"Don't."
His face is red and he's squinting, blinking hard. Mycroft estimates that in five seconds, Luke will burst into tears, the way he always does when he's furious and upset. It shouldn't be mistaken as a sign of weakness. One look at his clenched fists tells Mycroft that if he's not careful, Luke won't hesitate to punch him. Hard.
Mycroft's eyes drop to the wet tiles. One of Luke's textbooks has flown out of his bag and is currently lying in the middle of the growing puddle. He doesn't look at Luke as he picks it up and pries it open. Soaked beyond repair but it's not important, judging from the smoothness and stiffness of the spine. He can always borrow from Greg, anyway.
"If it makes you feel any better," he says, "they did that to me as well. They do that to everyone. It's a mindless form of tradition. Better if you don't fight back, really."
"At least the janitor just finished up here, eh?" Luke retorts cheerlessly. He steps past Mycroft, turns on the tap, and plunges his already-drenched head under the water. Mycroft studies his back, sees him shaking even harder, and quickly deduces that the five seconds have gone by. He stuffs the textbook inside Luke's bag but he doesn't pick it up from the floor, knowing just how much Luke will hate the gesture. He's easy to read, Luke. He doesn't want pity, isn't used to getting it, and he definitely won't appreciate it if it comes from Mycroft. To be frank, Mycroft would leave him alone but Greg asked him to look out for him.
"You know how he is," Greg said. "He can't tell his arse from his head." He placed a hand on Mycroft's arm, tightening his grip as if he was making sure Mycroft was there, listening. "Please? Will you do this for me?" And Mycroft didn't—couldn't—say no to him.
He's finding it harder and harder to say no to Greg. Which isn't a good thing because Greg is almost as bad as Luke when left to his own devices. But at least they're separate now which means the teachers can finally relax.
Which means more work for Mycroft.
The tap stops running. The only noise in the room is Luke's heavy breathing, still uneven but calmer now, meaning he's finally stopped crying. Mycroft takes it as a sign to look. His eyes meet Luke's through the mirror. "If you tell Greg—" he starts.
"I won't. But I do mean it—do not fight back. You'll only make it worse for yourself."
Luke stares at him challengingly. Finally, he moves away from the sink, snatches his bag, then walks out of the room, slamming the door shut as he goes. Mycroft sighs. Eight hours of their first day back and Luke's already landed himself into trouble. Really, Greg's patience is impeccable.
Greg's smile drops when he takes note of the empty space at Mycroft's side where Luke should be. His fingers curl around the chain-link fence as he stands on his toes to look over Mycroft's shoulder. "He's not dead, is he?" Greg jokes, an underlying trace of worry in his voice.
"Sulking," Mycroft answers. Well, technically he's not telling Greg the details so it's not exactly breaking his promise to Luke. Greg will find out anyway because as much as Luke hates being picked on, he craves the attention, and what happened will certainly be a story the two of them will laugh at when they're older. "I take it you're doing well."
Greg shrugs. "It's alright. A bit boring, though."
Mycroft scans him quickly. Not lying, he thinks, relieved. Greg raises an eyebrow at him, smiling slightly so that Mycroft can only see a glimpse of his braces. "Worried?" he teases. It makes Mycroft pause. He's worried, alright, but you don't admit to people that you're worried about them because they'll only do things to make you worry more. He thinks of a reply.
"It's my job," he says, settling for a fact.
Greg's brows furrow and something, something that Mycroft doesn't like, passes over his face. "Right," he mutters, sounding hollow.
"Greg?"
"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing, just tired, you know?" He laughs but it still sounds wrong. "Been playing all night. Practicing, I mean, I still can't play shit." He lifts up his hand to show Mycroft the broken skin around his fingers, waggles his fingers playfully. "Getting better, though."
Mycroft looks at the damaged skin and inevitably thinks of Sherlock. "I'd like to see that. Hear you play, I mean," he says doubtfully, remembering the last time Greg made him listen to his records. Greg chuckles at what he sees on his face.
"Not going to force you to, don't worry." He stands there awkwardly for a moment, keeping his head bowed so that Mycroft can't read his face. He should be easy to read since he's just a less volatile version of Luke but Mycroft finds that there are layers to Greg Lestrade that he hasn't seen yet. What is it this time? But they don't ask questions. He's sure he'll find out sooner or later. He may not be easy to read sometimes but Greg's not a big keeper of secrets, either.
