Bearable Christmas II

„Pathetic".

Mycroft sighed when his brother stood next to him in the front garden. He didn't answer and hold out a cigarette for him which he gladly took. They smoked in silence for a while and Mycroft slowly felt himself calm down again. Knowing himself for not being a sentimental man he had not expected such a strong and disturbing reaction from his body and mind. Exhausted was not what could describe what he was feeling right now. But there was a feeling. The feeling of emptiness. He had not known what grief was. He had not known until he had left for Serbia, leaving her. She had grown a constance in his mind, not distracting him in the first place but making him vulnerable. There had hardly been a time when he had not thought of her, asking himself who she was with, what she was doing. Mycroft knew he was on the edge to madness and obsession. One touch from her and he would fall.

So, he had made up his mind on their flight back to stay away from her as much as possible. He could not afford to lose his mind, his everything, his elixir. England needed him. It would always be like this and he was quite content with that fact. He had never wanted anything else and now he was offered something he had never even hoped to gain. Something he had to forbid himself to have. He had dived deep, only to discover he was drowning.

„Are you really that blinded by sentiment or did you just have too much of the punch?"

Sherlock's voice pulled him back to the moment and he blinked at his brother, his brows knitted.

„I don't know what you're talking about."

The younger one snorted and puffed on his cigarette. „Oh, come on, Mycroft. It's obvious. Clara has hung on your every word since she came here, the shy glances she throws in your direction when she thinks you're not looking, the slight shock and anticipation when you look back, her moronic smile at you, the fact that she jumps only by hearing your voice. She's acting like a bloody schoolgirl around you." The youger paused and took a few puffs, blowing out the smoke into the cold air. „And you", he added. „You look different. When you think she can't see you".

The elder Holmes did not answer. There was no point in denying now. Sherlock knew anyway. Even though his brother obviously refused to understand Mycroft's reservation.

„When will you finally drop this subject, Sherlock?", he asked, his expression bored. The detective dropped his cigarette instead and stepped on it, his sharp gaze on his brother.

„Never", he stated. „Until you finally tell me what you're up to with her?"

„I told you-"

„Lie."

„Shut up, now!" He hadn't realised he was yelling until he saw her silhouette in the corner of his eye. Clara was standing in the door frame, one hand on the handle, the other placed against her collar bone uneasily. Her face changed from one second to the other. From insecurity to anger. She pulled the door closed and walked up to them, both silent now.

„What do you think you're doing?", she hissed. „Your parents are inside, trying their best to make it a wonderful evening, it's bloody Christmas and you've got nothing left to do than fighting? Seriously?!"

Before Sherlock could blame him all over again, Mycroft spoke.

„I believe this is none of your buisness", he said coldly and regretted it the moment her reaction spread across her features. - Hurt. Rejection.

Without even looking at Sherlock, she turned to leave but stopped two steps later. „Fine", she said. „You know, you should be greatful that your mother is still alive and still able to cook you Christmas dinner". That, he had almost forgotten. Clara missed her mother especially on Christmas.

Mycroft made a few steps towards her. He could not let her leave like this, his brother completely forgotten. „I did not mean-"

„No, of course not! One's meaning everything one's saying, remember?" With that she walked insde and slammed the door shut behind her.

Mycroft closed his eyes with a sigh. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock chuckle.

„She just slammed the door in your face."

„Yes, Sherlock. I am aware", the politician answered tiredly.

Clara leant against the heavy wooden door with a sigh. How did that happen? Why was he always being so repellent? Why for God's sake had she fallen for a man who was changing like the seasons within a matter of seconds? One moment, they kissed, the next they were on each other's throats.

But she had found that she missed him. Since his left for Serbia, as she knew by now, she had walked the streets of London, looking around if a camera was moving behind her. It was still not okay what he had done but now she found herself almost whishing for the bad stuff to come back so she could have at least anything of him. If she could not have him, she would take their disputes and arguments and sometimes kissing. It still made her body shiver, the taste of his lips still on hers.

She knew he had probably fallen for her, she had realised it the night he had left officially after a fight with Sherlock in her appartement. The way he had kissed her temple, had held her for a while longer and had refused to look her in the eyes once more. He had not wanted to leave. It had been that he wanted to keep her this close, savouring this very moment, burn it into his soul, almost hoping for time to stand still. And she had felt the same way. Now it felt like they had never had a chance and probably it had to be so. How could she have ever imagined Mycroft Holmes would be easy to love?

„Everything okay, dear?" She heard Violet in the kitchen and swallowed against her dry throat. „Yes. Sorry, the wind was stronger than me".

Mr. Holmes senior came out of the living room and smiled at her. „Would you like a glass of punch, my dear?"

„Don't fire on Sherlock Holmes!"

