A/N: We all know where Greg is as far as the relationship's concerned, but I really wanted this chapter to come out of Mycroft's point of view. I hope I did a fairly good job conveying his thoughts and feelings. I have about thirty different theories on why the Holmes brothers have such a bizarre relationship, and if you've already seen my work, you'll have seen one of them. This one is another theory, though again, I kind of discount "Mummy Holmes" here and make her colder than is indicated by canon. Perhaps I'll eventually explore one of my more flattering theories of her, but in the meantime, here you are! I hope you enjoy!
Courting a man like Mycroft might have required planning, were it not for the fact that Mycroft would undoubtedly have seen through any ideas Greg had within seconds and spoiled the surprise. But there was one thing he clearly wasn't picking up on, an obvious thing that Greg could only guess was too obvious for him to notice. Mycroft liked a challenge, and rarely wasted time on obvious details, so Greg was apparently being extremely obvious about his feelings… or Mycroft wasn't ready for that.
That was fine, Greg figured as they began their Sunday with a leisurely stroll about the grounds. It was truly beautiful at Mycroft's mansion, and they'd lucked out and earned a bit of sunshine, which was what had prompted their exploration in the first place.
"This is the pond where Sherlock and I would swim when it was summer and we had nothing else to do." Mycroft's gaze was contemplative, so Greg decided to risk a different, no less pressing, question.
"What happened between the two of you, anyway? Why is there so much conflict? You obviously love him, and he seems to feel the same, so why are your interactions always stilted?" Lips drawing into a thin line, Mycroft glanced at Greg and then away again, those eyes almost as remote as they had been on that first day. Except… Mycroft's hand, formerly tucked into his pocket, came up to find Greg's, grasping tightly.
"I suppose it comes down to our father. I was, as you have probably guessed, the dutiful son. I did everything Father requested of me, following willingly in his footsteps, but Sherlock had no interest in politics. When he was a boy, he actually wished to be a pirate, which was obviously not a career that the Holmes name could encourage.
"It came down to one huge, nasty fight. I was unfortunate enough to be home for Christmas that weekend—that was admittedly probably the trigger—and Sherlock was upset that Father had had the maid clean up his latest experiments before he could get his results. Father told him, in the cold, disapproving tone, that marked most of our childhood, that he was to quit fooling around and actually develop a real hobby, and then perhaps he wouldn't feel the need to guide him toward the correct path."
Mycroft's eyes drifted shut, and he could still see it playing out in front of him. While the images played behind his eyelids, he told Greg the details, the memory blocking out almost everything else.
"Well, I'm sorry I'm not perfect like your precious Mycroft, but I never wanted to be a politician!" Sherlock rose to his feet, threw his napkin on the table, and shouted at their father, the outburst quite unexpected. The boy Mycroft remembered had been sweet, shy, and always inquisitive, quick to smile and easy to forgive. The boy who'd formed over the past year, however, wasn't one he recognized. And hearing his own name spat like acid from that tongue that used to poke out at him so adorably when his baby brother teased him… that hurt, rather badly.
"Mycroft, at least, is realistic enough to know his strengths. What do you want to do with your life? Play with your chemistry set and beg people for money for more ingredients? That is not a life for a Holmes. Mycroft will bring honor to our name, and if you continue like this, you'll bring nothing but shame, and I will cut you out of the will."
Silence greeted the pronouncement for a few moments, while Mycroft and Sherlock both stared dumbstruck at their father. Mother did not look surprised, so it was obviously something she'd been expecting for a long time.
A furious Sherlock had tears in his eyes, and his hands were balled into tight fists that, combined with his fragile bone structure, made him look like he was about to break. That inner fire that had always burned so brightly inside him blazed now, and Mycroft wandered if he was about to witness a supernova going off. At sixteen, Sherlock was set to go off to uni shortly, and he'd been arguing with their father for months over his major. That was another reason it had all come to a head—Father had declared his major Political Science without bothering to tell him.
"I hate you." His voice was a tremulous whisper now, whole body vibrating with anger and sorrow that was targetless. It was obvious to both of them that their parents would never care about their thoughts and feelings. Apparently they never had.
Sherlock ran from the room, and when Mycroft quietly excused himself and went up to check on the boy, he discovered that targetless rage, when given a target, could burn.
"What are you doing here, Fatty?" Sherlock was throwing clothes into a bag when Mycroft paused in his doorway, wincing at his brother's words. He'd had a lot of social anxiety in his younger years, which had resulted in his overeating more than he should have. He'd shed the weight after their father had thrown several such comments his way, but he'd never heard Sherlock be so cruel to him. They'd always stuck together before, despite their divergent interests.
