A/N: Focusing more on this, so updates should be slightly more frequent. The rest of my projects aren't abandoned, promise.
Mycroft sprawled on the sofa, a bottle of wine on the table in front of him and a full glass in his hand. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, and then downed what was his second glass. It was a rubbish wine, really, but Mycroft didn't really care.
Their first meeting goes better than Mycroft expects. Sherlock is startled, at first. He immediately knows who John is and what he means to him. He feels the connection that sizzles under his skin and marks John as His. John feels it too, Mycroft knows, but his face does not move at all. He is like an impenetrable wall. A sturdy soldier. They shake hands, collegial, and Sherlock lingers.
Greg is watching them, and there is something so beautifully sad on his face that Mycroft's breath catches in his throat. He wants to reach out and touch him, but he doesn't. He can't. It is too dangerous.
Mycroft turns his attention back to his brother, and smiles. There is banter, and conversation, and for the first time in years, Mycroft sees a genuine smile on Sherlock's face.
He refilled the glass again, watching the wine fill it up. This time he sipped it, first, letting the taste of the wine roll around his tongue. The first meeting had gone well. John had accepted Sherlock, had agreed when Sherlock offered him the use of a spare room. Mycroft sighed, relieved. Sherlock was going to be okay.
Two months later Sherlock is with John. They are sitting in Baker Street after a crime - or rather, John is sitting and Sherlock is sprawled over the sofa. He is obviously bored, and is threatening to shoot the wall with John's gun. John frowns at him, forehead crinkling, but there is affection there, even though nothing is said. Mycroft smiles. Sherlock is happy.
The wine dulled his recollection, and he could picture Jack's face - His face - without wanting to vomit. He finished the glass of wine, poured more. Rinse and repeat. The wine made everything fuzzy, and his head swam. It was nice, though. He forgot things, that way. He didn't have to remember. Didn't have to pretend he was okay, when he knew he wasn't. He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the mark there, and drank some more wine.
Six months. They have just come home from a case, and Sherlock is high off of the adrenaline. John is next to him, laughing, and Sherlock smiles. Mycroft tries to smile, tries to be happy, but he cannot. He swallows, wishes it away, and turns back to his work.
Mycroft's stomach lurched unpleasantly. This time, it took more concentration, wielding the bottle. He ignored the splotches of wine on the table. He could clean it later.
John straightens, and Sherlock is watching him. Mycroft is not there, but even through the screen he can see the tension between them. He can see the conflict in Sherlock's eyes, the want, the worry. He can see the answering emotions in John, see the calmness, the caring.
Mycroft finished the first bottle and grabbed the second. Anything to make it stop.
Sherlock stands closer, and it is John that makes the first move. Mycroft sees Sherlock hesitate, and then relax into John's touch. Sherlock trusts John. He loves him. Mycroft turns off the CCTV, feeling sick.
Why was he so miserable? Mycroft glared at the bottle as if it was its fault. It probably was. He stared at the label for a few minutes, trying to make sense of the small, fancy letters. It made his stomach do flips, so he stopped. Sighing, he tipped his head back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He lifted his head slightly to drink from the glass. Spilling was unseemly. He was far too dignified for that. Or something.
Everything had happened so fast, long ago. It had gone from good to bad so quickly. One moment Jack had been the perfect partner, and the next - he wasn't. It had taken six months for his facade to fall, for the person Mycroft loved to fall away, and it was Mycroft's fault. Everything was his fault. Sherlock, though. Mycroft closed his eyes, pictured his brother with John, the careful, easy comfort they had spent six months cultivating. Sherlock had escaped.
Mycroft, however - he wasn't going anywhere. He was a coward and Greg didn't deserve him and he didn't deserve Greg and Mycroft needed to inform him of that. Or something. It took a while, but eventually Mycroft sent a coherent text to his assistant demanding a car. He had a good staff. They didn't ask questions.
Soon Anthea - Alie - Alyssa - whatever her name was - was at the door, lifting her eyebrow when she looked at him. "Do you need help, Sir?" she inquired mildly.
