Thanks as always to everybody who has been following this story, and I apologise again for updating so slowly. I've been mentally writing this chapter for weeks, but just struggling to find time to actually type it!
please, please review if you have a minute, it means a lot to know what people think. Thank you for taking the time to read this and I hope you enjoy :)
Mycroft went straight to his office and actioned everything he needed to as swiftly as possible. He was barely even conscious of what he was doing, his mind and body on autopilot. Anthea joined him shortly after he arrived but neither spoke of the embarrassing confrontation with Sherlock. It was clear from Mycroft's stoney expression that he had no interest in any conversation. It was lunchtime by the time Mycroft has done everything he needed to do and for the first time in his entire working life, he decided to go home early. Mycroft noticed Anthea's concerned expression when he informed her he was leaving the office, but he did not have the energy or inclination to explain his actions. All he wanted at this particular moment was to be alone.
Mycroft arrived at his handsome townhouse in the early afternoon. Without even bothering to remove his coat or shoes, he slumped himself into the sofa. He felt deeply depressed, in the space of a few weeks his life seemed to have spun entirely out of control. He was pursuing a passionate and yet doomed relationship with a woman he knew he should not be so enraptured with, ignoring his own self-imposed rules about personal involvement. He was facing the biggest political crisis of his life and had not the first clue how to stop Moriarty wiping out the entire British government. On top of this, his relationship with Sherlock had probably never been more strained or tense as it was at present, at a time when Mycroft really needed the support of the people around him. Somehow, Mycroft's tidy and ordered life was collapsing around him.
The only thing Mycroft knew for certain was that he was in no frame of mind to try and tackle his problems today. He was tired, tense and extremely irritable. Heaving himself off the sofa, Mycroft walked over to his wine rack and listlessly chose a bottle of deep red wine, not particularly bothered by its unique description. He shrugged of his coat and selected himself a glass, filling it to a truly decadent level for such an early hour of the day. But Mycroft did not care; maybe tomorrow he would think logically and try and restore some order to his life, but right now all he wanted was to blot everything out.
Mycroft slumped down back onto the sofa and took a long, deep gulp from his glass. He stared at the now half empty glass, the sight of the alcohol making him feel even worse. Had it really come to this, drinking at lunchtime with the sole purpose of getting drunk, as a method of solving his problems? Mycroft sighed heavily, feelings of self-loathing piling on top of all the other troubled sensations running through his aching head. He finished the remainder of the glass of wine in one go, and refilled it without even thinking. Already the alcohol was having the effect he wanted, rushing straight to his head with a vaguely pleasant buzzing sensation, his stiff and tense limbs starting to relax as the wine took hold. Screw the hangover, he thought, and damn the consequences, he just needed to forget everything and pretend none of it had ever happened.
Mycroft pulled his mobile out of his pocket and decided to take the unprecedented step of switching it off. As his finger hovered over the power switch, he could not help but notice all his notifications. 7 text messages, 13 emails, 5 voicemails. He felt a huge surge of irritation rise up in his stomach; he was so sick of all these people and everything they expected from him. Just for this one afternoon, he could not face any of them.
Mycroft finished his second glass of wine, barely tasting the liquid, and lay his head back down onto the arm of the sofa so that he could stare up at the white ceiling. He suddenly realised how exhausted he was, physically and mentally. The room was starting to spin very gently around him in an almost hypnotic manner. Mycroft leaned over to the coffee table and from his laying position, clumsily poured himself a third glass of wine, guiltily aware of the fact that the bottle was close to empty. He decided that maybe he should wait a little bit before downing that glass as well. He returned to staring at the ceiling, allowing his heavy eyelids to momentarily close over his dry sore eyes. Maybe it would be sensible to have a short rest, the tiredness was exacerbating his irritability.
Mycroft closed his eyes again, but this time did not open them. His alcohol-befuddled brain thought vaguely of Molly, wondering how she was feeling at the moment. Was she as angry at Sherlock as he was? Mycroft shifted from his back onto his side and forced the image out of his mind. He did not want to think about Molly or Sherlock or anything.
It did not take Mycroft long to fall into a light fitful sleep, punctuated by waking up at regular intervals and shifting around uncomfortably on the sofa. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that it would be much more sensible to retire to his bedroom and nap properly, but he simply could not be bothered to move. At one point, he had the distinct feeling that he was dreaming, before realising that the loud noise he could hear was actually real.