He straightens himself, smiles again, then says, "Listen, I have to go. Just, um, thanks, I guess. For looking out for him." The smile falters. "You know, even though it's not your job."
"Don't."
Mycroft looks away for a moment but it's hard, so he gives up on politeness and just stares. Luke can't see him from his position but he tenses and growls, "Laugh and I'll kill you."
"I'm not going to laugh," Mycroft answers because he's not stupid, he's not going to laugh at this. "But I did warn you not to fight back."
"Fuck your warnings," Luke mutters vehemently. Mycroft has to admire his determination to seem intimidating. It's not an easy thing to do, especially when you're facing the wall with the tip of your nose pressed against a small, badly-drawn x. He turns his head, notices the empty desk, then steps back, enough for Mycroft to see his face. His left eye is already starting to swell shut and there's dried blood on his top lip but he's grinning like a wolf. "You should have seen what I did to the others guys. Idiots. They can't mess with me."
"This isn't going to stop," Mycroft tells him.
"Did I say that I want it to?"
"Greg doesn't want you fighting."
Luke groans. "He's not my keeper. I'm his keeper. Technically, anyway."
"You don't do a very good job."
And that's it. Luke's expression darkens. "You would know all about jobs, wouldn't you, Mycroft?" he says goadingly. Mycroft searches his expression. This obviously has something to do with Greg, but Luke narrows his eyes at him and Mycroft immediately stops. Luke's not going to tell him now. He will, probably. He's got a big mouth and despite his loyalty to Greg, he'll eventually say what it is. Not now, though.
They hear footsteps. Luke freezes. "You ought to get back to your punishment," Mycroft tells him. He's about to step out but Luke calls his name, stopping him at the threshold.
"I hate you," Luke says, "But that's not a big secret, huh? I don't know why, but—Look, just remember what I told you, alright? Then maybe I can get over the fact that you're a posh git."
"You've said a lot of things to me, none of them good."
"Yeah, well, the ones with substance. Review them."
"It's a simple enough tune, boy, so stop making a racket and learn the piece properly!" Father snaps, slamming his glass on the table forcefully. For a moment, Mycroft fears that he may have broken it, but when Father relinquishes his hold, he sees that it's perfectly fine.
Sherlock's standing in the middle of the room, staring at his feet and looking so unsure of himself that Mycroft has to swallow the wince threatening to escape from his mouth. He's done nothing this time, has even made the effort to be good for once, but Father's been stuck in one of his black moods for weeks. Mycroft thinks of the little bottle of pills stashed in their medicine cabinet. The last time he looked, there were six. He thinks—knows rather—that there will still be six when he checks it again.
Father clicks his tongue disapprovingly, staring Sherlock down. Mycroft desperately wants to leap out of his chair and hold Sherlock close, shield him from Father's gaze. He doesn't. It will be worse if he interferes.
"I want that perfect by tomorrow night, understand?" When Sherlock doesn't reply, Father gets up and grabs his chin, forcing him to look at him. "Understand, Sherlock?" he grits out.
For a second, defiance flashes in Sherlock's eyes but it fades soon enough. He mutters a shaky yes. Father lets him go. As soon as he's out the door, Sherlock hurls the bow at the floor, the violin almost following suit if not for Mycroft's interference. He gently pries the instrument out of Sherlock's hands and lays it on the table before going back to Sherlock. "Hush, don't cry," he says comfortingly. "You were good."
Mycroft feels guilty that he secretly cherishes these moments because this is one of the few times when Sherlock acts his age. It's not good, definitely isn't very big-brother like, but Sherlock's usually so abrasive. It's nice, from time to time, to feel that Sherlock still needs him. Still, this doesn't mean Mycroft wants Sherlock to suffer. It's heart breaking to see him like this. Sherlock's covering his face, trying to hide his tears, but he doesn't resist when Mycroft wraps his arms around him. "You have to understand, Sherlock," Mycroft whispers, still in the same soothing tone. He's shaking like a leaf against Mycroft, his wet face pressed against the crook of his neck. "Father is sick, remember? Sometimes he can't control himself. You have to be patient with him and you have to learn not to fight back."
Sherlock's mumbling something but his speech is too garbled for Mycroft to make out anything. It's probably nonsense anyway. "Stop crying, you'll make yourself ill," Mycroft tries but Sherlock refuses to calm down. "Sherlock, calm yourself, alright? I'll take you to your room."
Sherlock mumbles something again. Two words. "What?" Mycroft asks. "What do you want?"
