Welcome to the second part of my „Born diffrently" fanfictions.
I don't want to insult anyone with these fanfictions. If I wrote something wrong, feel free to correct and tell me.
Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this fanfiction, because it's the first with a bit "sexy time" in it ;)
Mycroft never had been able to walk or move his legs.
Something was wrong with his muscles; his father had told him when he was old enough to talk. They weren't connected the way they should be, making him numb from the waist below. That didn't include his genital area, but no one thought that he was capable of having sex. Not that anyone would want to, a wheelchair wasn't attractive, and it turned off.
He always knew that he was different. He had read that blind children didn't know that they were different until someone told them, but he always knew that he was wrong. His parents told him that even his birth had been strange. That he was silent, he didn't cry or scream, he just… watched everyone as if he knew who they were, what they were doing. Of course they were worried, he had been a preemie and his body wasn't ready. It took the doctor twenty minutes to find out that he would never be able to walk. Of course Mummy cried and father, always the hard and cold-hearted politician was angry. Mycroft could remember the way his father looked at him when the nurse gave him his child. The rancour and disappointment still haunted Mycroft in his sleep, took it away and gave him the feeling he should have died. No one loved him.
Mummy tried to make him happy. She taught him everything when she came home from work, crying as he crawled over the floor, his legs hang useless at his body and he only used his arms to move. She still had tried to smile for him, but he always knew that she was sad because of him. When he was three, he already had the intelligence of an adult, but he hid it. He didn't want them to be angrier because he was precocious and smarter than he should be. He stole the books he could reach in the library and read them when everyone was sleeping, the lack of rest made him frustrated and quiet. His father feared that he was mute or he was afraid of speaking, something a future politician couldn't have, a mistake. This creature wasn't his son and he wouldn't love him like one.
Mycroft heard them yelling, screaming at each other. His nanny read him a story, a wonderful woman, kind and caring with lovely grey hair and shining eyes, but he didn't listen, he already knew that story by heart and could quote it. His father hated him, this cripple and victim of fate. And he hated Mummy because there had been a case like his in her family, back in the 60s, and he knew it was her fault. Mycroft tried not to cry, he was a big boy, three years old for god's sake!, and big boys don't cry, father had taught him that. It wasn't a happy memory to be called a cripple, especially if the one who said it is your own father. Mycroft never loved him and his father knew that, but he didn't care. Who would love a cripple, he screamed as Mummy wanted him to shut up, nobody would want someone who can't stand or move without help!
When Mycroft was four, he decided to show his parents how smart he was. He already had a wheelchair, an ugly one with blue metal and a pocket on the backside, and rolled downstairs, over the ramp some men had made, in the living room. Daddy sat in his armchair and read, Mummy sang a lovely song Mycroft would never forget. He was nervous and afraid, but it calmed him down. Mummy smiled at him and asked him what he wanted with this book resting in his lap. Mycroft smiled, took a deep breath and told them everything he knew about the government, every single information he had found in some of his daddy's books and in the internet - he was able to hack into the system, the password was too easy. It was the first time his father had been proud of him. Mummy cried. He still didn't know why, but maybe it were tears of joy.
"How do you know that?", his father asked him curiously. Mycroft grinned and shyly pointed at the book and files he had stolen from his father without his knowledge. He waited, but the punishment didn't come. His father stood up, kneeled in front of him and laid his hand on Mycroft's shoulder, squeezed it. "Well done, you like politics? I could teach you more if you want to."
Mycroft always hated politics. He hated the way how people spoke to each other, lying and smiling to everything even if they knew that someone would fail. They were able to destroy one's life easily, they had power and influence and it made Mycroft sick. His childhood was over, but he didn't acknowledge it. He nodded, even if he wanted to shake his head, because he knew that his life was over and that he would have to be like his father - a cold bastard who only wanted to be the Prime Minister, nothing else - and that no one would take a paralyzed politician serious, but he wanted his father to be proud. He wanted to feel loved, a naïve and childish thought he regretted every day since then. At least his father introduced him to his colleagues and their children.
He had private lessons with some teachers who were hired by his parents. One of them was a young, enthusiastic man who never treated Mycroft like he was different. When Mycroft needed a break because he was tired and exhausted, he let him have one. When he wanted to play something, he was a child after all and he loved his toy airplane, he let him, not like the others who screamed at him that he had to learn and that there wasn't time for childish behavior. He was his favourite teacher and he enjoyed the lessons every time. He taught him how the government worked, only things Mycroft didn't know already. He only had to yawn and Dr. Sanders would change the subject. He never complained about Mycroft's shyness and that he never said something, just listened and smiled sometimes. He was a strange child without any friends; his only friend was Dr. Sanders.
"How's the school work going on?", his father asked him while they ate dinner, "Your teachers told me you never say something?"
Mycroft only nodded and ignored the snort which came from his father. A politician had to talk, he had to charm and influence others like they were his puppets and he was the puppeteer, an artist with words and mimic. He watched his father sometimes when he was in the television and talked about changes which won't happen. He was a liar and no one seemed to notice. Except Mycroft, the five year old child whose innocence was taken away as he found his mother in her bedroom with another man. Both glanced at him and Mummy tried to hide her body, but Mycroft already had left again. He didn't tell his father because he knew that they cheated on each other. When his parents were away and someone knocked on the door, he opened without asking because it was Alexandré, the lover of his mother. They never spoke, but Alexandré bought him chocolate and other sweets to buy his silence.
Dinners were awful. His parents shot each other cold glances, Mycroft sat between them and tried to ignore them. He knew that they wouldn't divorce because it would hurt Daddy's image and Mummy needed the money. They were great actors, both knew how to fake a smile and how to trick people into believing that they were happy married. Mycroft already had lost his faith in marriage and he knew he would never be able to love. He thought people betrayed each other all the time. No one was honest.
"How is your school work going on?", father asked him while he watched his own speech onscreen, "Your teachers are impressed."
"I'm enjoying every lesson", Mycroft said and it was the first time he lied. He was five and in four days he would be six. His parents had stolen his childhood and they never knew that.
"I'm glad to hear that, son. Have you met Michaela again?"
"The daughter of Mr. Wyanders?", Mycroft asked, "Indeed, I did. A lovely girl."
His father smiled proudly and gave him another portion of Mycroft's favourite pudding. Mummy watched her son and tried not to cry. He knew why. He began to become his father, another coldhearted liar in the government. He began to wear white shirts like his father's and he talked to every teacher. They said he was like an adult, the way he spoke and acted, no one thought that it might be a trick. Only Dr. Sanders saw it and he quit his job at Mycroft's birthday. He never heard of him again and he felt sorry, but that didn't matter. His dad had told him he shouldn't cry over a tool.
"Mycroft, may I speak to you?" Mycroft turned his wheelchair around and tried not to look tired. It was his mother and she had cried, her make-up was smeared and her eyes swelled because of tears. She kneed in front of the wheelchair and took his hand. "I know you want to make your father proud, but you don't have to do this. I know you enjoy playing the piano, but you haven't practiced for a long time. I'm worried, really worried. I wanted to ask you if you want to come with me to the concert of my singing group. Our pianist is ill and you know every song. What do you say?"
