Mycroft did not know how he was feeling anymore. There was embarrassment, certainly - he did, after all, just run away from Greg and lock the door of his bedroom.
But there was also grief. Utter sadness. How could he be so stupid? How did he not see Lestrade´s declaration was eminent, after all that happened in the last months? How did he, the analyst responsible for the working of the whole British Government, fail to correctly analyse the danger of becoming dependant on Greg´s kind actions, soothing words, loyal personality?
And why did he feel like the emotions were going to split him in two? He was never good with feelings and frankly, right now, he was terrified. Because he could barely keep them at bay now. Because the raw feral beasts, whatever were their names, were banging at the door of his carefully built fortress. And its walls were built to protect him, and now they were weakened from inside.
And if he lets go, he knew he would be lost. Because he would have blurted all out, in a barely understandible, immature, embarrassing way. And everyone would laugh. Laugh at the child he really was, so small, so incapable in this field.
He wished he were a better man. Because that´s what Greg needs, a strong, attractive, loyal, self-assured individual, not the mess Mycroft was from the time he first remembers. But he was Mycroft Holmes, weak, weird-looking, with very flexible morals. And selfish, yes, that too.
Because he wanted Greg. Not necessarily in a sexual way, though now that it was on the table, Mycroft couldn´t deny he would not be adverse. But he needed someone to advice him when he needed it, and stay silent, when he wanted to think. He needed someone to keep him safe.
Was it so much? Perhaps it was time for this. Maybe, as it was obvious Mycroft wasn´t very good at taking care of someone, he might try being cared for. Oh Lord, why did he have to ruin everything? Before, Greg was everything Mycroft would have dared to ask from life - a friend. He didn´t need - did not deserve - anything more. But now, it was so complicated. So messy.
He was lost now.
You utter idiot! Why did you have to get so pushy?!
But he looked so... fragile, Greg´s mind supplied. He looked like a child who needs a damn long hug.
Greg Lestrade remembered many cases, most of them were not very happy stories. And every time he came to contact with an involved child, too things happened - some of them were clingy, cried a lot, would not let go of your trouser leg. Those children were unhappy, yes, and pretty annoying. But they were still better than the other sort.
The other kind of children were the perfect witnesses. They would describe the perpetrator in keen detail, once you´ve gotten them to open up. They would remember things the first kind didn´t - because where the clingy kids were at the time of the crime bursting with fear and dread, these ones decided that since emotions weren´t helping, they would suppress them.
And Mycroft- well, Mycroft was a little like these kids. Oh no, on the surface, he could appear as a perfectly balanced, even jovial man. He could make small talk, smile at your jokes, brush off any kind of a jib at his being a bachelor.
But Greg was a very good judge of character, he would fancy. And ever since he first saw Mycroft, that night in the car after their ways split and he caught a glimpse of Mycroft´s face, he knew something was off.
And it didn´t take long to figure that Mycroft was incredibly emotionally starved.
But these were assumptions made yesterday, before he had screwed everything up. Because he has done things that were highly innapropriate. And he has destroyed everything.
He has destroyed their friendship, a thing Mycroft must have polished in his heart as a precious gem, by yelling at him, drunk and tired. By nagging him to change where Mycroft didn´t want to change, or certainly not quickly.
And he has sealed it all by the fucking declaration of his intentions. ´I love you´! How much must it have sounded like a frase!
One thing was certain. Mycroft has retreated to his room and hasn´t left, even after Greg said he was sorry. He was no longer welcome in the politician´s house, so the cop left.
He was so ashamed of himself that he would have rather buried himself alive than walked again between people. Or Sherlock. God, Sherlock! He would be able to deduce it all, including how he has let his cock govern his mouth.
The bell rang. It seems the world wants him to face his shame now. He just hoped it was not John, the guy has become quite protective of Mycroft after the latter saved his life, and had a very strong left hook.
It was not John. Nor Sherlock.
"Good morning, Gregory. May I come in?" asked the cultivated, but unusually quiet voice of Mycroft Holmes.