(( Hello, everyone! Chapter 2! I'm out of school for summer holiday, so I don't have any days that are better/worse for me to write. So they'll be horribly random, I'm afraid! I had to rein back my Mystrade fangirl part of my soul because I really do want to keep this no-ship story. I do hope Mycroft as a character turned out okay. It's easy enough to write characters as they're portrayed in the show, but their personalities change given different situations and all that jazz. I'll stop rambling, promise! Leave a review if you want, but thanks for reading!))
Greg had ended up staying the night. Molly had never asked him to, and after she had explained everything, she seemed more put-together. But Greg didn't miss the minor look of gratitude she flashed him as he offered to take her sofa. If there had been more danger, Greg would've damned all propriety and had just taken up in Molly's bedroom, but he figured that they were both alright now.
Besides, he needed time alone to think.
Sherlock was alive. That one statement sent such a shock through Greg. Molly had explained it all through sniffles and sobs. Of course there'd been anger. Not necessarily for himself – of course he'd been suspended, and he might very well lose his job in the future. He'd known, though, what danger he was taking when he took Sherlock on.
He was angry because of everyone else, most notably John. John had never understood, and perhaps would never fully understand, how glad Greg was that Sherlock had him. Sherlock was human with him, and perhaps Sherlock would have his fortieth birthday with John Watson around. And then Sherlock had just left him. Left him to go gallivanting about not-even-Molly-knew-where. That left him grinding his teeth.
With John, there was also Mycroft. Mycroft was intelligent, massively, grossly, brilliantly intelligent – Greg had seen him at it, and he'd offered once or twice, jokingly, to trade Sherlock in for him. However, he also had one thing that he saw as his chief flaw – his brother. Too kind, too caring, too lenient. Greg had been around Mycroft loads ever since the suicide, and Mycroft didn't let anyone see how much it affected him. But it did affect him.
And, hell, Mrs. Hudson had lost a son.
He just relaxed on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling, counting the little cracks in the wall. Tomorrow, he'd see Mycroft. Molly had made him swear, up and down, not to tell anyone. Greg wanted to respect that, he honestly did, but it was Sherlock's brother.
Then something occurred to him.
Mycroft was brilliant.
Certainly brilliant enough to see through his brother's fluke of a suicide.
Mycroft knew. Mycroft was just putting up a front. Mycroft probably thought Greg was stupid for not figuring it out sooner, and having a right old laugh at Greg's expense.
And so, irrationally, stupidly, blindly, he got angry at Mycroft.
It wasn't as if he got any proper sleep that night, and he doubted Molly did, either. Once or twice he heard muffled sobs from her room, and he wanted to get up to help her, but he didn't. He didn't trust himself to keep his voice down and to keep himself calm. It made him cringe inwardly, but the last thing he wanted to do was upset Molly even further.
When morning came, Greg got up and greeted Molly warmly. He made breakfast for her, ruffled her hair in the most familial of manners, made sure she was alright, made her swear to call him if anything happened, and then he left. She had asked him, once more, to not tell anyone about Sherlock's secret. She said that the consequences might very well be deadly.
Greg said of course he wouldn't.
He had returned to his flat. His wife had gotten most of the property in the divorce, leaving Greg with a shabby flat, a stubbly face, and a predilection for drinking. That had mostly gone away, ironically following Sherlock's death. Mycroft had a lot to do with that. Every other day Mycroft was inviting him over, for lunch, for tea, for a chat. Greg grit his teeth again. How many times had he sat across from him, exposing his heart, and Mycroft hadn't said a word?
Regardless, he showered and changed. A bit of cologne was put on and he made breakfast for himself. He didn't like staying too much in his flat, really. It depressed him. Reminded himself of his failed marriage and of Sherlock. Worried him about whether he'd keep his job in the future.
It didn't take long to get to Mycroft's home, though, as per the man's request, he parked around back. He didn't take offence to Mycroft's request. It was common sense. If anyone saw a patrol car at the Holmes residence, they would be no end of the talk. He smoothed down his shirt and trousers before going up to Mycroft's door.
Hey. Sherlock's alive. Bastard.
And here I was, thinking you cared about people.
Do you realise that, for the first time in your bloody life, you could've been the one to help make people feel better?