He had killed him. Clara had been with John and Sherlock to face Magnussen. The fact that Sherlock had wanted to sell Mycroft's laptop had been shocking enough but Magnussen was way creepier than each one of them could have imagined. For the briefest moment Clara had thought about the possibility that he was an alien but it did not really matter. He was evil, cruel and vile. And Sherlock had shot him in the end.

All she could hear right now was her breath and all she could think about was Sherlock. He had killed someone. Something he had never intended to do. To protect John's and Mary's future.

They were escorted home, to 221B and Clara made some tea in the kitchen while telling Mrs. Hudson what had happened. The old lady started to cry and when Clara hugged her for comfort she couldn't help but cry as well. She expected Sherlock to say something, anything but he didn't. John was running around trying to call Mycroft, swearing over him and Magnussen and Mary didn't stop him. The landlady sat down on the couch next to the detective. She slid her hand beneath his arm and leant her head against his shoulder. Clara stood by the window looking out into the whirling flakes of snow. A part of her brain seemed to be shut down. She could not believe what just had happened. Sherlock was just back. And now he was going to leave again. But this time possibly forever.

Sherlock received a call from his brother two hours later, telling him that he had made a deal and that the younger one could stay at 221B until the holdiay was over. When he had ended the call, the detective was silent for a long time. „What?", John asked furiously. „What else did he say? Don't try to trick us, I can see there is something else!"

„There is indeed", Sherlock said, looking at Clara now. „I think he wants to see you". Her eyes widened. „Did he say so?", she asked but did not get an answer. There was a strange silence in the living room, neither one knew what to say, least of all Clara. „Let's get you a cab", Sherlock said coldly and stood, escorting her out the door and down the stairs. She didn't remember how she got down the stairs without falling over. Her legs felt weak. Sherlock opened the front door and ran outside, raising his arm for a cab. It stopped and he opened the door for her as if nothing had happened. Like he was not a murderer. But he was now. Before she got in she hesitated and looked up at him. He was smiling although he was close to tears. „Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" He swallowed and looked down just like the way his brother did when it came to emotions. When his gaze was on her again, she could tell that he was reading her. „Even though he would protest he shouldn't be alone tonight." She smiled gently. There it was. Sherlock loved his brother and cared for him just like Mycroft did. Crooking her head, she wondered what he had just told him on the phone. It must've been something terrible for Sherlock showed care for his brother. „He is not alright and neither are you", the detective stated. „For all I know he does enjoy your company. He needs you."

There was a warmth that spread across her stomach at his words. Clara remembered a time when she felt needed. With the Doctor, with Sherlock. And now, Mycroft needed her. And she needed to feel needed. Nodding, she realised that he would be fine, he had John, Mrs. Hudson and Mary. And hopefully he would have Molly, too. „Thank you", she said and began to shiver for she wasn't wearing a jacket and the snow kept on falling, several flakes landing in her hair covering her forehead. As she was about to get in, she heard his voice again: „You love him, don't you?", and stopped in her movement.

She thought it would be wise to protest but what did it matter? Why not just telling him the truth which he already knew? Turning back to him once more Clara let her head drop and smiled faintly. It was true. She was in love with the British government. The least expected of all. Wasn't it ironic? Sherlock placed a warm hand on her shoulder and caused her to look at him. „Just be careful. If it comes between you and his beloved country, he will choose the latter." It appeared to her that she should have been afraid by that warning. But she wasn't. Even if Mycroft would do so, he would do the right thing. He would always do the right thing. „Thank you", she said again and got inside the cab.

When she ringed the door bell, she was answered by him, looking outworn. He'd obviously been working until now, trying to get his idiotic brother out of his own created mess. Maybe that was the point. Mycroft would always run, hoping not to be late to save his brother. If that was the reason they would never be together, she would accept it. She understood now. Sherlock had wanted her to understand and get over her feelings for his brother in one move, of course the detective would not approve. The young woman slipped inside and closed the door. He was standing in front of her, blocking her path with his body. His hands were burrowed in his pockets, his suit jacket, tie and waistcoat off. He looked shattered. There were deep circles of worry beneath his eyes, his face was pale.

„I do not know why Sherlock send you to me and it does not matter to me, either. If you should feel the need to leave then do it now. I will never touch you again, if that is what you whish. We do both know that I have missed my chance long ago." He paused and Clara let him, feeling that he wasn't finished yet. Perhaps he would send her away now for his undevided attention was needed to solve Sherlock's problem. But how could she do as he asked when everything she wanted was to stay? She lowered her head like a child waiting for it's punishment. „But you should know", he continued, his voice suddenly changed. „For I, as you very well know despise Christmas. This year it was actually bearable." His fingers cupped her chin and lifted her face up to look at him. He had his mother's eyes, just like Sherlock. Clear, searching and ...asking. „This time I almost enjoyed it", he added, his voice a barely audible whisper.

