The next morning rolled around quickly. Far too quickly in Mycroft's mind. Usual mornings at home would have found him in the living room, with the newspapers, a cup of tea and some form of pastry for breakfast, where he'd generally remain for a further two cups of tea and another pastry. This was because despite being up early, he was not a morning person. The sheer quantity of tea that was required to wake him up was staggering, most days you wouldn't get more than a glare from him until he'd had at least two cups. That morning however, Mycroft didn't linger at home for long. He was up and out of the house before anyone else in the house woke up. Even Sherlock.
There were many reasons for this, he needed to be up early because he had a lot to be getting on with, his body was still following the circadian rhythm it had fallen into being up early at Eton…and he needed to avoid his parents for as long as possible. The last thing he wanted was to be cornered by them as he tried to wake up and forced to talk about his weight. It would only be a bad start to an already ominous day. It was because of these factors that Mycroft had showered quickly – looking away from the mirror as he passed – and changed into some only slightly too snug clothes. Of course he did sit and read a few articles as he drank his tea, but he forfeited the pastries for an apple. He knew it wouldn't change anything in time to see Greg or the tailor, but his diet needed to be rebooted anyway. He might as well start now.
With breakfast done and dusted he located a pen and some paper, leaving a note in his perfect handwriting that explained his whereabouts to his parents. He may not want to see them, but he didn't want to worry them either. Something he wished Sherlock would share. With the note on the table and his mug in the dishwasher Mycroft picked up his things and set off.
The air outside was cool and crisp, autumn retreating fast as winter marched in. It was refreshingly cold, the air flooding his lungs and waking him up even more, far too perfect and clean to ruin with cigarette smoke, so the pack remained untouched in his pocket. Had it not been for the undeniable coil of worry for the party later on it would have been the perfect day. Mycroft just stood for a moment, appreciating the rare piece of quiet and calm that had fallen over the grounds. At least he did until his fingers started to burn with the chill.
He pulled the car keys from his pocket and headed over to the garage. He'd only passed his text a few months ago – immediately after turning seventeen actually – and hadn't yet bought his own car. The one his parents had let him learn to drive in was just a small, old Toyota with far too many miles than was good for it. But she still ran, and though Mycroft would have preferred something a little more comfortable the insurance wasn't as terribly expensive as it could have been. Walking into the city would have been a healthier option, both for the environment and his waistline, but Mycroft didn't see how it could make too much difference. Besides, it was too cold to walk.
He took a seat in the car, fastening his seatbelt before starting up and easing out of the garage. Driving came easily to him, each of the motions and thought processes coming automatically as he made his way into the city. Clothes were his main priority, he needed something to wear at the party. That in itself posed a problem. Mycroft had never been good at selecting clothes to wear to parties and informal events even when he was thin, adding the criteria of hiding as much of his new weight as possible just made things all the more difficult. Still, it had to be done, otherwise he'd be forced to see Greg again in clothes that were too small on him, and that was something he just couldn't tolerate.
One bonus of being up earlier than most was that the shops were quiet, less people to see him wandering around and trying to think of what the best thing to wear was, not to mention pluck up the courage to find out what size he was now. Every now and then a sales assistant would approach him, only to turn in the other direction when Mycroft gave them a look that clearly showed he didn't need or want their help and should really be left alone. He knew that they were just doing their jobs and trying to be of some assistance, but then he was irritated and stressed, and a little hungry after only having that apple. It was yet another thing that wasn't giving him much hope for the diet. Apples were meant to be appetite suppressants as they contain pectin, but clearly it wasn't doing much good for Mycroft. He just tried to ignore it, searching the shop for something that would be casual but covering and that he wouldn't mind wearing.
Unsurprisingly the first few shops proved fruitless, but he didn't expect any less. It was only at the fifth shop that he constructed an idea of what might be acceptable to wear, and the seventh when he'd finally had enough. He utterly refused to visit any other shops and simply decided to buy what he needed from there. It was once again easier to push emotions out of the way, although this time he just shoved them to the side instead of blocking them off completely. With his newfound determination Mycroft located a rack of plain black slacks that – in his mind – were much more acceptable than jeans, some white shirts and a few jumpers.
