Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The call was from a private number, which almost always meant bad news. To be fair though, Greg Lestrade worked for the homicide division; most calls to his phone tended to mean bad news for someone or other.

"Lestrade" he picked up.

"We need your help." Came the curt reply. Greg paused.

"Smallwood," he acknowledged, tone somewhere in the grey area between amused and irritated. "You do understand that I don't work for you anymore, don't you?"

"I do. And if I believed for a second that there was someone currently under my command who could handle this situation, I would be calling them."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, as thought that thought required some time to digest. Then Smallwood broke the silence, her voice soft and tired. "I need you to take someone down."

Greg sighed, "Look, Alicia..."

"Greg." She interrupted, tightly, "You don't understand. I need you to take down Mycroft Holmes."

-----------------

The gun was heavy in Mycroft's hand. It was simultaneously too large and too small, too warm, yet unnaturally cool. It was as though it wanted to be anything other than what it was.

Not that the boy staring up its barrel cared about the details. His face was pink and damp with tears. He was twenty four, maybe twenty five, and already set for a lifetime as a minor civil servant - in the literal sense, not in the sense Mycroft claimed the phrase. No partner, no pets. Parents still alive, but distant and uninvolved. The perfect target, really, given the constraints Mycroft was working within.

"Please..." the boy said again.

"I would prefer you not to speak at this time." Mycroft said, impervious and disinterested. He counted the sirens as they grew closer, matched them with the reflected red and blue lights he could see through the glass of the window high on the wall. His phone rang, and he allowed himself a small smile. This would be the negotiator, of course, right on schedule. Everything was progressing as predicted. He flipped to call to speaker and set it on the table.

"Hello Mycroft. Wasn't expecting to be talking to you again so soon."

Mycroft's mind suddenly started to whir. This was... Unexpected.

"Detective Inspector. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked. He wondered for a moment whether his current circumstance and the timing of the phone call might be purely coincidental, then felt irritated at himself for hoping for something so plainly unlikely.

"I'm pretty sure you know why." Lestrade answered.

Scenarios started playing out in Mycroft's head. This was not the direction he had planned, this was not a possibility he had foreseen, but the plan was not beyond salvage. Lestrade may have been smarter than average, he was no Holmes.

For his part, Lestrade didn't seem to mind Mycroft's silence.

"So, there's this concept I heard about a few years back. Seems more of a thing in America, but still, interesting. It works like this: a bloke gets it into his head he doesn't want to be in the world any more, but for some reason or another, can't quite bring himself to actually do the deed by his own hand. So instead, he goes and makes a threat out of himself - commits a crime, threatens someone with bodily harm, that sort of thing. Naturally, the coppers come along, have no choice but to stop him as efficiently as they can. Just so you know, I'm coming in the front door now. Just me, no one else, no need to get jumpy."

Mycroft glanced towards the door without thinking. He'd already worked through several dozen scenarios, and none so far had come out as well as he'd hoped. There were still options though. Nothing perfect, but this could yet be salvaged. He readjusted his grip on the gun.

"They call it 'suicide by cop'." Lestrade's voice continued through the speaker of the phone, as though he'd never stopped, "Just like a regular suicide, only his weapon of choice is a police officer. If you ask me though, it's kind of a dick move. I mean, sure, the bloke gets dead without having to actually do the deed himself, but for the copper who pulled the trigger, that's gonna haunt him for the rest of his life. Not so much of an issue here in Britain, of course. We don't tend to carry guns, and it takes serious intent to kill someone with a truncheon."

"You are not armed, then?"

Lestrade answered with a huff of amusement, "'Course I'm bloody armed, I walking alone into a hostage situation to meet a crazy man holding a gun."

"A valid point." Mycroft conceded.

Lestrade didn't answer for a moment, but Mycroft could hear his footsteps getting close now. When he did speak, the sound was duplicated, a real voice on the other side of the door, echoed by an artificial one coming from the phone.

"I'm going to hang up now, and then I'm going to come through the door. If you'd hold off putting a bullet in me, I'd be grateful."

Mycroft didn't answer, not as he heard the phone call terminate, not as he saw the door open, not as Greg Lestrade walked into the room, gun raised. The man's hand was steady, the safety off on the gun. His eyes skimmed over the room, lingeringly slightly longer on the poor wretch on his knees to check for signs of injury, then came back to rest on the man orchestrating the scene.

"Mycroft." Greg addressed him with a nod of the head.

"Gregory." He acknowledged in return.

Lestrade took a single, slow step forward, then stopped again.

"So I'm thinking to myself, why would Mycroft choose an option like that? It's not like he doesn't have the ability to get hold of drugs that would send him off painlessly. And if he wanted to suffer, well the options just open right up. Why go to all the trouble of this dog and pony show?"

Mycroft glared. This was making it very difficult to retain control of the situation.

"You seem quite set on your theory that I wish myself harm." He said, curtly. "Have you for a moment considered the possibility that I might actually have reason to kill this man? That perhaps you are not operating with all the information?"

The young man on his knees whimpered. Lestrade just tilted his head to the side in concession. "Considered it, sure. Didn't seem very likely. I heard the story from your brother, you know, and from John. You had a man literally begging you to shoot him, take one life to save another, and you wouldn't even touch the weapon. You're not one to pull the trigger. If you needed this bloke killed, you'd arrange for someone to take care of it for you."

"Someone like you, perhaps."

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow. "I'm no assassin, Mycroft. You know that."

"You seem remarkably certain about what I do and don't know." Mycroft snipped, eyes narrowing. This was well past the point of inconvenience.

"Yeah, I do" Lestrade nodded, taking another slow step forward, "And here's how I think it went down in your head. If you take your own life, Sherlock blames himself for not seeing it in time and spends the rest of his life failing to cope with that guilt. Probably heads straight back to the drugs, lost to the world. On the other hand, some faceless copper or MI5 agent puts you down, well that just gives him a target to focus on. Sure, he'll probably destroy that officer's life, but then he'll grieve and move on. You're ready to be done here, but you're going to take care of your brother on the way out."

Mycroft took a slow, centring breath. This was not the path he would have preferred, but his options were dwindling rapidly. The wimpering civil servant was unimportant now. He had to present enough of a threat that the call would be taken out of Lestrade's hands.

He turned, raising his gun a few degrees. Pointed it directly at Lestrade's head.

"A lovely story." He snarled. "A little saccharine perhaps, but then you've always imagined me to be more sentimental than I am."

Lestrade smiled sadly, and it stung, just a little. Mycroft really hadn't wanted the man involved. Hadn't wanted to hurt him.

"Don't need to imagine anything." He said, and then, in an act of pure absurdity, clicked the safety on his gun and lowered it to the floor. As he stood again, he kicked it gently back out into the hall. "You're my friend, Mycroft. I'm not interested in hurting you. Pretty sure you're not too keen on hurting me either. So how's about you put the gun down, and we walk out of here together."

That was... Not an option. Which left only one viable path.

Mycroft closed his eyes and pointed the gun at the ceiling. He let off a single shot.

The sound was deafening. He knew it would be, he'd heard gunfire before, but it never ceased to surprise him. The civil servant on the floor screeched. Mycroft opened his eyes to a cloud of plaster dust, and in a moment of weakness, looked over his shoulder and up to the window.

Lestrade coughed, an impulse Mycroft could well understand under the circumstances, and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the dust that continued to fall.

"They won't fire unless I give the order." Lestrade said, quiet despite the post-shot silence. "The snipers, the ones you're looking for out there? They're under orders not to shoot unless I say the word. And I'm not going to say the word. Please just give me the gun, Mycroft."

Mycroft felt his breath shorten, and for all that he wanted to believe it was caused by the congestion in the air, he was not one for self delusion. He leveled the gun back at Lestrade's head, and took a step forward.

"Give the word." He ordered.

Lestrade shook his head. "Nope."

Mycroft lunged forward, waving the gun to cover his shaking. "Give the fucking word!"

"Not going to happen, Mycroft."

Breath shallow, hands shaking, Mycroft took one last step. "Give the word, Lestrade," he gritted his teeth, then softly, desperately, added, "Please."

He watched, waited for several seconds, the silence scratching at his skin. Then he closed his eyes in defeat. He could take anything but pity.

There was a hand over his, angling the gun down towards the ground, then oh-so-gently removing it from his grip. He heard the click of the safety going on, the muffled thunk of it being placed on the ground, the rough brush of it being kicked away to join Lestrade's weapon in the hall.

"It's Russell, isn't it?" Lestrade asked, and for a moment Mycroft was confused. Then a shaky voice agreed, and he remembered the pathetic civil servant who should have been the perfect catalyst. He wished he could identify where his plan had gone wrong.

"Okay then son, I want you to walk very slowly out the front door, keep your hands visible. Let them know the situation is under control, and that we'll be coming out soon. You're okay now, you're going to be fine. Can you do that? Good lad."

Mycroft assumed that the boy had agreed, because he heard unsteady footsteps walking away. Then, as though the moment were not surreal enough, he felt himself being pulled in very gently, and an arm being wrapped over his shoulder to the middle of his back. There were soft words, muffled in his ear. "It's over now, Snowflake."

Two utterly unfamiliar things happened then, in close succession.

For the first time in years, someone was hugging him.

And he had no idea what was supposed to happen next.

Chapter Text

The next thirty minutes or so passed in a haze of what Mycroft would later identify as shock and confusion. He heard Lestrade's voice, calm and reassuring, the words blurred and refusing to stick. He felt the cool, sharp edge of handcuffs around his wrists, even as Lestrade squeezed his hands and explained that it was only temporary. He heard the echo of footsteps in the huge, dizzying halls, only to realize that they were caused by his own feet.

A gentle hand on the crown of his head, directing it down to obscure his features from onlookers. And then there were thousands of people, bright lights, flashing cameras, the chaos of a police cordon, and finally the muffled sounds of the city, as heard from inside the back of a police car.

Mycroft wondered idly how long it would take them to get to the station, then stopped himself. It would be useless data, given that he had no idea how long he'd been in the car already. How long had it been since he had pulled the gun? He could ask Lestrade. The man was driving in front, casting occasional glances back in the rear view mirror to check on his prisoner. He opened his mouth to ask, but something else came out instead.

"Would you believe me if I told you that he was working for my sister?"

The car slowed, and for a moment Mycroft wondered if it had done so as a reaction to his question. Then he noticed the red traffic light and internally scolded himself for such a fancy.

"That depends." Lestrade answered, carefully, "Is it true?"

Mycroft breathed out quietly, in not quite a sigh. "I cannot say. She was out in the world for weeks... Months. She had absolute freedom. She could have set a dozen traps, recruited a thousand people to her cause. They might not even know it themselves."

"That's paranoia, Mycroft. She played out her plan, and it failed, and now she's locked up again. You're safe."

Mycroft watched the world go past through the window. "By surviving, I cheated her out of her prize. Her game never finished. It will never be finished as long as I'm alive." The trees blurred brown and green as the drove past. "It took her five minutes with Moriarty to prepare the entirety of her most recent performance. She was out for weeks. My sister may be locked in the most secure facility in the world now, and yet I am as vulnerable to her as if she were here in this car."

Lestrade glanced back at him in the mirror again, eyes narrowed with insight. "You know I've never met her, right? Saw her across a bit of lawn when they picked her up, but no more than that."

"Can you be certain of that, Detective Inspector? Doctor Watson met with her multiple times in her guise as a therapist, and never suspected. In your work, you speak to hundreds of people every day. Would you notice? Would you remember? She can manipulate people, she can make herself remembered or make herself forgotten. You have no way to be certain."

Another glance back. "That kind of paranoia destroys people, Mycroft. You have to let it go. You can't live your life like that."

"Please, Detective Inspector. You yourself deduced that I was not intending to live that way for very much longer."

Lestrade didn't say anything further, but his fingers tightened on the steering wheel and the car accelerated just a fraction. Mycroft leaned back and watched the world fly by.

Lestrade didn't put him in a cell when they arrived, which Mycroft found odd. Instead he was walked to Lestrade's office, so familiar and yet at this moment quite uncanny. A member of staff dropped off what appeared to be a rather depressing sandwich, which Lestrade thanked him for and then placed immediately in front of Mycroft. He then settled himself into his own chair and dragged the desk phone towards him. He caught Mycroft's eye.

"Just got a few calls to make. Won't take long. Do you need anything? Blanket? Tea?"

He was using his 'skittish victim' voice. Mycroft recognized it, for all that he had never anticipated it ever being used on him. It was absurd, the idea that he might be the victim in this scenario. He declined both offers.

Lestrade's phone conversation was softly spoken, filled with long pauses. "Yes, Ma'am... In my office, with me... Of course not.... I'm not sure that's the best option... You should know, there were news crews, quite a lot of cameras".

That last one seemed like an odd thing to note. Of course there would be news crews present, they could hardly be persuaded away from a hostage situation involving government employees. It didn't matter, one more dead man's face on the news would hardly...

But there had been no dead man.

Mycroft was still very much alive.

He had failed. And now every news broadcaster in the country would be showing video footage of his face to the population at large.