He tried not to panic. But it was hard when everyone was watching you and you were able to hear the whispers. 'Cripple', they said and he rolled back behind the curtain, taking deep breaths. He was at the theatre with his Mummy and her singing group, old and young ladies who enjoyed singing. His father was in Paris and didn't know that he was about to do. Otherwise he would scream and yell. It still was an enigma why he agreed to play the songs for them. Of course he enjoyed playing, it was calm and beautiful and it cleared his mind until only one thought was there, the melody and the notes. But he hated attention. He had to get used to it, a politician had to be able to speak in front of thousands of people, but Mycroft would never enjoy it.
His mother was dressed in a wonderful, red dress. She wore make-up and seemed to be happy. The only reason why he didn't roll away. She was happy and he wouldn't ruin that. Even if he had to sit in front of more than hundred people. He donned his suit and waited. It was the first time he would see someone who wasn't paid to be nice to him. The other children just thought he wanted to sit, like some of them wanted to wear their underwear over their clothes or like some of them liked their sweets covered in dirt. But the people in front of the stage would laugh, whisper and talk about him. They were honest and he was afraid because no one ever was honest to him.
"You seem to be worried", his mother said. She was standing next to him, hair dyed in a reddish shading like his own hair. "Why? You learned the songs, right?"
He nodded. Of course he didn't. He watched some children outside on the playground in front of their house. They had fun. He could hear them laughing, cheering and they ran around. He lowered his head and watched his own legs, unmoving and ice-like. It was the first time he cried because he just wanted to be normal and he wanted to run around. Mycroft never told his parents that he cried. Dad was too far away from home and Mummy was too happy. Mycroft was six, yes, but he already knew that sometimes it was better to stay quiet and trick everyone. That was the only thing he was able to do, tricking and lying until he wasn't able to tell who he was. A lie or a human.
"Are you afraid that they are going to talk about you?" She tried, but she knew that he wouldn't be honest with her. He never told anyone how he felt. Why should he, it would make them sad and then angry with him. He just wanted to be alone. "They won't. They will see a beautiful boy with great talent and they will cheer and clap."
She was lying. He could see the signs for it, she tried to avoid his glance, she was shivering, but he just nodded again and rolled on the stage. Everything was silent. They just stared at him, waiting and examining him like an animal. Time slowed down. He stared at them, unable to breath or move. Don't panic, he thought, they can't see you, they can't see you.
And suddenly, they began to speak to each other. No one looked at him, no one laughed. They didn't seem to notice him. He blinked, surprised. His mother walked right next to him, but didn't say a word. She looked around. It seemed like she was looking for him. Why didn't she see him? He rolled over to where she was standing now and poked her in her side. Everyone stared at him as if he'd just appeared out of nowhere. His mother just smiled and helped him to sit on the chair in front of the piano. He was lost in his thoughts, but he played automatic like a machine.
What had just happened?
It never happened again until Sherlock was born. Mycroft was seven and his father had been in America at this day, so it was Mycroft who had to smile while his mother squeezed his hand. It was Mycroft who whispered calming words while she was screaming. And it was Mycroft who cut the umbilical cord and had the honour to hold his baby brother in his hands. Bright grey eyes were looking at him and the baby smiled, he didn't cry, he just smiled and watched his brother carefully. A teardrop ran over Mycroft's cheek and he swore he would do everything he could to save Sherlock from a childhood like his own. His mother was so proud and cried the whole time, tears of joy and relief as the doctors told her everything was okay with Sherlock. He wouldn't be disabled like his older brother. He would be able to run.
Five days later Dad died. Someone shot him in the chest and in the head as he wanted to fly home. Mummy didn't cry and neither did Mycroft. Sherlock was too young to understand what happened and why they went to the graveyard a few days later. He didn't understand why everyone was sad and dressed in black clothes. He sat in Mycroft's lap, playing with the little toy airplane his brother had always liked when he had been younger and laughing. No one noticed it. As soon as his brother was asleep, they began to talk to him. What a shame it was that his brother would never meet their father, this strong and rich man with the posh accent and that he would never be able to play football because, and of course they didn't want to insult him, he was a cripple and he would grow up without a father and he would be lonely on the playground and et cetera.
Mycroft stayed quiet, but he wanted to scream. Of course he smiled at everyone, thanked them for their concern and pity, but he wanted to punch everyone in the face. It was the truth; everything they said was true and honest. He would never be able to run with Sherlock in the garden or play soccer with him, he would never be able to teach him how to swim. But he knew how to deduce people, how to trick them and control them and this skill was useful. Sherlock was smart, he was sure that he was. But it still hurt.
So when the next man came, a noble man with a suit and a golden watch, and told him that he felt sorry, Mycroft glared at him. The man, Mr. Jordan from Dad's working place in the government, got on his knees, right in front of Mycroft's wheelchair and tried to stroke Sherlock's hair. Don't you dare touching my brother! He wanted the man to be in pain, to die and burn and suddenly, Mr. Jordan began to scream. He jumped away from the brothers and threw his hand's up in horror, crying like a little baby. Nobody seemed to notice. They continued to talk to each other, some in groups, others on the phone because no one was in the mood for a funeral; they just wanted to make money. Mr. Jordan scratched his cheeks and cried out in agony, slowly getting on his knees.
"I need help!", he screamed, "I'm burning!"
That was the first time when Mycroft truly acknowledged that there was something strange going on.
He avoided thinking something like that again. It was hard, but he stayed home all the time. He already had finished his school and had started to study politics on his own, even if he already knew everything about it. Three years have passed since this… accident had happened. Mr. Jordan went to a clinic because everyone thought he was crazy. He had tried to convince Mummy that Mycroft had jinxed him, but of course no one believed him. Mycroft was afraid. Not that someone would find out that he really was responsible for that, he was afraid of himself. What he could do if he kept on thinking about something? He never wanted to hurt anyone.
He was sitting in his room and was reading when Sherlock came in. Mycroft always tried to fool his brother, but he was too smart. Sometimes he hated the three year old boy, but then he would see the smile and remember why he loved him. Sherlock stood in the door frame and waited until Mycroft had turned his wheelchair around. Sherlock knew that Mycroft couldn't walk. He probably knew that he would never walk, but he never said something. He always kept his mouth shut.
"Myc, I want to go outside, but Mummy says I can't go without someone who is looking after me."
Mycroft sighed. "I can't, Sherlock. What do you want to do?"
"Uncle Alexandré", he began and Mycroft resisted the urge feeling to bang his head against the wall - yes, the lover Alexandré, Mummy's first affair, "Bought me a ball and I want to go outside. I knew that you don't want to come outside, but Mummy said that you have to. It's sunny outside and you can throw it. I don't want to kick it."
Mycroft sighed and rolled over. They went outside in their garden, a big green place full of flowers and grass with trees and a little lagoon. Sherlock began to throw his ball against one of the trees and laughed. Mycroft sat back and closed his eyes. He was happy for his brother, of course he was, but he wanted to join him. He imagined that they would run next to each other, Sherlock was faster but he tried to stay close to his brother. Mummy would watch them, as paranoid as always, and he would smile at Sherlock, funny and happy because he was able to walk. That would never happen.
"Myc, you're crying. What's wrong?" Mycroft opened his eyes. Sherlock stood in front of him. He cocked his head and looked him in the eyes, wiping his tears away. He was crying. Sherlock never should see him crying, he never wanted him to. He was his big brother, the older one, the boy who never cried and who would always be there to comfort him. "Is it because you have to sit?"
"I'm fine, Sherlock", he lied. He never liked to lie to Sherlock, but sometimes he had no other choice. He didn't want to, because his brother always knew when he lies and he began to pout until Mycroft would tell him the truth. "As you said, I can throw it to you."
