Mycroft wasn't sure where he was planning to go. On a whim, his feet took him near his old office once more, this time climbing the steps, closing his door behind him as he sunk behind his desk, letting out a pent-up breath and rubbing at his red-rimmed eyes, exhausted and spent. He heard his door open and close but he couldn't bother to open his eyes and see who it was. A soft hand landed on his shoulder and he cracked an eye open.
It was his faithful assistant, Anthea. Well, that was the name she went by, but it was by no means her real one. Secretly, Mycroft had always found her oddly entertaining and extremely interesting. Always a mystery, this one.
He looked up at her, suddenly feeling very broken indeed and she grimmaced, rubbing her thumb up and down his shoulder.
"Oh, Mycroft. I see he told you." Her voice was even, but it was also drenched in a quiet sadness. Pity. His face screwed up in anger once more. Pity? Pity! How dare she.
"I'm fine; get away. I'll leave soon, I just needed to get out for a bit." When she didn't get up and leave him, he pushed her away lightly. He didn't want to hurt her, too. "What do you want? I said I'm fine; you can leave."
"What's wrong, Mycroft? You never get this emotional." He could feel himself pouting, and for a moment, he truly felt sixteen. Sixteen and frightened and lost and hurt and oh so very angry.
"It's happening again," he mumbled, his eyes falling shut against another onslaught of tears. He couldn't cry in front of her. She had always seen him as the strongest of the strong.
"What, dear? What's happening?" After a long moment of silence, she took his hand and smiled gently. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on."
After a long moment, he explained. "It's going to be just like our childhood. I will be stuck babysitting Sherlock his entire life and there will be no time for me and I'll just become a robot, like before. The Ice Man," he said with a sneer. "I'll be pushed to the back while he shines and destroys himself and no one will care what I do and no one cares now, anyway, and I don't think I can bear it. He'll tear his world down around himself and I'll be blamed for it all." His fingers were tapping sporadically on the arm of the chair as he bit his lip, forbidding himself to cry.
Anthea ran a hand through his hair and then down his cheek, wiping away the few tears still streaking down his face. "What's your problem with John?" she asked, leading him towards a conclusion.
A level stare was thrown towards her, but she just smiled helpfully and he sighed. "He was Sherlock's friend, before. He barely ever spoke to me unless I instigated it, and even then it was either about Sherlock or a case for him." Mycroft felt his eyes darting around the room, never settling for too long in one spot. "He doesn't care about me. I just get in the way. Or I'm useful in keeping Sherlock under control. But he doesn't care, he doesn't want me, he doesn't need me around. I'm useless, and no one cares. I'm not happy."
He knew he sounded like he was only pitying himself, moaning and groaning about things that no one cared about, but he couldn't help himself. He needed someone to listen to him.
Anthea nodded, taking Mycroft's hand once more, and dragged him out the room behind her. He felt himself running after her and didn't really care that he didn't know where they were going.
She tugged him into a car and they sat in silence while they drove through London. He was content at her side until they pulled up at 221B and he realized he was going back.
"No! No, I don't want to. They'll be angry. I said, I said some things I shouldn't have. Please, Anthea." Oh, God. And now he was begging. He was spiraling down into Hell itself at this rate.
"It's alright, Mycroft. Come along." Tugging on his hand, he had no choice but to follow her up the steps and stand behind her, pitiful and deflated.
"Go apologize to Sherlock, and stay in the room. No eavesdropping." His eyes were giant but he nodded and shuffled down the hallway, slipping into their room quietly.
Once she was satisfied that he wasn't listening in, Anthea turned on John, the very picture of anger and vengeance. John took a step back, frightened for a slight moment of what she might do to him.
"Dr. Watson, there is something you need to understand about Mycroft Holmes. He is very brilliant, very wonderful, and very capable of feelings. He likes to act as if he is made of ice, but that's never been true. That boy is frightened that he is going to be pushed under the rug and have to stand in the shadow of his brother once again. He only wants to be treated just as good as Sherlock. He wants someone to care that he is smart too, that he knows what he's doing. He wants you to care just as much about him as you do about Sherlock." On the outside she seemed so calm, fragile even. But her voice was powerful, ringing with a deep, protective anger that wouldn't think twice about slicing him to pieces.
She paused, looking the stunned doctor up and down. "He understands that you were friends with Sherlock before this happened, and that's why you're closer to him now, but his brain is that of a child. He sees your preference and all he can comprehend is that you care more for that little boy than you ever will for him."
John nodded, a sudden pit forming in his stomach at the realization. It felt like his heart was slowly sinking to his feet. "I never wanted to make him feel that way. It's very hard. To be equal, with them. I don't know him as well. I don't know how to do this properly. I'm not that good with kids anyway, and no one's good with teenagers. But I'm trying, I really am. I'm trying to talk to him, to get him to talk to me, but he's stubborn and I feel like we keep getting further and further from where I want to be with him after every conversation."
Anthea nodded, studying the floor, her eyes searching for something. "I'm going to say goodbye, and then I'll be off. Keep trying." She passed him and stopped in the doorway, flicking her hair, her eyes dangerous and glittering. "But try harder."
She walked down the hallway to the door at the end and peeked in carefully. "I'm leaving now, Mycroft. Be smart, alright?" He nodded from his seat at the desk and quickly got to his feet, almost running to cling to her solid frame.
"Thank you," he mumbled, and she just smiled, running a hand down his back.
They broke apart and she gave him one last smile before she turned and walked away. Mycroft took a deep breath and then turned back to his seat, but Sherlock was now up and staring at him.
"Are you alright?" he asked, worry coating his words as he stared at Mycroft in confusion.
Mycroft took a moment to think before he smiled, nodding. "Of course. I really am sorry I yelled at you two, Sherlock. I never should have said those things." Sherlock walked up to his big brother and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing tight, allowing the embrace for Mycroft's sake and, secretly, for himself as well. He wasn't quite sure what he would do if Mycroft had truly never come back.
"I don't mind. You needed to yell. I'm. . . I'm sorry we made you that angry. I had longer to get used to the fact. Anthea told me first." Mycroft sighed, running a hand through Sherlock's curls, curling around him.
"You're both too good for me," Mycroft whispered, knocking his head against Sherlock's. He hadn't expected Sherlock to hear him, much less respond.
"Don't say that." Sherlock reared back, looking appaled. "You're the best, Mycroft. Don't you dare say anything to the contrary." Sherlock leaned forward and planted a small kiss to his brother's cheek, hopping back quickly with a giggle as he got out of range. "And you shan't tell anyone I said that, either; I know where you sleep." Mycroft grinned and began running after Sherlock, suddenly feeling infinitely better.
However, a knock at the door broke the moment; made them freeze and turn to face John.