He didn't say a word as Mycroft opened the door. Mycroft looked tired – he had put a bit of foundation under his eyes to hide the bags, but from that close, they were obvious. His suit was still impeccable, but when Greg looked down, he saw that the man's socks weren't matching. For Mycroft, that was akin to opening the door stark naked.
Despite his anger at the man, his gaze softened at him. "Hey. Sorry, I'm late. Something came up."
Mycroft offered him a small, insincere smile. "Think nothing of it, Inspector. I trust Molly is feeling better after her home invasion? She was not hurt seriously, so I imagine it is only a bit of emotional trauma."
Yes, Mycroft was intelligent.
Greg had learned not to ask why. The man disliked describing his methods. "Yeah. Poor love. She hit the bastard with a billy club and he ran off. Wanted me to ask you if you had any ideas? He was a military man, knew Moriarty, wanted to know about Sherlock?"
Mycroft stiffened at the last word, and he beckoned Greg in. The Holmes residence was large, but it always had an eerie loneliness to it. It was usually dim, and Mycroft usually had a bit of alcohol out somewhere or other. "I…I would have to research the matter further, Gregory, but I cannot possibly imagine why that man would want to know about my…deceased sibling."
Greg thought that a blatant lie. Mycroft must've known Sherlock was alive, and now he was lying to his face about it. By that point, they were both sitting in Mycroft's sitting room. Two steaming mugs of tea and a few biscuits were on the table. He'd taken his mug and sipped at it, noting how Mycroft had prepared it. But he just couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Mycroft." He growled at him, jamming one finger into the man's chest and pushing him back into the couch.
Usually Greg wasn't violent, or even quick to anger. Sherlock managed to press all the wrong buttons all at once, but he was the exception. But the past few months had been soul-crushing. His marriage of five years had ended. Sherlock Holmes had died. His job was in jeopardy. Perhaps a part of this anger was because he just needed to let it out on someone, but it was also because, in Mycroft's lies, he had lost one of the few allies he ever had.
"I – excuse me, Gregory?" Mycroft spoke at him, looking sincerely shocked. He had foregone his tea in favour of a tumbler of cognac, and now he set it on the table.
"Look, I get that it's supposed to be a secret. I get it. But you're the most powerful man in London, and you probably had a hand in all of this. Do you realize what you've done, Mycroft? You've destroyed John, you've shattered Molly, you've made the entirety of London believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. You might figure, he's 'dead', what the hell does it matter, but it matters to the people who knew him, Mycroft, the people who cared about him, not that that includes you anymore. Because of you, Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes isn't here anymore. Bastard."
It wasn't as if Greg believed all that he was saying. Part of him honestly wondered if Mycroft could've kept this entire mess from happening, though. Then again, Greg probably had a hand in it. He had ordered the bloke's arrest, after all, and that still haunted him at night. But he wasn't going to back down now.
Mycroft looked as if Greg had struck him, but he didn't look angry. Instead he just looked down at his lap for a few seconds, smoothing down his trousers. He managed to get out a, "Gregory, please-" before Greg was off again.
"Not like we should have expected any differently. Look at you, you git, all alone in your house. You'll always be alone, because you let things like this happen. I used to think you were a brilliant bloke. You'd do anything to save your brother. But now, My? You're just a damn coward hiding behind your suits and behind your work. That's all you are. You'd stab him in the back to get a leg up. You'd do that to any of us. You're just an icy bastard who's going to die alone and surrounded by nobody. He was your brother."
That was just the stress talking, certainly. Even if Mycroft didn't do anything to stop Sherlock, Greg still thought him a good man. He'd trust him with his life in a heartbeat. But the entire few months had just been…awful, and he needed something to take it out on. Unfortunately, that had been Mycroft.
And Mycroft had taken the full brunt of it. Usually Mycroft would have argued back, or just plain kicked Greg out of his home. But, Greg supposed, the past few months had been hell for Mycroft, too. He had heard vaguely what had happened, because Mycroft wasn't keen on sharing his personal life. Sixteen to eighteen hour work days, trying to clear up Mycroft's messes. Even if he knew Sherlock was alive.
In the past few months, circumstances had changed so much that Greg could barely recognize himself anymore, and he couldn't even recognize the small, quivering man in front of him.