Sherlock nodded and ran away. Mycroft threw the ball in his direction and laughed as Sherlock fell on the grass as he tried to catch it. He perfected his fake smile and laugh; sometimes he wasn't able to tell if he was able to feel something. He was nine, broken and tired of living.
A few days later, Sherlock came in his room without knocking. It was midnight and Mummy already was asleep, Alexandré had to break in to reach her. He stopped opening the door for the French, not because he wasn't able to, but he didn't want to help him. The gifts, presents for Sherlock like he wanted him to believe that Alexandré was his father - it made Mycroft angry. He only allowed him to stay because Mummy was happy with him. She didn't love him, but she had fun and she was calm.
"Is something wrong?", Mycroft asked his brother while he lifted himself out of the bed into his wheelchair. Sherlock sat on his lap and cuddled his brother. He seemed to be exited.
"Can we go outside? There are butterflies!"
Mycroft smiled and went outside. Sherlock was right. At least twenty butterflies were flying over their lagoon, shining ones on whose wings were glittering spots. Sherlock tried to catch them, running around with bare feet in his pyjamas. Mycroft waited in front of the door and watched him. He wished that this moment would never end, but he knew that Sherlock would grow up and leave him. He would hate his disabled brother because that was normal. Everyone did.
"Look!", Sherlock stopped in front of him and opened his hands. He held a butterfly in his hands. It was a blue one with yellow feelers. It seemed to be dead; maybe Sherlock had squeezed it too hard. "It's for you!"
"For me?", Mycroft asked and cocked his head, "That's nice of you, brother. Thank you."
Sherlock grinned and sat on Mycroft's lap as he began to tell him everything about that butterfly and its family. Mycroft listened and nodded now and then. The thought that Sherlock would hate him haunted his mind.
The next time something like at the funeral happened was at Sherlock's first day in school. Mycroft was fourteen and his little brother had just entered the school when he heard a cry. Of course he wasn't fast with his wheelchair, but he reached the scene just in time. There were three boys, all in the same age as Sherlock, but bigger and stronger than his little brother. They punched him around, laughing and shouting. Sherlock looked around and grinned as he saw his brother. None of the boys noticed him because he was hidden behind some bushes.
"How can I help him…", he whispered as quiet as he could, "They won't stop because of a cripple." If I could do the same I did back at the funeral… He glanced at the boys and tried to manipulate them, one of them punched Sherlock's nose and he could see the blood and the tears. His hands were shaking, but suddenly, all stress was gone. He felt calm and focused. He wasn't sure if it had worked, but as he rolled in their direction, they looked at him and seemed to be surprised. "Stop that."
"Or what?", one of them asked, but Mycroft knew that they were afraid.
"I'll make sure your life is going to be like hell." He smiled.
They ran away only to get caught by their parents who had watched the whole situation. He would speak to them later, make sure that they would never let their children do something like that again. He was young, but he already had more influence than they would ever have. They left him and Sherlock alone. Sherlock stood up and tried to cover his nose with his hands. Somehow Mycroft knew that Sherlock wasn't in pain, but he acted like he was. Because the headmaster send them home again and his brother smiled the whole way back to their house.
"You can stop pretending like you're hurt", he said. They sat in his room, Mycroft lay on the bed and Sherlock sat on his legs. He didn't care, he couldn't feel them anyway.
"How did you do that?", Sherlock asked him exited. Mycroft frowned. What did he do? "You came and they were afraid of you and when I looked at you, you walked. There wasn't a wheelchair!"
"It worked?", Mycroft asked surprised. He hadn't thought that his little trick worked. Hell, he didn't even know how that was possible! "I… I don't know how I did that."
"You're a superhero! You can put things in other minds, that's wonderful!"
Mycroft just nodded. A superhero? How childish and naïve, but he was too confused to tell his brother that heroes didn't exist. Of course it was strange. He was able to manipulate the thoughts of others, he could make them see and feel what he wanted them to. Everything. He could make them feel like they were burning, he could hide his wheelchair. He could make them think he is normal.
"Would you help me training this skill?" Sherlock nodded immediately.
Mycroft stroked the soft curly hair of his brother and smiled. Maybe he would become a politician the people would fear. Maybe he would be able to make his mother and brother proud.
Maybe.
"Your meeting is in five minutes, sir", Alexandra told him before she walked out again.
Mycroft sat in front of his new desk and tried not to panic. He was nineteen and today was his first day in the government. It hadn't been hard to get a job here. His father had still enough influence, even in his death, to make sure his son would gain enough money. Money, money, it always was about the money. A few briberies and Mycroft Holmes was able to speak in front of the most powerful men of Britain. A cripple. His phone rang, but he didn't bother to look who texted him, it had been Sherlock. He wished him luck and enough energy to keep the illusion alive. Mycroft shook his head and watched himself in the mirror again, tried to find anything that would destroy his appearance. He wore a suit which had belonged to his father and he was surprised how good it fit. And how much he liked it, but he would never dare to say that loud. Mother was worried enough without the knowledge that he enjoyed wearing a dead man's suit.
He was nervous. Pretty nervous. He was about to talk in front of the Prime Minister and his fellow politicians. His head hurt because of the illusion he had to create. They wouldn't see a cripple, they would see a posh man with an umbrella in his hand. Everything was planned. Alexandra, last week it had been Miriam, would stand behind him all the time. He may be able to manipulate the sight, but not the feeling. His whole masquerade could fall apart when someone bump against his wheelchair. Anything else was manipulable. No shadows because it was hard to manipulate them without full concentration. He would talk and they would go into a nice restaurant. No cameras, Alexandra already made sure that nothing could disturb his illusion. She was the only one who knew he was a cripple, except Sherlock and his mother, but they wouldn't tell anyone. Everyone thought he was a normal, posh man. They were wrong.
He had gotten used to the headaches. It was hard, but he had no other choice. He had to cheat on everyone and on every person who saw him. His illusion wasn't permanent but he tried to sustain it as long as possible. Every picture taken of him would be destroyed because of his influence on every newspaper. That's why he wanted to become the Prime Minister's shadow. He wasn't able to manipulate pictures or videos. He was aware that his father would want him to speak onscreen. That was impossible.
"Sir, are you ready?", Alexandra asked him. She walked across the room and smiled at him. She was strange, but in a good way. She treated him like a normal man, not like a paralyzed one. Maybe because she was well paid.
"Indeed, I am", he turned his head to look at her and smiled. She knew it was faked, but she didn't say anything because he always was like that. "Any complications?"
She stopped and shook her head. "No, no complications. Mr. Craner is ill, but his assistant is there and takes notes for him. No cameras were added and our team is controlling every single camera in this house. Everyone has left their phone outside in a small box Mrs. Anders has taken; she won't give them out until you'll leave. The restaurant is also checked. No cameras, no phones and the reserved table is in a private room where no one could take a picture or film you. Anything I should check, sir?"
He shook his head and arranged his tie. "Everything seems to be fine. Good, shall we go?"
She took the grasps of his wheelchair and shoved him out of the room. A few guards were standing in the small corridor they passed. Someone opened the big door which led into the meeting room. There were eight men, four on each side. The first one Mycroft noticed was the Prime Minister who began to smile as he saw Mycroft. The other people were all known to Mycroft, but unimportant. He would leave them behind soon. It lay in his blood and he was a master of charm and influence. As soon as they were able to see him, he began to smile. Sherlock was the only person who was able to see that it was fake.
