Dinner at the Holmes house couldn't have been any more painful for Mycroft. Of course, his mother had made one of his favourite meals to welcome him home, but as it turns out trying to slow your eating down when you were used of practically wolfing down everything that was placed in front was more difficult than Mycroft had remembered. Luckily for him though he had Sherlock to make the odd comment reminding him that one portion of food was enough…or maybe he'd just stop there, stop the smirk from forming on Sherlock's lips every time Mycroft raised his fork. Of course Sherlock hardly ate but that was no different to usual. He couldn't help but notice that his parents were trying to subtly keep an eye on how much he was eating as well. He placed his knife and fork down before he was full thanking them for the food and continuing to answer their questions about the term at school.
It was always to easy to forget that family could be a pain in the arse too, It was always just easier to remember how you missed them not the way your pesky little brother was constantly trying to bring the conversation to his weight with well timed questions that could have been mistaken genuine interest if you weren't accustomed to his ways. "What about clothes shops, do they sell your size clothes?" "How was the food this term?" or even "And the P.E lessons? Are they not mandatory?" All would have been perfectly ordinary and acceptable question if not for the look on Sherlock's face and the smug smirk as he asked, of course Mycroft knew what he was doing, but not answering would only prove how much it was getting to him. Instead he answered curtly refusing to give Sherlock the pleasure of winding him up.
Although Mycroft was certain that there was some form of desert in the fridge – no he wasn't specifically looking for it, it just wasn't hidden well- neither of his parents mentioned it though, and Mycroft understood the unspoken message. Wouldn't it just be easier for everyone to have Mycroft back on his diet? his mother would probably take the cake to some tea with her friends, and Mycroft wouldn't have to have any, because really his diet needed to be restarted with immediate action. Meanwhile Sherlock's barbs were getting less and less subtle, evidently the boy didn't have a shred of tact or patience in him, unable to wait even six hours before snapping insults at every chance he got. His parents attempts to thwart his barrage of insults had little effect, and Mycroft was just too tired to reciprocate By the end of the meal Mycroft was beyond embarrassed, hugely irritated and any scrap of self confidence he'd had before sitting down had completely evaporated.
As 'punishment' for Sherlock's insults he was forced to do the dishes. The muttering that it elicited from the boy was almost comical but Mycroft didn't stick around to hear it. If he stayed in the house for any longer his parents were going to take him aside, sit him down and have a long discussion about what exactly had happened to his diet – and though they loved him just as much – when was he going to start the diet again. If they were feeling particularly affectionate, and from the sympathetic looks he was receiving at dinner they were, they'd even talk about his feelings, how he felt about it all, and if there was anything he needed to talk about. Mycroft couldn't stand such a farce. Instead as soon as his mother looked over to him evidently about to suggest they have a chat in the living room, Mycroft stood up and forced a smile. "Dinner was lovely, thank-you…I'm going to take the dog for a walk, clear my thoughts a little."
It was the perfect excuse that implied he was going to be getting at least a little exercise that night, so of course how could they refuse? He donned his coat putting his phone and a carefully concealed packed of cigarettes and lighter in his pocket before picking up the dog's leash and whistling for the beast. He had to admit that as far as canines went Redbeard was an excellent specimen, not only was he a beautiful dog, but he was very well behaved and good at keeping Sherlock company. That wasn't to say that Mycroft was attached to it, but he'd tolerate it in the house – not his room. A few seconds after whistling Redbeard padded softly into the porch, taking a seat as Mycroft attached the leader, tail thwacking happily against the floor.
Mycroft had no intention whatsoever to walk far, so after leaving the house he headed to the cycling track nearby – but still out of view of the house- and sat down on a crumbling wooden bench. He just needed to get out, escape the pitying looks and the barbs before he snapped. Redbeard sat at Mycroft's feet, tilting his head as if enquiring what was going on. Mycroft considered for a moment as he took out the cigarettes and lit up, before deciding it was safe enough to let him off the leash. The animal looked unsure for a moment before trotting off, probably to find an interesting plant to piss on. Mycroft took long draws on his cigarette, both to calm down from dinner and to prepare for what he was doing next.
He had to call Gregory.