Mycroft looked up at him , his mouth shut. His eyes were bright and shining, and he looked, once again, as if Greg had physically hurt him.
His next action was completely odd and just a little bit traumatic for Greg.
He placed his head in both of his hands, and Mycroft Holmes started to sob. For a few seconds, Greg just stared at him in wide surprise, and then Mycroft started to talk.
"It's…it's true!" He sobbed into his hands, his entire body quivering. "When..when Moriarty had been captured, the only conversations that could make him speak were ones…concerning my brother." Sniffling and sobbing, he looked up. Tears were flowing freely down his face, then. "It's because of me that my brother…oh, Gregory, I'm so sorry. You must believe me. I am so, so sorry for what I have done."
Oh.
Fuck.
Mycroft wasn't the type to fake tears. Hell, he wasn't sure Mycroft was even capable of producing tears. Even if they were faked, Greg had always been one to be taken in by them. His mouth opened in surprise and then he leaned forward to put a hand on the man's back. As soon as they made contact, the man in front of him sobbed harder.
"I must have drove him to such an action, Gregory. When he was younger, he…oh, he was so infuriated with life, and then I put him into that hellhole of a rehabilitation center, and he…he attempted…" At that, Mycroft abandoned all composure completely and grabbed Greg's shirt. He pressed his face there and held it there while Greg felt his shirt becoming soaked with his tears. "Whenever he feels as if he's backed into a corner, he thinks it's a viable alternative, and I…I gave that devil everything he needed to threaten him. He must have felt that there was no way out. Oh, Gregory! I am miserable!"
Mycroft thought Sherlock dead.
Mycroft thought Sherlock dead.
Both hands went automatically around Mycroft's shoulders, and Greg just hugged him close. Second time in twenty-four hours that Greg had hugged someone close to him, but, as he lowered his fact into Mycroft's hair, he realized he was crying, too.
He didn't know any reason why. But Greg was crying, albeit softly, into Mycroft's hair.
"I would do anything to resurrect him, Gregory, you must believe me. Please. I have very few allies left, much less actual companions, and…I cannot bear to lose the only one who is genuinely fond of me. Please, Gregory…please."
Greg crushed him to his chest, keeping his arms tight. An ocean of guilt washed over him, and he shut his eyes tightly. Hell. Oh, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell.
"Myc." He muttered to him, shaking his head. "You've got to listen to me. You've never been able to control anything that that man does. What he did, it had nothing to do with you. You understand? He would've wound up on that rooftop one way or another, and it's not worth anything to you to blame yourself for this. Nobody blames you. If John does, he's just upset. We all are; it was a shock. I'm right here, Mycroft. You'll always have me. Yeah?"
Mycroft shut his eyes and, for a full five minutes, his head was just placed firmly against Greg's chest. Then he leaned back and stared into Greg's face, before shaking his head. "You're crying, as well. My apologies. I didn't mean to…upset you."
"No. I mean." And, suddenly, Mycroft seemed to revert to normal. It was the oddest thing. One moment, he was sobbing harshly into Greg's chest, and then the next he was leaning back, eyes completely dry, looking back at Greg with such concern. "Rough couple of months, y'know. Wife. Sherlock. Job."
Mycroft nodded, and suddenly, one hand was going up to cup Greg's cheek. He felt awkward. "I can assure you that your job will not be lost. Beyond that, I'm afraid, I'm unable to do much of anything. I can only ask that you…make these visits of yours. They are quite helpful, though admittedly, I do not want you to tell anyone of my…minor lapse of composure."
Greg couldn't help it. He smiled and nodded, separating himself from Mycroft. "Of course not, Croft. It's okay. We're okay, you know? The two of us."
It was about then that Greg decided to tell him. Mycroft deserved to know, for his own safety's sake. The man had a horrible habit of bottling everything up inside him and then letting it explode, just like he had a few seconds ago. Plus he had a horrible habit of taking aggression. Didn't even say a word against Greg.
Greg realised only then how desperately, madly, insanely he wanted everything to go back to normal. He wanted to be able to recognise himself again, and more than that, he wanted to be able to recognise Mycroft. So he sighed and shut his eyes.
Had to tell him. Had to tell him.
His eyes shut, Greg offered a mumbled confession.