The first time Greg and Mycroft kissed, it was all about the taste of something new, the thrill of the moment and the joy of newly discovered reciprocity. The last time was nothing like that.
The moment Mycroft closed the door behind him after kicking Sherlock out and leaving him with John (completely unaware of what he had just started), he turned around to face Greg, that looked even more nervous and worried than a moment ago. The prince reluctantly walked towards him, not wanting to hear what he had to say, and stopped when they were still a bit apart from each other, each at one end of the fireplace. Greg took a breath and opened his mouth, but Mycroft was the one who spoke first.
"You're leaving with the army tonight."
"How did you-"
"Because it's bloody obvious, Greg." he snarled, a bit harsher than he expected, which made him take a moment to calm his voice. "How long will you be away? For the look on your face, I'm guessing months, maybe a year-"
He stopped talking when the knight closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, cringing at the sound of Mycroft's guess. That was when the prince realized what the big deal was all really about, and it was like the air had been punched out of his lungs.
"You're not coming back." he mumbled, as empty as humanly possible. For someone who hardly ever showed any emotion, he felt as if his heart had shrunk out of existence.
"It's that expedition we were talking about the other week-" Greg started explaining.
"The suicide mission?"
"It's not- alright, it is." he corrected himself, when he saw that Mycroft was about to interrupt him again. "It's a suicide mission. But it's a necessary one, we discussed that."
Well, I didn't know it would be you in the front line facing the cannons, the prince thought. "You're not going." he decided. Greg, who already expected that reaction from him, sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I mean it." the other continued, walking around and starting to make tea as if nothing was going to change. "You know you can hide here. There are so many guests in this damn castle, I doubt another one won't go by unseen."
"Mycroft-"
"It's not like father will notice; he would have to actually pay attention to what happens in this place for that to happen."
"Mycroft-"
"We can forge your death, if you like. I am aware that honor matters to some people, so if we simply-"
"Mycroft-"
"WHAT?!" he raged, throwing the tray on the ground, both tea cups and the kettle shattering with a loud noise. Greg was startled at the sight of the calmest, least emotional person he had ever met snapping for the first time right in front of him. And Mycroft went from anger back to emptiness in a heartbeat as Greg walked towards him and gave him a hug.
"They need me back there." he said softly as Mycroft put his arms around him and hugged him back, clinging to him like if he held him close enough, he wouldn't have to go. "Most soldiers know where this is heading. They know what's going to happen, and the least I can do is be there with them; it's a small group, and I've fought with them for two years now, i could never just run away. And putting fellowship aside, you know what they do to the runaway soldiers' families."
"I can provide them the protection they need."
"And they would spend the rest of their days hiding. I can't do that to them."
"Oh for god's sake, Greg; why can't you just be a crappy soldier like the rest of them and accept a way out of certain death when it's being bloody handed to you on a silver platter?"
"I love you too."
Then Mycroft just buried his face on the knight's shoulder and stayed that way for a while. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. "I don't think there was ever a way out."
When they knocked on the door a second time, the prince swore to himself that someone was going to loose the privilege of their hands that day, and Greg pulled them apart just enough to face him, their chests still touching.
"No drugging me and locking me in the closet."
"Oh please, I'm not Sherlock."
"And I wonder who he learned that from." he joked, leaning in. They kissed one last time, and in the end, neither of them wanted to let go. Mycroft didn't cry; that's not how he worked, even though it didn't mean he didn't feel pain. Greg did tear up a bit, although he hid it from the man who never cried.
Now, Mycroft was sitting next to the window, passing these and other memories in his mind, mourning as if the knight was already dead. And not even the best fireplace in the castle could lower the shivering cold in the room - Greg was gone and he'd taken away the warmth with him. The prince had just had a heavy argument with his father, trying to convince him to cancel the expedition or to send other troops, but it was all in vain. Acting against Greg's wish and putting his family in danger was never considered option - he was perhaps the only person Mycroft actually respected, and that included his decisions.
Sherlock could easily tell there was something wrong with his brother and that it was most probably because of whatever it was he had talked about earlier with Lestrade. He hoped vainly that it was nothing serious - he had grown quite affectionate towards Greg. He was the only person he had ever met (apart from maybe John now, he supposed) that didn't treat Sherlock as if everything he said was ignorable just because of his age. Even Mycroft did that to him; even though they were close, every so often he would practically put his little brother on mute. The fact that no one gave his words the merit they deserved bothered Sherlock more than it should, and Greg had been there for him when nobody else would listen.
