What if Nicholas had lived? It was a question that Mycroft often found himself asking in the early hours of the morning, when he returned exhausted from late night meetings with the Prime Minister. Or when he had to be up whilst it was still dark, in order to prevent another war. Every time he was alone it seemed he asked that question. He found himself alone a lot these days.
Once, in what was a complete abuse of position he had a photograph of Nicholas put through the MI6 ageing programme by the IT department. Just to see what Nick would look like now. He would be five foot seven, muscular build, but with a little bit of a pot belly. His hair would be thinning on the top, and he'd probably have it cut very short. There would be the odd line on his face and the beginning of crow's feet around his eyes where they crinkled as he laughed. In other words he was still gorgeous.
He had the picture of this computer generated version of Nicholas in his watch. No one knew. No one ever asked Mycroft the time. And in a way it was fitting that the picture resided in the gold case. Because it served as a reminder to Mycroft of how very precious time was. You always thought you had far more than you really did.
And sometimes Mycroft played a little game in his head, where he would imagine what life would be like with Nicholas. And sometimes this game would spill out into reality. The house he lived in for example, he had chosen because it was the sort of house Nick would have liked. The same went for a lot of the furniture, the paintings, even the coffee cups. And then there was the locked room. Mycroft was sure Sherlock would wet himself at the chance to get inside the locked room. Upstairs. End of the corridor. Nick's room. Because even if you lived with someone it was good to have your own space.
Mycroft had a few things left from when he had been asked to pack up Nick's possessions. After he died. Nick's mother had told Mycroft to take whatever he liked, she had known they were friends. But no one had realised quite how cruel it was to ask Mycroft to place everything that Nick had owned into his school trunk. It was like having to bury him all over again. Mycroft had Nick's school scarf which if you breathed very deeply still had the faint smell of Hai-Karate about it. He had Nick's English book, with some very questionable poems written in a spidery hand. And a dilapidated Giraffe called Wordsworth, who Nick always claimed reminded him of Mycroft. They were all in the locked room. Like a shrine.
Every so often, when the silence of the house got too oppressive Mycroft would unlock the door, and wander around the room, filled with Nick's things. Or at least the things Mycroft had bought for him over the years. Tailored Suits, Monogrammed Shirts and silk boxer shorts he would never wear. Medical journals and text books he would never read. DVDs he would never watch. Because he was dead. And somehow the room served as a better reminder to Mycroft of that painful fact than the cold marble headstone he went to see at least once a month.
Mycroft knew it wasn't healthy. He knew how much mileage Sherlock would get from it if he ever found out. He knew it made no difference what he bought and put in the room. And he knew that the dead stayed dead. But he didn't Know what else he could do.