Mycroft was tired. Sleep never came easy, and when it did, it didn't help abate the feeling. He felt like he was just floating through life, never really stopping in place. He had no real direction, just an abstract concept of purpose dragging him forward. Life had seemed to go from bad to worse.
He'd hoped that when Eurus was sent away, thing would improve. Life with Eurus in the mix had gotten increasingly difficult for Mycroft. He'd always been stressed at keeping an eye on them both all the while attempting to complete his studies.
He certainly never expected to be the sole secret keeper of Eurus' existence. Sherlock had rewritten over the memories of his friend out of trauma, and he'd been subtly assisted along the way by Mycroft. He believed it was better that way… and if he was honest with himself, he'd hoped that he'd have his old little brother back. But Sherlock was forever changed. Even when Mycroft had helped Sherlock forget Eurus all together, Sherlock remained the same cold and distant child. It wasn't like he was particularly warm beforehand, but at least he expressed himself.
Mycroft's fear, that by repressing all of his emotions Sherlock would become incapable of handling them, was soon realised. He'd done all he could to help his brother cope, but as soon as the self destructive behaviour began, he'd changed tactic. He'd tried to get his brother to detach from emotion all together. He'd certainly had some success in that. But it wasn't enough.
And so here he was, stuck in a job he'd not had a say in choosing, protecting his family the only way he could. He'd make secret visits to Eurus, and help make sure that Sherrinford was secure… and then have to return home and face his parents' grief over her loss (which, thankfully, had faded into the past by now) and Sherlock's tentative forgotten memories. He made sure to regularly check up on Sherlock, to see if he'd started to remember - he knew that it was only a matter of time before those repressed and altered memories came back in full. And then there'd be hell to pay.
If he was honest, he didn't like keeping secrets. He didn't know how to handle the guilt of knowing things he couldn't share with others…those he cared about… especially if that information would ease their suffering. His uncle, or sometimes aunt depending on the day, had headlined the 'Eurus died in a fire' project. Mycroft really only had to maintain the secret. It was a terrible burden, but he stood strong to do it. Sherlock needed him to. And it was, really, kinder to his parents. They would never be able to understand or cope with the monster she'd become. Luckily they'd been agreeable to hiding mention of Eurus' existence for Sherlock's sake.
But it all was just so… tiring. He isolated himself away most of the day, and barely had interactions with anyone. He did as he was told, without question. It wasn't so that he wouldn't seen as being insubordinate… no. No, he'd once asked questions about his actions, and learned far too much. Since then, since realising the huge impact on human life he was so casually asked to perform in his duties, he'd been afraid to ask. He couldn't cope with knowing just what was happening. He knew that one day he would, and perhaps having the control over the options might help… but those days were not close in the future. If at all.
It frustrated him that he was used just as a clever pawn in someone's game. He never knew the whole story, which angered him, and never knew who he was really working for, which unsettled him. He was employed to help maintain Britain's interests, but he found it overwhelmingly aggravating that he was expected to do so flawlessly without all the information.
All in all, the pressure was huge, and the ability to do the right thing minute.
And then there was his brother. Sherlock. He'd continued in his self destructive behaviour, now engrossed in drugs. Mycroft had promised that he'd always be there to help, but his job was making that difficult. He'd be sent away at a moment's notice, or hidden away in a dungeon for days at a time. Originally his job was supposed to be a means to look after Sherlock. He'd have access to security footage, to unique resources of information, and be able to call in the cavalry much quicker. Speaking of cavalry, his position had been of use to get Sherlock out of some particular nasty situations with the law, at least.
Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. Nothing he did seemed to help. He'd tried to get Sherlock into rehab multiple times… but as everyone knows, unless they're willing to be there, it's not helpful. Mycroft would force his brother to go anyway, even if just to have eyes on him. But it wasn't helping. Mycroft was beginning to feel at the end of his rope with it all… there didn't seem to be a solution in sight. And the more he tried, the more his brother pushed him away in resentment. That hurt more than he'd thought it could. But he remained vigil, for even if he'd suffer doing so, he'd aways be there for his baby brother.
His stomach churned uncomfortably. He'd been trapped in at work, in the dark dungeon they called an office, for almost three days. The work they'd assigned him was almost complete, and he had a large stack of paper on the desk in front of him ready to be delivered to his superiors.
He assumed it was important work. It seemed to involve some rather important things, but as usual, the purpose of his work had been omitted. But Mycroft had just knuckled down and tried to get it all done as soon as possible. He'd not seen anyone else in the entire time he'd been down there. No one came in to give him updates on his brother. He'd let his colleagues and subordinates know he'd been worried about Sherlock, and that someone should keep an eye on him since he wasn't in a good place. He just hoped that everything was alright.
Mycroft shoved yet another piece of paper on to the 'complete' pile. He was even beginning to long for his cold and dreary flat. It usually upset him, being so dark and empty, but after days of sitting at that desk, the bed was sounding enticing. He just… he didn't want to live like this anymore.
But there wasn't another way out. He couldn't just stop being caretaker of his little brother. He couldn't just walk away from this job. Where would he go, even if he did? He didn't have any desires or passions to pursue. This life was all he'd known, and even if he was sick of it, he was still needed there.
He heard his old boss's voice ring through his mind.
'You care too much, Holmes. That'll get you killed one day'.
He sighed. He did care too much. The people he worked for were like statues, or machines, silently carrying out their tasks without thought or care of the damage they were causing. Whereas Mycroft obviously did care about what he was doing. He cared for his brother's safety, no matter how many times he was told to 'squash out that weakness'. And he always wanted to get the best outcome possible for the people his work involved… even if that meant making some hard decisions himself.
It was indeed burdensome. But he couldn't just not care. He was managing well to pretend, to put on a mask of disinterest… but it was merely an icy exterior to manage the day to day. And he hated that it was necessary, and that it was becoming more and more natural for him.
His mind wandered further while he finished up some details on the paper before him. Thoughts of his self hatred, the rage he felt against himself for his weight, the worthlessness he felt. He always managed to rebuke that last thought, saying that he wasn't worthless… he was needed for Sherlock. He knew he was clinically depressed, the signs were all there… but he also knew it mattered little. He couldn't stop doing the things that wore him down. He couldn't change to improve his life. He couldn't just stop living either, not while someone needed him. So there wasn't anything to be done. He'd accepted that he'd always be alone, despite yearning for companionship. It still hurt to be alone though… just not as much as it had after his failed relationship.
Mycroft smiled softly at the thought of his boyfriend when he was sixteen. He was a dashing young lad from Scotland. Bright, happy, and full of lust for life. He always wanted to be a surgeon. And he'd managed it. Mycroft had kept up to date on his achievements… it wasn't spying, he told himself, no… just a casual passing interest with access to secret government files. Mycroft had been happy then. Having someone to share his life with seemed to make the pain go away. But things had ended, as they always did, when he had to get involved with the secret service.
There… the last file. Just one more to go, Mycroft thought to himself. He was almost beginning to miss being sent out into the field. He hated that with a burning ferocity… but his superiors cared little for it, as long as he did the job. He sneered to himself.
Sometimes I think they wish they could just employ machines.
Groaning, Mycroft put the last file on the pile before him. He stood, stretched, and then took the large stack in his arms. The door opened from a retina scan, luckily, so he didn't have to let go of the papers to get out of the room. He put the papers on his boss's desk without waiting for confirmation, and left before he could be ordered to do more work.