Sherlock sniffs. "Want Greg," he repeats.
"No."
He's not even thinking about it but he finds himself saying no, anyway. He won't deny Sherlock anything that can't harm him, especially things that will help him, but he can't give Sherlock this. Mycroft knows Greg's presence will calm Sherlock. If Mummy were here…But she's not. They seldom stay in the same place for a long period of time, his mother and father.
He can't invite Greg here now, not when Father's around, acting like this, and not when Sherlock's in hysterics. "No, Sherlock," he says again, hating it, hating himself when disappointment flashes in Sherlock's face.
Coward. But Sherlock doesn't say it even though Mycroft can tell that he wants to. The moment is gone and Sherlock slumps his shoulders, defeated.
He should have said it.
"Don't."
He doesn't say it out loud so Greg asks anyway. "Something wrong?" He's looking at Mycroft carefully. Mycroft's not looking at him but he can see him staring at him through his peripheral vision, can feel Greg's eyes boring into him.
"It's just," Greg continues, "you've been awfully quiet since I got here." He pulls off his scarf and lays it on the table. His fingers are bandaged. He's proud about them, though, wouldn't be wearing those fingerless gloves if he wasn't. Been playing all night, too much. One of his hands lifts from the table to rest on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft sniffs, smelling the faint traces of blood and iodine from his hand.
"Stop reading me," Greg tells him. "I asked you a question."
Mycroft snaps back to the present. "Nothing's wrong," he lies, moving away so that the table's between them. "Would you like a drink?"
"Coffee," Greg says automatically, still staring at him.
"You shouldn't be drinking that."
Greg's answer is a shrug. Don't, Mycroft thinks, but Greg's not stupid. He's already abandoned his post and is now moving about, looking at the kitchen as if he's trying to find something important. Mycroft turns on the coffee maker, keeping his back to Greg.
"Where's Sherlock?"
"In his bedroom. He's ill."
Greg's stopped walking. "Can I see him?"
"You don't want to catch what he has."
"I don't get sick easily."
"He shouldn't be disturbed."
"I can help make him better. Biology and all that crap."
"He's asleep."
"Where are your parents, by the way? I haven't seen them since Tuesday."
"Mummy's in France. Father's working."
The first is the truth. The second is a lie. Mycroft pours the coffee in a mug, nearly spilling it when he recalls last night's conversation. He'd checked and he was right. Father wasn't taking his medication. As soon as everyone was asleep he called his uncle. Most likely, Father is in the hospital right now with his brother heightening his dosage of lithium tablets. Mycroft wonders what his uncle thinks about their father. If he's afraid of him or if he's afraid for him.
Mycroft wonders if he even thinks of him as someone other than a patient.
A bit of coffee slops from the mug and hits the toe of Mycroft's shoe. Greg notices the slip and doesn't let go of it. "Who's looking after you?" he asks cautiously.
"Greg," Mycroft says, exasperated. He can feel a headache forming. "Leave it."
Greg clamps his mouth shut. When Mycroft turns to face him, Greg has his arms folded across his chest, his expression guarded. Mycroft hands him the mug unceremoniously. "You should tell the truth for once," Greg mutters and somehow Mycroft just loses it.
"You should stop interfering with my life," he snaps and it's so childish that Mycroft feels like he's turned into Sherlock because it's something only his brother would say. It's childish and stupid but it must hurt Greg because his eyes widen. Mycroft doesn't regret things because he always thinks twice before doing something, but he regrets this now.
"Greg," he starts but he stops, stuck, unsure of what to say. He did mean it but at the same time he doesn't and it's so confusing that all he can do is stand there and stare at Greg. He should say sorry but he can't bring himself to do so.
"Sorry," Greg says. It doesn't sound like he's apologising. He's glaring at the mug in his hands instead of glaring at Mycroft and somehow, that seems worse. "I thought we were friends. Stupid of me to make that mistake."
Mycroft feels uncomfortable. He doesn't quite know what to do and it's so foreign a feeling that he has to think for a long time before he can respond. "We are," he says, settling for something simple, for something true. But Greg's face tells him he isn't buying it.
Greg sets the mug down, stares at him. "You're a really good liar, Mycroft."
Luke punches him.
Luke has punched him before. It's ingrained in his very being, to punch things to enjoy himself, to defend himself, and just for the sake of punching something. But he's never punched Mycroft while truly meaning it so it's never hurt until now.
