He stopped by his office on the way home. He needed to make sure a few things were in order before he left for the last time. He completed any of the remaining open files that he had, and tidied up his desk. He even sorted out his computer so that his work was easy to find for the poor soul that had to go through it. He was always neat and orderly, but it was an order that made sense to him - and likely would looked chaotic for anyone else. He decided that it was courteous to fill in the paperwork for his death while he was there. He completed it, leaving only a signature remaining to fill in, before saving the file on the system in an obvious place so it would be easy to locate.
Back in his flat, Mycroft sat and stared at the wall. He felt like he should be feeling anxious, but in reality, he was just relieved. The stress of his job wasn't on him anymore because he didn't have to go back to it. The worry about Sherlock was gone because he knew he was in good hands. And there wasn't any fear of dying. He wasn't even second-guessing himself. There was no voice in his head telling him to reconsider. Saying that he was a good man that deserved a second chance… because he wasn't. Not really. And there wasn't anything to live for. He'd almost lost that one purpose he had because of his failings. No… he seemed to be in agreement with himself.
The only question that remained was how to do it. Mycroft never liked pain. He could endure it, that was for certain, but he was never able to inflict it upon himself. After the shock of seeing Eurus cutting herself died down, he'd actually been amazed that she'd been able to do it. That's why he'd asked her if she even felt pain.
He knew he couldn't cut his wrists or anywhere else to bleed to death. He just didn't have that inner strength. And he knew he couldn't do anything that involved a long time of waiting for it to happen… because he didn't want to give his mind a chance to change its mind. He didn't want it to be a public affair… and so that ruled out anything involving jumping from things. Unless perhaps a bridge at night.
Mycroft didn't know how long he sat there thinking. But by the time he'd decided on a method, it was nearing midnight. He didn't have any of the batteries or electrical equipment in the house, obviously, and so he'd need to go out and buy some. He sighed and groaned to himself, realising that he still had another day to live. But it wasn't filled with the same feelings of despair… no, in fact, it was still all very peaceful. He moved to bed without bothering about dinner, he'd missed that long ago anyway… and rested in his bed for the final time. It was actually the best night's sleep he'd gotten in a long time.
He woke to his phone ringing. He looked at the message, and saw it was work. He was supposed to go in, and they were likely not happy he wasn't there. He didn't care… at all. He just let it go to voicemail. He sat up and stretched. It was today. The last day. He preferred not to think of it as 'suicide', but rather the day his pointless life just ended. One quick jolt of electricity across his heart and it was done. All over. Quick, relatively painless, and not damaging. He was actually rather proud of his idea. And if it all failed on him, like his plans often did lately, then he could easily just try again. He'd just be zapped and then things would be fine enough to hide that he'd done anything until he tried again. Or could just try straight away. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He smiled softly to himself.
He still needed to do some tests and research before he could do it, though. So, he decided to have his final meal as a breakfast-come-lunch, and then get it over with. Since he was going to the store anyway to get his items, he might as well buy something completely indulgent and delicious. Lush chocolate cake. With whipped cream. And he could eat however much he wanted.
He was gone about an hour, in which work had tried calling him again, but he ignored it again. He returned home with a load of nine volt batteries, a soldering iron, conductive wire, a scalpel, medical tape, and a voltmeter. And his cake, of course.
He pulled up information about the necessary current required to cause fibrillation to the heart, knowing he'd need to be pretty precise with it or he'd either not do enough, or burn things up too much… or, as he discovered, could cause the muscles to paralyse briefly and then just continue working as normal. The calculations for the resistance were fairly easy, he really didn't even need to use the voltmeter. He definitely had to make incisions to insert the electrodes into, as suspected. Human skin, even wet, was a great resistor. Too much voltage was needed to break through that barrier to get the necessary current, and would just cause pointless damage to his body.
He admitted it was all fairly interesting to know. Not that that mattered now, anyway. It was a means to an end… quite literally. He enjoyed the guilt-free pleasure of devouring his cake. He tried not to think about Sherlock too much, even how his brother would have tormented him for eating the cake.
No. He's said he didn't want me, he doesn't need me anymore, and anything I do just makes things worse for him. This is the right thing to do.
Mycroft began soldering the batteries into a circuit. He found out that he really didn't need as many as he thought he did. No matter. He rather enjoyed the mindless task.
Should I leave a note? No… there's no point. I've said what I had to Sherlock, and it wouldn't matter what I wrote to Mummy and Father, they'll just think whatever they like.
He was ready. He looked at the crude contraption before him. It didn't look threatening. All that was left was to make the small cuts, and stick the electrodes in. He briefly wondered if he should test it first, to make sure it worked. But, really… what did it matter? If it worked, then he'd succeeded. If not, then he'd try again after fixing the problem. He just seemed unable to take that next step and actually pick up the scalpel.
Mycroft swallowed uncertainly. It was really happening. He'd just felt at peace with himself beforehand, but now, it was scary. In a few moments, he'd actually be dead.
Do…do I really want this? Could things eventually change for the better? No, I have to stop second guessing myself. I've always said that. And it hasn't happened. But does that mean I should give up entirely? What if it just takes a lot more suffering to get somewhere worthwhile?