He didn't want to. Not at all. Even if he missed his voice and his jokes, he would have to disappoint him and say he couldn't go to the party. Greg didn't know about the weight gain, it'd just never been mentioned over the phone. Part of Mycroft had decided that it wasn't bad enough to comment on, and that part that knew it was had convinced itself that he'd get it under control by the time he came home. Only he hadn't, and now he had to face it. After one last deep draw on his cigarette, Mycroft dropped it to the floor and crushed it out. His fingers automatically punched out Greg's number, calling him from his dorm room night after night had made sure that it was more than just stored in his memory, but his muscle memory too.
Part of him wished that he was still in his dorm, calling for the simple desire to talk to Greg as he lay on his bed and planed out his essays. He brought the phone to his ear waiting only a few moments before the dial tone stopped at a voice rang through. "Myc! So you're home then? Did you get my letter?" Greg asked immediately. Mycroft couldn't help but smile, dismissing the use of the nickname that Greg – and only Greg – was permitted to use.
"Evening Gregory. I'm home and I received the letter, apologies for not keeping the window open while I was away, I was just thinking of the small matters of thieves and the elements." He said, warm sarcasm seeping through his words. There was a snuffle followed by a sneeze nearby, so clearly the dog hadn't wandered too far.
"As if, I didn't even know you had criminals even near your part, I'm pretty sure that they look at all those bloody manor houses and decide they'd have an easier time nicking some poor bugger's car radio." Even over the phone Mycroft could hear the smile in Greg's voice, they way he'd have rolled his eyes and half swivelled around in his desk chair. "So you know about the party then?…I know it's not very private and all, but Anthea was complaining that she was your friend first and that she had a right to see you at the same time and then Irene overheard and decided it had to be a party, so of course I invited the others too and… yeah." He sighed, but it was only a little exasperated, Greg hadn't stopped smiling. "I was thinking that after the others went home you and I can just stay at mine, watch some films, talk…I know you know it already but I missed you."
Mycroft closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "I missed you too. He murmured. "About the party…are you sure there's nothing I need to bring?" he asked, with a wince. That was the opposite of what he'd rang to say. But even if he had said he couldn't go to the party Greg would find a way of coming to see him, then it'd need explaining why he didn't want to go, and…well, hearing Greg so excited about seeing him and having this party…he just couldn't say no. Somehow even just hearing the other's voice was enough to make him loose his resolve on the matter. He blamed it on not seeing him for so long.
"Good. Nah, we should be good, unless you're against vodka and beer, then you should probably bring something, If you come over around six or seven that'd be great. I think Irene said something about wine, and Anthea's bringing rum. I've got the food sorted…one night off your diet isn't going to do anything." The grin was still ringing loud and clear through his tone, but Mycroft wasn't smiling. It felt like there was ice running through his veins. Greg needed to know, wouldn't it be better just to tell him than to turn up and see his reaction? Only that meant he'd have to think of something to say, hopefully one that didn't make him sound pathetic or weak.
"That sounds fine." Mycroft didn't usually drink much anyway; he assumed that if necessary he'd find something palatable. "As for the diet…"
"Myc it's one night, I'll even go for a jog with you if you're that worried about it." Greg interrupted, obviously getting the wrong idea of what Mycroft was going to say. Mycroft winced, Greg thought he was doing well, and why wouldn't he? He'd been doing so bloody well, that's what was making this so difficult. He lit up another cigarette, taking a long draw of it before trying again.
"No Gregory I didn't mean it like that…" there was an expectant silence on the other side of the phone, punctuated only by the background muttering and video-game noises that no doubt was coming from one of his little brothers. Mycroft sighed, just bloody say it, you can't hide this from him. "…The diet's been..." This was so much harder to admit than he thought. He hadn't actually had to admit it to anyone. He wasn't going to be able to say anything like this, so he did what he always did. Cut everything off. No emotions, not thoughts, no noise. The best way of describing it was as an empty white room in his head, there was nothing there but logic, relevant information and the task at hand, no emotions to cloud his judgement or make this difficult. "…It hasn't been going well recently. I believed it was best that you know in advance, and I'd prefer that you don't draw any more attention to it or make it more obvious than it already is."