The room suddenly felt oppressively close, the air viscous and heavy. His right hand flicked to touch his lips involuntarily, as though some part of his primitive hind brain believed he was being smothered by something and needed to clear it. The whole world was threatening to burn out of control.

The movement caught Lestrade's attention, and while he didn't stop talking to the person on the phone, he did reach across the desk to rest his hand over Mycroft's, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

As quickly as it had started, the world calmed again. Mycroft's heart rate slowed, the air cleared, and that single, swirling tactile contact occupied every single neuron in Mycroft's brain.

He took a slow, deep breath, then withdrew his hand. Lestrade looked at him, brow furrowed in consternation, but didn't attempt to recapture the contact. He didn't withdraw either though, rather, he wrapped up his telephone call, returned the phone to its normal spot on the corner of his desk, then sat, silently contemplating the man in front of him.

"Not going to take your prints." He said, eventually. "Nothing official is to have your name on it. Not much we can do about the pictures at this point, too many live streams on tele to put that cat back in the box, but Lady S is going to do everything she can on the other fronts."

Mycroft nodded his understanding. They were a series of facts, disconnected from any meaning. Probably none of it was really sinking in, but given the circumstances that was almost certainly for the best.

"What does that mean?" He asked, requiring far too much effort to form the sounds. "For me?"

Lestrade looked tense, maybe even a little bit angry, which made no sense at all because Mycroft was the one who had lost this particular battle of wits.

"It means that you're alive, that's what it means." Lestrade said, terse.

Mycroft wanted more, but he also wanted all of it to stop. He had a brief internal struggle, but malaise won out. He nodded. Lestrade sighed, a bone weary sound.

"Come on then Snowflake, let's get you home. Warm shower, proper meal, bit of a lie down. Then we'll talk about what happens next. Fair?"

Mycroft inclined his head once in acquiescence. Then added, "It's been a long time."

"What has?

"Since you used that particular term of endearment. A very long time. Until today. Today you have used it twice."

"Huh," Greg replied, picking up his coat from the back of his chair and draping it over his arm, "so I have."

-----

"This is not my home." Mycroft pointed out. Lestrade shrugged.

"Nope, it's mine. Need you where I can keep an eye on you for a little while."

Lestrade had always been a reasonably good liar, but Mycroft was uncommonly good at spotting lies. This was a lie of omission, something clearly unspoken under Lestrade's easy words, but Mycroft was far too tired to attempt even the most perfunctory interrogation.

The house was very much as he had remembered from the hidden cameras. He rarely had any real reason to observe the feeds, but there had been times, late at night, when his office was quiet, his curiosity piqued, and his self control waned.

The real house was in colour, of course, but black and white cameras were always so much easier to miniaturize. He was reasonably certain Lestrade knew the nature and location of every device in the house of course, the man had been one of MI5's more observant members before his departure, but he had also been one of the more pragmatic. Having your flat bugged by your own team was generally better than the alternative, and knowing the location of such devices made it easier to remove them quickly, should it ever become necessary. Mycroft had never felt particular uncomfortable at the thought that the security services were watching him before.

He felt it now.

Greg tossed his coat over the back of the sofa, where it clashed horribly with a crochet blanket which seemed to have lived there for as long as Mycroft could remember.

"Grab a towel from the linen closet, I've got a couple of things I need to sort and then you can take a shower."

Mycroft obediently did so, mostly because being contrary would take entirely too much effort. When he entered the bathroom, he found Lestrade with a partially full plastic shopping bag, closing the medicine cabinet. No doubt removing sharp objects, along with any medications which could potentially cause a hazardous overdose. Mycroft couldn't help but muse on how inconvenient this could get for his host. There were a great many things in the world which could be used to end a life. Hiding them all from someone as competent as Mycroft Holmes was going to prove quite a trial.

"All right then," Greg said, a poor facsimile of ease in his voice, "as of right now you're officially on suicide watch. Sorry, Snowflake, that's not negotiable. We'll have to figure out the details properly tomorrow, but for tonight it means no locked doors, no sharp objects, not a whole lot of privacy. Door stays open. I'll wait out in the hall. If I speak to you, you reply. If you don't reply within 20 seconds, I come in. Clear?"

"As finest crystal, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade pressed his lips together for a moment. "Don't even qualify for 'Gregory' any more, huh?" he asked, somewhere between tired and sad. Mycroft ducked his head.

"I... Gregory. Apologies."

They stood there, awkward and silent, for several seconds, before Lestrade tipped his head in the direction of the door. "In the hall. Shout out if you need me. And if I call you...?"

"Twenty seconds to reply. Yes, I understand."

And then he was alone. Or at least, as alone as he was likely to be for quite some time. Mycroft sat himself cautiously on the side of the bath tub, loosened and removed his tie, let it drop to the floor.

He stared at it.

They were strange objects, ties. They served no real practical purpose. They lacked the warmth of a scarf, and provided a convenient means of accidental strangulation. Or even intentional strangulation, come to that. This particular tie was red, with neatly patterned white spots. Those who were schooled in the semiotics of dress might have called it a power tie.

It didn't look very powerful right now.

Mycroft turned his attention to the buttons on his shirt. They were small, fiddly, and didn't want to cooperate, although that was probably due more to his hands than the buttons themselves. He held one hand up in front of his face. It was trembling.

Without permission.

Mycroft made a noise of frustration, which was answered almost immediately from the hall: "Alright there Myke?"

"I am attempting... That is to say... These buttons..."

"You still decent?"

The question caught him out momentarily, but he answered in the affirmative. Lestrade entered almost immediately; the man could not have been more than two feet from the door.

Mycroft held up the traitorous hand as explanation. Lestrade looked at it, observed the tremors, then placed his own hands on either side of Mycroft's, effectively stilling it. He held the hand thus for several seconds, then placed it on the side of the tub in order to attend to the buttons.

Mycroft knew that he ought to find this humiliating. He didn't though. He wasn't sure precisely what he felt about it, if he was being honest. The nearest word he could find was relieved, but that lacked the appropriate nuance. He watched Gregory's hands as they worked at his clothing, undressing him as though doing so was utterly unremarkable.

Part of him wanted to cry. Part of him wondered if he remembered how.

"You okay with the rest?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft nodded. Lestrade left the room.

When his shower was done, Mycroft was shown to the guest room. Lestrade brought up the garish crochet blanket from the sofa downstairs and draped it over the end of the bed. Mycroft felt like there was some kind of symbolism being invoked, but couldn't say what it was.

Maybe it would make more sense in the morning.

Chapter Text

Mycroft woke feeling unsettled. The sound of his sister's voice echoed somewhere in the distant recesses of his brain. He had never really remembered his dreams, but recently he'd been finding the feelings from them lingering far longer than usual.

He blinked, aware that the room was far lighter than he was accustomed to. His first thought was that he must have forgotten to close the heavy block out curtains open the night before. Then some particularly cruel part of his brain switched itself on and his situation came into stark relief. The curtains in this room were not block out curtains, because this was not his room. This was in Lestrade's guest room. Because... Well.

He took inventory, as he had been trained to do when waking in unfamiliar territory. He was wearing a loose tee shirt and flannelette trousers, neither of which belonged to him. They were well worn and soft, but didn't quite fit correctly. The curtains were drawn, but they were lightweight, shading the room rather than truly darkening it.

The door was open. That was to be the rule now, he remembered. Doors stay open.

In keeping with those rules, the room was sparse. A rug on the end of the bed, his shoes by the door. No bedside lamp, even though the pattern of dust on the table implied that one normally lived there. Lamps had globes, his analytical brain supplied, globes made of glass which could be easily shattered to a sharp point. Also electrical cables, strong enough to hold a man's weight if fashioned into a noose. The DI had clearly made an effort. In a moment of morbid curiosity, Mycroft drew himself out of bed and over to the window. The handle to open it had been cable tied closed.

Even the cup of water beside the bed was disposable polystyrene rather than glass.

He considered the cup for a moment. It was unlikely that the water had been tampered with under the circumstances, but Mycroft knew he'd not be drinking from it unless he'd seen it poured himself. Habits of a lifetime.

He could hear the sound of voices downstairs, speaking softly. He was hardly dressed for company, but what was one more indignity at this point? In any case, his clothes were likely still crumpled in piles on the bathroom floor after the night before. He picked up the crochet blanket, intending to return it to its home on the sofa, and stepped silently from his room and made his way to the stairwell.

Within a few feet it became evident that the second voice in the flat was that of Lady Smallwood, which explained how Gregory had become involved in the first case. There was tea out between them, but neither appeared to be drinking it. Most of their words were too soft to be made out clearly, but Mycroft recognized his name at least twice.

To Mycroft's surprise, Greg looked up, straight to the top of the stairs where he was loitering. He was sure he'd been quite silent, had not given himself away, but he must have misstepped. Lestrade smiled, exhausted but not unhappy to see him, then tilted his head in invitation.

Before he had the chance to decide on a course of action, Smallwood turned to follow Lestrade's gaze. She nodded to him, and stood, patting down her skirt. She took a manila folder from the coffee table and handed it to Lestrade with a few more softly spoken words.

Wishing that he'd decided earlier to change into his clothes from yesterday, Mycroft descended the stairs with all the poise he had perfected over decades.

"Mycroft," Smallwood said warmly as she walked over to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. Mycroft returned a politic smile and inclined his head politely. He was taken aback a moment later though, when she placed her hands on his biceps, stepping in to brush her lips very lightly on his cheek.

"I am... so very sorry for all of this." She said softly.

"You have nothing to apologize for." He answered. The whole conversation felt entirely surreal. She smiled again, but this time she dropped her gaze from his. She seemed sad.

"Please, be gentle with yourself. And trust Greg. His judgement is almost certainly better than yours right now. It will take us some time to sort all of this out."

While Mycroft attempted to make sense of this sudden show of sentiment, she turned away. Then she was shaking Lestrade's hand, putting on her coat, leaving.

Lestrade turned, leaning back on the closed door, arms crossed. Considering.

"Breakfast?" He said eventually.

Mycroft took a moment to consider the question. "I'm not especially hungry," he eventually replied. Lestrade's mouth quirked up on one side.

"Maybe so, but you didn't eat last night, so you're going to put something away now even so. Go sit down, I'll bring you some toast."

Mycroft did as he was told, stopping briefly to return the blanket to its proper home. He folded it as neatly as he was able, then brushed it flat over the back of the sofa. When Lestrade returned, plate of toast in hand, Mycroft could see him noting its presence.

He tried not to overthink his instinct to return it.

"Here, eat up," Lestrade said, passing over the plate and putting two fresh cups of tea on the table. Mycroft looked at the plate's contents and felt his stomach churn uncomfortably. He doubted his ability to keep anything down. He rested his plate in his lap, and watched Lestrade settle into the spot next to him on the sofa.

"It would appear that you are less retired than I have been led to believe." Mycroft said, carefully. Lestrade snorted.

"Nah, just as retired as I've always been, but you know how it is. Higher ups like to imagine some kind of decade long sabbatical, that I'm ready to be dragged back into the thick of it whenever it suits. Not that you can talk, Mister Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft sat up a little straighter. "I'm not sure what you're implying, Detective Inspector."

"I distinctly remember a call not so long ago requiring me to drive up to bloody Baskerville of all places."

"I was merely calling upon you as a reliable friend to Sherlock." Mycroft defended. Gregory chuckled.

"Yep, a reliable friend who happens to be able to carry a loaded weapon into one of the most highly secured facilities in the country without anyone asking difficult questions. Convenient, Sherlock having a friend like that."

Mycroft tried to look put out, but he suspected it came across more than a little abashed. Gregory gave him a companionable shoulder bump.

"Anyway," Greg continued, "this time Smallwood's the one doing me a favour. If she hadn't called me in..." He sighed, looked out the window for a moment. "Eat the damn toast, Snowflake. I need to run you through the need-to-know, and I don't want you passing out from low blood sugar half way through."

The need-to-know was not especially complex. Mycroft was suspended from all responsibility pending an investigation. Gregory had not been particularly forthcoming with details of the investigation itself, but Mycroft deduced very quickly that it was not progressing in his favour. He couldn't claim surprise of course, his actions had been highly public and highly visible, two things one did not do if one intended to succeed in the field of intelligence.

Smallwood had also left a small case behind, clothing and toiletries collected from his home by some minor assistant. His fingers ghosted over the fabric of a shirt, and he felt a pang of... something. It was gone before he could investigate the feeling further. He zipped the case back up carefully.

"How did you sleep?" Lestrade asked, clearing the plate and tea cups from the table.

"Well enough, thank you."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Okay, let's try from a different angle. How much sleep did you actually get?"

"Sufficient." Mycroft replied. Greg laughed.

"Not giving away anything today, are you Snowflake?" He came back from the kitchen, flopped down next to Mycroft and put his feet on the coffee table. One of his socks had a hole in the toe.

"I was not aware that you intended this to be an interrogation." Mycroft defended.

Greg looked at him then for several seconds, assessing and contemplative. Then he grabbed the remote control, turned the television onto one of those awful shows where civilians competed to prove themselves in some skill or other. It was entirely mind numbing.

