Greg didn't know where he was going after he left the pub. Still, he wasn't surprised when he caught sight of the Yard ahead of him. Work. Work was safe, work was sane. He could cool down there until he no longer felt like shouting or punching a wall. All he could think about was Mycroft's first partner, how much he had hurt Mycroft. It hurt Greg to see Mycroft doubt himself like that. He roughly pushed the door open, going inside. It was late, and most people were gone for the day, including Sally. However, when he entered, his office wasn't empty.
"Hello," John said evenly, standing.
Greg froze. Oh god. "Tonight was pub night?" he asked, trying not to cringe. He and John went to the pub every other week, and apparently it had just slipped Greg's mind.
"Yes." John seemed not at all bothered by Greg's forgetfulness.
Greg ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to throw something, wanted to get his anger out somehow. What else was he forgetting? What else had slipped his mind? God, no wonder Mycroft didn't want him. He was a fucking mess. "Sorry," Greg muttered, not making eye contact. He sank into his office chair.
"Something on your mind?" John asked blithely, sitting down in the chair on the other side of Greg's desk. He leaned back, looking at Greg with his quiet, unassuming calm.
Greg went back and forth. Did he say something? Not say something? "How's Sherlock?" he asked instead. Maybe that would be the way to go. He didn't want to talk about his relationship with Mycroft, not really. Especially not when there was a chance it would get back to Sherlock.
John's smile was slight. "Sleeping."
Greg raised his eyebrows. "Sleeping?"
John inclined his head in confirmation. "Finally crashed after being up for the better part of four days."
Greg bit back a chuckle. "No sleeping meds in his tea?"
John winked. "You're better off if you don't know."
Greg smiled faintly. John had mentioned a bit about his relationship with Sherlock. There was a deep connection between the two of them. A quiet contentment that Greg saw on crime scenes whenever Sherlock showed up with John by his side. They moved comfortably around each other, as if there were no secrets. As if there was complete and utter trust. There could not have been a starker contrast between their relationship and Greg's with Mycroft if he had tried. "You two are good, then?"
John shrugged. "We have our good days and our bad." He looked back at Greg, his gaze steady. "Bit not good on your end?"
These were the times that Greg desperately wished that he still drank. Right now he would like nothing more than to drink a bottle of his favorite scotch and pass out, rather than sitting in his office and talking about feelings. "No." Greg let out a short laugh. "More than a bit not good."
"I think Sherlock's been a bit concerned," John said, seemingly nonchalant. "Mycroft hasn't shown up at Baker Street in nearly two weeks. It's a record."
Greg rubbed his forehead with a hand. "Things have been - rough." It wasn't the right word for it, but Greg wasn't sure there was a right word. Would they even make it past it?
"Mycroft's got a history." Greg looked at John to see him as unruffled as ever. His face was composed, his posture had not shifted. He seemed entirely unfazed by their discussion. "Sherlock does, too."
Greg winced at the thought. "Yeah, I - I was there one night, when Sherlock confronted Mycroft." He stared blankly at the far wall, thinking of the night he had hidden, just out of view. Listened to Mycroft talk about how it was his own fault that Jack was dead.
"It wasn't easy with Sherlock, not at first, not now," John said, his voice low. He didn't look at Greg, but just to the side of him. "It never will be easy. There will always be things lurking just under the surface. They like to hide things, pretend that they don't matter." John shook his head. "Is it over, between you two?"
Greg shook his head vehemently. "Not at all."
John looked at Greg, the corner of his lips quirking up into a smile. "Does he know that?"
Greg opened his mouth to say yes, of course - and it hit him. He had left Mycroft by himself. Mycroft, who would likely blame himself for everything that had transpired that night. "They're not very smart when it comes to emotions, are they?" he asked John.
John chuckled, standing, and shook his head. "Brilliant, but stupid." He gave Greg a clap on the shoulder. "Talk to him. We'll meet up in a couple weeks, yeah?"
Greg nodded. "Of course." He picked up his mobile, thumbing through his contacts until he found Mycroft's number. "John?"
The former army doctor stopped at the door, half-turning to see Greg. "Yeah?"
"Thank you."
John smiled. "Good luck. You'll need it."
Greg gave a half-wave in farewell and turned back to his phone. Maybe he could salvage his evening after all.
Mycroft followed Anthea to the car. He didn't look at her, didn't look up, didn't see anything. He felt numb, like a rug had been yanked out from underneath him, like nothing mattered. Nothing did matter. He had failed to be what Greg needed, what Greg wanted. He had failed someone who was supposed to care for him. Mycroft was not what he needed, what anyone needed.
In a way, Mycroft supposed, it was good that Greg had realized it early. He was certain that Greg's time to think was simply an excuse for a prolonged absence that would end in a final separation. He wasn't naive enough to think that Greg would actually come back.
Mycroft slid into the car, Anthea next to him, and turned his head slightly so he could stare out the window. Lights flickered in the corner of his vision, buildings going by as the car started to move. With little effort, he mapped out the route they took, every street that the car passed. "Tell the driver to continue driving," he said, his voice sounding strange even to himself. Anthea obeyed without questioning why, although he could feel her eyes on him. It was a strange order, Mycroft could acknowledge, but he did not care.