Selecting the right size was something he wanted to do first time. He loathed changing rooms. Far too many memories of trying clothes on that should fit and knowing before you'd even stepped in that they wouldn't. The defeat of moving up a size. In that small room, with only a drawn curtain to shelter you and stop intruders, you were forced to confront your reflection. See yourself struggle to pull the clothes on. All of that, only to take them all of again and return them to their racks, proving to anyone that cared to notice that you'd put on enough weight to make going up a clothes size. That was more than a couple of pounds. Getting the right size first time would make things a little easier.
Despite that actually finding out which size he was now was also something he wanted to avoid. So he forced himself not to read the sizes, crating a mental blur over them as he selected ones that looked about the right size and took them to the changing rooms. He tried the clothes on with his back to the mirror, not ready to face his reflection quite yet. Surprisingly enough most of the clothes he'd selected fit, the jumpers were even slightly too big, he preferred focusing on that rather than the fact that the shirts were too small. All in all it wasn't bad. They weren't clothes he'd usually wear, but they were close enough, and although it was impossible to hide the extent of his gain at least they didn't make it too obvious. He managed to avoid the mirror too, which in his current position was a good thing.
Mycroft swapped out the shirts for the next size up, leaving the jumpers a little too big and paid at the till, glad that this mortifying, exhausting trip was finally coming to an end. Of course that just meant he was closer to going home, closer to seeing Greg's reaction. There were two sides to every coin. He didn't bat an eyelid at the price – overly expensive for clothes he wasn't planning on wearing for long – just paid and went on his way. And in this case his way was directly towards the food court.
Wonderful.
He tried his best to ignore the smells, but it was nearly lunchtime and all he'd had were a few cups of tea and an apple. It was hardly his fault that he found himself sitting at a table in a small café, waiting for his pot of tea and slice of lemon cake to be served. He knew he had to stop doing this, but it had looked heavenly. It looked even better when it was placed in front of him along with the pot of freshly brewed Assam. He was in for a stressful and admittedly worry inducing night, surely he deserved to enjoy a relaxing twenty minutes.
And enjoy he did. The cake – although he'd had better – was still delicious, perfectly fluffy but still heavy enough to make it satisfying. The lemon curd was tarty, perfectly offset by the sweetness of the icing. It was good enough to distract him from the small stab of guilt each time he had a forkful. In his mind it was well deserved, he hadn't snapped at any of the shopkeepers, and he'd achieved what he'd set out to do. Shopping was a painful and tedious experience, forcing himself to go through it all surely deserved some kind of treat afterwards. It was too late now anyway, he'd already bought it and he wasn't about to let it go to waste.
The café itself was also quite nice, very peaceful with comfortable chairs, and a friendly older woman behind the counter, who had only smiled when he'd ordered, not giving Mycroft a look that questioned if he needed cake. It had that charm of a small café, odd tablecloths, and chalkboards detailing what they had to sell. The quiet was certainly the best thing about it though, allowing Mycroft just to think in peace. It wasn't even about anything in particular, just running over anything that came to mind, sorting the stray bits of data. It was soothing. But he knew it couldn't last forever. Too soon he had finished the last bite of cake and had drained the tea. Standing from the table he straightened his shirt – glad that that he'd bought new, better fitting ones – nodded to the woman behind the counter and headed out of the café.
The majority of the afternoon was spent in the library doing some more work. He could easily do it at home, but he'd be required to sit through the conversation with his parents. So he settled for the library, ignoring the irony of the librarians loudly shushing near silent members of the public. As always the work was far too easy for him, requiring little more than finding the correct information in his mind and typing it up. Simple. He took his time, typing out page after page until the point that if he didn't go home and get ready for the party immediately he was going to be late. Absolutely no time to be held by his parents and forced to discus each mortifying element of his weight.
Mycroft drove home, glad for the light traffic, and pulled the car back into the garage before taking his new clothes and heading into the house. Redbeard was sat at the door waiting, having heard the car pull in. Smart dog. He gave Mycroft a sniff before trotting off to find something interesting to do. Mycroft closed the door quietly, if possible he wanted to avoid his parents anyway, even though there really wasn't enough time to talk about it now.
Unlike yesterday he managed to make it half way up the stairs before he stepped on one of the steps that he could have sworn wasn't a bad step last time he was home. Or maybe you just needed to be a certain weight to set it off. He decided to risk it and keep going, however his mother stepped out of the study and gave him a look clearly irritated at Mycroft's absence all day. "Mycroft, avoid us all you want but we're going to talk to you about it." She said sternly, a voice she reserved for when someone was being troublesome. Mycroft suppressed a sigh and stopped ascending the stairs, turning to look at her.