"It's not, you know," Lestrade said after some minutes, "an interrogation. You can talk or not, whatever you need. Just... I meant what I said. She did me a favour, calling me in, but I don't report to her, so if you want to talk then you can talk to me. It won't go any further than this room. I have clearance, that's all, so if there is anything... Your sister, your work, whatever it is that's going on in that ridiculous brain of yours..." He trailed off, clearly unsure of the reception his invitation would receive.

Mycroft nodded slowly. "I will keep that in mind," he said carefully.

There was nothing further said for nearly five minutes, and then...

"I really have to ask though... 'Antarctica'? Did you seriously choose that as your code name?"

For the barest hint of a second, Mycroft smiled. It caught him by surprise, but it positively delighted Lestrade.

"I mean sure, yes, it sounds like the sort of thing you'd come up with, you with your taste for the overly dramatic. Still, a boundless frozen desert? Really?"

"I thought it suited me rather well, actually." Mycroft answered, haughty but also, God help him, a little bit playful. The kind of playful that comes from habit, but nevertheless...

"Nah. It's rubbish. Should have used the one I came up with for you."

"Snowflake? It hardly strikes fear, Gregory..."

"Lady S goes by 'Love', it's not like fear is mandatory. Anyway, 'Snowflake' suits you much better. Unique, one of a kind, but knows how to disappear in a crowd. Doesn't matter how hard you look there's always some detail you've missed. Bloody gorgeous, if you actually stop to appreciate him." Greg tapped their knees together.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "That was not, as I recall, your original interpretation." The moment he said it, he realized how much like an invitation those words were. Gregory must have heard it too though, because when he next spoke it was less jovial, more gentle.

"Well no, but that part's still true too." He reached to curl a hand around the back of Mycroft's neck, coaxing him to lean in, rest his head on Greg's shoulder. Mycroft wasn't certain he wanted to go, but Smallwood's earlier exhortation to trust Greg's judgement was still fresh. "Little Snowflake, likes to act all cold and hard, but melts as soon as he's shown a bit of warmth."

"The foreign governments are positively quaking in their boots." Mycroft commented dryly. He could feel the weight of Gregory's arm resting across his own shoulder.

"Yes, well maybe we don't tell the bad guys that last part." Greg agreed. He pulled the crochet blanket off the back of the sofa and draped it over the both of them.

"I'd rather not tell anyone any of it. It is not for them to know."

"Spoilsport."

"It is not for them, because it was only ever for you."

The room was too warm for a blanket, but Mycroft didn't comment. For all he knew, Gregory had deliberately raised the heat to try to lull him into sleep.

Perhaps, under the circumstances, a small amount of melting was not entirely out of the question.

Chapter Text

The two of them were startled to awareness by a loud and insistent thumping on the door.

"I know you know where my brother is being kept! Let me in, Lestrade!"

Lestrade rolled his head from side to side, stretching his neck muscles, then gave Mycroft's shoulder a quick squeeze.

"No rest for the wicked, eh? Figured he'd find us sooner or later, but honestly I was hoping for a bit later. Why don't you head upstairs, get yourself properly dressed, I'll talk him down."

Mycroft did as invited, disappearing up the stairs as quickly as he could. He picked out the first complete set of clothes he could find in the small suitcase; trousers, shirt, waistcoat; no jacket, the house was still uncommonly warm.

There had been a great list of things he did not feel prepared to face recently, but if that list were arranged in priority order he was quite confident that Sherlock would have ranked an easy three; no mean feat given that the first position in the list was occupied by his other sibling, a woman who had tortured and attempted to kill him less than a month ago.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft could hear Lestrade well enough from the upstairs hall. "What on Earth do you think you're doing? Come in before the neighbours start complaining."

For all that Gregory's voice carried, Sherlock's was even louder. "Where is he? You said you'd make sure he was taken care of! I asked you, and you agreed. The police station apparently has no record of him. Clearly your lot have taken him. I have a right to speak to my brother, Lestrade."

"My lot? You do understand that the homicide department is still part of the police, right? If 'my lot' had him you would have found him at the station."

"Your other lot, obviously. What is it they call that thing you do? 'Disappearing' people?"

"Sherlock," another voice... Oh good lord, John Watson was here as well. Person number five from that awful prioritized list, "please... Calm down. I'm sure Greg will help us if you just stop yelling at him."

A huff then, Sherlock of course. Mycroft could see perfectly in his mind's eye the look his brother would be giving Gregory at that moment.

"Fine. Lestrade, do you know where my brother is?"

There was a hesitant pause, then, "Yes. I do."

"Then where..." Sherlock began, then stopped as John's voice cut in.

"Is he safe?"

"Of course. He's safe, he's comfortable, and I give you my word he's not being harmed."

"You've got him locked up somewhere. You have no right. I demand you take me to him immediately."

Gregory's voice softened. The man had the patience of a saint. "I know you're worried about him, Sherlock. I'll make sure he knows you want to see him. But at the moment I'm not sure he's quite ready for visitors."

Mycroft could practically see Sherlock gearing up for another attack, the treatment utterly undeserved by Gregory, and in a momentary lapse of good judgement he stepped out to the landing.

Sherlock looked up instantly.

"Mycroft?"

"Good morning, Sherlock. As you can see, I am most decidedly not 'disappeared'. DI Lestrade has shown me nothing but the most generous of hospitality. Please cease this ridiculous strop immediately."

Sherlock fell instantly silent as he looked Mycroft up and down. Mycroft allowed the observation for several seconds before descending the staircase, back held straight, chin high, face placid. When he reached level with the three men, Sherlock snatched first one of his hands then the other, turning them over in his own, examining. Then he let both hands fall and walked a full circle around him, studying.

Finally, deduction complete, he turned back to Gregory.

"My brother is not well. The incident they have been reporting on the news was not an attempted assassination as they claim, but an elaborate suicide attempt. His choice of weapon was clearly intended to..."

"Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted gently, "it's okay. I know."

Sherlock froze in place, startled. Were the situation different, Mycroft might have enjoyed that rare moment.

"Why don't we go sit down, yeah? I'll put the kettle on, and we can have a sensible conversation. At a normal volume. Like proper adults." Lestrade suggested. Mycroft was quite certain he didn't want to have any conversations at all, but needs must. They all filed into the living room.

John was studying him too now, shifting between his doctor's eye and his normal gaze (signs of depression? suicidal ideation? claims to run the world, but falls apart when faced with his little sister?, Mycroft could practically read the man's thoughts from his face).

Mycroft kept his posture neutral, waiting it out. There wasn't much point of course, what few real secrets he still had would no doubt be exposed by Sherlock momentarily. But some habits persisted well past the point of absurdity.

There was an awkward silence, the minor sounds of a kettle heating forming the only distraction. Then, after a minute, Lestrade appeared to hand out tea, then to settle down next to Mycroft. He was close enough that their legs touched reassuringly, but not so close as to appear improprietous.

"Mycroft... If this is true, if you really did try to end your own life, then you should be in hospital." John said, with unwelcome pity. "Recovering from this level of depression requires 'round the clock support from trained medical professionals. No disrespect to Greg, but one man can't be expected to protect you from yourself twenty-four seven, and that's not even considering therapy, or medication..."

"Two men." Interrupted Sherlock. "Lestrade will need time to rest, and to work. I believe it is the responsibility of family members to step in in these circumstances."

This declaration was enough to give everyone in the room pause. Even Mycroft was startled, not at the outcome, but at its ease. He had expected Gregory to have to lean on Sherlock quite heavily in order to gain even begrudging assistance. Clearly Sherlock had taken to the role of "the grown-up" with rather more fervour than either of them had anticipated.

"Right, well... Even so," John continued, the first to recover from that shock.

"I very much doubt the National Health Service has any psychiatric staff with the necessary clearance even to know my name, let alone attempt to provide counsel." Mycroft explained. John shook his head.

"But MI6, surely they have psychologists? I mean, it's not exactly a low risk profession is it? They must have staff trained to deal with these kinds of trauma."

Mycroft hesitated then, unsure how to phrase this in a way which didn't result in humiliation.

He needn't have bothered, as Sherlock answered for him. "They're getting ready to disavow him. My brother knows too much about too many powerful people. A small hint of him being compromised would have been a disaster, but he announced it loudly to the world. They're distancing themselves from him." Sherlock looked Mycroft in the eye then. "They've cut him off."

"Yes, thank you, brother." Mycroft snapped. It was not as though the words were untrue, but they stung nonetheless.

He knew full well that he shouldn't have allowed the implications of his actions to remain back of mind. He should have faced them head on, before being forced to do so by Sherlock. Even now, there was still a small, foolish part of himself that was clinging to the idea that this would all go away.

One way or another.

"That's obscene." John said, looking like he very much believed it. It was curious, how someone who had seen so much of the worst of the world could persist in being surprised when it once again disappointed him. But then, it was that exact same quality which had most fascinated Mycroft about Gregory.

"So why Greg, then?" came the inevitable, awkward question.

"It's the only logical option," replied Sherlock, before either Lestrade or Mycroft could answer. "Lestrade's years in the Security Service give the relevant powers some confidence that any secrets would remain secret, but his early retirement from their ranks means that they can deny any involvement if it becomes convenient to do so. In addition, there are very few people who can claim to be legitimately invested in my brother's welfare, but their previous liaisons make that a given."

"Wait... Wait a second..." Watson held up a hand, blinking faster than usual as he parsed that information. Mycroft prepared for the inevitable interrogation, for even this one last painful, strange, precious piece of his life to be dragged out into the light. He felt a slight increase in pressure where his knee touched Gregory's.

And then, mercy of mercies, John went in a completely different direction: "Greg's not MI5."

Sherlock raised both eyebrows, and Greg looked lightly abashed.

"Well not any more, obviously," Sherlock dismissed, "that is what 'retired' means."

"Greg?" John turned to the man in question, looking thoroughly confused.

Gregory shrugged. "Sorry mate, I thought you had figured it out. And if not, well, I figured Sherlock would have told you by now."

"How? How could I possibly have figured that out?" John said, still shaking his head in disbelief.

Sherlock stood, never one to shy away from a rhetorical question when it might instead be used to show off.

"It's all incredibly obvious, John. Lestrade owns and knows how to use a hand gun, as you saw at Dartmoor. The only police who carry firearms in this country are specially trained for that purpose. It is all but unheard of for a detective to carry. He is hardly the type to shoot recreationally, therefore his weapon use must have been tied to some previous career. Our association has gone generally unquestioned by those in positions of authority, despite the fact that I have a known history of drug abuse, no relevant qualifications, and have been arrested at least four times during our acquaintance. Any normal officer would have found himself summarily removed after my fall from public grace, but he retained his job. He clearly still has friends in very high places. As recently as a month ago, he was entirely unfazed at the revelations of Sherrinford and of my sister. These would be quite shocking discoveries for most people, so one can only assume he had prior knowledge of both. The only people likely to have had access to that information were the staff working in the facility itself, those imprisoned within it, and those who are responsible for its existence; The Security Services. MI5."

There were a few moments of silence. "Jesus Christ," John exhaled, closing his eyes, "is there any person I know who isn't harbouring some sort of mysterious past life?"

Lestrade quirked a lip in sympathy. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure Molly's story is pretty much exactly what you'd have expected."

Watson simply raised an eyebrow. "How long ago?"

"Did I leave?" Lestrade checked. "About fourteen years, give or take."

Watson nodded. "And why did you quit?"

Mycroft felt the reassuring pressure against his knee again. He wondered if his brother had noticed it.

"Personal reasons." Lestrade answered, with a sense of finality that even Sherlock was unlikely to challenge.

The conversation drifted then, for a while, Mycroft allowed himself to drift along side it. Not involved, per se, but not entirely separate from it. When his attention was next drawn back to the detail of things, the topic had moved on to logistics. It seemed that Doctor Watson had also been drafted in to participate in his care. The thought grated, but couldn't really be helped. Lestrade would need time to rest himself, and to work, and spending any more time alone with his brother than was strictly necessary was to be avoided. Aside from anything else, it was unlikely to improve his mental state.

There had been other people, once, although upon further consideration he had to admit that that was almost certainly no longer true. Anthea would have been ideal, but as Sherlock had so brutally pointed out earlier, the lines of distance were being drawn. It was quite likely he would never see her again. He wanted to feel angry about that, indeed, to feel anything about that, but everything was simply flat. Pale. Empty.

He was tired. So very deeply, achingly tired. There was something wrong about that, the remaining shock should have worn off hours ago, but diagnosing anything beyond his own general weariness was beyond him.

He made his apologies to the small gathering, waved Sherlock back when he moved to follow, and pointedly ignored Lestrade's worried, questioning look. He retired to his deliberately sparse room, where he lay fully dressed on top of the bedclothes. The murmur of voices continued downstairs, no longer clear enough for him to make out. It could have been soothing, if it weren't for the knowledge that he was still the topic of conversation.

Were they talking about his future? Deciding his fate over tea and biscuits? Or maybe, worse, they were talking about his past. About those few, fleeting times when he had had happiness. About how deliberately and efficiently he had destroyed them.