"Sherlock, you aren't planning on running away, are you? You don't need to do that. Perhaps you can reason with Father, explain to him…" Mycroft trailed off, making what he knew was an ineffectual hand gesture, and Sherlock laughed scornfully at him, those eyes a more fiery version of their father's usual condescension.
"Perfect Mycroft. You'll never understand what it is to not be their perfect puppet. That's all you'll ever be, but I've always wanted more. And I'll have it. I can carry my own weight, and I don't see a point in sticking around to live in this house with two marionettes and Father always pulling the strings. As far as I'm concerned, I'm done with all of you." Sherlock had finished packing by the end of his soliloquy, and he shoved Mycroft roughly out of his way as he headed for the stairs. After a few moments, the door slammed, the ring of it echoing through the suddenly completely silent house.
Mycroft could only stand there in shock. Sherlock was gone, and somehow, it was his fault for listening to their father. But if he hadn't, he would be all alone in the world. He knew that soon, he would legally have no brother, and that he would be left to himself with no one he trusted in this mansion that felt more like a prison. There was no one who loved him now, not his parents, who he'd always struggled to please, or his brother, whose light had always been an inspiration to him when he felt himself losing hope.
Now what was left? Everything was gone, and he was finally learning the terrible truth that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Caring was not an advantage.
With a heavy heart, Mycroft packed his things that night, explaining quietly to Father the next morning that he'd been called in to work. When five minutes later, that proved true, he took it as a sign. He knew he would never return to the mansion, not while his parents were living, and in the cab, he visualized ripping his still-beating heart from his chest and putting it on ice. He proceeded to live his life that way for the next twenty years, even after his parents died two years later and he located Sherlock a few months after that.
"By the time I found Sherlock again, he was already an addict, and his personality had solidified into that of the angry boy who'd cursed me and left home forever. I still wasn't able to go to the mansion at that point, thanks to the memories, so I already had a flat here in London. I invited Sherlock to live with me, and he did for a few months, until he moved out abruptly and started using again. He lost that flat due to lack of payment, as I had no idea where he was and thus could not help him, and I believe that is where you came in."
Mycroft's chilly summary somehow described the truth but robbed it of all its horror. He seemed detached, almost viciously so, and Greg started to understand why he'd created his Iceman persona, made himself the remote robot the world knew him as. There was a lifetime of hurt buried beneath that ice, decades of tears locked away until even Mycroft wasn't positive he was human anymore. Understanding the truth only gave him more compassion, both for the young boy full of mistrust and unhappiness and for the older one, barely a man, whose heart had been so badly damaged by the few people he'd trusted.
"The two of you have never talked about it? Sherlock has to know that none of it was your fault." Mycroft sighed, then, his façade cracking a little and allowing Greg to see a flicker of regret in his eyes.
"Sherlock refuses to address those years, and I cannot make him. I'm not sure there is a way to repair the damage after all this time. Perhaps I did not create the situation, but I am not entirely blameless, Gregory. I could have tried to address our father myself, but I was afraid. I had always sought his approval in everything, and wasn't sure how to change a lifetime's habit, even at the expense of my little brother. I did fail him."
"It sounds more like the two of you disagreed than one or the other of you failing, Mycroft. And that does happen, even to the best of friends. You aren't in charge of his relationships with other people, you know."
"Perhaps." Mycroft's noncommittal answer didn't exactly sound convincing, but Greg wasn't sure how to get a more solid answer out of him. He decided to simply wait quietly, while Mycroft tugged him down to sit on the bank and leaned his head on his shoulder.
"I just don't know how to get through to him, my darling. He and I have always been so different, fire and ice, and I don't even know how to reconcile the two."
"Well, you make it work with me, and you and I are pretty different." Greg pointed this out with a soft smile, the kind that shrank the world until it was just the two of them, and Mycroft found himself smiling back, not sure what kind of magic the other man had worked to ensnare him so completely.
"That's different." Mycroft said, not able to come up with a better argument. He had a feeling Greg was going to win, a feeling that only intensified when that smile widened. Now Greg was the predator, but Mycroft didn't mind being prey, when he would be devoured so sweetly.
"Are you sure about that?" He'd already known he was sunk for the argument, but when Greg cupped his face and gave him a kiss that was somehow tenderer than any they had ever shared before, Mycroft realized he was sunk for life. He had managed to fall in love with this man, though he knew not how or why, and even as he submitted to the simple kiss that created a million not-so-simple feelings, he realized he was submitting to those feelings, too. They washed away the bittersweet memories that had been suffocating him and left him vulnerable, but more complete than he'd ever been in his life. And it was at that moment that he realized he wasn't afraid of it.