'To think I might not see those eyes, makes it so hard not to cry'
"Thank you Detective Inspector. That will be all." Mycroft waved the older, slightly shell-shocked man towards his assistant and the sleek black car that had brought him here.
"You can't just expect me to-"
"Thank you" He narrowed his eyes. Lestrade backed away slightly at the dangerous undertone in the Politicians voice, giving a curt nod and slumping back into the car, defeated. Mycroft watched the car drive away, waiting a moment before another arrived for him. That morning, he'd discovered Sherlock on his doorstep, hung-over yet again with the after effects of cocaine. After bringing him in, his younger brother had slurred something out about a murder, one he'd solved last week, how he'd not used until today because of it. He'd never admit it, but Mycroft hated the drugs Sherlock took, constantly worried that one day he'd overdose. So, naturally, he called in the man who'd helped his brother. It'd taken some convincing (and several mild threats) before the Detective agreed to let Sherlock help. Although it was against his morals to let a junkie in, Mycroft had promised Sherlock would stay clean with the cases to keep his mind from racing out of control.
Mycroft hadn't looked twice at the DI; obviously he noted the fact he was somewhat handsome and smart, but his intelligence was nothing compared to his. Lestrade was a good man though, and he knew that'd he'd be a good influence on his brother. And Mycroft was always right.
Over the next few years Mycroft saw Lestrade at various intervals, keeping tabs on Sherlock; it wasn't as if he needed to converse with the man, but sometimes he required reassurance that Sherlock needed the DI's help and Mycroft found the anecdotes about his brother's annoying habits rather amusing. But when Sherlock met John it stopped. He never saw the man anymore and instead he was replaced with a complacent doctor and a nagging sensation in Mycroft's head. It both confused and scared him, two emotions he rarely ever felt. It took six years for Mycroft to come to terms and realise he was in love with Gregory Lestrade.
Whilst Mycroft was skilled at hiding his emotions from the eyes of nearly everyone (Sherlock was an exception), he was fully capable of feeling love, sorrow, anger and all other emotions. The latter more common than the first; in fact he'd never felt attraction to anyone since he drank too much in university and ended up next to a stranger in an unfamiliar room. He'd left out of fear, the bizarre stirring in his gut. He couldn't remember the man's name no matter how hard he tried.
Mycroft was asexual like his brother, but where Sherlock didn't act on any urges he may or may not have had, Mycroft did. Never anything more than one night stand though.
He recognised the tell tale signs. The warmth that spread through him when he caught a glimpse of the now silver hair of the DI, the way a smile automatically found a purchase on his face, even for a split second before he reined it under control. Everything about the man intoxicated him, and he believed it simply unfair that the man didn't feel the same. Mycroft was a man used to getting what he wanted. And Lestrade was married, and straight. He was aware of how his wife was unfaithful to him, a new man every other month, and it pained Mycroft to think that he deserved so much more, that he would treat him better. But every time he came close to voicing his opinion, the Detective looked up at him with those brown eyes that the politician adored so much and left him literally speechless, having to excuse himself almost immediately. This was one of the reasons he only ever saw him once or twice a month now.
Mycroft had surveillance on him, of course. Much like how he kept an eye on Sherlock and John, but if he could, Mycroft would often find himself wandering through the building until he came across the cameras, watching Lestrade sneak in a cigarette outside Scotland Yard, despite having claimed he'd quit a week ago or walking to work from his car, juggling a takeaway coffee and a small bag of his favourite doughnuts from the bakery down the road.
Another year passed. Lestrade divorced his wife. Mycroft almost admitted his feelings a few more times. Sherlock seemed to catch onto what he was trying to convey and added it to the ever growing list of ways to tease his elder brother. He tolerated it, slightly because he didn't want his brother to see him riled, and mostly because he was worried Sherlock might actually tell Lestrade.
When the call came, Mycroft was at home, settled on his sofa with a book.
"What is it?" His tone was laced with mild anger, having been disturbed when he so very rarely got time off. Anthea stammered at him.
"It's Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft's whole being froze.
