Chapter 10
"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Mycroft mumbled sleepily, softly stroking the Doctor's hair. The other man smiled up at him from his slightly lower position on the bed. "You really like my hair, don't you?" "You have amazing hair." "Just as long as you don't pull it all out..." "I would never..." "You certainly tried... but then you were drunk back then."
Mycroft was suddenly fully awake. "You remember?" "Yes, of course I remember." "But you said... the whole 'spoiler' thing. I thought you just hadn't met me yet." The Doctor suddenly looked sad. "So sorry," he said, "but you would never have dared to touch me otherwise. You would never let me touch you when you weren't hoping for more than another one-night stand. And you never believed enough in yourself to hope for that without a little... incentive." Mycroft frowned. But then it made sense, somehow. The thought that the Doctor had COME BACK to him when he was younger had spurred him on. The thought that they would have a relationship, that it had actually already happened... or would have to happen if the Doctor would visit him in the past for a shag. And that the Doctor had pretended this to be true must mean he really loved him, mustn't it?
What a load of crap! Mycroft sat up in his bed. He couldn't believe he had really fallen for that. For that big fat lie. For that beautiful stranger! And he couldn't believe he was still dreaming about him! Not only when he was sleeping, but the in every waking hour as well. Whenever Mycroft only CONSIDERED to touch a woman, or a man, to kiss, to hold, to love, the Doctor came to his mind. The Doctor would never come back to him, and no matter how often he tried to give him up, no matter how often he tried to forget, Mycroft never got rid of the memory.
There had been days, weeks, months, during which he had had a clear head, only thinking about the Doctor every now and then. When he had ALMOST forgotten. But then the pain just came back roaring, tearing him apart. When Sherlock had met John, for example. Those two were simply meant for each other. No matter what Mycroft did, sooner or later something would happen between them. And where would HE be in this picture? Going to a nice restaurant with the two of them, feeling like an unnecessary accessory? Not seeing his brother at all anymore, finally having no more reason to worry? What would he do then? Without the worrying, without somebody needing him, what would be the meaning of his life?
Of course he had a country to run. Mycroft groaned. His majesty needed him. But he wasn't irreplaceable, no matter how hard he told himself that he was. And what if he suddenly broke? Who would fix him? He was so discrete with his weaknesses that he didn't let anybody see them. Nobody would help him! Nobody would be there. Nobody would miss him, really. Really miss him, like he missed the Doctor.
When Mycroft got up, he had made a decision. He put his clothes on and got ready for work. When he left the house, he was actually humming.
Mycroft's working day was rather successful. Mycroft got a lot of paperwork done, Sherlock kept blissfully out of his way and Mycroft even managed to cheer his grumpy colleague up by telling a few rude jokes. For the evening, he bought a bottle of Sauvignon and all the ingredients for one of his favourite meals. After a short visit to the pharmacist, he arrived at his flat half an hour earlier than usual. He got out of his sweaty clothes, took a shower and put on his best suit, glad that he knew the recipe by heart and wouldn't risk spilling anything if he was careful.
And careful he was. As always. He could upset Mommy, of course, this evening, but that was just a risk he had to take. Mycroft put on some Vivaldi and enjoyed his meal. Afterwards, he put the dishes in the dishwasher and took the wine with him to his study.
After a short, but well-written letter, he emigrated to the living-room, where Vivaldi was still playing. He had everything planned out. The small package of pills lay next to his glass on the table. It probably wouldn't be a quick death, but a safe one. Could later be taken for an accidental overdose. Not that Sherlock would ever fall for that. But it was a clean solution. His brother had John now, the government would soon find an eager replacement for him and Mycroft would be put out of his misery.
Of course, he also hoped to speak to the Doctor first. Cause this was 'need'. Raw and simple need. "Doctor, I need you. Can't you see me now?", Mycroft whispered. He didn't really believe the Doctor would come. He put the pills into his glass, enough to kill a race horse, and watched them dissolve. Very neat indeed. Maybe the Doctor wouldn't come, but then Mycroft would at least KNOW, wouldn't he? That it was all a lie. That the Doctor had shagged hundreds before him and would shag hundreds after him and that it never really MEANT anything.
Mycroft could have just got on with his life. He was sure that many others would have. Anyone who didn't realize when they met THE ONE, really. But Mycroft knew that the Doctor was the only acceptable better other half he could have. Hell, the most brilliant, stunning, amazingly beautiful better other half! The Doctor had just spoilt him for the rest of the world. At times so very human and at times so full of knowledge, but also full of an eternal sadness Mycroft could never fully understand, the Doctor had been a miracle to him. Every day, Mycroft had learnt something knew about him and the Doctor could tell the most amazing stories about unknown places all around the universe.