He's not only punching. He's gone wild, has knocked Mycroft off his feet and is in the process of strangling him. Thankfully, Mycroft's not weak. He doesn't fight back but he manages to roll them so that Luke's under him, his arms pinned behind his back. "What?" Mycroft gasps, "is the matter with you?"
Luke struggles like a wild animal, twisting his head to bite Mycroft's hand. Mycroft shifts his hold and slams Luke's head down, applying pressure until Luke gets the message and slowly, slowly calms down. The sound of people laughing distracts Mycroft, long enough for Luke to push him off. They wait but no one enters the classroom.
Luke's breathing heavily, still glaring at Mycroft. He has blood on his hands but it's not his. Mycroft touches his split lip gingerly. His mouth is flooded with the taste of blood but Luke wasn't able knock a tooth loose. The inside of his cheek, however, needs to be checked.
"I warned you, didn't I?" Luke growls. He doesn't make a move to tackle Mycroft. Must be tired, Mycroft thinks. One look at him and Mycroft already knows that he's not the first person Luke's fought with today. "I told you that if you hurt Greg, I'll fucking kill you."
"I'm still alive."
"Want me to correct my mistake?" Luke counters. He tries to stand up and fails, dropping to his arse hard.
"You don't have the energy for that."
"Tomorrow, then," Luke mumbles. He lies back, arms and legs spread like he's about to make a snow angel. Mycroft pokes his tongue at the cut in his cheek, wincing when pain shoots through his face. It makes him cough and spit out blood. Luke stares at him lazily, seemingly satisfied.
"Happy?"
"Quite." He looks at the ceiling and heaves a great sigh. "He fancies you, you know?"
Mycroft stares at him disbelievingly.
"Doesn't say it but I can tell. It just started this month, I think. I don't think he realises either. The way he looks at you. Jesus, it's disgusting." Luke rolls to his side so that he's facing Mycroft. "And as much as the idea gives me the creeps, he's my cousin. Whatever makes him happy, I guess."
"Um," Mycroft says. It is odd. He knows that they're supposed to be together, him and Greg, but he also knows that not all bonds have to have a romantic component to them. He sees it more as a duty. Emotions, love, can be horribly distracting. "I think…I think I would know."
"You've been ignoring it." Luke sits up. "Holmes, think about it. Why do you think he's acting all weird? And don't say puberty because I've just been to another sex ed class today and let me tell you, I am seriously sick of that word."
Mycroft doesn't answer. Silence is a good response. "I just want you to say sorry, alright?" Luke says as he gets up. "He's been sulking all day and it doesn't suit him."
"I—Thank you. For telling me."
Luke cocks his head to one side, studying him. "You're still a posh git," he says but there's no venom to his words, and for a moment, just for a moment, he actually smiles at Mycroft sincerely.
"Don't."
Greg's eyes are closed. Mycroft steps back and Greg opens his eyes. "Don't," he says again and Mycroft removes his hands from Greg's shoulders.
"You could just say sorry," Greg tells him. "You shouldn't kiss me."
"Why not? It's what you want."
Greg flushes but he doesn't avert his gaze. "It's not what you want," he says. Mycroft's silence confirms it, and while there's disappointment in Greg's face, there's also acceptance. "I don't know what Luke's been telling you, but—not if you don't want it. I'm not a job, My."
"I'm terribly sorry." I'm sorry for telling you that, I'm sorry for giving you the wrong impression, I'm sorry for not liking you back. He doesn't say these things out loud. Greg gets it.
"It's just a stupid crush," Greg mutters. "It will go away, eventually." Greg gives him a crooked smile. Mycroft does like him, but in a brotherly way. Not in that way, though. He stares at Greg's face and thinks that while it will be horribly inconvenient, it won't be bad. It's not impossible to like Greg back.
"Okay."
"I just wish you'd tell me things." Greg looks away. He scratches the back of his neck, a habit of his when he's nervous. "I don't keep secrets from you and I don't like it. When you lie to me."
Mycroft sighs. It will be hard, but he can't keep things from Greg forever.
He sets his hands on Greg's shoulders, forces him to look at him. He takes a deep breath, waits. No going back once he says it. But Greg's looking at him with a slightly hopeful expression and he really doesn't want to lose Greg because of this.
He can't force himself to like him back like that. But he can give him this.
"What do you want to know?"
A/N: Mycroft's voice is always serious compared to Luke's and Greg's. I mean, he's Mycroft. I can't imagine him any other way.