Talking about his mistakes, then, certainly, for they were numerous. In truth, he could very easily measure his life in mistakes. He'd been so cocky, so certain that he knew what should be.

So very, very wrong.

He couldn't say how long he lay there, or even precisely when the voices downstairs had quieted into silence. It was only when Lestrade entered the room that he became aware the time had passed at all.

"Hey, you awake Myke?"

Mycroft attempted to feign sleep, but startled when he felt the brush of Gregory's hand over his own.

"Sorry, Snowflake, I know you've not been sleeping well, but I just needed to make sure. You know..."

Mycroft did know. Just like he knew about the absent lamp, and the empty bathroom cabinets.

"Is that going to be okay? For Sherlock to stay here with you for a few days over the next couple of weeks? He's worried about you, you know. He wants to help, even if he does make a bit of an arse of himself in the process."

"It is fine. As Doctor Watson so eloquently explained early, you cannot be expected to guard me alone in perpetuity."

Lestrade breathed out a light sigh and sat on the bed, resting one hand over Mycroft's own.

"Try not to think about it as guarding. Think about it more like... a highly available support network."

Mycroft huffed an ironic laugh, but didn't comment.

"What about John? I hadn't anticipated it, but he did offer to help. I know you two haven't always seen eye to eye, but he's a good man, and a doctor to boot."

"It. is. fine." Mycroft reiterated, syllables hard and pointed. He focused on not reacting to the absent minded stroking at his wrist.

"Okay... And you? Are you okay? I know your brother can be trying..."

"I am..." his instinct was to say 'fine' once more, but a disquieting voice from deep in his subconscious provided an alternative, "...tired. I am very tired."

Gregory withdrew his hand and for a moment Mycroft grieved its loss, but then those same fingers rested on his hair, stroking at his temple.

"Okay, well you can rest for a little while longer, but you really do need to get out of bed for at least a couple of hours today or you'll be up all night. Maybe we could go for a walk this afternoon, enjoy some daylight, get some vitamin D?"

Mycroft hummed noncommittally. The mattress shifted again as Lestrade stood to depart.

It was terribly unfair, really. It was barely midday, and he had dozed much of the morning. How could he still feel so deeply fatigued?

And more importantly, why was everyone so determined to deny him his rest?

Chapter Text

"I'm supposed to check on you at least every thirty minutes." Sherlock said from the doorway. "Lestrade's instructions. If you were determined to kill yourself, you would need far less than thirty minutes to do so, so it seems rather pointless to me. But he made me swear."

"Perhaps you ought to bring up your objections with the Detective Inspector, then." Mycroft answered as haughtily as possible for a man under several layers of blankets and duvets, with a face smooched up in the pillow.

"It would be far more efficient for you to get out of bed and come downstairs. I wouldn't have to keep stopping my work to 'check in'."

"I am tired, Sherlock."

"Are you ill?"

Mycroft chose not to answer. There was silence for a minute, and Mycroft was very tempted to roll over and look at him, to deduce the thoughts in his brother's head... But that would be a level of acknowledgement he was unwilling to make. It did mean that he was quite startled when, a few seconds later, he felt a dip at the end of the bed. Acknowledgement or no, he levered himself up a little way to see his little brother perched cross legged at the far end of the mattress atop the hideous crochet blanket.

"I have been... Remembering things." Sherlock said. "John says it is probably to be expected under the circumstances. However I am finding these memories... Confusing."

Mycroft continued to watch, silent. It didn't seem to faze Sherlock.

"There is one recollection which is more persistent than most. Father is carrying me, and I can hear Mummy crying. She is... loud. I suspect I may be crying as well, because everything appears distorted." He pauses for a minute, his lips pressing together into a thin line, then continues. "Father places me on your bed. You are wearing the blue pyjamas you got on your twelfth birthday, the ones which clashed with your hair. He tells you to 'take care of this'. Then he leaves. That is all. Nothing before, nothing after."

"I remember it." Mycroft says, but does not elaborate. Sherlock looks displeased.

"I require context, Mycroft. I would ask Mummy, but you know how emotional she gets."

Mycroft sighed internally, rearranging the pillows both to give himself somewhere to sit properly, and to give himself a moment to arrange his thoughts.

"Very well then. It was a Friday. I was twelve, as you rightly identified. You had been particularly excited all evening, because Victor was to arrive the next day to spend the whole weekend. It was the first time you'd convinced Mummy to let you have a friend stay over." He paused for a moment. Sherlock was still watching him as a predator might its prey. To anyone else it might have been disconcerting, but Mycroft had had decades of desensitization.

"Our sister was also excited, because you had consented to have her join you in a game. She was to be a princess, as I recall, to be captured by two nefarious pirates. In her excitement, she thought to make the game a little more realistic. What could possibly be more realistic than a pirate with a peg leg?"

Sherlock twined his fingers together, index fingers coming together in a point that looked almost as ridiculous now as it had when he was a child. "She attempted to amputate?" He asked, apparently unshaken by this particular revelation.

"She was four." Mycroft emphasized. "She may have been brilliant, but she hadn't yet entirely grasped the nature of surgery. She merely understood that, in order for a peg to be fitted, the original leg had to be absent. She sneaked into your room at one in the morning, and made a valiant attempt using a fish knife. You woke up almost instantly of course."

Sherlock's hand drifted to the spot on his left leg where Mycroft knew there was still a thin white scar. "Not, in fact, caused by razor wire in the woods?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Mycroft inclined his head very slightly. "Mummy was distraught, of course, and Father had to deal with Eurus. You were bleeding and terrified. I dressed the cut, then let you remain in bed with me for the rest of the night. For most nights, really, over the next three months. In the morning, Mummy called Victor's parents and cancelled his visit."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes glassy with contemplation.

"Why do you want to kill yourself?"

The question was so bold, so unambiguously stated, that Mycroft was momentarily taken aback. No one had explicitly asked him that yet, and it took him a moment to articulate his answer.

"Because... I am tired, Sherlock. And because I want you to be safe."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, perhaps finding his answer unsatisfactory. Then, after a moment, he rose. "I will return in half an hour, unless you choose to come downstairs before then." He went to the door, then hesitated. Without looking back, he said "I remember as a child, when I was feeling... uncertain... I always felt safer when I was with you."

Mycroft stared at his brother's back. "I also breathed easier when you were close. It saved me from wondering if she was... Well, you can imagine."

Sherlock left the door open. True to his word, he checked in every half hour for the rest of the day. Mycroft never moved from the bed, and neither of them spoke again.

Some hours later, Mycroft awoke from a restless doze. He had been dreaming, his sister's voice echoing in his memory even as the words she spoke were lost to rising consciousness.

How was it possible to wake up from sleep and still feel so very, very tired?

He gradually became aware that he was being watched. He cracked a single eye open to reciprocate, observing Lestrade in turn.

"Sherlock said you haven't been out of bed all day."

Mycroft said nothing. As it was not technically a question, he was under no obligation to answer it.

"He also said you haven't eaten."

Mycroft persisted in his silence. Lestrade continued to watch him, analyzing. There was nothing said for some moments, and Mycroft wondered if they might have reached a stalemate so quickly. Then Lestrade spoke again.

"He also told me that you think you're incapable of being loved." Mycroft was unprepared for the sting he felt with those words, like alcohol poured over an open graze. "Was he telling the truth?"

This time it was a real question. A question he very much did not wish to answer. Were he standing, he would have turned his back and walked out of the room, but he was still burrowed under far to many blankets to make such a dignified exit. Instead he grit his teeth and scowled.

"I was feeling poorly. It must be affecting my appetite. I thought it best to rest. I wasn't aware I was going to be graded on my performance, but now that I know I shall endeavor to be more engaging when my brother next visits." He was aiming for contemptuous, but even to his own ears the words sounded whiny. A part of him wondered why he didn't care more about that fact.

"Okay then. I'll make up some chicken soup, yeah? Might get you feeling better."

"Hmm."

A few seconds later, Lestrade settled himself on the side of the bed. Not at the end, where Sherlock had perched earlier, but two thirds up, level with Mycroft's torso. Mycroft resisted the instinct to pull back.

"You're wrong, you know. About the third thing. You are capable of being loved, you're just not used to it. But there are people who love you, right now. Friends, family. You've got me, you've got Sherlock...

"My brother mistakes obligation for sentiment," Mycroft countered, "and you spend your life trying to fix broken people to make up for your own feelings of inadequacy. These things are not love, Detective Inspector, they are habits, and unhealthy ones at that."

The moment the words were uttered he wanted to take them back. He wanted to tell Lestrade that his compassion was a precious gift, not a habit, and that he should save it for someone more worthy than Mycroft himself. He closed his eyes to hide the shame. But Lestrade just chuckled.

"Yeah, fair cop. Creature of habit, me, just look how many times I've tried to quit smoking. Still, there are far worse habits I could have than you, Snowflake, and you know it."

Greg's hand settled on Mycroft's shoulder blade, catching in his nightshirt as he rubbed back and forward. "I'll go make up some soup. And if you're still feeling rubbish tomorrow, we can have John round to take a look at you. Rest up, I'll be back in a few."

When Lestrade was gone, Mycroft let his hand rest in the warm space on the mattress where the man had been sitting, and pretended he didn't care.

Chapter Text

"I should apologize." Mycroft said by way of introduction. It felt odd that his first excursion from his bed today was after sunset, but he had a soup bowl to wash and a guilt to assuage. Greg looked back at him over the back of the sofa, looking depressingly pleased by his presence.

"Apology accepted, you're forgiven." He replied.

Mycroft felt briefly put out, and it must have shown on his face based on Gregory's reaction; a wide grin and an amused huff. "Oh, alright then," Lestrade smiled, "tell me what it is you're apologizing for."

Mycroft took a deep breath. He was not unaccustomed to apologies, but they were normally given as political tokens, to be exchanged for favor or consideration. Not like this.

"I was unnecessarily rude earlier." He said, calling on the words he had been silently preparing for nearly an hour. "Your kindness and your compassion are virtues, not failings. Moreover, they represent a capacity in which I have always found myself lacking. I... Envy you these things. And in my envy I attempted to belittle them, and you for having them. I should not have done so, and I apologize."

Greg didn't say anything immediately, and Mycroft felt his heart beat all the more keenly. He swallowed, but forced himself to maintain eye contact.

"All done now?" Lestrade asked, eventually, solemn.

Mycroft nodded.

"Well in that case... Apology still accepted, you're still forgiven. Alright?"

Mycroft let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, turning away from Lestrade. He set the bowl he'd been holding into the sink with a clatter, then placed both hands on the edge of the bench, leaning into it for support. He heard Lestrade come up behind him, felt the hand settle between his shoulder blades. "Hey. Talk to me?"

Mycroft squeezed his eyes tight. "How... Do you do that?"

The heel of Greg's hand pressed a short line up and down his spine. "Do what?"

"Forgive. Every time. No matter what happens. No matter what cruelty has been perpetrated. No matter what cruelty I..." his voice cracked slightly, and he pressed his lips together to control it.

Greg's response, when it came, was thoughtful, quieter than usual. "It gets easier with practice, I suppose. The more you forgive, the less anger you have to carry around with you. Makes it easier to forgive again the next time."

Mycroft attempted to take in a deep breath. It shuddered a little in the middle, but he made it to the end.

"I have treated you abominably," He murmured, "again and again. You gave up your whole life for me, and even then I..."

Greg didn't interrupt until it became clear that Mycroft's words had failed one again. "You're forgiven, Mycroft. You've always been forgiven. And I didn't give up my whole life, I gave up my job. That's all. Then I got a different job. The kind of job where I don't have to have all my friends vetted in advance, so really, an improvement."

Mycroft tensed. It was only for the briefest moment, but he knew it was long enough. Gregory was uncommonly observant for someone without the Holmes family name.

"Oh... Oh Myke... Have you been vetting my friends still? All this time?"

Mycroft didn't reply, afraid that this might be the final, fatal straw in their relationship. But then he heard a soft chuckle.

"You are incorrigible, Snowflake. Just... Don't do that any more, okay? It's a bit weird. If you're worried about me, just come talk to me. I'll be here."

"I wanted to be certain you were safe," he explained, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he was unlikely to have the means to run background checks on anyone for the foreseeable future.

Gregory gave a noncommittal hum, then leaned back on the kitchen island. "Hey, do you think you can let go of that death grip you've got on my bench for a moment and look at me?"

Mycroft wanted to say 'no', but that would have been entirely undignified. He turned, balling his hands into fists. Gregory's eyes were filled with the kind of compassion that Mycroft could drown in.

"You don't lack the capacity for kindness, Mycroft. If anything, you have too much. You do ridiculous things out of concern for the people you care about. You vet my friends. You give up your own happiness again and again to keep the country safe. You spend two thirds of your waking hours trying to take care of your ungrateful brother, for goodness sake. You're positively brimming over with care and compassion, you're just... A bit rubbish at expressing it. Hey..." He paused as Mycroft averted his gaze, leaning a few degrees to the side to seek it out again. "That's an observation, Snowflake, not a criticism. You're the smartest person I've ever met, so I get that not being the best at this must come as a bit of a shock, but it's not the end of the world. You can learn, if you want to."