"Gentlemen, may I introduce you Mycroft Holmes, our newest member in the government?", the Prime Minister said while he stood up and shook Mycroft's hand. Alexandra held him while he was standing, without her he would have fallen on the floor. No one noticed. Of course not, they saw a normal handshake between two tall men. His future boss sat down again and smiled while he waved his hand. "He's going to talk about… what was it, Mr. Holmes?"
"About the problems with America, Sir", he said in the most charming way and smiled, "I hope I won't bore you, gentlemen."
They laughed and listened the whole time. Mycroft sat there, calm and professional. Of course he was still nervous, the danger that - because of a coincidence- his cover could blow up was still there and he was willing to take this serious. He smiled when he knew it would please them, sometimes he would joke about something and they would chuckle. He had written the speech on his own and he knew it by heart, every single word and point. He knew when he had to make a break, the dramatic tension floating in the air before he continued. Alexandra stood behind him, hands resting on the grasps. She examined every servant who entered the room and she drank from the glass before Mycroft did, no one noticed because he still hid it behind an illusion. No need to let them know that he was paranoid.
They clapped as his speech was finished. He smiled and chatted a bit with them while Alexandra texted with a company which wanted to create some bearings for the wheelchair. He was too heavy for his assistant and she couldn't hold him up the whole time. He only had to 'stand' when someone wanted to shake his hand or was about to lay his hand on his shoulders. They both were able to see when someone tried something like that and Alexandra lifted him up every time. She did it for the money and he knew he would give her more of it. He had enough for two lifetimes and more.
"Well, what an impressive speech, Mr. Holmes!", someone said and the others agreed, "Let's celebrate that with some wine and good food, shall we?"
They went outside. Mycroft told them he just wanted to go into his room because his jacket was there. Alexandra shoved him in the room and closed the door. Mycroft sighed relieved and wiped sweat from his forehead with his hand.
"It went better than expected, sir", she told him. She took his jacket and gave it to him before she started to text again. She made sure the others already have left and turned to him after she had looked out of the window. "We should leave, sir."
"Good, please make sure nobody sees us when we're going downstairs", he ordered and rubbed his temples, groaning because of the pain, "And give me some aspirin, please."
She took him downstairs and they drove to the restaurant. An Italian one with great food and good, expensive wine. It was good that he didn't have to pay. They entered and crossed the room without any problems. The tables were close to each other, but Alexandra manoeuvred him through without bumping into something. The room in which the other politician sat was big and the furniture seemed to be expansive. Mycroft smiled and took his seat next to the Prime Minister while Alexandra took the wheelchair away from sight. She hid it somewhere in a little chamber or something like that, Mycroft didn't care as long as he didn't have to focus on that too. The waiter brought wine, dark red one with a wonderful smell.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, or may I call you Mycroft?", one of the men, Mr. Turner, began to speak after he drank a little sip of his wine, "I heard your father died when you were quiet young. My pity."
Mycroft nodded and turned his head to look at the man who sat across of him. "You may, if you want. And yes, I was young, but I think I coped well."
The Prime Minister smiled and ordered some food for everyone. "Ah, I heard of the accident in America. The killer was executed?"
"Of course."
They began to talk about America. No one seemed to like them, it was like they were allowed to speak freely in this room. They insulted each other and laughed.
"How are your children, Mike?", Mr. Turner asked the man next to him with a grin, "I heard your lovely wife had taken them to Spain?"
"Indeed, both are in Spain and they seem to be happy", the man, Dr. Cornwell said, "At least my fiancée is glad that they are gone."
Mycroft frowned and tried no hide his surprise. Everything they said here would stay here, he realized, they talked about affairs, illegal deals and everything the media tried to find out about them. He was shocked, but his expression was as gentle as always. He was a master of hiding his emotions and thoughts. He had to be, otherwise everyone would find out that he's a cripple.
He was happy when it was over. The Prime Minister left and after a while, he and Alexandra were alone. Mycroft lent back and rested the back of his head on the backrest. Alexandra helped him to get into his wheelchair and five minutes later, he was home. As soon as he opened the door, he saw Sherlock. His brother looked terrible, the drugs he took were slowly destroying his body and both knew it. But Mycroft didn't say a word. It was a silent deal between them, Sherlock never said something about his invalidity and Mycroft never said something about the drugs. Even if he feared for his well-being.
"How was the meeting?", his brother asked him uninterested.
"How would you describe it… dull", Mycroft chuckled and lifted himself on his couch, happy that he could sleep. His headache was killing him. "But how may I help you, brother?"
"I just wanted to check if you were able to get better."
Mycroft sighed. Somehow Sherlock thought it was his mission to find out why Mycroft could manipulate other minds. He studied and made experiments, but he still wasn't able to find a reason. It didn't matter to Mycroft, as long as he was able to he didn't try to challenge destiny, as mother would say it. "My ability hasn't increased yet, brother."
"You're lying and you know that. And deactivate your illusion, it's getting annoying to see you smile the whole time."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but ceased his concentration. He sighed in relief as the pain became weaker. Sherlock was old enough to see pain and anger, he was twelve and already finished the school. Mycroft just hoped he would start to work someday, maybe as a detective like he always wanted to be.
"Doesn't it get annoying to control everything?", Sherlock asked him while he pushed the wheelchair away and sat down next to Mycroft, "But of course you would want to make father proud."
"I can't do anything to make him proud, Sherlock, he is dead."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Thanks for that information, I would have never guessed that." He snored, lent back and lifted Mycroft's legs to let them rest over his own. It seemed to be more comfortable for him. "You're sure it hadn't increased?"
"I am quiet sure, brother. It's late, you should go to sleep."
Sherlock mumbled something and closed his eyes. Mycroft was sure he would disappear as soon as he would fall asleep, but he didn't mind. Their house was only a few streets away and Sherlock was too fast to get kidnapped. Mycroft closed his own eyes and folded his hands over his chest. Sherlock was gone five minutes later. He just smiled and curled up.
Mycroft never get caught. He soon became the right hand of the Prime Minister who seemed to like him. Of course, he was able to read people and he could exactly tell who liked what. His ability opened the world for him. It was easy to find out which illusion he had to place into one's mind. The only people he never tried to trick were Sherlock and his assistant. Sherlock because he always knew when he lied, even when he made sure nothing would reveal him, and, she was called Sandra this week, his assistant because she was a part of his illusions. Without her, he wouldn't be able to 'walk' amongst the politicians like he was normal. He wouldn't be high enough to shake someone's hand without mistrust. Her job was hard, but she gained enough money and she never complained.
But, even with his money and the big flat he owned - to be exact, four flats in the middle of London, close to his workplace and Sherlock's home, the sealing walls had been destroyed as soon as he had bought the whole storey - he was alone. Without Sherlock, Sandra or the politicians he had to work with, he would be lonely. He tried to avoid human beings because he knew they wouldn't respect him. No one would. The Prime Minister would fire him as soon as he would find out the truth, he would be a joke, someone who wouldn't be accepted.
So he never stopped his illusion. Not even when he was alone, because someone could enter and see him in the wheelchair. His head hurt constantly and sometimes he wasn't able to think, but with some pills everything was acceptable. He never thought about his loneliness, he had other things to do. Spying on Sherlock was one thing. The addiction had become worse and he feared that it might kill him. Many years later Sherlock was clean, he only used his nicotine patches because "it helped him to think". He was a detective and Mycroft was happy, because at least one of them could do something he liked. Mycroft still hated politics and he hated the lying, the faked emotions and contracts, but he couldn't do anything else.