He was the first person at the hospital. It was nearing midnight, and Scotland Yard hadn't thought of anyone to contact. Greg's parent's had moved back to France, and would be getting a call in the morning. For now it was Mycroft, waiting and praying for a man who didn't even know he cared.
Lestrade had been called on a suspected sighting of a well known serial killer, who'd been going for 20 years straight. Of course the Yard had leaped into action, a small team of 6 officers and Greg leading. They chased down the man for half an hour before they had him corner. What they hadn't accounted for was an explosion, blasting apart most of the alley they had trapped him in, catching Lestrade and throwing him to the ground, rubble and debris collapsing onto him.
Eight cracked ribs.
Dislocated and fractured ankle.
Broken femur.
Collapsed lung.
Shattered pelvis.
Severe cranial trauma.
Mycroft perched on the chair beside the bed that Greg was occupying. He wasn't moving, except for the slight movement of his chest. The machines bleeped around him, indicating the somewhat unstable heartbeat of the DI. He wanted to reach out and hold his hand, remind himself that he wasn't dead. Pausing his hand midway, Mycroft frowned. When had he started shaking? Trembling fingers ghosted over the skin of Greg's hand. Warm spread into Mycroft's fingertips but… nothing. Not even a glimmer of movement from the older man. His hand shook harder as he withdrew it, clasping it with the other on his lap. Lestrade's eyed were glued shut, not even a glimmer of movement behind him. He looked serene and peaceful, despite the various life support machine he was hooked up to. Even with the numerous bandages and plaster holding him together. Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed, whispering more to himself than the unconscious man before him.
"Good evening Gregory. I love you."
Two days later Greg's parents flew in from France. They were more than confused at the sight of Mycroft, sat beside the bed of their only son, wearing a ruffled three-piece suit, gaze fixated on the broken man before him. He dismissed it that he was just a worried friend, but Mycroft's façade was slipping. Everyone saw the true reason he was here. He was vaguely aware of his parent's discussing his being there, about a man having feelings for their son, and how wrong it was. If he cared, Mycroft would've lashed out, justifying his love for the man. But he just wasn't capable.
It took a week for Anthea to coax him from the hospital. To go home, rest, wash, eat. He did these systematically; not particularly paying attention to what he was eating, picking at a piece of stale bread before giving up. He didn't feel like eating. That day he went back to work, but his heart wasn't in it. It had left him, taking residence in the hospital room of the bravest man he ever knew. Once he said that bravery was stupidity phrased politely, but he'd been proved wrong by the one person to capture his heart. He continued to visit Greg every day after work, each time settling in and speaking to the man. He gradually became more confident with their one-sided conversations, but he still began each night the same way.
"Good evening Gregory. I love you."
Two weeks later he ran into his brother for the first time. Even Sherlock didn't have the heart to make a snide remark. He took in the shallow cheeks, dark eyes, the way his clothes hung from him, the general scruffy look about him. John watched in shock and awe as Sherlock embraced his brother, comforting him for the first time since he'd known either of them. It unsettled him. That night Mycroft visited Greg again. His parent's had gone back to France until they could sort out accommodation in London. This time he took Greg's cheek in his hand, feeling his unkempt stubble and could just make out his breathing, slow and now much steadier. His body was healing, but the doctor's had said that the damage to his brain could be irreversible. Mycroft's gaze turned to his closed lids. He would give anything to see those deep brown eyes that he loved so much again.
"Please wake up Gregory. I miss you.".
He still refused to cry.
Three months passed. Lestrade's parent's moved to London temporarily. Mycroft continued to watch over him whenever he wasn't at work. Sherlock, in turn, kept a close eye on his brother. All of the DI's physical injuries were pretty much healed by now, but he couldn't survive without the machine due to his collapsed lung. No sign of the man waking. His hand was still held every night by the man he didn't know loved him, no matter how many times he whispered it in his ear, each day explaining something new that he adored in the man. Whether it was his appearance or personality, Mycroft never failed to find something he admired, fingers entwined with older man's murmuring intimately in his ear, praying he could hear him. He cherished every second with him, knowing that when he woke up, Greg would never talk to him again.
So he talked while he could.
