Chapter Seven: I'm On Fire


Chapter Title: My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light 'Em Up) by Fall Out Boy


Sherlock had disappeared and Mycroft was growing frantic. Honestly, what the hell did he pay his men for? He fired all of them, hired new ones, and fired them too when they failed to find his brother.

Finally, after an agonising three weeks, Sherlock turned up in Milan. He and John seemed fine and Mycroft leaned back in his office chair, staring at the surveillance footage. Sherlock was acting weird, different. He seemed ruffled every time John looked his way and kept swallowing, stumbling over his words. It took Mycroft seconds to figure out what was happening.

Sherlock was in love... with Dr John Watson.

Interesting, Mycroft mused, watching as John handed his brother a mug of tea. Sherlock thanked him, eyes watching the doctor as he sat and pulled out his laptop. Sherlock is actually in love.

He pondered over that as he poured himself a glass of scotch to relax. He very much wanted to go and yell at Sherlock for disappearing like that. But his brother was occupied, busy trying to figure out his feelings and deal with his attraction to John. Mycroft didn't want to fluster Sherlock any more.

Mycroft had never known his brother to feel romantically towards another person. Sexually, yes, but never with deep emotional attachment. Mycroft tilted his head, taking a drink of scotch as he watched Sherlock and John chat.

Very interesting, he mused.


Mycroft didn't like that this attraction had sneaked up on him so successfully. He'd always been exclusively attracted to men but had never felt strongly for anyone. He knew he wouldn't make a good partner and really, really didn't need someone in his life. He only dabbled in sex during his hypomanic episodes when he was fuelled by drugs and alcohol. To be attracted to someone while sober was strange.

Thankfully Greg Lestrade was swamped with work, leaving Mycroft plenty of time to deal with hiding his attraction.

Sherlock, John, A and a number of guards took turns watching Mycroft over the course of the week, much to Mycroft's annoyance. He was only alone when he took bathroom breaks and went to sleep. Every hour of every day he was watched by his brother, brother-in-law, assistant or some nameless guard who nodded and called him, 'Mr Holmes.'

Mycroft's tremors were getting worse, his depression eating at his brain as he sat staring at file upon file of dangerous material. He took to cracking his knuckles, running his fingers through his hair and chewing on his bottom lip until it bled.

Sherlock noticed and smirked, glad that his brother was detoxing. John smiled warmly, A just stared and Mycroft scowled.

The headaches began on Thursday, reducing Mycroft to a groaning mess. He stayed in bed, rubbing at his eyes and trying to drink the water John brought him. The doctor had had the day off after discovering Mycroft whimpering in the corner of his room, clawing at his arms until old track marks became bloody wounds.

John gave him a few Nurofen and, finally, Mycroft found peace. But it was peace tinged with anger and hurt; the anger and hurt Mycroft always felt bubbling beneath the surface.

He clawed at his face, burying himself under his duvet. He wanted just one second of mind-numbing nothingness. But no, Sherlock had taken away his drugs and alcohol. Curse that stupid brother of his.

Mycroft's BlackBerry buzzed and he paused, staring at where it sat on his desk. Who could possibly be calling him? A had informed his superiors he was on sick leave indefinitely and they were, under no circumstances, to contact Mycroft Holmes. So who...?

Mycroft crawled across his large bed and grabbed the phone, peering at the screen. Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft frowned when his stomach jumped.

Still frowning, he clicked the green button and murmured, 'Yes?'

'Mycroft, how are you?'

'Fine.'

'Oh really?' Greg scoffed. 'Do you consider fine to be lying about in bed all day, scratching at your arms and moaning?'

'Yes, I do,' Mycroft said. 'Who told you?'

'John.'

'Of course.'

'He's just worried.'

'There is nothing to worry about.' Greg snorted, his go-to noise when Mycroft was lying. 'I assure you I am fine, Gregory. You do not need to check up on me.'

It was strange, really, to be getting a call from DI Lestrade. They'd only know each other two weeks... damn this bloody attraction.

'Anyway,' Greg said, breaking Mycroft from his thoughts. 'I'm off in twenty minutes and was wondering if you'd like to have dinner. John told me you haven't eaten and I really don't want Sherlock abusing me at work. He's far too annoying lately.'