"You have a meeting in two hours with Mr. and Mrs. Mendelejew from Russia. The cameras are ready for the meeting with Dr. Watson."
Ah, yes, Sherlock's new flat mate. He had been surprised as he had heard the news, but it was good. Sherlock needed someone to annoy, he would get bored otherwise and the boredom was one reason to start the drug use again. And Dr. Watson seemed to be a nice, young man. An army doctor, brave and calm. He seemed to be perfect for his brother and there weren't any files about him at the police. A nice lad, but he was about to talk to him.
"Good", he lifted himself up in the wheelchair and took his umbrella, "Take him to the warehouse you found yesterday. I'll be there."
Sandra nodded and went away. Mycroft sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. His headache got worse and worse. The aspirin didn't work anymore, not even as he took five pills once. I need to calm down, maybe a few hours without an illusion will be good for me. I could turn it off when I'm sleeping. The door is locked and I don't have any windows in my room. It would be safe. I just need some rest and everything will be okay again.
He waited at the warehouse until Dr. Watson came. He seemed to be confused and it was somehow ironic that he wanted to offer him a seat. Maybe because didn't want to be the only one who sat or just because he wanted to be nice, even if Dr. Watson would refuse. He saw it in the doctor's face as soon as he got out of the car. He created the illusion of himself standing immediately, jacked on his umbrella in a nice suit. It was dark, he had turned every single light off, because it was easier to manipulate a shadow when it came from one origin, the spotlight of the car. He was sure Dr. Watson would have noticed every single abnormality.
"Have a seat John", Mycroft sat while he pointed with the umbrella at the chair. John didn't say a single word, he just walked in his direction. The limb seemed to be psychosymatic he immediately noticed.
"You know, I've got a phone", Dr. Watson said and Mycroft was impressed. He was sure that the doctor had noticed the gun Sandra kept on her waist, but he still was calm. He seemed to know that Mycroft didn't want to harm him.
A few minutes later, John went away again. Sherlock had texted him, no surprise for the elder Holmes. His brother always liked to challenge him in everything. Their little games were childish, but funny, even Mycroft had to admit that. It was Sherlock's way to show that he cared. The last time he had talked to mother had been when he moved house with sixteen years. If was an honour that he still talked to his brother.
Mycroft waited until Sandra and his driver came back and he turned the illusion off, much to her shock. Since she knew him, he had tricked everyone every time, except her of course, and he had never turned if off. She tried to look as calm as always, but he could see the perplexity. He yawned and lent back until he sat comfortable. In five minutes, he would be home and then he could sleep.
"Please lock my room from the outside, Sandra." She nodded and continued to look at her cell phone. He never understood why she texted all the time, but it wasn't something he was interested in.
They got home and he sighed as he fell in his bed. The door was locked from the in- and from the outside, no way someone could break in and see him. But he still was afraid. He stared in the darkness and listened to the silence of his home. It was cold as always, no one was here who could heat it up, no partner or lover. He knew that he was gay since he had a slight crush on a boy he always had watched from his window. An older boy who always went to the playground with his younger sister. He never knew that his name was and Mycroft didn't want to, it would make him sad. He was used to be alone. It was clear that no one wanted to love someone who couldn't walk. Even if he was able to have sex, he knew that since one unpleasant dream in his puberty.
Mycroft shook his head and slipped under the covers. He hesitated, but finally turned the illusion off. No one is here. No one sees you in this state.
He would never admit that it was a kind of phobia. Of course he and Sherlock knew that, but neither he nor his brother talked about that. It was a part of their deal and they would never break it. Even if it would kill them.
The first time he acknowledged DI Lestrade's existence had been when he refused to let Sherlock free. His brother had been drunk and high at the same time, a state in which he was a challenge for everyone and a real thread to one's nerves and life, and the Detective Inspector wanted him to stay in a cell until he was sober again. But Mycroft always used his influence to help him out, even if he only could agree with the older man. Lestrade told him to 'Piss off' because he wanted to see some signatures and documents and not only a phone call which could easily be a joke. So Mycroft went to the Yard and waited outside. The bureau was too small for him to enter, his cover would be at a risk.
The DI got out and Mycroft had to admit he was handsome, yes. Nothing more, he told himself as he waited that the man would say something.
"So, you're the man who wanted me to believe that he's working for the government?"
Mycroft smiled, a fake one of course, and titled his head a little bit. "Indeed, I am. I want you to let Sherlock Holmes go wherever he wants to, including out of the cell you dragged him in." He shot a challenging glare in Lestrade's direction and chuckled silently. The anger shining in Lestrade's eyes would have been obvious for everyone, even their mother. "And of course I brought documents and signatures to proof that I'm working for the British Government."
He held out the documents and concentrated harder on his illusion as Lea lifted him up to fake the height. DI Lestrade took the papers and skimmed through them. He got angrier and angrier every second until he clenched his fist.
"And who are you?"
"Someone who is interested in Sherlock's wealth." He simply waved his umbrella as Lestrade raised an eyebrow. He knew that Lestrade was going to work with Sherlock because his brother solved his crimes. There was no need to use charm to help his brother, his talents already made sure he had the job. He wasn't paid, but it kept him busy and that was enough for Mycroft.
The next time he met DI Lestrade was when Sherlock was wounded and in a hospital. Lestrade seemed to guard the door as Mycroft came in, because he had his gun ready to shoot everyone who wasn't allowed to enter. Michelle closed the door for him while Mycroft stared at the weapon. He wasn't scarred. He would know if Lestrade was about to shoot and he would dodge away or manipulate his vision.
"What are you doing here?", Lestrade hissed angrily.
"I'm visiting Sherlock Holmes, Detective Inspector", Mycroft said. He tried not to chuckle. It was funny, he had to look up to see the gun because Lestrade thought he was pointing it at Mycroft's chest. He was safe until Lestrade would decide to shoot at his stomach.
"And why?" How stubborn the Detective Inspector was, Mycroft liked it.
"Am I not allowed to visit my brother, Detective Inspector?", he asked and cocked his head, "I'm concerned about his well-being."
"B-brother?", Lestrade stuttered and examined Sherlock and then Mycroft, "But… anyway… okay, you can stay here."
Mycroft smiled and placed himself next to Sherlock's bed, Michelle took the chair and Lestrade didn't notice it.
"Could you stop faking a smile?", Lestrade suddenly growled and Mycroft was really surprised. He tried to find out if his illusion still worked and it did. Lestrade raised an eyebrow and sighed. "You think I don't notice it? It's faked, really good, but I had to interrogate enough criminals to know when someone fakes a smile. It doesn't reach your eyes."
Mycroft lent back a little and entwined his fingers. "You're the first one who noticed, Detective Inspector. I'm impressed."
"Well, I'm not as good as your brother", Lestrade said and there was pride in his voice, "But I still can tell when someone tries to lie to me."
"Even my brother can't deduce everything, Detective Inspector", Mycroft told the Detective Inspector, "Sometimes even he is wrong."
"Can you do that too?" Lestrade seemed to be curious. He didn't fake it, Mycroft would have noticed it. "The deducing thing?"
Mycroft nodded. "I taught him. Don't worry, I'm not going to deduce you, that would be quiet rude." Divorced, three years older than me, grey hair since he was fifteen - something with his genes, a family thing - and Detective Inspector since three years. Bii-sexual, even if he doesn't want to admit it. Childless, but he sometimes takes his nieces to kindergarten and school. His work comes for him first, a workaholic who wants someone with the same priorities as his own. Fan of the TV-show 'Doctor Who' and secretly fan of some poets. Lestrade raised his eyebrow and smirked. "I'm sorry, natural instinct."