Going home or to work felt like admitting defeat. Like acknowledging that his relationship was over, that there was nothing he could do to fix it. Acknowledging that Mycroft had failed to do what was necessary to be a human being. Caring was not an advantage, Mycroft had read somewhere, in some book. It had become his mantra after Jack had died. He had wrapped himself in it, protected himself with it. It had been all that mattered.
And then Greg had appeared and wormed his way into Mycroft's life, into his heart, as much as Mycroft did not want to admit it. Greg's warm demeanour was a facade, it always had been. Mycroft had loved an illusion, a fabrication. It wasn't Greg's fault, it was Mycroft's. It was all he deserved, after all. If he was a better person, perhaps he would have deserved someone different. Instead, all Mycroft deserved was pain.
He did not know how long they had been driving when he was jolted out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled it out of his pocket, startled to see that it was Greg. He hung the phone up without answering. Greg would be angry, for his behavior at the pub, and Mycroft did not care to be yelled at.
Then the mobile rang again, and again. Mycroft stared down at it, his heart starting to race, hope threatening to sneak its way into his mind. He crushed it ruthlessly. It wasn't what he deserved. Reality was stark and headed his direction. Greg was going to shout, be angry, and Mycroft was going to take it. "Hello?" He kept his voice as calm as possible. Regardless of what was coming his way, he didn't want to aggravate Greg any more than was necessary.
"Mycroft?" Greg sounded relieved. Mycroft shifted on the seat, drawing Anthea's further attention. He could see her watching him out of the corner of his eyes.
"Speaking." Mycroft tilted his head slightly, bracing himself for what he knew was coming.
"Mycroft, I'm not angry with you, I'm not upset, I'm not - god, I'm not mad. I could never be mad at you." Greg said it all in a rush, as if he could not wait. As if he had been bottling it up for a long time. "I love you, you git. I love you to pieces. I left because I didn't want to upset you."
Mycroft didn't know what to say. He stared blankly at the divider between himself and his driver, blinked. What? It wasn't what he expected, it wasn't what he had anticipated. "Mycroft?" Greg said anxiously. "You there?"
"Yes," Mycroft answered out of habit. He felt like he had been catapulted into a world that made no sense, where up was down and down was up. "I do not understand."
"Of course you don't." It wasn't mocking, it wasn't hateful. Instead, Greg sounded sad, like he wished he could be there. "I want to see you."
Mycroft swallowed thickly. "Unfortunately I have a work engagement that -"
"Please?" Greg cut him off. "Please. We need to talk."
"I - I suppose." Mycroft acquiesced. "I would prefer that we pick a neutral ground for our meeting." Too many memories at either of their homes. It would make sense for their final meeting to take place somewhere that was not important to either of them.
"We could meet at the Yard, maybe, or that warehouse, the one that you kidnapped me to that one time, or-"
Mycroft did not hear the rest of Greg's sentence, he didn't hear the car coming that smashed into the side of his vehicle. All he felt was a sudden jolt, an impact - he heard the driver scream - and then everything went black.
When Mycroft opened his eyes, he did not recognise where he was. Frowning, he glanced around. IV pole, monitoring equipment. Gown instead of his beloved suit. He was in a hospital. There was a short, brown-haired woman standing in front of a computer near the entrance to the room. "Where am I?" he managed, aware his voice sounded hoarse.
"Hospital," he heard Anthea say from behind the curtain. He couldn't see her, a fact he found oddly disconcerting. She stood and pulled the curtain back, then settled carefully on her bed. "Another car slammed into ours. You were rendered unconscious, but I was awake."
"Is the driver safe?" Mycroft asked, careful with his words. Speaking was oddly tricky, and his mind felt fuzzy, as if he was thinking through a wall of cotton.
"Bit shook up, but safe." Anthea shrugged, wincing as she did so. "I've got a broken arm. We're country-bound for the next four, six weeks at least."
"I could go without you," he argued. She raised her eyebrows, not having it. "I am certain there is enough paperwork and meetings here to keep us suitably occupied for your recuperation."
"I'm certain that'll be about as thrilling as it sounds," she muttered. One corner of Mycroft's lips tugged upwards in a semblance of a smile.
He shifted, trying to sit up, and winced. "Doctor says you likely have a concussion and a small rib fracture or two. Few weeks for you before you're back to normal." Anthea sounded nonchalant, and Mycroft glared at her. "I wasn't the one who hit you with a car, don't glare at me."
Mycroft didn't snort, that was undignified. But he certainly rolled his eyes to demonstrate exactly what he felt about Anthea's words. At least she looked as undignified as he did. "I refuse to wear this ghastly clothing outside of this room," Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows.
"Replacement clothes and mobiles are on the way for both of us," she said.
Mycroft froze. Mobile. Greg. He had been on the phone with Greg when the car had hit them, Greg had heard it all - he felt his heart drop to the floor. Greg was going to be angry, Greg was going to be upset. It was Mycroft's fault, it always was.