"I wasn't avoiding you Mummy, I just needed a text book that was in the library to do my work." He lied smoothly. He didn't feel guilty about lying to her. Surely it was better to tell a white lie than to admit he was avoiding them. "And I'm aware we're going to talk about it." He muttered, making it clear to anyone who could read the slight shift in his tone that he wasn't happy about it. Of course, having raised him and seen the subtle signs that Mycroft used to display his feelings his mother picked up on them and her face softened considerably.
"Oh Myc, you know we don't want to upset you or make you uncomfortable, it's just that we do need to talk about it." She said, the stern tone replaced with one of concern. "Your father and I just want to make sure that you okay, and that we're doing all we can to help you." Mycroft nodded, she was being honest too. Had it been about anything else he may have started to feel a little guilty about avoiding them, but then it was different, his weight was the exception and avoiding talking about it was just something he couldn't be guilty for.
"I understand…Gregory is having a party tonight, I believe I'll be staying out." He informed her, realising that maybe he should have told her about that earlier. It was just so different to have to explain your whereabouts to people when no one at Eton cared enough to ask or want to know. Without even realising it simply by caring so much his parents had capped his freedom. Yet another reason that caring wasn't an advantage. "Sherlock, however, will be home before twelve" he assured her.
His mother sighed, but it wasn't angry, more mildly exasperated. "All right then, just be careful alright? And look after your brother" she asked. Mycroft nodded, mumbling something along the lines of 'not to worry' before heading upstairs. He'd give Sherlock a lift to the party, and arrange a taxi back for him. His mother certainly wasn't an idiot, she probably knew that there would be some drinking involved, but she trusted Mycroft not to over do it and keep an eye on Sherlock. He would be making sure that Sherlock wasn't being stupid, and when it came to alcohol Mycroft wasn't a big drinker. He didn't like what it did to his head, it made him stupid, or at the very least put him back to average levels, which in his mind were the same thing.
Once again he found himself in the safety of his room to change into his new clothes. It wasn't like he had many options on what to wear. But it still took a good five minutes to select the right combination. He chose the grey jumper, the white shirt and the black slacks. Not so bad. They were certainly more comfortable, less constricting, he could breathe freely. The jumper was slightly too big, not big enough to be baggy or look like he'd bought the next size up to look slimmer, just big enough that it made him feel like it was a little less obvious how big he'd gotten.
Of course, he hadn't actually seen how the clothes looked on, he just knew how they felt. That wouldn't have usually been a problem, but tonight it was. If he just stepped out of his room without knowing Sherlock might say something, and then he wouldn't actually know for sure if he was being serious, or even worse he could just turn up to Greg's looking even worse than he had to. Either way he had to know, so he had to look in the mirror. It felt like biting a bullet. Mycroft checked that the door was still locked as he made his way past to the wardrobe. Where the only full-length mirror in his room was.
Opening the wardrobe itself wasn't nice either, it was filled with clothes that proved just how bad he'd let this get. Mycroft supposed it was his fault. His fault for being lured into a false sense of security after doing so well, it had been a beyond stupid move to throw out all the clothes he had for situations like this. It had been even more stupid to let it get this bad. But there was nothing that could be done about it now. And so after a moment of steeling himself, he turned and faced the mirror.
Now, Mycroft had never been someone that enjoyed his reflection. He was too pale, his hair too red, his freckles made him look like a child. It had improved a little when he could scratch 'chubby' off that list. This time wasn't good. He stopped himself from turning away and looked at himself properly. His auburn hair wasn't any better than usual, the soft curls didn't help anything. While curly hair suited Sherlock's dark hair and his bone structure, Mycroft didn't think that it was a good look on him. His eyes were the same watery grey as always, managing to be both cuttingly sharp, but withdrawn too, as if lost in thought.
As usual his skin was pale, almost ghostly, but thankfully clear and unblemished, the only break being the splattering of freckles across his nose and on his cheeks. They made him look three years younger than he was. It was no surprise that his cheeks seemed fuller than usual, or that his jaw line was less sharp. His bone structure was different to Sherlock's anyway, his cheekbones had never been that pronounced, but now you couldn't see them at all. The only good thing was that he hadn't developed a double chin, although admittedly his jaw line was softer than it should have been.