"Well, did you find anything interesting?"
Mycroft only smiled and this time, the Detective Inspector didn't seem to notice that it wasn't authentic. Yes, something quiet interesting.
They began to see each other more often, at crime scenes or in front of the Yard when Sherlock was too high to drive or order a cab. Of course that stopped when he met John, Mycroft knew they would end up in the same bed someday, but that didn't mean they stopped seeing each other. It became some kind of routine that they met in front of the Yard, talking until Lestrade had to go because he was tired and had to start working early the next day. Mycroft soon discovered some feelings inside him, a heat in his chest every time he saw Lestrade or thought about him. It took him two months to realize that he was in love with DI Gregory Lestrade. And the next time they met, he smiled and it was a true one.
He hated lying to Gregory, but he had no other choice. The other man would leave him alone as soon as he would find out that he was disabled. Everyone did, after a while. Sherlock avoided him because his lovesick behavior made him angry and he had enough problems of his own, all concluding John Watson. It was Saturday and Mycroft sat in his living room, a glass of whine in his red hand and in the other one a little cupcake Christine had bought him. It was his birthday. Sherlock had sent him a little gift and had called him, he was in Ireland because of a case and both John and he congratulated him cheerfully. Mycroft was 35 and alone at his birthday. He wished that Gregory would be here, but the man didn't know where he lived and that today was his birthday. No one was here and his headache was killing him. Because of that, he'd turned off the illusions.
So imagine his surprise when someone knocked. Mycroft got up and created the illusion he knew by heart before he rolled to the door and opened it. It was Gregory with a birthday cake, grinning like an idiot with a party hat on his head. Mycroft laughed. He was happy and suddenly, his flat seemed to be warmer and kinder.
"What are you doing here?", he asked surprised while he rolled back and sat on the couch. He had to hope that Greg wouldn't run against it. And even if he did, he would trick his mind into believing that there was a table or box.
"Sherlock had called me. I know, I should be in Ireland because of the serial killer, but until yesterday, I had been ill. He told me that it's your birthday and that you're probably alone because you always give… Lea? Michelle? Beth?... a day off when there's a bank holiday. So I bought a cake and decided to celebrate with you."
Mycroft tried to say anything, but he wasn't able to. He felt like crying, but not because of sadness but of joy. He felt something wet on his cheeks and wiped it away with his thumb, surprised to see a tear. Greg titled his head a bit and smiled. Maybe because he knew that Mycroft wasn't in pain or sad or just because it was the second emotion Mycroft had shown him. But suddenly Greg's hands were on his cheeks and he was wiping his tears away.
"I hope you have some whine, I tried to buy one but they all were too expensive."
Mycroft smiled and pointed at the closet with the glasses and the bottles. Greg stood up and brought two glasses and one bottle of red whine he opened.
"Thank you, Gregory."
"You're welcome, Mycroft. And now… cheers!"
Five weeks later, they stood in front of Mycroft's flat. They had been on a date, their first real one in a restaurant Gregory had chosen, and Mycroft's driver had brought them here. There was a cab waiting for Gregory because he had refused to use Mycroft's car. Greg smiled and took one step forward.
"It had been great", he said with red cheeks, "I enjoyed it."
"So did I, it was a wonderful evening." Mycroft hoped Gregory wouldn't do what normal people would after a date. Because when he tried to kiss him, he would only kiss air and then… he would leave because Mycroft was a freak and a cripple and a liar.
Greg lifted his arm and Mycroft almost screamed as he tried to lay his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft closed his eyes in the same moment as Gregory let out a surprised tune. The elder Holmes wanted to say something, but he felt tears on his cheeks and he had to fight off a sob.
"What…", Gregory mumbled before he took some steps back and rubbed his eyes with his hands, "What the…"
"I'm sorry", was all that Mycroft was able to say before he rolled into the house, closing the door behind him. Greg knocked and knocked, shouted for him, but Mycroft already lay on the floor and cried. Because he fell in love with Gregory Lestrade and he found out that Mycroft was fake.
"Mycroft, open the bloody door!", Gregory shouted, "Please open the fucking door!"
Normally, Mycroft would say something like 'Language, please', but he wasn't in the mood. From all people, why had Gregory to find it out? Why? Why not someone from his work, he could have fired the person and ruined his life until no one would believe him, but he couldn't do that with the man he loved. So he stayed quite and tried to use the lift, but it was busted. He wouldn't be able to use the stairs, his bedroom was upstairs. He tried to crawl like he used to do when he was a baby, but his arms were too weak and he groaned in pain as he tried to lift himself over the stair.
"Mycroft? Is everything okay?"
It took Gregory five seconds to open the door with his food and less than two before he saw Mycroft, lying on the stairs with fast breath and crying. He still had his illusion on, so Gregory didn't see the wheelchair which was lying in the way. He stumbled and kneed down, tried to touch the thing on the floor. Maybe he felt the wheels or the metal, because he gasped and got up again. Suddenly he was next to Mycroft and lifted him up, stroking the hair of the crying man who tried to roll himself up into a small ball.
"It's okay, it's okay", he whispered while he took Mycroft upstairs and lay him on the couch.
Mycroft calmed down a few minutes later. He felt ashamed because of his breakdown and he was worried what Greg was going to say.
"I don't understand what just happened… and I just want to…", Gregory mumbled and sighed, "I have no idea what just happened…"
Mycroft sighed and turned every single illusion off. His substitute wheelchair stood in the corner and Gregory turned his head to see it. He gasped again.
"I'm sorry that I lied to you", Mycroft said, feeling naked without his illusions which hid him and guarded him almost his whole life, "I… I'm disabled."
"But I saw you walking and running… but there's a wheelchair and that means you're… paralyzed… how is this possible?"
"I'm able to manipulate the minds of people. I can trick them into seeing something which isn't there; I can let things disappear for them, like my wheelchair. I always had been paralyzed, something's not right with my muscles. When I was younger, I discovered my ability and I'm using it since then. No one would listen to a cripple, even if he's a politician who occupies a minor position in the government. I only can manipulate the sight, that's because you thought I was standing in front of you but there wasn't any flesh or a body. It's only an illusion."
"You're not a cripple", Gregory whispered, still confused and overstrained with the information Mycroft just had given him, "Who said that?"
Mycroft hesitated, but sighed and sat up. "My father was the first one. He started when I had been… two or three, I can't remember that clearly. And then Maria, the first affair my father had when I was three. And later other people until I started to train my ability. Since then no one except… well, me."
"I don't think I understand… how are you able to do that? Because I believe you, I saw… well, felt it", Mycroft didn't scream, he didn't run away and he didn't seem to be angry, "A mutation? Radioactivity? The bite of a spider?"
"I'm not a superhero, Gregory", Mycroft said, "I don't know why I can do that. I never dared to ask questions."
"Why did you cry?"
Mycroft snored. Wasn't it obvious? "Because I lied to you. And don't try to act like you don't care that I lied, leave, please." He let his body fall on the floor and began to crawl to his wheelchair. Gregory watched him the whole time. He lifted himself up and placed his legs therewith he was able to sit comfortable. "Please, Gregory."
Gregory shook his head and stood up, walked next to him and sat on the floor. "No, I'm afraid I won't leave."