Moriarty. He'd hired the serial killer, he'd set off the explosion that had crushed Lestrade's life force until he was barely there. Mycroft fumed with anger. He could've stopped him. He could've prevented Greg's demise. All he could believe was he was the reason that the man he loved was in hospital. He spent the next few visits apologising sincerely to him, no matter what little good it did.
"When you wake up Gregory, I promise I'll be here." Mycroft struggled, his voice cracking on the last word. "I… I wanted to give you something." He fumbled in his top pocket, protruding a small, delicate gold ring. It was simple but beautiful, and Mycroft looked at it longing before turning back to Lestrade. "I was wondering if…" Mycroft's voice went completely and he whispered. "I love you so much more than I've told you over the last 5 months. I… would you consider marrying me Gregory?" He placed the ring in the unconscious man's palm, curling his fingers around it, keeping his fist balling around the older man's, keeping the ring there. He looked up at the man's face, searching it for any kind of expression. "Please? Anything, just nod Gregory. Blink. Move your fingers. Say something." He pleaded, forcing back any tears that threatened to spill over. Nothing. Greg laid there, immobile, breathing, barely existing, unable to acknowledge the man who'd waited, the man who'd loved more than anyone thought capable. He'd stolen the ice man's heart, and he couldn't wake up and give him his in return.
Mycroft sighed after waiting five minutes for a response. He unfurled his fingers, feeling Greg's go limp, the ring falling from his grasp. Picking it up, Mycroft snaked it onto a chain he'd bought with it, easing it around the older man's neck. "Even if you say no…" He muttered, settling back into the chair, rubbing his face in despair.
Two months later, Moriarty was dead. "He's gone Gregory. You can wake up now, its safe." He clutched at his hand for almost dear life. It'd been just over half a year and nothing from the man. "He'll never hurt you again. No-one will ever touch you again. I love you." His head was bowed, murmuring under his breath. "I…" His voice was breaking again. "I wish I could hear your voice again. I hear you in my sleep. I imagine you coming home to me, with that cheeky grin you always wore when you were pleased with yourself. You'd come home and say 'Mycroft, I'm here for you'." He paused. "My house will always be home to you if you want it to be. Feel free to come home to me anytime you so wish Gregory. You could come home like in my dream, and I'd rush to meet you. I'd hug you and never let go until you had to prise my arms off you. I'd tell you that I loved you. You'd say that you knew and that you loved me too, and you heard everything over these 7 months. It wasn't wasted. And you'll marry me." Mycroft swallowed, dispelling the lump in his throat, but the cavity in his heart was still there. His thumb drew circles on the back of Greg's hand as he looked up to his face. He's spent so many days and nights here, he could tell you every feature of it, without a moment's thought. His heart thudded. It was different somehow. It took him a moment to notice the slight curve of his mouth that wasn't there before.
"Gregory…?" Mycroft blinked in excitement. No, Greg was definitely smiling. He squeezed the older man's hand, encouraging him. "Would you marry me Gregory? I… I asked before, you didn't reply." The ring still hung around his neck. Mycroft's heart swelled when he felt weak fingers gripping his hand, the smile growing into the beginning of a grin. A silent yes played on his lips and Mycroft used his free hand to pull off the ring, refusing to let go of the DI's hand for fear he'd lose him again.
"Thank you Gregory." He murmured, taking his ring finger and slipping the ring onto it. Mycroft noticed the heart rate monitor pick up in the background and his other hand went to Greg's cheek, thumb caressing his cheek. "I love you. Stay with me. I'll never leave." And with that, Mycroft leaned forward and pressed his lips to the older man's. It was delicate, and he barely felt Greg's lips reacting to his touch, feather light and weak. He pulled back after a minute, sitting back down, the smallest sigh escaping the unconscious man's lips. He couldn't control the grin on his face, keeping a gentle grip on his slowly reacting hand.
Gregory Lestrade was waking up after a 7 month long coma.
It wasn't the first time Mycroft had woken up in the chair beside Lestrade. In fact, it happened more often than not. His hand was still locked with his and the elder Holmes stretched out the stiffness in his back before he turned back to the DI. His blood ran cold. Greg's face was expressionless again. Fear gripped Mycroft as he squeezed his hand. The other hand didn't squeeze back. He'd come so close. Greg had acknowledged him, had heard him over the 7 months. He even returned his feelings. Last night Mycroft could've danced for joy. But here he was. Back to watching the shell that was the man he loved. For once in his life, Mycroft felt completely powerless. And that terrified him more than anything else.