Mycroft really wasn't hungry; he'd eaten lunch four days ago, hadn't he? And he'd had a whole plate of rice.

But Sherlock had started shouting the previous night when Mycroft had gone to bed without supper. And John had taken to following him around with bowls of food. Perhaps a little dinner would be okay... his headache was gone and he'd have a chance to look at Greg.

Dear God, he wanted to perv on the man. Mycroft frowned, rubbing his eyes. Really, what was the world coming to? Since when did he, Mycroft Holmes, go to dinner just to enjoy the company of another man?

'Mycroft?'

'Erm, yes, I suppose that would be acceptable,' Mycroft said. 'I wouldn't want Sherlock annoying you all day, after all.'

Greg chuckled. 'Mm. I'll see you in an hour, Mycroft. And I'm paying.'

He hung up before Mycroft could argue.

{oOo}

Mycroft dressed in his usual attire; slim fitting three piece suit, umbrella clasped in one hand. He gripped it tightly to stop the shaking that had started up again, taking another two Nurofen to combat the migraine threatening to overtake.

He brushed back his hair as he stepped out of his room, finding Sherlock and John on the couch watching Doctor Who.

'Where are you off to?' John asked, voice calm and pleasant. Sherlock scowled as he looked his brother up and down, no doubt expecting Mycroft to be heading out to buy cocaine. If he could get away he would.

'I have dinner plans with Gregory.'

'Gregory?' Sherlock questioned.

'Yes, that is Detective Inspector Lestrade's first name,' Mycroft said, straightening his tie. 'He asked that I call him Gregory.'

'Interesting,' Sherlock murmured. 'I didn't realise you and he were dating.'

For the first time in Mycroft's life he blushed. It was bad enough that he was attracted to the man but now Sherlock thought they were dating? Good Lord, just kill him now.

'It is not a date, Sherlock,' Mycroft scowled. 'We are simply having dinner as you seem to want me to eat all the time.'

'Eating is important,' John said, doctor-voice coming out.

Mycroft sighed. 'And yet Sherlock only eats occasionally. Why is it okay for him and not me?'

'I eat every day when I don't have a case, Mycroft,' Sherlock said, 'you don't eat until you collapse from lack of food.'

'That is not true.'

'It is.'

Mycroft opened his mouth but John cut him off. 'For God's sake, don't start bickering.' He frowned at Sherlock, who huffed and looked at the TV. John turned to Mycroft. 'I'm glad you're eating, Mycroft. Well done.'

He sounded like he was congratulating a puppy who'd learned a new trick. Mycroft gave John his best scowl as he waited for Gregory, checking his pocket watch every few minutes.

An hour and ten minutes after calling, Greg knocked on the door. He smiled at Mycroft and said, 'How are you?'

'You are ten minutes late,' Mycroft said. Normally he wouldn't mind (well, he wouldn't say anything aloud) but the lack of cocaine, of alcohol, of cutting had robbed him of whatever manners he had.

It didn't help that Greg somehow looked gorgeous after a tough day of chasing criminals and signing paperwork. Mycroft swallowed, trying to ignore the stubble that littered Greg's face. Is this what all people who had a crush felt like? Their insides squirming, mouth dry, palms sweaty? If it was Mycroft didn't like it; he didn't like that his body seemed to change based on how close Gregory Lestrade was. It was frustrating.

'Er... sorry?' Greg managed, giving Mycroft a very charming smile.

Mycroft swallowed, trying to clear his head. 'Yes, well... let us go.'

He swept from the flat before Sherlock could notice his state.

{oOo}

Greg glanced at Mycroft every few seconds as they were driven to the restaurant. The man looked unwell, more so then the last time Greg had seen him. His face was flushed, hands twitching, and he kept licking and biting his lips.

Greg wondered if it was just the detoxing; Mycroft had now gone a few days without alcohol or cocaine. It was amazing the man was functioning at all.