"Why? You want to laugh or make jokes about me? Feel free to do as you wish." Mycroft hated the way his voice sounded, like a child. He was an adult, grown-up and still… of course he wanted Gregory to stay, but not if the Detective Inspector would laugh at him. He couldn't survive that. "Why aren't you angry?"
The man moved until he kneed in front of Mycroft, slowly taking his hands into his own. "Why should I? Okay, you manipulated my mind, but you seem to do that to everyone because you're afraid that they won't respect you - which is nonsense, by the way. But you never lied. You never said 'Hey, here I am, I'm totally wealthy and I'm able to walk and run!', right? So, you never lied. And I fell in love with your eyes, not with your legs, even if I have to admit they look nice in tight suits."
Mycroft blushed and closed his eyes because he could feel tears again. You behave like a man-child, idiot. "I'm still sorry and you won't change that, Gregory."
Gregory laughed and stood up, but lent down to place a kiss on Mycroft's cheek. "Everything else would have surprised me. Do you know how gorgeous you look when you blush?" Mycroft shook his head and tried to fight off a smile. He felt like a teenager girl in front of her first boyfriend and, somehow, he didn't mind. It was the first time for him, in every aspect, so he had the right to behave like a lovedrunk idiot. "Well, now you know. You have some beer, I'm thirsty after all the yelling."
"I'm afraid I only have whine", Mycroft said and wiped away a few tears, "But I could phone Grace, she could buy some."
"That would be lovely", Gregory lifted Mycroft out of his wheelchair, even if the politician cried out in surprise, and lay him on the couch again, "You're far to light for a man with your height."
"Who tells you my height wasn't faked?", he asked and lent against the backrest of his couch. As Gregory raised an eyebrow, he held up his hands in defense and smiled. "I just asked."
Mycroft took out his phone and called Grace while Gregory stood up and went to Mycroft's kitchen, it surprised him how easily Gregory found the room but he had been here more than twenty times, so it was normal, Mycroft guessed.
"Yes, sir?", Grace asked immediately. She sounded tired which was naturally, it was eleven pm.
"Would you be so kind and buy some beer for Gregory? I assume he's tired of whine."
"Of course, sir, may I ask if something's wrong?" Grace always knew when something had happened. His voice was calm, but maybe she controlled the cameras and saw him or she just felt that he had cried.
"No, everything is fine."
Grace was there before Gregory came out of the kitchen again. She shot long glances at him, but didn't say a word and left after she had given him two bottles of beer. Mycroft never had been a fan of beer, but he could make an exception for Gregory. Just today, of course.
"Wonderful, beer!", Gregory said as he came back with chocolate. Mycroft hadn't known that he had some in his fridge. "And I found some chocolate, I thought you may want some."
"Thank you", Mycroft took the chocolate and smiled when Gregory sat next to him and took a bottle.
Gregory cleared his throat and turned his head to look at Mycroft. "Gregory?", Mycroft asked shyly, "When you said that you have fallen in… love with me… was that a lie?"
"No, why should I lie about something like that?"
"Everyone lies to me, I'm used to it", he laughed dryly and sighed, "I hate lies."
"You're a politician; don't they lie all the time?" Mycroft nodded and closed his eyes. He needed alcohol, his thoughts made him sad. He should be happy, Gregory had told him that he was in love with him and he returned these feelings, but he couldn't. "Everyone hates lies. They seem to make everything easier, but on contrary, they make everything worse."
Mycroft silently agreed and reached out for the second bottle, slowly taking one sip. Gregory frowned, but didn't say anything. It was quiet, to quiet. Gregory moved and Mycroft thought he was about to leave, but the older took one of Mycroft's hands and entwined their fingers. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Mycroft closed his eyes and rested his head on Gregory's shoulder.
"You're tired?"
Mycroft shook his head and opened his eyes again, looking in the brown ones of Gregory. "I'm just enjoying the situation as long as I can."
"I won't leave."
And he didn't.
Today was Saturday. Mycroft's only free day in this week and he decided to enjoy it. That wouldn't be hard with a Gregory Lestrade who took the day off to spend it with Mycroft. They had phoned every single day, every morning and every evening. And every time they met, Gregory kissed him on the cheek as q greeting and before he had to leave. But only when no one was there to see that Gregory had to lean down. Mycroft didn't use his illusions on him, even if he was afraid that something could blow his cover up. He trusted Gregory.
"We have two options", Gregory said while he placed a kiss on Mycroft's cheek, "We can go out somewhere or we stay here, watch DVD and cuddle."
"I think I'd prefer the second option", Mycroft smiled and rolled over to the couch. Before he could lift himself up, Gregory did it, sat down and let Mycroft sit on his lap. The politician blushed and rested his head on Gregory's chest. "What are we going to watch? You know I won't watch 'Doctor Who' again."
"What a pity, I brought every single DVD I have and they all are 'Doctor Who' ones", Gregory lied, "But… oh, surprise, another movie!"
Mycroft smiled at his… lover? fiancé? boyfriend?... and turned his head to look at the TV. He would have watched Doctor Who just to spend some time with Gregory. They silently watched the movie for twenty minutes until Gregory cleared his throat and paused.
"I… wanted to ask you something." Mycroft shifted until he could see into Gregory's eyes and cocked his head. "I… well… we've spend a lot of time together and I wanted to ask you if… if you want to be my… boyfriend."
Mycroft didn't say anything, he lent down instead and kissed Gregory on the lips. It was a shy one, without tongue, but both enjoyed it. Gregory smiled and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's body. As they parted, their foreheads still touched.
"I take that as a 'Yes, I will'", Gregory laughed, "I think I need to learn some tricks from Claire, I want to be able to kiss you in public… well, if you want to… show public affection…"
"I think I can teach you well enough without Claire", Mycroft said and turned his head again to watch the screen, "But for now, I want to know if I deduced the main character correctly."
"And what did you find out about her?"
Mycroft laughed. "I won't tell you, it would ruin your own thoughts about her."
Two hours later, they stood in front of each other. Mycroft activated one of his illusions and used it on Gregory. He tried to smile, but he couldn't, it felt like he was betraying him. Gregory lifted his arm and pointed at the place where he saw Mycroft's face.
"Now, remember this height, because that's important. Every time someone wants to shake my hand and he stands, someone has to lift me up until my head has this height, okay? Shall we give it a try?"
Gregory went behind him and tried to lift him up. He groaned and tried to keep Mycroft's head on the height, but he failed and let go. Mycroft patted his head and smiled.
"Do you understand now why I have to be light?" Gregory nodded and sighed. "If you want to be able to do that, you have to practice until you're able to lift me without any sound. That would destroy the illusion easily."
"I need a break", Gregory said and sat down on the coach again. He gave up after one try, Mycroft couldn't blame him. "May I ask you something? It's embarrassing, but I just… well, I'm curious."
Mycroft waved his hand and waited. He didn't look at his boyfriend - his boyfriend! - so he had no idea what he was going to ask. He had no clue, what could be interesting but embarrassing at the same time?
"Well", Gregory cleared his throat, "Have you ever… had a boyfriend before?"
Mycroft smiled. How was that embarrassing? "No, you're my first. I don't see why this question should be embarrassing."
"And a girlfriend?"
He laughed. "I'm gay, Gregory. So no, I never had a girl- or boyfriend. Why?"
"Then… erm, that's embarrassing to ask… are you able to have sex? Because I love you and, if you're able to, maybe one day… you know…" He blushed and lowered his head. It looked absolutely lovely and cute. "You don't have to answer that."
