Work Text:
Mycroft was startled by the sound of his own defeated sigh.
Since the moment he received the last message from Sherlock (“Cake or death” – worst case scenario), he had been working almost breathlessly. He tried to take each inevitable realization after another in strike, but the final arrangement that only he himself can attempt to dive in and extract Sherlock from Serbia was still crushing.
Half of his mind wanted to go over every calculation again; but the other half knew all possible plans had been laid out. The Planning is done. Plans are nothing; Planning is everything
He closed the laptop lid with a sense of finality and walked out toward the drawing room, lighting a cigarette as he crossed the hallway. His flight would be at one in the morning; he needed to prepare himself for the trip now. He needed to relax fully within five hours before the whole ordeal started.
Even smoking and the comfort his own home could not help much. Mycroft tilted his head back in the armchair and forced more pleasant thoughts to surface.
He thought of Greg. What would he say of this? Greg had confronted Mycroft about Sherlock’s survival only thirteen months after the jump, tearing down all efforts to cover the truth by citing evidences from events that were most perfectly masked as not-attack-on-Moriaty’s-network, as well as vague yet relevant behaviors from Molly and Mycroft himself (Fifteen weeks into their relationship. Fifteen weeks! Mycroft still wonders how those behaviors could be some of his gross mistakes. At the same time, he is thankful every day that they did not break up).
He suddenly hoped that Greg would not be able to come home that evening. He could then leave behind a cryptic emergency message. And leave with a lot of guilt. He certainly wouldn't be able to completely lie if he face Greg – and he couldn't flee from home because this place is his only chance to relax. Why couldn’t he relax already?
Hope was dashed at the second cigarette as Mycroft heard familiar sounds at the front door. The heavy, scattered version of them. His lover was tired.
Mycroft had not smoked for quite a while. He knew unpleasant speculations would run amok in Greg’s mind at his sight, but he was too exhausted to come up with a reassuring explanation at the point. He sat still through the seemingly endless wait until Greg looked into the room and froze. They shared a moment of speechlessness.
Eventually, he needed to take the cigarette off his lips to breathe out. The trance broke. Greg came in to sit at his arm rest and frown down at him.
“I am going to get Sherlock tonight.”
Greg was astonished. “From where? Are you going on a trip?” Mycroft wouldn’t feel like smoking if he was simply waiting for Sherlock to be chaffered back from some airport.
“I am going to several countries. Needs must. It’s not too dangerous, but extremely delicate. I will call when I can, but I’m afraid it will be sparingly. ETA eight days.” Mycroft offered a weak smile.
Greg sighed. ‘Not too dangerous’ was Mycroft being honest.
“And thus I am useless. Is this going to be his return?” He put an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder and leaned down to touch their foreheads together.
“Yes.”
Greg closed his eyes and remained quiet for a while. When he looked into Mycroft’s eyes again, he smiled forgivingly, “Then I would limit my fuss to occasional smoking during the intolerable wait.” He reached for his lover’s hand, placed it on his own thigh and squeezed gently. “Is there any preparation left? You are leaving in just a few hours. Shouldn’t you maybe take nap? Flying is not good for sleep.”
“No, I can’t…” Mycroft said with some frustration. Then he stopped. “Have you had dinner?”
“…Yes?”
“Anything you plan to do tonight?”
“Not really. What do you need?” Greg left the arm rest to stand in front of Mycroft.
“If you don’t mind… I would like to watch you rest.”
Ah, the sentiments that he let shown so freely now.
Greg just looked down at him with eyes full of surprise, then chuckled. He kissed him and went their bedroom to change without another word.
They lay next to each other in bed. Greg had tried to unwire Mycroft with some mindless chatting, but he soon succumbed to sleep. Greg got deep sleep easily, a gift that Mycroft envies, although his ability to reinvigorate his brain through mere relaxation was almost as effective. Letting the pleasant warmth surrounded his body, he thought of the potential reactions to Sherlock’s return. John’s punishment would be a great scenario to entertain with, even though he probably would have his share. What he was most unsure about was the doctor’s decision on the future of the… partnership with Sherlock. John moved on from grief with fierce determination; it was possible that he had no power left to stand another upheaval. He might refuse to fall back on the life he loved. The four of them never spoke, but each knew there was much indulgent in choosing Sherlock’s world.
They never spoke because each found himself in no place to point out another’s insanity. Funny, how they thrived by stretching themselves under uncomprehensibility.