"I don't know if I have the energy to do so." Mycroft breathed, a confession he was unprepared for.

"Never know until you try, do you? How about you start by forgiving yourself for all those things I've already forgiven you for."

Mycroft took a small step back. "The way I have treated you, it is unforgivable."

"And yet here you are, forgiven." Greg sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, look, what happened back then hurt. It hurt a whole bloody lot. But we moved on, and now we're friends. If I hadn't forgiven you, I wouldn't have that now, would I?"

"I'm sorry," Mycroft took another step back, brushing the side of the bench top, "I didn't... I never wanted..."

"I know. It's okay, it's all okay now." Greg watched him then for some minutes in consternation, then pressed his lips together as he seemed to arrive at a decision. "What do you need, Mycroft? What can I do to help you?"

"I... am very tired."

Greg pressed his lips together. "Still? You've been asleep more than you've been awake for the past week." He sighed then, sympathy inevitably winning through. "How about a cuppa on the sofa instead? We can watch something light on Netflix. Seems like a good place to start, yeah?"

The thought of that familiar sofa, of a hot tea cup in his hands and that ridiculous crochet blanket had a certain appeal, for all that the awful voice in the back of his head was insisting that he didn't deserve it, how it would be so much better for everyone if he left now. How tired he was.

He nodded.

-----

"Lestrade," Sherlock entered the house in a whirlwind. It was far too early in the morning, their breakfasts still half eaten on the kitchen table. "The room, where my brother attempted to end his life. It was on the ground floor, correct?"

Greg nodded, bewildered.

"And the windows?" Sherlock continued at full speed, "Describe the windows to me."

"The windows?"

"Yes."

"What, the ones in the room?"

"Obviously." was the exasperated response.

"I dunno, they were windows? Faced out on the road. Made of glass. What are you asking, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Were they large windows, at eye level?"

Greg paused, apparently trying to simultaneously recall the details and ascertain their relevance. "No. They were wide, but not very tall. High up on the wall."

"High up on the wall." Sherlock reiterated, turning back to Mycroft with absurd clarity. "Government building. They need to let natural light in, but they don't want to make it easy for passers by to see inside. You intended to be taken out by a sniper. To get a clear angle through one of those windows, they'd have to be stationed, what... Two stories up? Three?"

"Three." confirmed Mycroft, trying to follow Sherlock's deduction and finding it inscrutable. "There was a clear vantage point from the second story office block across the lane way. It was a Saturday, so the building would be unoccupied, but easy enough for relevant parties to get access without alerting the general population."

Greg's face seemed to fall a little further with each word he had spoken. Mycroft felt a pressure to say something soothing, but Sherlock was unceasing.

"Three stories. Roughly three meters high per complete story, with another meter to the window ledge. Lestrade, the road, how many lanes?"

"Uh... Just the one, fairly sure. More of an access lane than a street."

"Paths? Sidewalks?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock nodded. "Five meters across then, roughly, from seven and a half meters up. That's no more than a thirty five degree angle downwards, in order to hit a human target through the window."

"Sherlock, please just make your point." Mycroft snapped. There was a cloud in his head that he couldn't see through, and it was becoming increasingly disconcerting.

Sherlock stared at him for several seconds, as if willing him to understand. That was not the normal order of things, Mycroft was supposed to be the clever one. Then, his voice dropping in volume, leaning in as though divulging a secret, Sherlock spoke.

"You told me to aim for the heart. You told me you'd promised your brain to the Royal Society."

Oh. Oh.

Mycroft felt dizzy. The cloud in his brain was swirling, revealing the echoes of a shape. It made his heart hurt.

"At that angle, at that distance, a sniper will take a head shot." Sherlock continued, "That's the only part of the target he could have any hope of hitting. You would have taken a bullet to the brain, Mycroft."

Mycroft shook his head slowly, the cloud in his head curling into defined lines and curves, revealing a possibility he desperately did not want to acknowledge.

"What are you feeling, Mycroft? Right now?" Sherlock stepped closer, filling his vision.

"Confused."

"No," Sherlock challenged, "Don't tell me what you think you should be feeling, tell me what you are actually feeling."

Mycroft opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it again and blinked rapidly.

"Mycroft?" Gregory's voice, worried, confused, so far away. Mycroft tried again.

"Tired." It was barely speech, more of a breath given shape. That one, awful word, its shape so very familiar to his tongue. The only thing he had truly felt in weeks. "I feel tired".

Sherlock nodded once, an acknowledgement that his point had been made, that Mycroft had grasped the truth. All of it. Every last horrifying fragment of it. He took a step back, allowing Gregory a place once more in his field of vision.

"This was not your plan, Mycroft. It was hers." Sherlock said, with a curious quality that seemed strangely like compassion.

A scene flashed unbidden through Mycroft's brain. A memory. A woman's voice.

"Well this is familiar, wouldn't you say? One of us, locked in a cell, and one of us, out in the world?"

"No." Mycroft said, not so much a denial as a plea.

"Such a shame that you were never very good at the violin, brother. I'm afraid there's not much else for you to do here for entertainment."

"She's in your head Mycroft. She found a way in, and she's using it to destroy you."

"Not that it will be a problem for long, because I can see how tired you are. So tired of all of this. It's a shame you couldn't convince him to kill you, Mycroft. You could have saved Sherlock so much pain. You could have rested."

"No," Mycroft repeated, his voice weak and airy. There was a familiar, sturdy hand at his elbow, guiding him somewhere, a seat perhaps. His feet moved out of an instinct to prevent falling rather than by any will of his own.

"Oh well, can't be helped now. And I really must go before Sherlock wakes up. I know how cold it gets in there, but I'm sure you'll find some way to get some sleep. You're very resourceful like that, aren't you Mycroft?"

"You can't let her hurt you like this, Mycroft. You're better than that."

"Mycroft," Another voice now, closer, warmer. Sweet. Gentle. Concerned. Mycroft blinked rapidly, surprised to find himself looking into the eyes of Gregory Lestrade. "Come on Snowflake, you're scaring me a bit here."

Mycroft inhaled, feeling a sudden rush of dizziness. Gregory must have seen something of it too, because instantly his hands were on Mycroft's arms again, stroking soothing motions up and down. Mycroft tried to offer a reassuring expression, but based on Gregory's reaction, he must have missed the mark quite spectacularly.

"I'll be honest," Greg said, low and calm, "I'm not really following. What's happening?"

Mycroft looked to Sherlock, but his brother was looking away. He turned back to Gregory.

"Eurus spoke to me." He swallowed down his horror at the thought. "Alone, before she left Sherrinford. She can... Persuade people to do as she wishes. It was the reason she had to be kept so far from people in the first place. She can 'get inside one's head', as Sherlock so eloquently put it. And it would appear that she has gotten into mine."

"So... What? She's the reason you tried to kill yourself?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, struggling to find a way to express the nuance of the situation. "It is quite likely that she has played a role in my decision making process."

"Right..." Lestrade leaned back on his haunches in front of the sofa where Mycroft was apparently now sitting. "But you always said you were immune to her tricks? That was why you were the only one permitted to speak with her."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "I am resistant to her abilities, under ideal circumstances. Not entirely immune."

Sherlock stepped forwards again then, rejoining them from his place on the periphery.

"You had been tortured for hours. Placed under extreme emotional and psychological stress. And you was already tired from the... unwelcome interactions you had with John and me the night before. That would have substantially increased your malleability." An expression that was not immediately familiar to Mycroft passed over Sherlock's face. It almost looked like guilt. Mycroft quashed the desire to reach out and comfort his little brother. Sherlock had not welcomed such contact from family for decades.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "And with his state of mind at the time, she most likely did not have to push especially hard."

"What does that mean?" Lestrade's attention was on Sherlock, but his hands were still warm on Mycroft's arms.

"Even in his wretched state, it's unlikely that she could have compelled Mycroft to act in a way which is counter to his true nature. He would have recognized her influence and overcome it. No, she would have had to use the thoughts and beliefs that were already there. He had already lost all hope for his future. He was ready to die. He wanted to protect me. And he was tired. That's what she had to work with, so she took those things, and she made them his whole world.

"He had already made the decision that his death would save me pain. She turned that thought into a single overriding directive. And then she made the exhaustion he felt in that moment ever-present, so that he would not have the wherewithal to recognize what she had done."

Lestrade looked down at the floor, his jaw working in the way it often did when he was thinking through a particularly difficult problem. "Well that, I mean that's obviously awful, but... Isn't this good news? It's like a diagnosis. If we know what the problem is, what caused all this... If it really is some kind of fancy hypnosis, we should be able to cure it, right? Can we just... Reverse hypnotize you?

"It is hardly so simple." Mycroft explained, a thickness in his throat which made the words simultaneously painful to speak but impossible to silence. "As Sherlock says, compulsions cannot be formed so rapidly unless they are, to some degree, preexisting. She did not invent these thoughts for me, she merely focused them, gave them direction." He sighed heavily, staring at the floor. "My sister has been trying to break me since I was eleven years old. Every word she spoke, every request she made, every pointed silence. It seems now she has finally succeeded. We keep speaking of Eurus as though she is a hurricane, sweeping through the world in a single, pointed moment of destruction, but she is not. She is a tectonic fault, a weak point, a spot where pressure builds over days and weeks and years, until it the resulting earthquake can level cities. And she does it over and over and over again. I have built my entire existence upon this fault line. You cannot hope to simply... Patch over it. Her influence is so much larger than this, so much stronger, so much longer lived than you can possibly comprehend."

And it was very clear that Lestrade did not comprehend, because he had levered himself from his knees on the floor and settled into the spot next to Mycroft on the sofa. "No. No, Mycroft, this is good. This is really good. This is something we can work with. It's going to be okay. Now we know what's happening in your head, we can make this be okay."

Then Greg pulled Mycroft into a hug. Not the gentle brushes of a hand on a shoulder that he had begun to grow accustomed to over the past few days, or even the tentative embraces of two men resting together in the same space, but a determined, relieved, death grip.

Mycroft knew he should put an end to this, put Gregory's perspective back to rights... But he couldn't bring himself do it. He did not want to face this new, horrifying reality, in which he was nothing but a puppet for his sister's amusement. And Gregory's embrace was a refuge.

Chapter Text

Mycroft took the file being presented to him. He had no particular desire to do so to, wanted it far away in fact, but refusing it would require justification.

"There are eight dossiers in there," Smallwood explained. "Five of them for people who have been brought in from considerable distances, to minimize the possibility of being compromised."

"And they have experience with this sort of thing?" Lestrade asked, leaning in to try and read the details from the pages in Mycroft's hands.

Smallwood nodded. "As much one can have, given the unusual circumstances. They have all been involved in some capacity with the evaluation and deprogramming of the Sherrinford staff. They've had many successes."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, far too intelligent to miss such a blatant omission. "Many successes?"

"Not all," Smallwood acquiesced, "but more successes than failures, taken as a whole."

Mycroft nodded. Eight names, all top of their craft, and not one among them who could truly challenge his sister's raw, untrained skill. There was little chance that any of them would have any hope of bypassing both his own natural defenses and those created by Eurus. He was tempted to say as much, but he knew such comments would fall on deaf ears.

He closed the file neatly and placed it on the coffee table. "And have you any further updates on my status?"

Lady Smallwood's face became suddenly bland, politic. It was even less welcome then it was surprising.

"The investigation is on hold, pending the outcome of your consultation." She nodded towards the folder, reinforcing her message. He would be required to speak with them, to convince them that he was repaired, when he had no faith in their ability to do so. Delightful.

"And what of my status before the review was placed on hold?" He pressed. "The information about Eurus' involvement has only recently come to light, I am certain you have not been spending the past few days waiting."

Damningly, the woman's bland expression remained. "Perhaps so, but now that we do have the information, any earlier discussions have been rendered moot. "

It was the kind of political non-answer which answered his question perfectly. A decision had been made. And he had not been informed of it, which meant that it had not gone in his favor. That his case was being reconsidered was better than the alternative, but unlikely to change the ultimate outcome in any significant way.

He was out. It was over. He allowed himself a small, defeated sigh.

"Will I be permitted to return to my home at some point? There are a few items there with some... personal significance, which I should like to retrieve."

A small amount of regret crept into Smallwood's politic expression then. "If you can prepare a list, I'll ensure that anything you require is brought to you."

"I see." Mycroft said, and he did. His home was too closely connected to his work. He would not be returning there. Items he specifically requested would likely be returned to him, but only after a thorough inspection and cataloguing by his former colleagues.

It was Smallwood's turn to sigh now, her shoulders drooping very slightly.

"Mycroft, please understand, I'm doing everything I can. Speak with one of the people in the file. If it doesn't work, try another. Try all eight. It can't really make things worse, can it? Help me to build the case for your reinstatement. Please?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, then gave a single curt nod before turning his back and leaving the room. He listened to the murmur of Lestrade and Smallwood's voices for some minutes, no doubt passing quiet judgement. Eventually he heard the door close. It was a small relief.