He'd gone to work that day. Anthea knew something was wrong the second he'd walked in. She knew he was depressed, barely speaking a word unless he needed to. He tried to put on his cold front at work. But sometimes he couldn't help but crack.
"Sir…?" He didn't even look at her. She tried again and this time he looked up, into her. His eyes were empty. They held not even the resemblance of optimism they'd held before. Anthea didn't say anything, except walk around and embrace her boss. For the first time, he let her.
Mycroft spent the whole day drawing up ideas of how to wake Lestrade up. He'd never openly thought he could elicit a reaction, but when he described his dream last night… He didn't know how it worked, which was a first for him, but he was willing to try anything.
By the time he arrived at the hospital that evening, he knew what he had several different methods he was going to try. What was the harm anyway? He knew that Greg was still in there somewhere, and he could coax him out if he put his heart and soul into it. Bristling with hope, he pushed open the door to the room, half expecting Greg to be sat up, and waiting for him. Mycroft took in the room, keeling over as pain flared against his heart.
The bed was empty.
His parents had let them switch off the machines. Mycroft denied it for a while, physically unable to move from the floor of the now empty room. He'd stared at the bed in horror for what seemed like hours before Anthea found him. For the second time that day she flung her arms around him. He didn't even react. Beyond distraught, he was fixated on the empty bed, willing Greg to appear miraculously. Anthea was muttering soothing words in his ear which he didn't hear. Mycroft had given up on everything, the moment he realised that the silver haired DI was dead. Gone. He'd wished to hear his voice, see those eyes, and share his life with the man. He'd given all this time for a man who never got the chance to let Mycroft show him the extent of his feelings. So much he had planned.
Mycroft stood at the back of the ceremony. Sherlock had asked him if he wanted to say anything. He had simply shaken his head, leaving his brother in the middle of street. On looking the funeral, he saw Greg's mother giving his eulogy. No matter what anyone said, he still saw the DI's death as his own, for not protecting him, for keeping Moriarty alive. He was far enough away to watch, but not hear. He saw his brother crying, John comforting him. His and Lestrade' bond was deeper than people might have thought. Greg had turned his life around after all.
When everyone had left, he stood by the grave. He didn't even feel pain now. Mycroft was just… hollow. And for some reason, that was worse. "Good evening Gregory." Tears welled in his eyes. "I'll never forget you"
That was the first time Mycroft Holmes cried.
Bedroom door. Locked.
Front door. Bolted.
Mycroft tore off his sleeve. Wrapped a tourniquet around his upper arm. Irony was a funny thing. The reason he met Greg would finish him, so he could be with him again. The cocaine dripped from the end of the needle. Mycroft pressed it to the crease of his elbow, the metal pushing past tissue and muscle until it hit blood. Sighing, he pressed the plunger, every drop emptying into his system. He sat there, needle hanging from his skin. Banging erupted on the door, a voice he barely recognised as Sherlock's. The high hit. The door slammed open. Mycroft blacked out.
This time it was Sherlock in the chair beside his brother. John had been comforting him since his brother's attempted suicide. After 3 days, Mycroft's eyes flickered open.
"Sherlock?" He croaked. Blinking, adjusting to the light, his gaze rested on his brother.
"Here brother dear." Sherlock smiled at him and Mycroft eye betrayed his confusion, and he glanced to John.
"Who're you?" Sherlock's expression froze.
"Mycroft…" The elder Holmes turned to the younger, eyebrow raised. "What's the last thing you remember?" Sherlock shared a worried look with John.
"You, on my doorstep, hung over on cocaine" Mycroft watched curiously as Sherlock's eyes flickered shut.
"That was 8 years ago Mycroft."
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed. I don't normally write stories like this but... got to start somewhere, eh?
Finally got a Mystrade fic done. You guys have no idea how much I ship them. Seriously.
R 'n' R if I love you.
(Huh what)