A/N: I was so tempted to skip ahead to the Lestrade part of this story. I was so very tempted, but I did not give in. I resisted my urges. So here's another Mycrofty chapter. Yup, I just made a new word, Mycrofty. Lestrade will be in the next one, I promise. Just so you know, reviews make me extremely happy, just saying. On with the story.
The most powerful man in the world was invisible. He existed only in cameras and whispers. If you didn't know about him, chances are it was because you weren't important enough. His existence was divulged on a strictly need to know basis. He often claimed that he occupied a minor position in the British Government. It would perhaps be more accurate to say that he was the British Government, when he wasn't too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis that is. Easily the most indispensable man in England, every department of the government reported back to him. He was the unknown, unseen puppet master behind the stage, pulling all the strings and making all the decisions. His impact didn't stop there either. He was almost universally involved in world politics. Many countries were under his influence, and countless others consulted him. This was the most significant man in politics, period. This man was Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft was on top of the world. Anything he wanted could be his with just one word. A level higher than royalty, he had achieved a greater rank than any other man in the world. By all accounts, he should have been completely self satisfied. Instead, contentedness, for him, was elusive. Mycroft felt empty. It wasn't that he was unhappy. Oh no, he was generally pleased with his place in life. There was simply something missing. It was like there was a hole in his chest and none of his many accomplishments or possessions was the right shape to fill it. At first he ignored it, but every day the metaphorical hole got bigger and bigger, until it was impossible to avoid. Mycroft was lonely. It was understandable, this lonesomeness. Most people, most normal people, had friends, family, people in their lives to talk to and spend time with. Mycroft did not have friends. There were colleagues, subordinates, and the gentlemen at the Diogenes Club, but none of those could truly be considered friends. After all, who could possibly be worthy of befriending the British Government itself. Establishing a relationship with Mycroft would have been a daunting task, and it was no wonder that no one had accomplished it to date.
As was only natural, not many people felt at ease in Mycroft's presence. Everything about him was imposing and dignified, often times provoking awkwardness in others if not outright fear. Plus, when it came to making friends, the eternal presence of the umbrella was not helpful, nor was the fact that Mycroft's wardrobe consisted entirely of three pieced suits, no exceptions. If you stripped away all the illustrious titles and responsibilities, Mycroft was a significantly odd person. As a child, his peculiarity had resulted in rejection by his peers, and, over time, he learned to hide away the human inside and push away anyone who came close to knowing him for the person he was. The system worked, he no longer was faced with the rebuff of society. However, this also meant any friendships that might have been developed in the past were now non-existent. Of course, this didn't bother Mycroft. He had never seen the value of friendships. Humans were flawed and prone to failure. Human relationships didn't last, they were always broken over time one way or another. Whether it's by death or rejection, friendship always ends eventually, and Mycroft was determined not to let the absence of something so transient bother him. As determined as he was, even the man behind the British Government was human, and the feeling still came.
As for family, Mycroft's only family at this point was his younger brother, Sherlock, and their relationship was dysfunctional, to say the least. Lord knows the elder Holmes brother had tried with his sibling, but the petty arguments of the past had been magnified over time, escalating to the point where the two brothers utterly loathed each other. Any attempt at a reconciliation was futile. Sherlock was simply determined that the feud should continue, and there was very little that Mycroft could do about it. That didn't mean that he no longer looked out for his younger brother. No, Mycroft was still very much involved in his brother's future, simply more surreptitiously than when they were children. He found, however, that his brother was needing his help less and less now that John Watson had been added into the equation. He was very slowly but surely losing the last true human connection he had left and it was starting to affect him. Without Sherlock to distract him it was becoming harder and harder to avoid how his isolation was hurting him. If he was being honest, this was the reason he had been so fixated on the secret behind John and Sherlock's relationship. He needed a diversion from any introspection. Perhaps he had also been a bit jealous, but that had not been the motivation for his actions. Mycroft Holmes did not act out of jealousy. He may have been desolate, but was above that at least.
It was jarring to return to his eerily empty mansion after his encounter with Sherlock at the restaurant. He supposed he could have gone back to the office, but there was no way he was getting any work done after conversation like that. The idea that his brother could read him so well with such apparent ease was terrifying. The insightful accusations of jealousy and lonesomeness had hit home, and Mycroft found he could no longer ignore this subject. Obviously he was going through a personal crisis and it needed to be resolved, now before it became a serious issue. This contemptible human emotion, this desire for companionship, was a weakness. A weakness he was going to discard if it was the last thing he did. If there was anyone in this world who could not afford to depend on another person for happiness it was unquestionably Mycroft. His independence was not only important to his own piece of mind, but it was also important to the fate of the nation itself. If the British Government was ever rendered dysfunctional due to Mycroft's loneliness, well, to say that situation would be disastrous is a major understatement. This made it all the more unfortunate that there was no obvious solution to this problem.
Mycroft wearily made his way into his home. He gently placed his umbrella into a holder by the door and sighed heavily. On a normal day he might have taken this opportunity to visit the Diogenes Club. The quiet environment was comforting and peaceful, and Mycroft often found that it calmed his nerves. Today, however, he could tell that going out would not help him at all. Instead, he made his way up the grandiose staircase slowly, step by step. He had bought this enormous house not because he needed the space, but for keeping up appearances. Having the position that he did, it was expected that he would entertain. It was important that he held the respect of the politicians he worked with, and impressing them with blatant displays of wealth was the easiest way to do so. The resulting upscale parties that had been thrown required a manor house complete with a ballroom and library. So, he had bought a large, impressive mansion that was inconveniently placed out of town. It was far from ideal, but it served his purpose. He usually slept at the office anyway, not having any reason to leave.
Now, having made his way to the top floor, he remembered why he never came here. There was so much unfilled space, so many unfilled rooms, it was suffocating. Every sound he made was magnified, echoing through the house, making it seem bigger than it actually was. He began to regret ordering the house's staff to stay out of his way when he was at home, for the apparent emptiness of the house was distinctly unnerving. He walked to his bedroom, beholding the four poster, king size bed that sat in the middle of it. The room was so big, so empty, so…lonely. Mycroft practically groaned in realization. This new emotion, lonesomeness, had not sprung up from nowhere. No, he had done this to himself. This mansion, so isolated, was merely congruent with the rest of his life. He had, unwittingly, isolated himself from the rest of the world to the point of unhealthiness. This was all his own fault, entirely, and now he didn't know what to do. Looking around himself at the dismal bedroom he knew what his first step would be.
Mycroft was going to move to the city.