It was wicked. Even if he had wanted to look away, he couldn't find the strength of dragging his eyes from hers. These deep brown eyes, warming his soul and hypnotising him. Watching their pupils deliate until they were nothing but two dark pools of lust. Mcroft loved it and at the same time he felt guilt crawling in his veins. He did not want to feel guilty right now, she was way too close but still too far away. No matter how close he got, it was never enough. Completely focused on her eyes he did not realise when he'd started to brush her lower lip with his thumb. Clara took a half step towards him for there was no more space left between them. It was his last chance to turn away, let her leave and save her from him but he couldn't. Feeling her heart beat against his chest, hearing her stuttering breath almost made him tremble and he felt his desire for her melting his mind away.

The next thing Mycroft knew was that he cupped her face in his hands while he was kissing her and she was kissing him. They stayed like this for he did not know how long, snogging each other senseless in the truest sense of the word. He could not think of anything but her. His vision was swimming.

The next time his senses flamed up once more, he found himself pinned against the wall by her, halfway up the stairs. She was left in her bra and skirt by that time and her fingers were busy undoing the buttons of his shirt. He felt her lips on his neck, his throat, his collarbone. Desire was runnig down his body, a heat he had not felt in years. The arousal was about to knock him out and he felt his mind slip when he brought his lips back to hers.

The next time their mouths came apart was when her legs hit the bed and she let herself sink down, pulling him with her. His stomach dropped and he could not hold back a moan. Mycroft pulled back to free her from her skirt as she finally shoved his shirt down his shoulders.

He let his mouth travel down her stomach, across her rips, the feel of her skin barely enough.

She pulled him back up to meet his lips with hers and he gladly gave in.

When they were both finally unwrapped she suddenly sat up and Mycroft moved back, not sure what she was doing. He then felt her soft fingertips on his shoulder, across the scar.

Clara pressed her lips against the small knot the bullet had left in his shoulder and felt him tremble. She could not help but smile, the idea that she could make him shiver made her feel proud. The man who was not supposed to feel anything giving into the needs of his body. The Ice man molten under her touch. She slowly kissed her way up his neck, surrounded by his rich scent. Her fingers were still stroking his shoulder. Above her on his knees, Mycroft had gone very still. Like a deer in front of a shotgun. It was not easy for him to show vulnerability. She wondered if he ever had. But for her this did not imply weakness, this scar was proof that he had saved her life, one year ago. When she looked at him she would see nothing but him: her saviour, her lover. Her other hand ran through the ginger hair on his chest, soothing him and he emitted something close to a purr before his hands were on her neck and he was kissing her deeply. She surrendered, every logical thought gone and defeated by lust. His hands fell to her hips, pulling her towards him until they were moulded together. Her eyes closed, she focused on what she felt. And she could feel everything! The soft skin of his stomach moving against hers, his heartbeat against hers, his hands traveling up and down her tighs, as she was straddling his lap.

Breaking the kiss, he pulled back to look at her. „Tell me", he ordered his voice rich and dark and she shivered above him.

„Wha-", she began but was knocked out of breath when he pulled her closer, his hands cubbing her buttocks.

„Tell me", he whispered against her lips and she almost came at the primeval male posessiveness he was showing now. That was it, she thought. The point where Mycroft Holmes was losing control and enjoying it. With her. Through her.

He shifted beneath her, pressing closer from underneath and she gasped: „Please".

The room was filled with his sighs and her delicate gasps. She'd thrown her head back in pleasure, his lips softly trailing along her neck. They moved together in a slow steady rythm, desire burning them alive. Mycroft hissed as they still got closer and her short nails gripped into the back of his shoulders, the pleasure almost too much to bear. He was panting, his heart was racing and he still wanted to get closer. How could he possibly find words for such an ecstasy? With each thrust she was meeting him, dragging him to the edge he was already balancing on. At some point he moved over, trapping her beneath him on the bed, her hair fanned across the sheets. He let his face drop and looked into her lustrous eyes which made him want her even more and she raised her chin, kissing him again. When they broke apart for air which they seemed to steal from each others lungs everytime their lips locked, he moved down, his mouth ghosting her breasts. If the world would end right now he would be more than ready to face it as long as he would get the last sound, the last taste, the last movement and the last feeling from her.

„I love you", she breathed, her hands on his neck. His eyes flew open and he almost froze in place but he stopped himself soon enough. He felt a hot rush moving through his chest, about to burn him from inside and did not find his breath for a second. He dragged his teeth across her collarbone, extracting another gasp from her as he moved up and kissed her hard, catching the soft sound that was his name.

Even though it was Christmas, Mycroft whished in that very moment that time would stop.