The tone of his voice changed to, it was sharp, concise and emotionless, perfectly to the point and completely void of any nervousness. It was exactly the tone he needed to convey such a point to Greg. He heard shuffling at the other end of the line, Greg standing from his chair and flopping back onto his bed. "Myc…it's okay you know, everyone goes through a rough patch, I won't say anything alright? Do you want to talk about it or…?" there it was again, that pity, could they not see that he didn't want it? That it only made things worse?
"Thank-you, and no, I'd rather not talk about it at this moment in time." He answered simply. He was sat perfectly still, the only movement was to raise the cigarette to his lips. Greg on the other hand was still shuffling around. "Apologies Gregory but I have to go, I'll see you tomorrow." He didn't wait to hear Greg's goodbye before he hung up. He still didn't move for a few long minutes. Outside of that white room in his head everything was so loud, it took a while to readjust. He stood with a quiet sigh, tugging his shirt back into place. Like his latest set of uniform none of the clothes he'd bought at Eton fit properly anymore, and he knew for a fact that searching his draws and wardrobe for something better fitting was completely pointless. At least he had until the next evening to by some new ones, although he was dreading finding out which sizes fit.
He took one lat draw of the cigarette before snuffing it out. It had gotten dark enough that the dog was no longer visible, and there was no way that Mycroft was going to start shouting it's name. Instead he put his finger and thumb in his mouth and whistled, the shrill noise piercing through the quiet. It was twelve seconds before the dog was in earshot again; the sound of paws racing towards him and the soft panting ensuring that Mycroft knew he was there. He re-attached the leader, much to the dog's apparent disgust, and started walking back towards the house. Some people may have taken the opportunity to have a heart to heart with such an animal, but not Mycroft. He walked in silence, keeping his thoughts to himself and letting the dog trot along beside him undisturbed.
What would talking to the dog do anyway? Although his problems felt heavy on his shoulders, talking to the dog wouldn't actually make him lose weight, nor would it make his clothes any better fitting. It would simply provide emotional comfort, and Mycroft was trying to distance himself from his emotions considering that was where the main problem lay. Caring was not an advantage, he learned that from a very young age, but despite that it was impossible not to. He cared about his parents, and Sherlock, and Greg and the very few friends he had. He cared about what they thought of him, and even though it was 'just a number' and 'didn't define him' he cared about his weight too.
It was all of this caring that made him turn to food. He knew it was. He was lonely, or stressed or tired or angry, and it gave him something else to focus on. There were alternatives, he could play the piano, but that would mean leaving the room, he could read, but he'd proven on multiple occasions that he could read and snack at the same time. Mycroft had to find a better way of distracting himself, or he had to stop caring. It was the only way to truly stop this infuriating dance with the scales. He stopped for a moment outside the house, he knew he'd smell of smoke, but he could just say he'd walked past a bonfire. His parents would believe him, Mycroft wasn't stupid enough to smoke. If only they knew.
He tried to unlock the door quietly, slipping inside and transferring his phone and cigarettes from his coat pockets into his trouser pockets. He toed off his shoes and hung the coat, freeing the dog from the leash…who immediately raced out of the porch and into the living room barking his return to whoever was in there. Mycroft winced and stared heading towards the stairs hoping that they wouldn't want him. He'd only taken a few steps before a voice stopped him. "Mycie? Can we have a word?" his mother called, they hadn't heard him climb the stairs, so they knew he was in earshot. He considered trying to climb the stairs quietly, but they echoed and it was hard enough even for Sherlock to climb them silently, added weight didn't do much for being subtle or inconspicuous.
With a quiet sigh Mycroft headed over to the living room, leaning against the doorway instead of stepping inside. Both his parents were there, sitting together on the sofa. He didn't say anything, just scanned the room. The cream carpet had been cleaned recently, the walls were the same warm red as always. The Christmas tree hadn't been put up yet, nor had any other decorations, although he assumed they were going to be put up soon considering that the coffee table had been shifted out of the way and was now closer to the sofa. "Mycroft." He corrected tiredly, it had the same number of syllables for God's sake.
"Mycroft darling, sit down, your father and I want to talk to you." She said softly, carefully, as if speaking too loud would scare him off. Mycroft didn't move from the doorway, just crossed his arms over himself, squashing the urge to tug at his clothes again, knowing it wouldn't do anything but draw attention to it. He didn't like the way the were watching him, it was like they were waiting for him to crack, to spill his secrets to them and explain exactly what it was that had stopped him from sticking to his diet.