As for the clothes themselves they were all right. The slacks were the right length and didn't cut into him, as for the jumper it was actually a fairly good choice on his part. It didn't clash with his hair or make him look washed out, and it did a good job of highlighting his eyes. He was still unmistakably bigger, but because it didn't cling it lessened the effect. After that evaluation of himself and his clothes Mycroft proceeded to brush his teeth and comb his hair into place, flattening it as much as possible. Once that was done he really had nothing else to do but make sure Sherlock was ready and leave. He picked up his phone and car keys, adding his wallet just in case as he unlocked his door.
The Holmes house – or manor really – was unmistakably beautiful. It was old and traditional, right from the ornate staircase to the large library filled to the brim with books. It was truly a lovely house, and he was very privileged to live there. Had there been such a thing as ghosts no doubt the house would be filled with them, but as it was it was simply memories that filled the space. The small dent in the floorboard where Sherlock had dropped one of the ornamental irons, the singe in the curtain where Mycroft had left a magnifying glass positioned at the incorrect angle, the scratch in the wall from when the dog was chasing a fly…each memory was perfectly categorised in his mind. Small things that were barely noticeable unless you knew where to look. Memories were better than ghosts anyway.
Mycroft headed along the hallway to Sherlock's room and knocked twice. There was no response, but his brother was clearly in there. "Sherlock are you ready?" he called. From inside the room he heard the clink of a beaker being set on the desk and the slight fizz of whichever chemicals he'd smuggled in there. After a moment there was a muffled 'yes', which only succeeded in making Mycroft roll his eyes. Lies. "Well, I'd advise that you set your experiment aside and be ready in fifteen minutes or you'll have to make your own way." He called in response before turning and heading back down the stairs, not waiting for a response.
This time however his mother didn't come out of the study, and his father was at work leaving Mycroft to do what he will with the fifteen minutes he'd promised Sherlock. There was truly only one option. It was with no great reluctance that Mycroft switched the kettle on and set about making his cup of tea. For each person on the planted there was a point where they could take no more tea, the saturation point, but for Mycroft that point was still a long way of. He'd only ever drank too much tea once in his life time, and it wasn't an experience he wished to repeat, but he had time and a hot cup of tea would do wonders for his mood.
With his freshly made tea in hand Mycroft took a seat at the table and took his phone from his pocket, searching through the latest news as he enjoyed the quiet. Redbeard glanced in the kitchen, probably wondering who it was in there before quietly huffing at plodding off. That was understandable, while Mycroft didn't despise the creature he would pet it or give it treats, the dog was smart enough to hang around people that would…namely the rest of the family. Even his father would slip the dog some meat from his plate if the sad wet eyes appeared by his leg. Mycroft's timing was as precise as usual, just as he was draining the final dregs from his cup the telltale sound of the third from bottom step creaking gave way Sherlock's otherwise silent descent.
Mycroft didn't move from the table, just listening to his mother exit her study once again, and stop Sherlock for a word. It wasn't eavesdropping so long as he didn't put any more effort into listening in than usual. It was for that reason he only caught snippets of the conversation, it was just the general things. 'Listen to your brother' 'try not to be rude' both statements were returned with a sigh and the mumblings of begrudging agreement. The part that caught his interest though, was what his mother added onto the end of her customary rules speech, just after the 'have fun' as Sherlock was turning to head into the kitchen their mother stopped him. 'Keep an eye on your brother for me, make sure he's alright.' She added.
Was there any need for that? He wasn't a lost puppy or a child with grazed knees. Despite what his waistline said he was capable of looking after himself. It was understandable that mothers worried for their child, a behaviour seen in most species of mammals, after all it was the instincts of parents to protect their young and further ensure the survival of their species. But surely she didn't think that he required someone to look out for him, much less his younger brother.
Not that he said as much, despite his take on the meaning of eavesdropping he assumed that mummy would be less than pleased at the intrusion. Instead he just sat thinking it through, only glancing up momentarily when Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. "Please tell me, brother mine, that you at least opened your window before reacting the aluminium and iodine." He sighed turning his attention back to his phone. In his peripheral vision he saw Sherlock's hand twitch in annoyance, only fair considering his behaviour last night and the retort he was no doubt preparing.