"I am able to have sex, love." Gregory blushed more because of the pet name and slowly looked up again. "I just don't know how that should work… I'm not able to move my legs…"
"We'll find a way, only if you want to have sex with me…"
"You're cute when you're shy." Mycroft smiled and stroked Gregory's hair. "And yes, I'd love to have sex with you, one day. But now let's continue with your training."
Gregory sighed and pouted, but Mycroft just laughed and rolled away with his wheelchair. "Now, try to lift me up without groaning and growling."
"Love, I think I'm ready."
Gregory looked up and smiled a bit. He sat in his armchair and read a book Mycroft have given him. They were living together for five weeks and today was Gregory's birthday.
"You are?", Gregory stood up and jumped up and down. Mycroft tried not to laugh. He was too sweet, almost like a child who was about to get some sugar. "That's good, I found out how it could work!"
"Well, I think you should know how to have sex, shouldn't you?", Mycroft chuckled and rolled forward until he was in front of his boyfriend, "You're not the virgin here."
Gregory blushed a bit and lifted Mycroft up. He carried him in their bedroom, a gigantic room which a big bed, and lay him down on the sheets.
"You're sure?", he asked exited.
"I bought condoms and lube, in the desk, top drawer."
Gregory almost ran in the bathroom and came back with the things. He smiled and helped Mycroft out of his clothes, then took his own off. Mycroft had seen him naked before, they used to shower together because a special one for disabled people was too expensive and both liked the skin-to-skin contact during the showers, but this time, it was different. He felt the blood rushing down to his genital area, felt that his cock twitched slightly. Gregory lent down and kissed him, wild and they both groaned as Mycroft parted his lips and allowed Greg's tongue to invade his mouth. His hands stroked his hair.
Suddenly Greg's knee pressed against Mycroft's cock and he groaned, it was a good feeling and he felt that he already was hard. It was his first time and both knew that he wouldn't last that long. Not that they cared. Mycroft wrapped his arms around his lover and rubbed his back, slowly reaching the arse. He squeezed it and gulped as he felt the effect it had on Gregory. Both were hard now, their erections pressed against each other. Greg fondled over his chest, his stomach and over his cock before he let his hand rest on Mycroft's knee.
"I'm going to turn you around, okay?", Greg asked and Mycroft nodded, unable to say something. Greg turned him around and moved his hand over Mycroft's back before he opened the lube. "I have to prepare you first, love, tell me when it's too much."
Mycroft nodded again and cried out in pain as Greg entered him with one finger. He clutched his hands into fists and closed his eyes, unable to stop the tears from running over his cheeks. Gregory waited until he calmed down a bit and moved his finger before he entered with another one. Mycroft didn't cry out this time, but he still felt the pain.
"You're okay?", Gregory placed a kiss on Mycroft's neck and waited until his boyfriend nodded. "Tell me if it's too much."
Gregory moved behind him and Mycroft waited, silently calming himself down and preparing himself for the pain. As Greg entered him, he screamed loudly and clawed his fingers into the covers. Hot tears ran over his cheeks and dropped on the sheets. Gregory stroked his hair and didn't move, just waited until his partner was able to nod again. He slowly began to move and after a short time, Mycroft began to groan. His breath became faster and he begged.
"Greg… please…", he groaned.
Greg smiled and moved faster, placing kisses on Mycroft's neck until everything was over. Mycroft screamed for a last time and relaxed abruptly. Greg turned him around again and smiled. Mycroft's face was red and he tried to breathe again, but he smiled.
"Was it okay?", Greg asked and grinned as Mycroft kissed him.
"It was absolutely and, I'm sorry for the vulgarism, fucking fantastic."
Greg laughed. "Care to lend me a hand?", he asked and pointed as his own cock which was still hard.
"I don't know…", Mycroft began but was silenced as Greg kissed him again. I can at least try…
He clasped Greg's cock and began to rub. Greg groaned in the kiss.
Mycroft could get used to that.
They lay next to each other, cleaned up and exhausted. Greg lay under him on his back. Mycroft's head rested on his chest and he had his arms wrapped around his waist. He wanted to fall asleep like that every night until he would die.
Moriaty. His brother was in danger and both knew from the beginning that no one would be able to win.
Gregory stayed at his side, calming him down when Mycroft cried because his brother was almost killed because of a bomb.
He stayed when Sherlock and he had an argument because Gregory had punched John after Mycroft had shown him his wheelchair. John had looked at him with too much pity.
He always stayed.
They were engaged when Sherlock died.
Sherlock Holmes committed suicide.
Mycroft closed his eyes and closed the newspaper. He saw the headlines in the TV, in every newspaper and he heard the rumors. Everywhere were signs 'I believe in Sherlock', it seemed that his brother had some fans. He sighed and folded his hands in front of his eyes. He just hoped Sherlock was fine. He prayed, even if he didn't believe in god. Of course he knew that Sherlock was alive, his brother was too proud to commit suicide and he would never leave his fiancé John alone. They would need his help to meet without being killed, but he was willing to do that.
"He's not dead, right?", Gregory asked him. Mycroft turned around and nodded slowly, no one around them noticed it. Gregory took his wheelchair and dragged him out of the room in his car. "You helped him, right?"
"He knew that he was about to die. Moriaty wasn't able to hide his plan from him, so he came to me and asked me for help. He needed to fake his death. It was easy from there on. It was him who talked to Moriaty, but as soon as Moriaty was dead and he threw his phone away, I used an illusion to cover his escape. He threw Moriaty's body from the edge and flew. I manipulated the crowd and bribed the doctors."
"Where is he now?", Gregory asked while he helped his fiancée out off the car into their home.
"He's still here in London."
Gregory raised his eyebrow and titled his head. "But… I thought someone wants to kill him? What about Moriaty's minions?"
"He never leaves the house without me. Didn't you notice that there's something different about Amanda?"
"You mean… Sherlock is…"
"Amanda, yes", Amanda entered the room and crossed her arms in front of her chest, "The machine on my throat hurts, but it changes my voice and no one notices the difference."
"The real Amanda is in France because of her brother."
"That's… brilliant", Gregory coughed surprised and lay Mycroft's body on the couch, "But it isn't good for your head, love."
"He's used to have headaches", Sherlock said and turned around to leave again, "Don't phone me if you need something."
Mycroft chuckled and closed his eyes. "He's lovely, isn't he?" He felt a glance and opened his eyes. Gregory looked at him and he seemed to be sad. "What is wrong?"
"I want you to do me a favor."
"Whatever you want to, love."
Gregory smiled. "I want you to go to your meeting without any illusions. And don't say they won't respect you! Because they will, they will think that you've had an accident and you won't need to hide anymore."
"Gregor-", Mycroft began, but Gregory covered his mouth with one hand.
"I know that you're afraid", Gregory whispered, "But your head is going to kill you, dear, and without the illusions it will get better. They won't disrespect you, because you're a great politician and a greater man. Do it for me. Just for me, love."
Mycroft closed his eyes and thought about it. He was right. They will respect him. Gregory knew that.
Don't do that, don't accept that, they will hate you.
And he nodded.
He took a deep breath and turned his head. Greg stood behind him and nodded. Mycroft gave 'Amanda' a sign and began to roll forward. The door opened and he faced the politicians, all shocked as they saw him. No illusion, no hiding. They saw his wheelchair and he knew that everything would be fine.
Because, no matter what they would do, he had Greg and he would never leave him.
He didn't need the freedom of walking.