Well he wasn't going to do it. Not then.
With a quick scan over them Mycroft confirmed what they wanted to talk about, the fact that they'd been discussing the best approach while he was out, and the fact that he was going to hate every moment of the conversation. Again he slipped back into the white room in his head to tackle this, wondering if there was any point at all in exiting it. "I understand this is a discussion you believe needs to take place, and I willmake sure that I take part in it, if only for your reassurance that I am - in fact - aware of my weight and what needs to be done about it. However as I'm sure you understand I'm exhausted, it's been a long day and I rather need some time to myself." He said, allowing some tiredness into his voice and running a hand through his hair.
Perhaps it was unusual for a seventeen year old to speak to his parents as if he was in a business meeting, but it was a habit from talking to his professors, and really quite a common occurrence for him anyway. His parents exchanged looks. After been married for such a long time they could hold entire conversations with just a glance. It was one of the things that Mycroft was proud of his parents for. Despite having two – admittedly very difficult – children to raise and all the trials of modern life they managed to stay very much together and very much in love. It'd make anyone that knew them well enough wonder where Mycroft got the idea that caring was such a bad idea.
It took a little while but finally his father looked over at Mycroft and nodded, "Alright, but we're going to talk about it, your mothers booked you an appointment at the tailors for Monday morning so make sure you remember to go. Go get some sleep." He told him. Mycroft turned to leave the room glad that he'd avoided it this time. He was in no mood to even think about his feelings much less share them with his parents. And the tailor…well, even thinking about going made him feel sick. The Holmes men went to the same tailor since Mycroft had his first suit. He'd witnessed first had the ups and downs of Mycroft's weight, having fitted more suits on him than on any other in the family. He'd know exactly how much bigger Mycroft was, to the millimeter.
It didn't help that he had no regard for what Mycroft would consider embarrassing. His comments were appreciated when he was thinner than usual; he had a feeling they were going to be awful tomorrow. He made sure his mask was tightly in place and simply nodded, refusing to show his dread. The only good thing about it was that Sherlock was busy doing something in his room so he couldn't deduce Mycroft. No doubt if he could he'd make sure that everyone was aware just how little Mycroft wanted to measured, and then he'd probably highlight how desperately he needed new cloths, ensuring that his mother would drag him out to go shopping. With Sherlock upstairs though that could be avoided. He had three days to shift some of the weight for the tailors. Not nearly enough.
"Oh and Mycroft…we're glad that you're home." His mother added. Mycroft half turned and forced a smile – although he knew for a fact that it didn't look forced. His parents were lovely people, and he knew that perfectly well. They did what was best for their children, and if loosing weight and talking about it was what they thought was best then they were going to do everything to help. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock would be the people they were without their parents support, they never batted an eye at the things they did, only scolding them if they did something potentially dangerous, rude, or disruptive. Unsurprisingly Sherlock had many discussions about safety and behaviour.
"I'm glad to be home too. Goodnight Mummy, Father." He said before leaving the room swiftly and heading up the stairs. His shortness of breath after ascending the stairs was a painful reminder of his added mass, one that he promptly pushed to the back of his mind. Mycroft entered his room, making sure Sherlock hadn't been there before locking the door, drawing the blinds and changing into his pyjamas. Having anyone walk in or see him get changed would be beyond mortifying, and Sherlock would never let him live it down. He noted with mild irritation that even his pyjamas were too snug on him, and added that to the list of things that he needed to buy. Perhaps he'd just buy one or two outfits tomorrow and then get the suit on Monday. He'd buy the rest later.
For now he'd put up with the tight pyjamas, throwing on a once oversized dressing gown to cover himself as he sat at his desk. He'd get some work done and then go to bed. Mycroft just needed to be alone, in the comfort of his meticulously organised room with his laptop. He didn't remember how it had occurred, but once he'd finished an essay he found himself watching a documentary and nibbling on some biscuits from the stash in his draw. Perhaps not a good thing to be doing with his current situation, but then he was stressed and tired and perhaps a little distressed by it, not that he'd admit that. It wasn't like a few biscuits could make things worse anyway. Tomorrow was going to be hell. But there was no avoiding it. The only good part was that he'd get to see Greg, perhaps of he focused on that it wouldn't be quite so bad.