And now Mycroft didn't even know if one of those stories had been true. "Once a liar, always a liar", as one of his former teachers had said. "Just another miracle for me then, Doctor," Mycroft whispered, "come back for me and tell me that it was all true. That every word of it was true. That you really love me. My life is empty without you. Empty and sad. But I don't want to do this. I don't want to die. But I don't want to live without you either."
He sipped on his glass and grimaced. Bitter. But then every medicine was. "Don't let me die," he said. He got up, glass in hand and went over to the window, stared out into the dark. "Freedom," he said, "that's all I'm asking for. Sometimes I am cruel when I do my work. Get people tortured, or torture them myself. For the greater good, of course. For my country. But there's blood on my hands, Doctor." He took another sip.
"So much blood! And I've seen innocent blood as well. Seen what those criminals have done to their victims. This world isn't fair, no one can make it a better place. But with you, it was at least a bearable place." A tear started running down his face. He had promised himself to keep calm, but now it just hurt too much. "Doctor, I need you." But with his third sip he felt certain that the Doctor wouldn't come back to him. It was over. "I love you and I always will," he whispered and made to drown the rest of his glass.
Suddenly, there was a burst of glass behind him. Mycroft froze in his movement, his glass halfway on its way to his mouth. "Doctor?" There was only a laugh in reply. Was the Doctor laughing at him? But he wouldn't be so cruel, would he? "I was serious," Mycroft said, still facing the window, "I was going to do it."
But when he turned around, it wasn't the Doctor who he saw, but a stranger. "I'm certainly not a doctor," the man laughed. He was holding a gun, pointed at a surprised Mycroft, who almost laughed at the sight. The stranger came towards him and looked at Mycroft's glass with amusement. "What do you have there? Any good?" Now Mycroft really laughed. It was even hard to stop. Had destiny gone insane now?
"You want a taste?", he asked, holding the glass towards the stranger. "You bet I do," the man said, took the glass from Mycroft and drowned it. "Ah, that's better," the stranger – robber? Murderer? Kidnapper? – said, put the glass on the window sill closest to him and whipped his mouth with his sleeve. "You wouldn't believe how thirsty you can get de-activating a security system like yours."
"Who are you?", Mycroft asked. "Moriarty," the man answered, holding out his hand towards Mycroft. "Jonathan Moriarty." Mycroft took the hand, shook it and asked: "And what do you want, Moriarty, Jonathan Moriarty?" "Me and my brother have been watching you for quite some time now," Jonathan answered, "and we have both decided that you are a PRETTY pain in the arse, Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft frowned. "So what if I was?" "Oh you stupid little joker, you," Jonathan cackled. By this time, Mycroft was sure the man was mad... mad and probably soon dead, if the pills did what they were supposed to do. Soon, preferably.
"Why, I will shoot you, of course!", the stranger said. "You will never get away with that," Mycroft retorted. Time. All he needed was time. Gun victims were such a terrible mess. "Oh, don't worry, we have made sure that we WILL. And now turn around, Daddy's had enough now!" Jonathan frowned. "Somehow sounds better when Jim says that."
"What about taking this into the bedroom? I've always kind of wanted to die in my bedroom," Mycroft suggested. Just a little more time. Jonathan frowned. "Are you making fun of me?" "Planned my suicide, actually," Mycroft explained calmly. "So I don't really care." Jonathan's eyes lit up, then he started cackling again. "A suicide! Isn't that just WONDERFUL, Mister Holmes. Now let's go to the bedroom, let me help you a bit with your 'suicide'!"
So Mycroft let himself be walked into his bedroom, racking his brain how he could play for some more time. But then he didn't have to. The moment Mycroft set foot in his bedroom, he heard the man retching behind him. He turned around and Jonathan had all but dropped his gun, clutching at his stomach with both hands, a puddle of sick at his feet "What have you done to me? What was in the whine?", he croaked. "Painkillers," Mycroft answered drily, "too many of them." Jonathan stared at him in horror, than pointed the gun at Mycroft again.
Suddenly, something changed inside of Mycroft. He didn't want that guy to die. Sure, he was one of the 'bad guys'; any other day he had him tortured, maybe even executed without batting an eyelid. But Jonathan was a human being after all. The speed with which he had made the connection to the whine suggested a smart one as well. Not that this made any difference. Mycroft was smart himself and yet there he was, throwing his life away in a whim, just like any other betrayed lover.
"Please, I can help you," he said, "just put the gun down and I can help you," Mycroft said. But Jonathan didn't put his gun down and the last thing Mycroft saw was a white light, then everything went dark. The last thing Mycroft heard was a soft voice, whispering into his ear that everything would be alright.