"No," Mycroft told her, dignified. He stood with minimal wobbling, leaving the mostly-empty second bottle on the table. Greg. He was going to go see Greg, and tell him it was all of his fault, and - something. Something else that he could figure out later. He just knew that if he talked to Greg, maybe some of the hurt would go away, and things would be better.
It was a treacherous walk to the car, but he managed, sliding in without making any noise even when he banged his foot on the door frame. "Had some to drink, did you?" Anthea-Alie-Alyssa asked as she slid in next to him.
"I do not think you have permission to do that." Mycroft scowled at her. He was slurring his words slightly, but was otherwise understandable. Impressive. He gave himself a mental pat on the back.
"Yes, Sir." She just looked amused, and Mycroft ignored her. It took him a good thirty seconds to realize the car wasn't moving.
"Why aren't we going anywhere?" he demanded.
"Sir, you haven't told the driver where you want to go," Triple-A pointed out politely.
Oh. Mycroft contemplated this for as long as he could. "The - the - the - house," he finished.
"Helpful." Triple-A leaned over, checked his phone, and then rattled off an address. "You would like the Detective Inspector's residence, would you not?"
Mycroft gave her his best impression of a don't-be-stupid-I-already-knew-that look, and then scrabbled to grab something once the car started moving. "What - what are you doing in the car?" he asked suspiciously.
"Merely ensuring that your safety is not compromised, Sir." She gave him a blithe smile.
Mycroft decided that was an acceptable answer. He sat mutely in the car the rest of the trip. Part of him wished he had brought a bottle of wine with him. The world wasn't dull enough, yet. Everything was still too bright and he just wanted it to all go away. Wordlessly his assistant offered him some water. He took it, although he didn't like how it felt, sliding over his tongue and down his throat. Too much like water.
The car slid to a stop, and Mycroft stepped unsteadily out onto the pavement. Triple-A glanced at him, but stayed inside, and he was thankful. "Your mobile is in your pocket, Sir. Text when you need a ride." The door shut and the car drove off, leaving Mycroft standing there. He frowned at the spot where the car had been, resigned, and turned around, realizing that he didn't exactly know which flat was the DI's.
That was mildly problematic.
He stared curiously at the building, distracted by the street lights. They were so shiny. "Mycroft?" Greg's surprised voice echoed annoyingly loud. Mycroft frowned at the street lamp.
"What?" He tilted his head to the side. "What are you doing here?"
Greg stepped down the stairs, coming closer. "I live here," he said patiently.
Oh, right. Mycroft remembered. Something. Whatever it was, it had to do with Greg. Greg turned to scan the street, presumably looking for Mycroft's normal car. Mycroft caught sight of the mark on his neck. Oh. His stomach flipped and he lurched, nearly stumbling and falling. No. He couldn't. "No."
"No what?" Greg inquired.
Mycroft swiveled and almost tipped over his long, long legs. Dangerous things. "What am I doing here?"
"I'm not quite sure," the DI said, and this time he caught Mycroft before he could fall. Greg inhaled sharply, and Mycroft felt the ghost of a hand pass over his neck. Mycroft frowned, tilting his head at the pavement as if it would tell him the answer. That was Bad, something was Bad, but he couldn't figure out why. Couldn't remember why. Oh well. He would figure it out later. he stepped over to help Mycroft stand. Mycroft swallowed thickly as Greg's hand slid over his back so that Greg could keep him standing. He felt warm, too warm. Tense. He needed, he wanted. But he couldn't. "Let's go inside," Greg murmured, and slowly he helped Mycroft up and into his apartment.
They stood just inside Greg's flat for a while, Greg's arm supporting Mycroft and Mycroft just standing there, staring at Greg's flat. His deductions were rubbish when he was drunk. There was a chair-thing, and a shiny thing, and something that looked like maybe it held a fork? He wasn't really sure. The shiny thing was rather distracting, and Mycroft lost at least a minute just staring at it.
