they'd been recently cleaned with bleach. The smell was heavy and almost sweet, but it burned at the same time. His head throbbed to the beat of his heart. After a few breaths, any memory of the smells on the bus had been replaced with a vaguely heady rush.
The muscles in his neck tightened with every step through the corridor, but as he moved silently from one hallway to another, only his boots clapping against the ground. As he crisscrossed under the buildings, the smell of the bleach lessened, only to be replaced by the smell of wet rock and mold. His right hand trailing lightly along the wall of the tunnel, Mycroft's fingertips just barely brushed against the rough concrete. It reminded him that the wall was there if he needed it to steady himself.
Each step through the tunnel echoed down the tunnel itself as well as reverberating in his head, his mind amplifying the sound so that it felt like the echoes were drumming on his skull. The warm, tingling came to the forefront of his mind again, much like a person stepping out of the mist into view. This time, it was accompanied by a dull, diffuse ache behind his right eye. When he was far enough from the competing smells of bleach and mold, Mycroft stopped to take a breath and lean his head against the wall. He closed his eyes and focused on the tenseness in his neck, massaging the back of his neck because, for a moment, he thought that might help.
The rough wall against his forehead was cool, and the bureaucrat willed the cool to seep into his face to ease the heat making his right eye burn. The ringing of a phone startled him out of his internal reverie. He pulled the unfamiliar phone out of the tight front pocket of his jeans and flipped it open. "Yes?" His voice was cool and collected as ever when he took a step back away from the wall.
"Where are you? I had expected—" Her voice on the phone's speaker was louder and tinnier than he had expected.
"My dear, I am returning as we speak. I will be there shortly."
He disconnected the call before she had a chance to respond.
Though he looked back at the wall in front of him longingly, Mycroft squared his shoulders and tried to briskly walk back to his office's hallway. By the time that he had made it back, however, Mycroft's head felt like lead upon his shoulders and his steps zigged and zagged. Anthea was waiting for him with a clothing bag containing a fresh suit. He took them from her with a muttered thank you before disappearing behind the mirror to the left of his desk, which hid a small lavatory.
She was still waiting for him when he stepped back out. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror after gently pushing it closed, slicking back slightly damp hair. "Was your… trip uneventful, sir?"
There was a pause before he responded. "Yes." His voice was even, but the smile on his face was thin and tight and didn't reach his eyes. "A good reminder to not make bets with Sir Edwin next time."
"Is there anything you need before I head home?"
"Just clear my schedule tomorrow…" He took a deep breath. "I need time to handle the information gained today—privately."
"Of course." She turned to walk away, but stopped. "If Sir Edwin asks for your report, sir?"
"Ah, tell him I am," Mycroft paused to lean against his desk, leaning his head against the heel of his right hand as if to think. "Verifying the information given before sharing."
Anthea nodded once, and her heels clicked as she continued to walk out of the office, closing the door softly behind her.
As soon as she had left the room, his shoulders slumped and he leaned more heavily against his desk as he rubbed at his eyes. Finally, he stood straight again and walked slowly around his desk to pull out his phone from the drawer. He had left the burner in the lavatory with the clothes—Anthea would likely deal with his disguise after he left. He had quit asking ages ago. It only took a moment for him to call for a car to pick him up, but there would be a ten-minute wait.
Normally, he'd continue working until a bit before the car showed up, so he wasn't waiting outside, but he didn't want to take any chances with the stairs. He knew that both the movement and the act of going upstairs would make his head pound ever harder and more frequently.
Apparently, there were new interns in the main offices upstairs – he could smell an unfamiliar perfume, cheap and vanilla-based as he walked through the upstairs corridors. His lip curled slightly as he kept trudging to the main doors, and he immediately was squinting upon opening them. In the early afternoon, the intensity of the sun shot through his right eye like a spear.
The air was heavy with the smell of rain and the acidic undertones of diesel fuel—the storm hadn't abated yet, and it seemed with every passing minute that Mycroft's head throbbed more. A few birds were chittering in a small cluster of dwarf trees. He had to side step a few small puddles to safeguard his patent leather soles. Only the familiar weight of the umbrella in his hand gave him a small measure of comfort. As he approached the curb, Mycroft spotted the town car a moment slower than he'd have preferred. He had looked at it, but for just a second, there was no recognition that it was what he had been looking for.
Sighing, he pulled the door open and slid into the backseat. The driver only had to tilt his head in Mycroft's direction after the door closed for Mycroft to say, "My flat, please, Louis. And if we could avoid the potholes, I'd be much… obliged."
The driver inclined his head before pulling back onto the street. He was always thankful for the smooth ride the town cars provided, but he had to resist the urge to rest his head against the glass of the window as they drove. The backseat was about the worst place that he could sit under the circumstances. The nausea returned with a passion, and there were the remnants of overly strong cologne from the last rider. Mercifully, Louis did as asked and tried to avoid the roads with the worst potholes, but that made for a more circuitous route. Even at the low speeds, Mycroft's stomach lurched at every turn.
When they'd finally arrived at his flat, Mycroft managed a polite thank you before stumbling out of the back of the car. After he'd taken a few steps, the car pulled away, and he was left leaning heavily on his umbrella. Times like these, he was thankful that his building had an elevator. He lived on the eighth floor. Though, if he ever moved again, he was taking a flat closer to the lift. His hands felt clumsy and heavy when he tried to fit the key into the lock, and it took several tries before he managed to push the key into the lock.
He pushed a little too hard on the door to close it and jumped a little at the slam. There was a click of the lock as he turned the bolt. Mycroft's usual routine was burnt into the back of his mind, and he did it without having to think about it: the umbrella went in the basket, the briefcase on the small table, his shoes on the mat.
Although he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first button on his shirt, Mycroft didn't do more than that as he slowly made his way to his bathroom and almost stumbled into the post of the bathroom door. Through the growing haze and fog, his mind repeated 'two pink now… two yellow if doesn't take' until he was holding what he was looking for, his mind acting separately from his body at this point. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he swallowed the two tablets dry, but the other hand grasped the bowl of the sink tightly to maintain his precarious balance from the roll of nausea caused by the act of taking the medicine at all.
When the brunt of the nausea had settled and his head felt just a tad steadier, Mycroft left the bathroom, forgetting to flick the light switch back off. The only thing on his mind was the darkness of his bedroom, and drawing the black-out curtains before collapsing on his bed and trying to will himself unconscious.