"And tell me, Mycroft, how many sizes up are those new clothes?" he asked, Mycroft didn't even need to look up to see the smirk on the boys face. "No wait, I bet you blocked that out didn't you…too painful to see what an utter fa…" Mycroft stood up abruptly at that giving Sherlock a glare and effectively cutting whichever adjectives he was planning to use. The teen still looked triumphant, clearly pleased in having riled Mycroft up so easily.
Mycroft though, didn't think it was funny in the slightest. Had Sherlock any semblance of tact or compassion in him he would have seen that it was certainly not the topic to be taunting Mycroft with. Truly it was times like these that Mycroft actually took into consideration Sherlock's claims of sociopathy, only better observation and evolution of his brother's behaviours kept him from agreeing. "I didn't mean it like that Sherlock. It was an enquiry not an insult. Get in the car. I'll prevent the aluminium iodide from causing any damage." He said flatly, pashing Sherlock the car keys as he passed and headed up the stairs to make sure it was properly ventilated. It was unlikely he would have produced a large amount of the gas, but it was best to be safe.
It gave him time to cool off a little too. It wasn't like him to loose his temper, even if that was just glaring at Sherlock and snapping at him, in all fairness though, he was nearing the end of his tether. He didn't spend long upstairs before heading out to the car, calling a goodbye to his mother as he left. Sherlock was already in the car, so Mycroft climbed in immediately. He knew the way to Greg's house without having to think about it. Sherlock at least had figured out that it was best to remain silent in case he irritated Mycroft too much, but that meant the car was silent as he drove. Mycroft broke first, sighing softly.
"If you insist on continuing your smoking habit, at the very least get the aluminium powder from under your nails before you light up." he warned him, deciding he'd tackle the actually smoking issue at another time. Sherlock glanced at his nails and nodded, and began getting rid of the aluminium powder, not looking over at Sherlock. The problem between them was that they were too similar, they didn't often have friendly conversation, but both of them did care for the other – insults and arguing aside. In the car it seemed to have settled slightly, Sherlock looked only slightly less guarded than usual. Perhaps it was the privacy and social safety in the car. Mycroft understand how his brain worked, and he was no better at socialisation.
"Mummy said I had to keep an eye on you…make sure you were okay." He informed him, not even waiting two seconds before adding, "You overheard that though." Mycroft just nodded, mentally cataloguing what it was that had lead Sherlock to that conclusion, he saw no need for a verbal response. "Why did she tell me to do that?" he asked. It wasn't taunting or confused, simply asking for clarification. Sherlock was aware that Mycroft was capable of looking after himself and that he was okay, or at the very least he could appear okay. The question was what had mummy seen that he hadn't?
"Mummy's better able to make emotional connections than we are, we both require some sign of emotion and a cause in order to deduce, whereas she can take an event or a situation and make a link as to how the person in question is feeling, even if they don't provide any evidence at all for it." He pointed out. "It's not the most reliable of methods, however she's had years of experience…It's the same way she knows when there's a problem at school even before I or the school itself ring to inform her." he contextualised. Sherlock just hummed and turned to look out the window, clearly working something through his head. Mycroft didn't ask. He wasn't entirely certain if he wanted to know anyway.
It didn't take long for them to reach Greg's house. A small but comfortable house that wasn't quite big enough to contain the force and energy that was his younger siblings. The sky was already fairy dark, the curtains drawn in the house but the light shining behind them made it obvious that Greg was home. Irene's car was in the drive, and no doubt she had given Sally and Anderson a lift in with her, John would have cycled and parked his bike around the back and Dimmock only lived down the street so he'd be there too. Even though they weren't late he and Sherlock were going to be the penultimate arrivals, only Anthea yet to make an appearance. Sherlock wasted no time getting out the car and over to Greg's house, not even knocking before entering.
Mycroft however sat in the car for a bit, steeling himself for their reactions. Petty though it may be it really was quite a difference, and he wasn't sure how he could take Greg's reaction if it wasn't good. He wasn't backing out now though, he missed Greg too much for that. He sighed to himself before climbing out of the car and straightening his jumper, walking with his usual grace towards the open door of Greg's house, not stopping when a figure appeared in the doorway or even when that familiar figure stepped outside and started jogging towards him.