Sherlock’s nerve. John’s nerve. Greg’s. His own.
Unlike John, who generally confronted and forgave quickly (except for when he held grudges), Greg used the laying down of principles to relieve emotions and be productive at the same time. He couldn’t understand Sherlock like John unconsciously did, so he built common ground from scratch. It sounded difficult and elusive, but it worked. He pulled Sherlock out of drug. He made it possible for Sherlock to come to crime scenes (an immense feat). He dealt with the nature of Mycroft’s work similarly easily (he unconsciously understood Mycroft’s personal sides, that Mycroft couldn’t explain). Being deceived and withheld information about Sherlock’s circumstance greatly displeased Greg (an understatement); but as Mycroft fortunately saw the wisdom in letting Greg in the story and thus proposed to share some knowledge, the extreme tension dissolved instantly, in contrary to the outcome Mycroft was convinced would happen. They did argue a lot about how much he must tell (no dismissal glossing over!), but in the end it came down to establishing trust. Greg could trust Mycroft to tell him important things about Sherlock; and Mycroft could trust that Greg would let the brothers save themselves for now. Greg would offer all the help he could, but he wouldn’t force.
Neither of them knew he would instead become the anchor that Mycroft desperately needed in order to stand through this fight.
Mycroft huffed out a laugh at the memory of him coming to Greg’s crime scene, on the night when he ended Moriaty’s southern European branch. He wanted to be dropped there because all his ringing head could think was to find Greg, to have the sight of him. But the murder was one of the worst, full of mindless violence and innocence forever loss. Under the terrible road light, they had looked at each other’s face, blank and pitiful, and together retreated in silence to Greg’s car. The plugged-in mp3 automatically resumed playing as the car started. Greg’s taste in music revolves around three types – wordless vision, sarcastic tale, and bittersweet reminiscence. Stories murmured to them through the sleepy roads of London. Mycroft noticed when a song played rather long. The slow piece had gentle melody and strong beat, comforting to the anxious and exhausted soul. His mind cooled to a sluggish state, no longer felt lost. Then in the same slow, gentle flow, the song changed to a triumph key, brightening up like a night after the rain had stopped.
He heard Greg quietly mouthing to the lines. When he turned to look, he thought those brown eyes were shining, even though there was no light he could see. Greg’s face was tired, yet full of vitality. Feeling the stare, his lover just smirked and playfully rested a hand on his thigh. Mycroft marveled. How could this man be so strong, again and always, then and now.
They both jumped at the sound of Greg’s phone. As he sat up to answer it, Mycroft rolled off the bed to freshen up in the bathroom and change. He was leaving soon.
When he came out, Greg had also changed into his work clothes. His lover tried to grin, but he looked grim. “Thank goodness you gave me that nap. They just found an awful scene out there.”
Mycroft hugged him and kissed his temple. “I don’t give sleep, Gregory.”
“Yes you do. You are as much of a fairy as any.”
They walked together to the front door. Greg looked for his keys and money clipper in the heap of coffee receipts he emptied from his pockets onto the side stand earlier that night. At least he had learned to keet his badge with his phone. Mycroft helped by pulling the tangle of earphones from the keys. He picked up the mp3 player and idly browsed through the song list.
Named after its chorus line. Obvious. He put on one earphone.
“Return it to me when you come back, will you?”
He looked up at Greg, who smiled and patted his elbow. “If I have more time I would definitely tell you how much I worry about the pair of you. But you must go soon and I trust you, for the most part. So keep this with you and sometimes remember that I occasionally fear for you, okay?”
He blinked and kissed his lover for long. They hearts beat to the drum they could both hear.
“Yes. Yes I will.” He finally stepped back to let Greg go. “You be safe too.”
“My job is not too dangerous, Mycroft.” Greg raised his eyebrows and turned to rush out.
Mycroft was left alone in the gentle shadow of the hallway. He put on the other earphone and turned off the dim light, letting the retreating light from Greg’s car faintly lit through the decorative glasses.
The old story murmured to him.
These are my feet
These are my hands
These are my children
This is my demand
In complete darkness, Mycroft’s senses knew only the music. His mind knew only what he wanted.
Bring down the angels
Cast them from my sight
I never want to see
A million suns at midnight
Your hands are empty
The streets are empty
You can't control us
You can't control us anymore
He smiled and whispered with the last words.
‘Goodnight.’
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Here is the song