"Good morning, Gregory. May I come in?"
Greg was staring disbelievingly for good two seconds, before he has managed to stutter: "Yes... of course," and made way inside his little flat.
Mycroft followed the motion, feeling still absolutely unsure about the course of action he decided mere half an hour ago - but he knew that he should do something, should do it now, before it is too late. So he decided.
He even clothed into his pinstripe three-piece suit, trying to gain strenth out of this familiar act. But as he was observing Greg taking it in and the policeman´s thoughts racing behind those brown eyes, he immediately regreted it. Because right now, the suit was not strenthening his composure - it was weighing him down uncomfortably.
"Would you like something? Tea?" asked Greg, because he didn´t now what else to do and because he was trying to postpone the inevitable.
"Yes, please. Tea would be lovely," accepted Mycroft, because he did not know how to start.
It took good ten minutes before the policeman managed to put together the offered tea, and he found Mycroft in the living room, standing near the window, staring blindly on the busy street.
"So, both Sherlock and John are perfectly alright. Watson sent me a text this mornig," tried Greg - not very succesfully - to make small talk.
"Yes. Their medical files said that apart for some bruising and a few cuts, they are in perfect health."
"Good."
Silence. More staring out of the window. For a while, Mycroft´s gaze focused on one of the passer-bys, but then it traveled back to its default position.
"You know," Mycroft cleared his throat, " I don´t usually have dreams. But sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I remember things. Never been able to delete anything, unlike Sherlock - though I think he might be overdoing this ability a bit."
A pause. Where is he going with this? Greg wondered.
"Yesterday I had this memory - I forgot it years ago. I may have been four or five. In my father´s library. I must have read somewhere about Leonardo Da Vinci, I think, because I assembled a dozen of the most heavy books in the house and all large pieces of cloth I got my little fingers at - and tested their ability to be used as parachutes." A smile flickered on his face.
"I should say, most of them were useless. But one - a very heavy cloth, it looked like a long forgotten piece of a painter´s canvas - it worked. And for a short while, the book has been slowly descending through air - ending on the floor, inevitably, but in a much beter condition than the rest. And I loved it."
He turned, a determined expression on his face now. "It must be one of the first memories I have. But for so long, I could not remember. Mind is a curious thing. The beautiful things - they merge one into another, and the memory of a beautiful sunrise on a meadow would grow into one with all the meadows and sunrises you ever saw, until it is no longer there, could have never been there. Because how could something so lovely, so fragile disappear into nothingness, when the remembrance of all that stings and hurts and pains is forever very clearly burned into your forehead?"
He looked sadly in the direction of the tea assembly, avoiding Greg´s gaze.
"And this particular one, I did not remember. But I remebered, what happened after that. My mother, crying for no apparent reason when she saw the torn books and the mess on the floor. And father´s anger, his hissed words, his hand. But for a moment, when the book was slowly coming down and the cloth was full of air above it, nothing else mattered. No consequences, just the fact that it worked."
"I think this might be how Sherlock feels every time he solves a problem," Greg said half to himself.
"Yes, I hope it is true. But for once, I am not here to talk about Sherlock. I want you to know - whatever happenes next - that when Sherlock was gone, you were... I was falling and you were like my parachute, if that makes any sense. You slowed me down, allowed me to take a ragged breath before I touched the ground, if you pardon me this metaphore.
You saved me, Gregory Lestrade. And as I said, whatever happenes next, I shall remain forever grateful for that."
He´s going to leave me, Greg thought. He´s breaking up - whatever we had together. He was going to blurt out something in this manner, before a tired voice silenced him.
"Stop thinking. Stop making assumptions with incomplete data."
"Why are you here?"
"Sit down, please. And listen. Whatever happens afterwards," and he rubbed a hand over his face. He will leave, if you do this. You will be alone again, Mycroft thought.
"You have a right to hear this. So listen, please, and forgive me, if I am... if it stops making any sense. And hear it all, I beg you, I need you to listen to the end, even if... even if you don´t like it, don´t like me... Please."
So Greg seated himself and braced himself. It was apparent, now, that MYcroft still trusted him. He told him the story about his childhood, after all. So if you were to ask the policeman, he would put his money that Mycroft was trying to make another attempt to scare Greg off. He would explain, that he is wrong. He would try to anger Greg to stop caring. Stupid really.
But never in his dreams was Lestrade ready for this. Because Mycroft told him everything. About his mother and her death and how it felt. About his and Sherlock´s father, and how Sherlock was born and why. Somewhere along the time he was talking about the first day Sherlock was home, Mycroft´s tone of voice started to get desperate.
He continued in one long stream, apparently unable to stop now, pausing only to take a few ragged breaths in between paragraphs. He told Greg about Victoria, and his days at school, and basically about everything.
Mycroft Holmes, the man Greg thought lived and breathed as a giant enigma, started to enumerate every single time he felt guilty in regards to Sherlock, every single time he felt alone and confused, every time he was hurt. He told Greg all he could about his work, named all the people he killed in his life and all those he directly saved. (Author´s Note: If you want to know more about what Mycroft is saying and haven´t done so yet, read "Five times Mycroft failed Sherlock")
Every time he was talking about a percieved betrayal to Sherlock, an quick expression flickered over Mycroft´s features - it was a face of disgust over his own actions, Greg thought.
Finally, Mycroft managed to get to his role in the Reichenbach act, and further. Greg did not know how long he were talking, but the politicians voice was getting hoarse and it sure felt like centuries.
"When I woke up in the hospital... I felt... disappointed. But you were there, and you... I have never met someone who would give me hope. I would have been happy if you allowed me to clean your shoes, because your mere presence... makes things better. But I am not... good," and Mycroft was almost crying now.
"I always hurt those I... care about. And I do not want to. Hurt you, I mean. So I thought... you have the right to know. All of it." The suited man started fumbling now, and looking everywher but Greg.
"Ehm..," he cleared his throat, "that´s all there is. All the data. I should leave... give you time to make conclusions... I am sorry if I made you think I were better than I am. I´m so sorry." And Mycroft started to make his way to the door.