"Do you need the sofa?" Greg's voice was tense, and Mycroft was momentarily drawn to him. Greg couldn't be sad, no. That was Bad. He didn't know why, but it was.
Mycroft tried to untangle himself from Greg and failed, Greg having to prop him up when he nearly fell backwards. They were facing each other, now, their faces too close. Mycroft swallowed again. No. He couldn't. "I can't," he told Greg, his voice plaintive. "I can't."
Greg shifted, stabilising them. He was close, so close, and all Mycroft wanted was to kiss him. "You can't? he asked, his voice soft, cautious.
Mycroft hesitated, and he was staring at Greg, mere centimetres away. There was honesty and a small bit of fear and anticipation and kindness and he couldn't. Not anymore. Mycroft leaned down, slowly, and kissed Greg. It was chaste, at first, Greg's arms steadying Mycroft, but the kiss quickly turned heated. Mycroft felt like he was drowning, like he was whole again. Like a part of him that had been missing so long was back.
Greg was the one who broke the kiss, pulling back and burying his head in Mycroft's shoulder. "Stop," he breathed.
"What?" Mycroft frowned. He had been having a good time. Why stop? No.
"Mycroft, you're drunk," Greg said, lifting his head. "You're drunk, and I don't think you know what you're doing." He lifted a hand, cupped Mycroft's face, stroked his cheek with a thumb.
"Of course I know what I'm doing." Mycroft scowled, swayed unsteadily. Of course he did. He was - oh no. No. He stared at Greg. "What?"
"Here, let's get you set up on the sofa," Greg murmured, shifting so that he could escort Mycroft until he was sitting on the sofa. "Would you like some tea?"
Mycroft realized that somehow Anthea-Alie-Alyssa had let him out of the house and left him on the pavement in his pyjamas, and was rather put out by that fact. He lifted up his feet and tucked them up next to him. At least he would be comfortable. "Yes." The impact of the two full bottles was finally hitting him, and he was starting to doze off, become drowsy. Greg pressed a mug of tea into his hands, and sat near him. Mycroft liked that he stayed close. He was near enough that Mycroft could see him, if he wished, but not too close that Mycroft felt like he was being crowded. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Greg said, and Mycroft noticed that he had his own mug. They sat in silence, and Mycroft found it oddly comfortable. "Do you take anything for hangovers, in the morning?"
"The - the - the." Mycroft struggled with saying the word. It was beyond his vocabulary, after nearly two bottles of wine. "Yes."
"Paracetamol?" Greg suggested.
"That." Mycroft nodded gratefully, and he sighed at his mug. "You," he told it, mournful.
"I'm pretty sure that mug didn't do anything to you," Greg said, chuckling.
"Of course it did," Mycroft told him, mildly offended. Greg shook his head, a smile on his lips. Mycroft watched him as he finished drinking, nodding when Greg came over and took the mug out of his hands.
"I'll take the offending mug out of your sight." Greg smiled, walking into the kitchen and cleaning the mugs.
"It's late," Mycroft mused, still curled in a ball on the sofa.
"It's not going to hurt you if you lay down. It's long enough for you, but just barely." Greg re-appeared in the main room, rummaging through a nearby cupboard. "Here's a blanket, if you want it. Gets chilly here, at night." He tossed it to Mycroft.
"Thank you," Mycroft murmured, distracted by the texture of the fabric. It was soft and plushy. Maybe Greg wouldn't miss it if Mycroft took it home. He didn't have one of those.
Greg walked over, hesitated, and then grasped Mycroft's shoulder, squeezing lightly. Even Mycroft was not drunk enough to mistake it for anything else. "Good night, Mycroft."
Mycroft slowly stretched out over the sofa, pleased that it wasn't too small for his height. "Night, Greg." The words felt strange on his tongue, clumsy, and he was starting to realize that that much alcohol on a near-empty stomach was probably a bad idea, but he would worry about that later. He heard Greg step into his bedroom and close the door. "Oh, no," he murmured to himself, settling so that he was comfortable. Mycroft curled the blanket closer around himself, and then slipped off to sleep.