But Mycroft hardly ever showed when he was sick at heart, so Sherlock knew he wouldn't be seeing Greg for a while.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-
John's bedroom was one of the smallest in the castle, which, for their standards, was still quite large. He was offered a bigger one, but he thought it felt too empty with only him in a wide room. There was only a bed, a nightstand and a wardrobe, with some shelves and paintings on the walls. The room was painted light blue with white clouds, and the window had a view for an enormous garden, filled with bush sculptures and colored roses. That night, John carefully placed a glass of water on the nightstand, just like he had almost religiously been doing for some time now, and went to bed.
"Hey sis." he started, staring at the high sky-painted ceiling. "Today was fun. I finally found the dungeons, so that's good. I went there with someone else, though. I hope that's okay; I know it was kind of our thing, to explore hidden parts of the castle."
He yawned and curled up on his side, closing his eyes.
"His name is Sherlock. How different, huh? He's a bit weird - a complete show off, smarter than anyone I know, and I don't think he is used to talking to people, but he seems nice, in a way. ...I still miss you. I wish you were here, Harry." and he fell asleep, mumbling the words that no one would hear.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-
The next day, John went to the trophy room at the scheduled time to find Sherlock already there, crouched behind a marble pillar.
"Sherlock, what are you-"
But the pitch haired prince abruptly pulled him by the hand, making him sit down next to him, and covered John's mouth with his hand.
"What the hell?" the blonde tried to ask, though his voice was too muffled to be understood. But he soon heard the voices, and Sherlock lost the grip on him before John had the chance to lick his hand to make him let go.
"I don't want to go down there again! That lunatic gives me the creeps." whispered a low voice, coming from the other side of the room.
"Well, that's not my problem, is it?" a higher voice replied. "Someone's gotta feed the beast! How much longer is he going to be there anyway?"
"Until he says something. But the torture doesn't seem to be helping; I bet he'll drop dead before opening his mouth."
"What could be so important that's worth the hell that guy's been going through?"
But after that the voices got distant - the two guards were walking down the staircase. Sherlock waited a few seconds, stood up, and rushed to follow them; good thing the passage didn't close from the inside. John was right behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible as he went down the steps. They soon started to hear the voices again:
"...connected to the fire that happened on that other castle." the low voice was saying. Only that half sentence was enough to startle John. He quickly outpaced Sherlock, so he could hear them better.
"You mean the reason I have to put up with a hundred other people bossing me around? But that already happened, what does it matter now?"
"They think he could have planned that fire, and that he could be planning something else. We caught one of his old allies the other day, and he said this guy's plan was to assassinate their king."
"And did he know anything about his new plans? If they even exist?"
"We don't know. We found him dead twelve hours later."
After that they stopped talking, and the boys continued to follow them. They passed through the opened door and walked behind them across the hall, always staying out of the light coming from the guards' torches. After a while, they finally got to see the prisoner - or what was left of him. Judging by his state, the boys would doubt he could even move if it wasn't for what had happened the previous day. He was sitting huddled in a corner with his back against the wall, and his skeletal hands were covering his face. The long chains that came from the cuffs on his wrists were scattered across the cold floor, lying close to the guards' feet.
"What was his name again?" one asked.
"We only found out his last name. I don't remember it though, it was rather strange; Mor... something."
"And he never does anything?"
"Never. He just... sits there."
When he heard the voices, the prisoner slowly raised his head and stared at them, reveling a thick metal collar locked tight around his neck.
"What is that for?" John whispered, as low as he could. "It's not even attached to anything."
"I'm not sure... But i suppose it could be so he won't hang himself with the chains."
"How thoughtful."
John must have said that a bit too loud, because one of the guards suddenly turned his head towards them.
"Did you hear that?"
Oh shit oh shit oh shit, the boys simultaneously thought, as they blindly ran back to the staircase. They bumped into the door and ran up the stairs, hearing the guard coming after them. But wet and irregular as the steps were, they tripped and fell a few times, still managing to outrun the guard. They didn't stop running when they got to the trophy room, but Sherlock fell before they got out of it. He had hurt his knee pretty bad on the stairs, and the wound was bleeding like hell - and the guard's steps were getting closer.
"Oh, no you don't!" John said, coming back to pick Sherlock up and helping him walk away from there as fast as possible. "Exactly how many times am I going to have to carry you out of here?"
"Not the time, John." Sherlock replied, panting, as they got away from that pit of hell they had deliberately walked into. Twice.