Mycroft lifted his head up from the sofa and finally worked out that his front door bell was ringing. He squinted at the clock on his mantelpiece to see that it was 5.18pm. Mycroft sat up with a jolt, mentally chastising himself for spending so long idle on the sofa. His neck felt cramped from his awkward lying position and his lower back ached. There was a nasty sour taste of wine in his dry mouth and his headache was now worse. So much for a restful afternoon at home, thought Mycroft, as he staggered gingerly to the door.
Mycroft was not quite sure who he had been expecting to see ringing his doorbell, but he was certainly surprised to see John standing there. John smiled broadly as Mycroft opened to door, noticing immediately his slightly crumpled and weary appearance.
"Hello, Mycroft, I tried phoning but your mobile was going straight to voicemail," John explained cheerfully.
"I turned it off," Mycroft replied listlessly. He was not yet sure why John was here and was not entirely in the mood to see him either.
"So is it ok if I come in?" Asked John.
Mycroft was silent for a moment, wondering how to phrase his response.
"I do not mean to be rude, John," Mycroft said with a sigh, "but to be honest I would rather be alone this afternoon. I've got quite a lot to do."
John narrowed his eyes and cast a thoughtful glance over Mycroft's face, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes and the red wine stains on his lips. He felt a surge of sympathy for the man in front of him.
"Come on, Mycroft," John said gently, "a bit of time away from work for a chat would probably do you good."
Mycroft did not reply, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the thought of John wanting to have a "chat", as he put it. That could only mean discussing what had happened this morning.
"Why don't we go to the pub?" John suggested, "that one on the corner? Just one drink and then I'll leave you to get on with whatever you are doing."
Mycroft was not sure if more drinking was a good idea, but the weariness was starting to set in again and he could not raise enough energy to argue.
"Ok fine, if you really insist," Mycroft replied sullenly, aware that his unenthusiastic response sounded very ungrateful.
John gave him a look of mock sternness, but smiled at the same time.
"Are you ready or do you need anything first?" John asked.
"One minute," muttered Mycroft, returning to the house and leaving John waiting on the doorstep. Mycroft picked up his coat and phone before stopping at the bathroom. He frowned at his own appearance as he glanced in the mirror and quickly straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair. He brushed his teeth to remove the unpleasant taste of stale wine, and splashed a little cold water on his face.
Mycroft returned to John at the front door, still feeling depressed but much better after freshening up. They walked down the road together, John making polite and cheerful conversation, Mycroft not really listening and giving minimal responses.
They entered the pub and Mycroft watched John ordering from the bar as he found them a table. Mycroft felt guilty as he realised what a morose and unresponsive companion he was being. John was clearly here out of concern and kindness; Mycroft made a mental note to try and make a greater effort to be friendly.
John returned to the table with the drinks, lager for himself and a whiskey for Mycroft.
"Thank you, John," said Mycroft as he sipped his drink, saying it with sincerity this time. Perhaps this trip to the pub was a good idea after all, certainly better than continuing the evening alone and getting drunk on the sofa.
"My pleasure," replied John, raising his glass towards Mycroft.
They drank in silence for a moment, before John began to tell Mycroft about an interesting incident at work. Mycroft listened and responded in the correct places, acutely aware that both of them were avoiding the obvious topic of conversation. Mycroft was sure it would not be long before John tackled the real reason he was here.
It was after getting a second round of drinks that John finally broached the subject that was on both of their minds.
"So," John began delicately, focusing his eyes on the rim of his glass, "have you spoken to Sherlock since is morning?"
Mycroft did not say anything but continued instead to sip at his drink. He knew this conversation had been looming, but he was not sure if he wanted it to progress any further .
John suddenly leant forward, looking Mycroft in the eyes, his expression concerned and earnest.
"Sherlock did not ask me to come here, Mycroft," John explained patiently, "I came because I was worried about you."
"There really is no need to concern yourself," Mycroft replied curtly.
"Well in my opinion, I actually think you need a friend right now," replied John.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows cynically.
"Look, Mycroft," John said, "your brother is incredible, easily the most intelligent man I've ever known. But when it comes to personal problems, it's a different matter. Let's be honest, he is crap."