She had left him a phone this time. In case she needed to get in touch, she had claimed. It was connected under his existing number, but he was under no illusions. His calls were being screened, filtered, and vetted. It was unlikely anything of significance would ever get through.

Which made the fact that it was already vibrating with a call somewhat disconcerting. He examined the screen briefly, before immediately turning the device face down to hide the caller's number. It was familiar, and most certainly not a caller he had any intention of responding to right now.

It vibrated its way enthusiastically a few inches across the surface of the bench before eventually stopping. He breathed a small sigh of relief, only to see it start its mechanical dance once more.

Would this day spare him no torment?

He put the device in an empty cup to stop it from its attempted wanderings, then turned his back on it and walked to the far side of the room. The caller tried three more times before eventually giving up just as Greg sauntered in, leaning casually against the kitchen bench, facing Mycroft's back.

"Well that definitely counts as progress, wouldn't you say?"

Mycroft hummed a noncommittal response.

Greg continued, undeterred. "We should have a proper look through those names, find someone you think is up to the challenge. Did any of them catch your eye?"

"Not especially."

"Well okay... Maybe if we make up a list of your preferences, and we can find someone who..."

"My preference," Mycroft interrupted, his frustration slicing through, "is for all of this to be unnecessary. Do you think any of the names in that folder might be able to provide for that?"

Greg sighed, pushing himself up from the bench, but respecting his space. "I get it Myke, I really, really do. But worst case, this doesn't work... And trying it can't be any worse than doing nothing."

Mycroft grit his teeth. "I would strongly challenge that assertion."

Whatever Lestrade's response to that might have been was lost, as the cup containing the phone buzzed in a sympathetic vibration with its contents. Lestrade peered over.

"That your phone?" He asked, needlessly.

"Yes."

"It's ringing."

"Clearly."

"You gonna answer it?"

"No."

The call terminated, the screen lighting up with a notification. Greg plucked the device from its makeshift holder.

"Six missed calls from the same number, Mycroft. It might be important."

"I assure you, it is not."

"You know who it is?"

"Yes."

Greg smiled an affectionately despairing smile. "Come on Snowflake, enough evading. Give me something to work with here."

"It is the number for my childhood home... My parents. More specifically I suspect, given the persistence, that it is..." He hesitated on the word, his brain supplying the most familiar word, and then forcing himself to discard it. It was an intimacy he no longer deserved. "My mother."

"Oh, right. Have you spoken to her, since... Your incident?"

Mycroft almost smiled at the euphemism. As though threatening murder as an attempt to suicide were akin to spilling tea on one's shirt. "I have not."

"Look, I get that you have a fairly complicated relationship with your family. And your family is pretty damn complicated, so that's probably to be expected... But she's your mother. She's hard wired to love you unconditionally. She's probably just worried about you."

"You and I have had different experiences of the family dynamic." Mycroft replied, fatigued. "She has not forgiven me for the deceit surrounding my sister. I cannot say I entirely blame her."

"I dunno, Mycroft. Look how many times Sherlock has screwed up, and she still acts like the sun shines out of his arse. Give her a chance, at least? Sometimes people can surprise you. It's just talking, right?"

"I feel you do not fully appreciate..." The phone buzzed again, drawing both sets of eyes to it. Slowly, clearly telegraphing all of his movements, Greg picked up the device. Mycroft looked on in mute horror as the man pressed the answer call button, placing the device flat on his palm between them.

As though compelled by some external force, Mycroft took it.

"Hello Mummy."

As phone calls with his mother went, it was everything he had expected it to be.

Anger, resentment, indignation, a continuous flow of words with nary a second to take a breath. A entire verbal treatise on his failings.

Demanding truths, then berating him for not providing them, without having offered so much as a second's pause between for him to supply them. Stern reproaches for not having answered her calls for days. Disbelieving rebukes for acting so disgracefully in public as to put their family name dragged through the mud in the news. A long list of crimes. Guilt to be borne stoically in the face of a distraught maternal figure.

And then, finally, the demand. Access to Eurus. An expectant silence.

"Even if I wished to, I could not do as you ask." Mycroft said, summoning calm from some deeply instinctive place. "I no longer have any say over who comes and goes at Sherrinford. I no longer have any say over anything of any importance." He hesitated for a moment then, debating internally whether to respond to any of her earlier complaints, before deciding that on this occasion, a decisive retreat was the most dignified option.

He pressed the end call icon with a little more force than necessary, then held the device away from his body, trying to distance himself from the hateful device.

Greg took the handset gingerly from Mycroft, placing it on the bench behind him without looking.

"Okay, I admit I may have misread that one." He said softly. "Shit Mycroft. I'm sorry. What can I do?"

A memory from that morning, the feeling of being engulfed in safe, warm arms rose unbidden in Mycroft's mind, but he quashed it.

"I am fine, thank you."

Greg appeared pained, a complicated, sympathetic expression. He lifted his hand part of the way between them in some sort of aborted gesture, then, ever so slowly, brushed his thumb over Mycroft's cheekbone. It was only after the contact was gone that Mycroft became aware of the chill damp sensation that trailed in its wake.

Crying. Like a child. How unseemly.

He angled his face away, surreptitiously swiping away the traitorous moisture, and was relieved that Lestrade seemed inclined to allow him at least that dignity.

"Myke? I mean it. I screwed up with that one. You didn't deserve that. What can I do? How can I help?"

Mycroft considered denying his request again, but the man seemed genuinely troubled. Perhaps a small allowance could be made under the circumstances? And the memory was still fresh.

"This morning," Mycroft ventured, hesitant, "after Sherlock shared his discoveries, you were generous enough to..." He gave a vague gesture which clearly bore little resemblance to the action itself, "That is, I suppose..."

"A hug?"

It seemed so common, so cheap, stated plainly like that. A triviality. Not at all like that which Mycroft had experienced. But he nodded, because it was the language that Gregory understood. And because it would be easier than trying to explain the inadequacy of the term.

Gregory smiled.

"Yeah, of course. Any time, just say the word, yeah? Come here."

Mycroft did. It almost made the otherwise unrelenting horrors of his day worthwhile.

Almost.

Chapter Text

Mycroft felt thunderous.

Given the way Lestrade's face fell the moment they made eye contact, he probably looked thunderous as well.

He stormed out of the tidy, clinical reception area without a word, slamming the door for good measure. He ignored the sounds of Lestrade hurrying to catch up behind him.

"So... Not entirely successful then?" Greg asked from a few paces back.

"Hardly. It is humiliating for both of us." Mycroft snapped, not looking back. "An embarrassment. For him to be forced to keep trying when we both know that he is completely incapable, and for me to have to endure his patronizing attempts. I told you this was a waste."

"Okay, but maybe one of the others will..."

"Are you not listening, Gregory?" Mycroft interrupted, "This is pointless! All of them are utterly pointless. Was Sherlock's explanation unclear? Allow me to clarify. My sister's abilities are orders of magnitude greater than anyone else alive, and she could only influence me because I was already in a substantially weakened state. That idiot in there cannot hope to undo what she has done. There is no one on Smallwood's list who can undo what she has done. There is no one on this planet who can undo what she has done. Except for her." He grit his teeth, voice dropping low, "And I will never, never put myself at her mercy again."

He stopped at the car door, waiting impatiently for Lestrade to open the door.

Lestrade didn't.

"Let's go for a walk?" He suggested instead, gesturing towards what appeared to be a dog park a short distance down the road.

The sky was clear, and the park almost completely devoid of other humans to irritate him, two facts which grated immensely. How dare the world appear so perfect, when his experience of it proved it to be so deeply flawed?

Part of him wanted to refuse Greg's suggestion just to be contrary, but a much larger part wanted to stomp and snarl and burn away his anger through motion. He turned on his heal, striding away at a pace which caused Lestrade once again to have to jog several paces to catch up.

"There is no point in trying again," Mycroft insisted, continuing as though he had never stopped. "Short of putting me through several days of intense psychological torture as a precursor, no one can do what Smallwood has asked. And I will certainly not consent to that."

"Okay."

"It is entirely unreasonable of you to ask me to."

"Okay."

"This entire situation is entirely unreasonable."

"I said 'okay' Myke. You don't have to speak to anyone else on the list. Give it up as a bad idea. It's fine."

Mycroft stalled, causing Greg to very nearly run into him. "What?"

Greg shrugged, considering the man in front of him. "You know your own mind better then I do. If you're certain it's not going to work, then I believe you. It's not going to work. I'm not going to force you."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"You do understand that I am unlikely to fall victim to reverse psychology?"

Greg chuckled, and nodded. "The thought never crossed my mind."

Mycroft worked his jaw silently as he processed that thought. "And what of the suggestions she has implanted? How do you propose we overcome that?"

"We'll just have to find some other way."

"There is no other way," Mycroft pointed out, exasperated, "have you not been listening?"

"I heard you, Myke. I just think you're not considering all the options. There are always other ways. We could... I don't know, we could just try piling so many good things into your life that we smother whatever thoughts she was using to piggyback her suggestions on. We'll work around it."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Even if such a thing were possible, it would never be enough for my colleagues. They know that I have been compromised. Unless I can prove outright that her influence is removed completely, they will never allow me to return."

"Then fuck 'em." Cursed Greg, with unexpected volume and finality.

Mycroft paused, blinked, said nothing.

Greg continued at his normal volume a moment later, "If they won't have you Snowflake, then that's their loss. Don't go back to them. Stay with me." He smirked, cheeky. "Be my kept man."

Mycroft felt himself physically deflate, his anger failing him. He resumed their walk, allowing Greg to match his now much more sedentary pace. He glanced at the man with a maudlin humour.

"I very much doubt you can afford to keep me in the manner to which I am accustomed."

"Myke, it's just a job. I know it's hard to imagine having a life that doesn't revolve around work, but I did it, I left it, and I came through just fine. And it was that work which dragged you to this point. There are other things you can do with your life that don't end with me talking you down from a suicide attempt."

Mycroft worked his jaw, phrasing his next thought with great care. "I don't know who I am, if I am without the work."

Greg's fingers brushed by Mycroft's for a moment, as though maybe he was reaching out, but then he withdrew again.

"You're still Mycroft Holmes. You're still a genius. You're still Sherlock's big brother. Still my friend." Greg looked fondly at him, "You'll still get overexcited when something rare comes up on Antiques Roadshow, still make tea like it's a religious experience, still turn your nose up at my cooking."

"Still be a 'Snowflake'?" Mycroft added, unsure what response he was hoping for.

"Of course. No matter how hard you try, you're never going to stop being a Snowflake. That's an inescapable truth, Myke. Just saying, there's a lot more to you than you give yourself credit for."

They were both silent for a while then. Contemplative. By the time they reached the three quarter point of their loop of the dog park though, Mycroft became aware of an uneasiness in Greg's posture. The man's quiet contemplation had clearly taken him to a place that troubled him, which in turn troubled Mycroft.

"You are concerned." Mycroft began, unsure exactly how to raise the matter more sensitively. It was moments like this he envied Gregory's easy manner with people.

"It's nothing, don't worry about it."

This, of course, served to worry him more. He explained as much to Greg, who chuckled.

"Yeah, fair enough. Sorry. I'm just worried that I might have fucked up a bit." He confessed.

Mycroft was bewildered. "In what way?"

"I've been pushing you. To speak with your mum, to see the hypnotherapist. Neither of them worked out."

"You have also pushed me to do things which have ended well. You cannot be expected to know the outcome of everything in advance."

"Why not?" Greg asked, "You do."

"I hardly..." Mycroft began, intending to defend both of them from Greg's claim, but then he hesitated, read the signals more carefully. "That is not what is concerning you. You are disappointed at the outcomes of those actions, that much is true, but it is not what you are dwelling on now."

Greg sighed gently, the fond smile back over the top of the underlying worry. "I keep forgetting how good you are at that. I shouldn't, but I do."

"Please tell me?" Mycroft knew he sounded uncertain, and he hated sounding uncertain. But if he didn't ask he would probably eventually deduce, and somehow he felt that would be worse.

Greg gave a single, small nod.

"You asked me for a hug. Yesterday. And I only realized this morning, that was the first time. You hadn't asked before that. Not once. And I never stopped to think about that that.

"I know how much you value personal space. Intellectually I knew that the whole time, but you just seemed so alone and so sad, and I acted on instinct, touching you, being close to you, like we had never stopped, you know? Like things had never ended between us. And sure, when I first brought you in and you weren't thinking straight and I had to make judgement calls on your behalf, but once you were right again I should have stopped. I should have bloody asked. I never gave you a chance to set boundaries, I just kept ploughing ahead, driving on that instinct. I'm sorry."

"You're... Apologizing for caring about me?" Mycroft felt an uncomfortable pressure in his chest at the thought.

Greg looked shocked for a moment, then shook his head fiercely. "Oh no, God no, Myke. Never for that. I'm apologizing because I think maybe I've been taking advantage. I should have been asking you what you wanted, making you feel safe, but instead I've been pushing you too hard in directions that make you uncomfortable."