His attention was drawn by shouting outside, and he narrowed his eyes. An assassination attempt wasn't likely, not after last Tuesday. Sherlock wouldn't dare make such an undignified ruckus, not on Mycroft's behalf. Who was it?
The door open and Mycroft stared as Greg came in, grumbling to the curly-haired woman behind him about uncooperative hospital personnel. He turned and saw Mycroft, shutting up and staring at him, frozen. The woman who Mycroft vaguely recognised as Sally Donovan went over to Anthea's bed, wrapping her arms around Anthea and holding her tight.
For a moment Mycroft felt a flash of envy. He wished it was like that with Greg, that they had that easy comfort, the care between the two of them palpable to anyone that saw them. But it wasn't, and that didn't matter. Mycroft didn't deserve it, anyway. When he looked up, Greg was closer to him, but not within his space. He seemed hesitant, afraid. Mycroft looked away, conscious of how ridiculous he looked in his hospital garb. He smoothed the sheet over his lap. "I apologize for inconveniencing you," Mycroft said smoothly. "Your presence is not necessary." His heart broke as he said every word, but he pushed it to the side. Later. He could deal with such an inconvenience later. "You do not owe me anything, especially after-"
He was cut off by Greg's lips against his. It was awkward, too close, and Mycroft's head thundered in protest. Greg took Mycroft's face into his hands, carefully, gingerly, as if Mycroft would break if Greg applied too much pressure. "I'm sorry," Greg murmured, kissing Mycroft again. Mycroft didn't look at him, he couldn't look at him. His stomach was roiling and he felt like he was going to be sick. The world was too much, everything was too much - what was Greg doing, why was he doing it - it didn't make any sense, why, make it stop.
Greg let go, and Mycroft became aware of how his muscles had seized up, how tense he had become. His breath was fast and shaky, his body out of his control. He hated this, hated how little he could control his own reactions. That was why he had started drinking in the first place. It toned down the panic reactions, enabled him to mute them completely. "I don't understand," Mycroft said, hating how he sounded. Pathetic. Useless. Desperate. Worthless. Undeserving.
"Can I sit on the bed?" Greg asked, his voice quiet, unassuming. Mycroft heard the underlying question, heard the can-I-stay-or-should-I-go.
Mycroft said nothing either way. He wasn't certain, not yet. So Greg settled onto the side of the bed, close enough to see Mycroft and make eye contact without unduly disrupting him. "You're okay," Greg whispered, mostly to himself. He searched Mycroft's eyes, looked him up and down, looking for any obvious injuries. "God, you're okay." He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away from Mycroft and towards the side of the room. "When I - when I heard the call, about the car, I didn't - god." Greg swallowed thickly. "Anthea called Sally, told her where they were taking you. And - we came."
Mycroft watched as Greg crumpled, as he covered his face with a hand. "God, you wouldn't have even been in that car if I hadn't - this is my fault."
Mycroft's heart thudded in his chest as he saw the tears leak from Greg's eyes, saw how upset he was. All Mycroft wanted to do was hold him, make it better, but it wasn't that simple - was it? Tentatively, ignoring the IV in his hand, he reached out, touched Greg's arm. Greg lifted his head, looked at Mycroft, and wrapped his arms around him. Tighter than was entirely physically pleasant, but it was emotionally satisfactory. Mycroft shifted within Greg's grasp, careful to adjust for his frail physical state as well as the line in his wrist. He cautiously wrapped an arm around Greg's waist, accommodating the pain from the broken ribs. It was the first time he had hugged someone in quite some time and he wasn't entirely certain how he felt about it.
"It is not your fault." Mycroft did not know why he was talking, but he plunged forward anyway. It wasn't Greg's fault, and Greg needed to know that. "You could not have known that there would be a crash. You are not responsible for this."
"You're a hypocrite," Greg said, chuckling as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "You tell me this isn't my fault but exactly how much of the blame are you taking on?"
Mycroft stiffened, ignoring the stab of pain in his chest. "It is none of your business, but it is my fault and-"
"It's not, though." Greg gently cupped Mycroft's cheek with his hand, kissed him softly, slowly. "It's not."
Mycroft stared at him, doubtful. Of course it was. Wasn't it? And why wasn't Greg angry? Greg was not furious, he was not mad, he was in no way perturbed by Mycroft's behavior. It was incredibly disconcerting. It made no logical sense. "I do not understand," he said finally. He met Greg's eyes and regretted it, regretted seeing the warmth there, the caring, the compassion. There was no anger, there was no hatred, no resentment. Just love.
His resolve shattered, he shattered, and he looked away, feeling oddly vulnerable. He couldn't handle it, couldn't deal with it. It did not slot neatly into the worldview that he had ascribed to for many years. "It isn't going to be easy," Greg murmured, stroking his cheek with a thumb. "Things that are worth it rarely are."
Mycroft said nothing, but leaned into Greg's touch, into his hold, and his forehead touched Greg's shoulder. Maybe it would work out. Maybe they would make it. "Okay."