He couldn't help but notice how delicious the politician looked in his three-piece suits, hair brushed back and hands tapping rhythmically against his thighs. God what Greg would give to touch those thighs–

The DI swallowed, turning away. He couldn't let this attraction get out of hand. Yes, Mycroft was hot, but so what? Plenty of people were hot; Sherlock was good-looking, that didn't mean that Greg had to go and get all dreamy-eyed around him.

But the man was... God, was Mycroft Holmes something else. He was powerful, dangerous, and even more brilliant than Sherlock. But he was damaged, sick, depressed, a fucking drug addict and possible alcoholic.

It didn't matter if Mycroft looked good... really good... really, really good. So what if his hair was so perfect and neat all the time? Was it so wrong for Greg to want to pull and tug it out of shape? His eyes were the nicest blue, pale yet warm and mysterious. He was slim, both in weight and body structure, and his lips looked so soft and–

What did I say about letting it get out hand? Greg frowned, berating himself. He had to stop thinking about Mycroft as more than a friend. For Christ's sake, he'd known the man for little over a week. Okay, yeah, he'd known of him for over six years. But other than glances and nods, they didn't really know each other.

That didn't stop Greg from wanting to fuck the man as hard as he goddamn could.

Jesus Christ was he in trouble.

{oOo}

They sat across from each other awkwardly, Greg scanning the menu as something to do. Mycroft fiddled with his napkin, eyes down and heart beating painfully. He didn't quite understand what it was about DI Lestrade that made him so attractive.

Okay, yes, he was handsome; broad-shoulders, spiky grey hair, dark brown eyes, cheeky grin that lit up his entire face. Okay, so maybe he was sexy... he really had a fantastic body. He was intelligent, brave, knew how to handle himself both physically and mentally. He was a good friend, good man; he was going out of his way to help Mycroft despite barely knowing him...

God, Mycroft actually liked the man. What... he didn't understand. He'd never liked anyone before. He loved Sherlock, he didn't mind Dr Watson... but Greg, really? This simple man who enjoyed beer and football was so captivating, so interesting. He actually made Mycroft feel... normal.

It was strange and not entirely comfortable. Mycroft wasn't used to liking people. Usually everything was so dark and black and goddamn awful. But hadn't he enjoyed himself with Greg at lunch the other day? Hadn't he actually laughed and smiled for the first time in years, simply because the DI had texted him?

'Are you okay?'

Mycroft blinked, looking up. 'Pardon?'

'Are you okay?' Greg repeated. 'You seem... out of it.'

'I am quite alright,' Mycroft said, clearing his throat. He was getting sick of people asking if he was okay. Why wouldn't they believe him? If they did they'd leave him alone. He could drink and smoke and shoot up as much fucking cocaine as he wanted. He sighed to himself, wishing he could inject that sweet liquid into his veins. God did his body hurt.

'Mycroft, you can talk to me, remember? I'm not family so... you know, there's no need to continue lying.'

Mycroft frowned, suddenly angry. Who the hell was Greg to waltz into his life? The man had been nothing but trouble. First he'd saved him, then mocked him at the hospital, and now he was dragging him around and forcing him to eat. And Jesus Christ he looked fucking fabulous doing it.

'I don't need to talk about anything!' Mycroft hissed, blood roaring in his ears. Had it always been this hot? Why was he sweating?

Greg frowned, putting down his menu. 'Mycroft, are you–'

'Don't!' Mycroft snapped, pulling at his shirt. He didn't need to hear it; didn't need to hear or see the pity. He was fine, he'd always been fine. He didn't need anybody helping him!

'Mycroft, what is it?'

His skin was itching and burning, veins starving for cocaine. Mycroft pulled at his jacket, rumpling the expensive fabric but not caring in the least. He needed something, anything. A drink, some drugs, even a knife. Just something to make the thoughts and heat and itching go away.

Mycroft was suddenly on his feet and Greg stood too, though at a much more human pace.

'Mycroft, sit down.'

'No.'

'Come on, just sit.'

Mycroft shook his head and began backing away. His umbrella was still beside his chair but he didn't care. Why was everything going wrong? Why did it feel wrong? There was a buzzing in Mycroft's ear and he froze.

Oh. He knew this feeling very well...