Gregory was looking at his feet, not at Mycroft, which made him very slightly harder to read. Only very slightly though.

"Your instincts have always been so much better than mine." Mycroft said thoughtfully.

"Huh?" Greg looked up, confused. Mycroft gave a small half smile.

"It is incredible to me, how much you can understand about a person after only a short time in their presence."

Greg looked even more perplexed. "What are you on about? You can deduce what some stranger on the street had for breakfast five days ago from the way they tie their laces."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I can tell you all manner of things about what a person has done, what they are going to do in the future. I can analyze them, based on points of data and probabilities. But I cannot tell how to soothe them. I cannot see how to calm a storm in their soul. That is your talent, and you do it without thinking. I have never been able to understand what it is you see in people that I cannot. That is why I say your instincts are so much better than mine. I may be able to change outcomes, but you can change people. As a talent, that is infinitely more powerful."

"Oh." They walked for a few moments in silence, then... "Does that mean that we're okay?"

Mycroft stopped then, Greg stopping a step later, turning back with eyes full of concern.

Mycroft pressed his mouth into a tight line, took a stabilizing breath, and stepped close, sliding his hand into Greg's.

Greg stared at their interlocked hands for several seconds, then a small, relieved smile crossed his face.

They held hands all the way back to the car.

The trip home was quiet, companionable. Being driven by Greg was a very different experience to the ones he had with his professional drivers. Aside from anything else, he had been told in no uncertain terms that in Greg's car he was to sit in the front. I'm not your bloody chauffeur, Greg had pointed out the first time he had tried, and Mycroft had obliged. It afforded him a different perspective, one where he could see the road ahead unobstructed, but had no direct control over its traversal.

The experience was oddly metaphorical, when he considered it like that.

They made it half way home in companionable silence before Greg spoke again.

"I meant what I said earlier, if you don't want to try again with the therapists then I'll support that... I just wonder if maybe we've been approaching this from the wrong way."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well you keep saying that the only way Eurus was able to get past the walls or whatever in your brain, was by having your stressed and exhausted. And now you're going into these sessions believing that the only way for this to be effective is if you are in that same state now... But what if there's another option? What if, instead of trying to break down the walls, you just... I dunno, opened a door?"

Mycroft huffed. "And how exactly do you imagine I would do that?"

"Well I was thinking... What if you went in feeling safe? You know, Just really calm, really peaceful, really zen.... That's the traditional way hypnosis goes, right? With all the comfy sofas and beige walls and soothing voices? I mean, I'm pretty sure Derren Brown skipped the torture part completely, last time I saw his show." Greg glanced over for a second, shooting him a hesitant smile. "Although I guess it is TV, so maybe they just edited that part out."

Mycroft stared out of the window, watching the blur of trees, and of other cars.

"That may indeed be a more traditional method, but a lifetime of experience has proven that traditional methods rarely work on me." A few seconds later, he added, "In any case, safety is not available in abundance for me, these days."

"Right. Yeah, of course." He said, only a little disheartened.

Greg did not seem intent on pressing the issue, so Mycroft resumed watching the world while his thoughts buzzed.

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride home.

Chapter Text

"So I'm in court for about two hours, then back to the office for the end of the day." Greg explained. He was knotting his tie crookedly. "If there's an emergency, just call me any time. Once I'm back to the office, you can call even if it isn't an emergency."

Mycroft carefully walked over, undid the tie, and retied it properly. Greg seemed to find the gesture amusing, but did not object.

"I was also thinking," Greg continued, as Mycroft adjusted the knot, "I might join the rest of the team for a drink after work. Shouldn't be long, no more than an hour or so." He sounded uncertain now. "Would that be okay?"

"Of course, Gregory." Mycroft stood back to admire his handiwork. "You are entitled to a life of your own, and your team will be missing you. Take all the time you need. I'm sure Sherlock will be obliging, under the circumstances."

They both looked over to the man in question, whose nose was buried in the evidence folder that Lestrade had gifted him with upon his arrival. A cold case. Mycroft suspected that it had been brought less to appease Sherlock than to provide a valve to release the pressure caused by a full day of brotherly interaction.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but made no verbal comment.

Mycroft brushed at Greg's shoulders, ostensibly to remove some non-existent dust, then ran his hands down Greg's arms to his hands. Greg quickly took the hands in his own. For a moment Mycroft thought Greg might have been leaning in to kiss him, a though which both excited and terrified him, but the moment passed. Greg just smiled, gave him a soft look.

"Well, best be off then. Be good, Sherlock. Play nice with your brother." Then, with his attention back on Mycroft, "That goes for you too, Snowflake. I'll be home this evening. Don't make a mess."

The door had barely shut before Sherlock spoke.

"Snowflake?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, counted to ten, then sat down to the newspaper. It was the first such paper that Gregory had allowed into his house since Mycroft had arrived, which presumably meant that the media had moved on from his little escapade.

Sherlock continued reading in silence for some minutes, before he spoke again.

"He's a good man." He didn't look up from the case file.

"He is." Agreed Mycroft cautiously.

"He cares a very great deal about you."

"He does."

Sherlock looked up from his pages then, examining Mycroft with a steady eye. "No one would blame you if you wished to rekindle whatever it was you had."

Mycroft clenched his jaw. How was it that Sherlock could take something so new and innocent and fragile, and drag it out into the light so crudely.

"Do you have a point, brother?"

Sherlock paused thoughtfully for a moment. "You were happy together for many years. It would make sense for you to want that again. I would not stop you. I do not know why you chose to end it with him the first time. I don't really care to know, but I imagine it was something very selfish masked behind a veneer of selflessness. Regardless, your decision hurt him a lot, and it nearly destroyed you." Sherlock looked away. "For both your sakes, don't start this again unless you intend to see it through. He deserves better than that, and I fear you will not survive it if it fails."

Mycroft felt his heart thumping in his chest, some unholy blend of anger, humiliation and grief.

"You have no idea, Sherlock. You couldn't possibly understand."

"I understand well enough. The two of you could not be broadcasting yourselves any more clearly. You're just too caught up in yourself to notice."

"Stop talking, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue the point, but at that precise moment Mycroft's phone buzzed on the table, drawing both sets of eyes to it. Sherlock cocked his head, walking over to pick it up.

"Ignore it." Mycroft insisted.

"It's Mummy," Sherlock observed.

"I know. Ignore it."

Sherlock looked confused. "But you always answer when it's Mummy."

"Sherlock, please."

The request, or rather, the vulnerability he showed in making it, gave Sherlock enough pause that the phone rang out in his hand. It gave a single, short, decisive buzz a moment later. The missed call notification.

"Twelve missed calls," Sherlock pondered. "You're not speaking to her?"

Mycroft breathed out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "She doesn't want to speak with me, Sherlock."

"Evidence would suggest otherwise. Traditionally when someone calls you multiple times, they do, in fact, wish to talk."

Mycroft went to the sofa, sinking into its corner. They were barely minutes into the day together, and he was already exhausted. "She wishes to speak at me, Sherlock, not with me. She is angry, rightfully so, and she has selected me to bear the brunt of it."

"That doesn't seem fair." Sherlock pointed out, and Mycroft nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.

"It is what it is, Sherlock. One cannot change their family, no matter how much one might want to."

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue that point too, but the phone in his hand chose that moment to buzz once more with a call.

He looked at the phone. Then he looked at Mycroft. Mycroft could positively see the gears ticking around in his brother's head, moving him inexorably towards a terrible conclusion. He shook his head. Sherlock looked back to the phone, his posture suddenly wilful and purposeful.

He answered it.

"Hello Mummy."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed, a horrified stage whisper.

"Yes, he's here. He does not wish to speak with you."

Mycroft tensed.

"No, I don't believe so... If that is what he said, then we must assume that it is true... What would he have to gain?... Don't be dramatic. He only lied in an attempt to protect us."

This could not be happening. Mycroft tried to focus on his breathing, rather than his brother's words. It wasn't helping.

"Not at all. And it is entirely unreasonable for you to cast such judgements. He made a necessary decision, one which you were clearly incapable making yourself. Children with adequate parental support do not need to act in loco parentis for their younger siblings. The fact that he was less than perfect in doing so is far more telling of you than it is if him."

Mycroft felt dizzy. He felt sick. He tried to recite the names of all the British monarchs to himself, but got distracted somewhere around the Plantagenets. The room was hot, the air stifling.

"Because he is on suicide watch. He has already attempted to kill himself once this month, and it is my responsibility to make sure that he does not try again. No matter how tedious that responsibility may be."

He wasn't quite sure how he got there. One moment he was on the sofa, counting breaths, and the next he was in front of a shocked looking Sherlock, holding the phone handset. A tinny impression of his mother's voice came through the device as he stared at it for several seconds.

Then he hurled it as hard as he could against the wall. It shattered, glass and electronics forming a hemisphere of destruction in the air. They fell almost as though in slow motion.

Everything went quiet.

Sherlock was blinking at him, stunned. Mycroft just shook his head, not sure what exactly he was disagreeing with.

"You broke your phone."

The room was too small, there wasn't enough oxygen.

"I don't understand... I was taking your side."

Mycroft's heart was racing. He felt dizzy. He needed to move. He needed to get out of this house. He needed to get somewhere he could breathe. He turned on his heel.

"Mycroft, stop it, you're being unnecessary."

Mycroft shook his head again, striding out of the room towards the hall.

"Mycroft, wait. She was in the wrong, not you. You don't have to..."

Whatever it was he didn't have to do was lost to him, as he slammed the front door behind him and took off at a jog.

The air was cooler out here, not so stifling, and the rhythm of his feet on the pavement was familiar and grounding. Mindful of the fact that Sherlock would most likely be after him as soon as he got shoes and coat on, Mycroft sped up, taking random turns down streets with names he didn't bother to note. He ran aimlessly, moving faster and faster until his lungs burned and the muscles in his side started to catch on every breath.

Eventually he slowed, his various aches and pains making themselves known. He had maintained his fitness even after he moved from the field to an office job, but his exercise had predominantly been taken on treadmills and indoor fitness machines. This was different - he was wearing the wrong clothes, the wrong shoes... That certainly explained the pain in his calves; his black oxfords poorly designed to cushion the impact of a sustained run. He leaned forward, hands on thighs, panting heavily.

He felt physically exhausted, which was a nice change from his unending mental fatigue. He pushed himself onwards again, this time at a walk rather than a run, taking corners as the mood took him, with no thought for any particular destination.

It started to rain lightly, and Mycroft began to lament the absence of his umbrella.

It grew colder, and he started to wish he'd had the wherewithal to take his jacket or coat before he'd left the house.

The rain became heavier, his hair sticking flat to his scalp and trailing rivulets of water down his face. He cast his eye around, looking for a place where he might take shelter for a few minutes and wait for the worst to pass. He noticed a very familiar building almost immediately, and ducked through the creamy white stone archways into a crowded, noisy room.

He felt a vague sense of unease somewhere in the back of his mind, a fog around his thoughts, but he dismissed it. The room was warm and dry, a step up from outdoors. He just needed to find somewhere with fewer people.

A door to the fire stairs caught his eye, and he ducked into the stairwell without anyone particular noticing him.

It was quieter in here, not as warm as the room he'd come from, but still dry.

It didn't feel entirely right though, standing idly at the bottom of the stairwell. Lacking any other particular direction, he began a slow walk up the stairs. One floor, two floors, three floors, a door.

The uneasiness he had felt earlier spiked again, but something stronger overrode it.

He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital.

Chapter Text

Mycroft wondered how Sherlock must have felt, standing here, looking down. A madman at his back, a potentially fatal fall below. It was a very long way down.

Sherlock had trusted Mycroft, then. Was that still true now? If Sherlock were faced with the same choice today, would he take it? Mycroft knew he had proven himself unreliable, untrustworthy. No longer capable of providing the safety net he'd been bearing his whole life.

There was the sound of the door creaking behind him, then a single word.

"Mycroft?"

The wind and rain conspired to steal the sound, but even the broken syllables were enough to draw him from his reverie. He blinked, momentarily startled, then turned.

"Doctor Watson? What on Earth are you doing up here?"

The man in question stood in the doorway, doing his very best impression of someone who was definitely not threatening.

"Really?" He answered with an uneasy smile, "I thought that was kind of obvious."

Mycroft paused, assessed the situation.

Oh.

"You believe that I intend to..." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the edge, preferring not to speak the words themselves.

John said nothing, just waited. Normally Mycroft would have held his ground; he was a master of the long silence. But at that moment he felt the need to justify his presence.

"I only entered the building in order to step out of the rain." Mycroft explained.

John raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking skyward. His meaning was clear; It's still raining, and we're standing out in it. Mycroft pursed his lips.

"It was very loud inside." He elaborated, ignoring the prickling feeling creeping up the back of his neck. It had made so much sense only a few minutes ago, but now that he came to explain it...

John nodded. "Well it was pretty quiet in the stairwell, and I can probably arrange for some towels to dry us both off. What do you say we just..." John took a single step forward, slow and cautious. Mycroft reacted instinctively, maintaining his distance by taking a step towards the ledge. John stopped.