In spite of himself, Mycroft could not help but smile slightly at this description. John continued, encouraged by his response.
"I've always thought there is absolutely nothing I could ever do to help you that Sherlock could not do," John explained, "but this morning I realised I was wrong. I may not be as clever as him, but I do understand some things that he does not. Things like relationships and people and feelings. And I'm not trying to interfere with your private life Mycroft, but you look like a man who could do with my sort of help."
Mycroft felt touched by John's words. And maybe he was correct. Mycroft felt hopelessly out of his depth in the mess he had found himself in and did not know where to turn.
A few moments of silence passed as each man contemplated what to say next.
"So how long have you been seeing her?" Asked John, watching Mycroft's face closely, fully expecting him to start lying.
Mycroft debated with himself silently, wondering how much he should confide in John.
"Not very long," he finally replied, "just a few weeks."
John nodded, privately shocked that Sherlock's suspicions had proven to be correct. Deep down, John had never really believed it was possible that Mycroft had begun a relationship. It seemed so incredibly unlikely.
"And how is it going?" John asked, "do you like her? Are you both happy?"
Mycroft gave a maddeningly vague nod. John felt the tiniest twinge of impatience; Mycroft was certainly making this conversation hard work.
"Have you slept with her yet?" John probed, purposely asking a provocative question to try and force Mycroft to react.
Mycroft's cheeks flushed and his face darkened with annoyance.
"That's a rather personal question, do you not think?" He said sternly.
"Come on Mycroft, we're both adults aren't we?" John pressed on, "I'm not asking for all the intimate details. I just wondered if you are having sex with this woman."
Mycroft did not answer, but the rising colour in his cheeks told John what he needed to know.
"So what is the problem?" John asked. "You're seeing a woman and you like her. Why do you seem so stressed about it?"
Mycroft was staring so hard at his glass that his eyes were losing focus. He was so lost in his trance-like state that he answered the question before considering his answer.
"The problem is that I think I might be falling in love with her," Mycroft said softly, talking more to himself now rather than John.
John's eyes widened in surprise. He had not expected this.
"Wow!" He responded, "that's really great, isn't it?"
Mycroft shook his head slowly.
"No it is not," he replied heavily, "it means I need to stop seeing her as soon as possible. And doing that is going to be the hardest thing I've ever done."
John frowned in confusion.
"But why?" He asked, "if you care about her that much, why can't you just keep seeing her and be happy?"
"Becauseā¦" Mycroft began, pausing to consider his words. The pause extended into silence. Mycroft finally looked up from his glass and met John's questioning eyes.
"Because caring is not an advantage," he finally concluded.
John gave Mycroft a quizzical look.
"Mycroft, I really do not understand what you are talking about," John said gently.
"And neither will she," Mycroft said sadly. He suddenly decided that this had gone far enough. He had divulged far more than he intended.
"I need to go John, I'm sorry," Mycroft said hurriedly, getting up from his seat briskly before John could stop him, "thank you for the drink, but I need to be at home now."
With those words, Mycroft walked briskly away, not turning back to glance as he left the pub. John opened his mouth to call after him but stopped himself. He was not sure he had managed to help Mycroft in any way, but it was also evident that Mycroft was not going to confide anything more tonight.
Mycroft walked home quickly, his eyes on the pavement, the air now cool and refreshing due to a light and filmy rain. His face and hair were lightly coated with droplets when he reached his front door. He inserted the key into the front door, before a slight movement in the front garden caught his eye. He turned to see what had caught his attention, and jumped violently when he realised there was a figure standing in the shadows.
"I've been waiting for you, I was hoping you would not be too long," the shadowy figure said as they stepped forward.
It was Molly, her face as pretty as ever but clearly strained with worry. He eyes searched his face, silently seeking reassurance that he was alright. Mycroft stared back at her, the tiny droplets of rain clinging to her hair glinting and catching the final glimmers of the evening light. Mycroft stepped closer to her. There was so much he needed to say to her, and so many things he wanted to explain if he was to avoid hurting her. He looked down into her face, a face that was begging him to hold her close. Mycroft knew what he needed to do and the longer he put it off, the more difficult it was going to be.
He looked into her eyes. Not tonight. Maybe he would say it tomorrow. But not tonight.