"Doctor Watson, I assure you, I am not here to do anything that you might consider unwise."

The moment the words left Mycroft's mouth, he recognized them as a lie. He hadn't known it until that moment, not really, but now that the words were hanging in the air, he saw them for what they were.

He tried again. "That was certainly not my intention in coming up here." That was technically true, at least.

"Great, so there's no reason to stay. Right?"

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. He was about two feet from the edge. He could cover that distance in less than a second. Even with a soldier's reflexes, Watson could not hope to catch him in time.

He would fall.

All of this would be over.

He could rest.

Wasn't that what he wanted?

"This isn't you, Mycroft." The wind had quieted, and John's voice along with it. The rain still fell, but softer. Only a gentle shower now. "This is Eurus' doing, remember? She got into your head. She's making you do things that you don't want to do."

Mycroft suddenly felt very unsure of himself. "And what if I do want this?" He countered.

Did he want this? He couldn't be certain.

John took a deep breath.

"Look, Sherlock's in a state, Greg's distraught. Just... Come away from the edge, I'll let them know you're okay, and we can talk... Or we can just sit in silence for a bit. Whatever you need. Just give us a chance?"

Mycroft looked again at the edge, then back to Doctor Watson. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Good Lord, he was so tired he couldn't think. It was all too much to process. He hadn't meant to frighten Greg. He didn't want to upset Sherlock.

He wanted to cry. With all the rainwater in his hair and eyes, no one would know the difference. He closed his eyes, raised his hands to cover them. Shook his head in answer to a question no one had asked.

There was nothing but the sound of rainfall and his own breathing.

"Mycroft?" John's voice was much closer now, "I'm just going to take your arm now, okay? We're going to walk back to the stairs. Just one step at a time."

There was a firm gasp on Mycroft's elbow, a lighter touch in the centre of his back. It felt startlingly intimate.

It shouldn't have. Over the past weeks, he'd had multiple people touch him. More in that time than over the many years preceding. And so many of them gestures of kindness and care.

He took a deep breath, then breathed it out as evenly as he could, letting some small amount of tension go with it. He took one step, then another, all the while guided by those two points of contact.

The heavy fire door snicked closed behind them, cutting out even the sound of pattering rain on the roof top. Mycroft lowered his hands from his face, blinking rapidly as John directed him into a sitting position on the top step. He sat down on the same step, leaving no more than a couple of inches between them both.

There was near silence in their shared space, their breaths gradually falling into a shared rhythm. Mycroft became aware that they were both dripping on the floor. It seemed like a potential safety hazard.

They should probably notify someone.

"There's no shame in needing help. You do know that, right? I'm sure Greg's mentioned it, but just in case..."

Mycroft tried to give John a withering look, but it didn't quite come out right. John was looking at his own clasped hands in any case, so it hardly mattered.

"And I get it, you know, how confusing it can be. Your brain telling you two completely contradictory things at the same time. I got shot in the shoulder, and I couldn't walk properly. I'm a doctor, intellectually I knew it was all just my mind playing tricks on me, but sometimes I'd wonder... What if there really was something else wrong? What if it was real, and I missed my chance to do something about it because I assumed it was all just in my head."

"I hardly think our situations are comparable, Doctor Watson."

John looked over, face weary. "No, you're right, they're not." He conceded. "I'm not sure there's much that could be comparable. Doesn't mean I can't be sympathetic."

They sat in silence again for an indeterminate amount of time. Then John tried again.

"I wanted to apologize. For the 'soldiers' comment. You're a powerful man, but you aren't a soldier. It was unfair of me to demand that of you. When it came right down to it, I couldn't pull that damn trigger either."

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully for a second, then looked up at the ceiling.

"I was. Once. A long time ago."

John paused, "A soldier?" he asked.

Mycroft nodded. "Not of your sort, of course. But I did field work. I was... Quite good at it."

"Yeah?" John prompted, "Bet you have some stories."

Mycroft could see full well what Watson was trying to do. Engaging him in conversation. 'Getting him talking', as the popular colloquialism went. A valiant effort, of course. Mycroft wasn't sure if he welcomed it.

"Several," Mycroft agreed eventually, "Very classified stories."

John chuckled, but it was a tense, nervous sound. "Is that how you first met Greg?"

Mycroft stared at him. "Very classified stories." He reiterated.

John leaned back on his elbows. "We could just pretend Sherlock deduced it. I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time."

Mycroft closed his eyes again, let his mind wander back. Sharing a small amount of information was unlikely to cause any fresh harm, and Watson was quite correct. Sherlock knew or had deduced most of it years ago.

"Gregory was my direct supervisor. An excellent teacher, even then. Patient, skilled, unflappable, inordinately generous with his time." His eyes slid sidewards towards John. "Exceptionally handsome, of course. I was more than a little besotted."

John smiled then, a tiny sparkle of surprise lighting his eyes.

"So the two of you...?" John left the sentence hanging slightly longer than was comfortable.

"Not immediately. It was almost two years before I progressed to become his peer. But the day after I was promoted, he approached me. He was quite a gentleman. We became... Close."

"Close?"

"Intimate."

"Wow."

"Indeed."

John pondered this new information for some seconds. "I mean, I get it, he's a good looking bloke. I'm just surprised. He never mentioned it before, it seems like the sort of thing which would have come up at some point."

Mycroft looked at him, his gaze pointed. "Very classified."

John chuckled again, but his gaze was softer now, thoughtful.

"What happened? If it's okay for me to ask?"

"My progression through the ranks was much accelerated, relative to the norm. I ended up in a position of authority over him only a year or so after we moved in together."

Mycroft heard John's breath catch. It was just as well the man had not been drinking, as he most likely would have choked.

"You lived together?"

"It is what one does when one is in love with another, or so I have been led to believe."

"No, yeah, right. Sorry. Just... Learning a lot of things about both of you today." John tapped his fingers idly on his knee. "So you moved in together, then you got promoted. I guess that must have pissed Greg off mightily, having you overtake him like that."

"Hardly," Mycroft dismissed tersely. "On the contrary, I suspect his recommendation played a significant part in my rapid ascension through the ranks. If anything, he seemed proud of my success."

"So then why did he quit?"

Mycroft frowned. Even after all these years, it was a sensitive subject for him, a debt he had never been able to repay.

"It was frowned upon for people in my position to have relationships with those under my command. It created conflicts of interest. Gregory generously chose to change careers, so that we could continue to be together."

"He must have really cared about you."

"He did."

Doctor Watson stopped for a moment, seemed to consider something. "I'm pretty sure he still does, you know."

Mycroft sighed, a bone weary sound. "Gregory loves in much the same way as he lives. Unapologetically, unreservedly, and, I am afraid, somewhat unwisely. I ended our arrangement for a reason, and the situation has become no less complicated over the years."

John shrugged. "Complicated or not, he's probably broken at least a dozen road rules on the way up to Highgate looking for you. Never seen the man so frantic about anything in the time I've known him. He's worried sick about you."

It took far too long for Mycroft's rational mind to kick in, identify the logic behind the destination. "Ah. The Hornsey Lane Bridge? A very popular location for jumpers, I believe."

John dipped his head in a halfhearted nod. "Something like that, yeah. Lucky for the both of you, my mind goes some place else when someone mentions suicide." He looked away, staring at the whitewashed brickwork.

Mycroft looked down at his own hands, pale, starting to look just a little blue from the cold and the damp.

"I am... Sorry." He said eventually. "For causing you to have to come up here. I imagine this is a difficult place for you."

"Yeah. It is. But I'd rather be here sitting and chatting with you then down there looking at a body, so..." He shrugged, still looking anywhere but at Mycroft.

"Then perhaps it would be prudent for both of us to leave?" He suggested. Then to avoid any miscommunication, added, "Via the stairs."

"Yeah." John nodded. "Yeah, I think that's a really good idea."

Chapter Text

There was a brief moment of panic, a primitive hind brain reaction as Mycroft saw Greg striding towards him with purpose. Then he was engulfed in a desperate bear hug, and the panic shifted.

"Gregory?" he asked, voice breathy under the pressure of the man's grip.

"You bastard, Myke. You utter, absolute bastard."

Mycroft tensed, but Greg's response was simply to grip him tighter.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Jesus, you're soaked through, Sally, can you grab us a towel? Don't you ever try that again, Myke, or I'll bloody kill you myself. Damn it."

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, there was just a choked off sound of quiet distress.

Greg pulled back just enough to look Mycroft in the eye, passed a calloused thumb lightly over his cheek, then pulled him back into his embrace. One hand moved up to cup the back of Mycroft's skull, coax it down onto Gregory's shoulder. "I mean it. Don't ever do that to me again. Not ever."

"I am sorry?" Mycroft said softly, hoping it was the right answer.

"Damn right you're sorry." Greg said, his words muffled for the fact that they were spoken half into Mycroft's hair. It had started to regain its natural curl now, having grown out somewhat over the past weeks, then been allowed to air dry after the rain. It made him feel slightly self conscious.

But then, maybe that feeling was caused by something else.

"Gregory... Perhaps you should be aware, we have an audience."

It was true. Over a dozen people had gathered, stalled in the normally humming office of New Scotland Yard, all transfixed by the spectacle. He could see Sherlock amongst them, looking even more pale and gaunt then usual, and completely still. He looked frightened, which made no sense at all.

"You put me through absolute hell, Myke. Taking every bloody side street and alley in the damn city just so we couldn't track you on CCTV, taking yourself up to the top of..." Gregory choked on the next word, then skipped ahead. "After all that, you can put up with an audience for a five bloody minutes." A few moments later though, he obligingly withdrew a step, keeping one possessive hand on Mycroft's arm. He took the towel from Sergeant Donovan's outstretched hand and began roughly toweling off Mycroft's hair, causing the curl to come on in full force. "Right. Okay. So I need an actual answer here. Are you hurt?"

Mycroft shook his head. Gregory gave him a complicated expression, then with a slight head turn, addressed one of the people to his right. "John? Hospital, or home?"

"He's wet through, probably exhausted, but no physical damage as far as I can tell. Home. Get him warm and dry. If you can get him to rest, even better."

Greg set his jaw, then nodded. "You heard the man. Car's out front. You too, Sherlock."

Both Holmes' went without an argument.

The car ride was silent, all three men deep in their own thoughts. The soggy morning had shifted to a crisp late afternoon now, the shadows gradually lengthening, trees casting dappled light over the road. Several times Mycroft looked to Gregory, but his gaze went unreturned. A glance in the mirror showed Sherlock to be equally absorbed in the view from his window. Mycroft clasped his hands tightly in his lap and focused on not thinking. It was as difficult as ever.

Even after arriving at Greg's home, the space between the three of them felt heavy. Greg scrubbed at his chin, where a haze of stubble had begun to form. He looked to Sherlock.

"Get him in the shower. He needs to warm up. He can tell you the rules."

"Rules?" Sherlock enquired, sounding somehow smaller than usual.

"The suicide watch rules. Doors stay open. Call and response every few minutes."

"Twenty seconds to respond." Added Mycroft. It was confusing and uncomfortable, being spoken about as though he were not present. It was not like Gregory to exclude him in this manner.

"Right," confirmed Greg, then "I'll just be..." he gestured vaguely in the opposite direction from the bathroom, then left accordingly, leaving the brothers alone together.

They looked at each other. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Mycroft inclined his head. They both headed towards the bathroom, collecting pyjamas from the second bedroom along the way.

The first shock of warm water was almost painful, but after only a few seconds the surprise was replaced by relief. The spray washed through his hair, warming his scalp, cascading down his back. His body temperature gradually raised itself back to something more closely approximating human. Mycroft rested his head on the tiles and allowed himself a deep, shuddering breath through the steam.

He had avoided all of the cameras.

He had walked to the top of the hospital.

He'd been ready to jump.

He had wanted to jump. In that moment, he'd wanted it more than just about anything.

All it had taken was one stressful morning. One morning alone with his brother. Less than that really, barely an hour of the kind of minor aggravations he had experienced his whole life, and her influence had reasserted itself over him entirely.

God help him, this hell was never going to end.

"Mycroft?"

He recognized it immediately, the call and respond, from Sherlock this time instead of Gregory. For the barest hint of a second, Mycroft considered counting all the way to nineteen before responding; reasserting just a small amount of control over his life and making Sherlock squirm in payment for the distress he had caused that morning. But then the image of his little brother, pale and frightened in the crowd at Scotland Yard came unbidden to mind.

"Still fine, Sherlock." He replied promptly. His voice barely even shook.

There were tears in his eyes now. The second time in as many days. He wished he understood what had triggered them. His body was undamaged, the immediate situation had been resolved, the crisis averted. At least this time he was alone, the evidence of his weakness washed away as soon as formed. He turned the water temperature up further, hot enough that it left flares of bright pink where it ran over his pale skin, blotting out the freckles. The heat sat on the edge of discomfort. He focused on breathing. The steam made it easier.

And then it didn't.

It was like the steam had stripped everything of value from the air and left Mycroft with nothing. There wasn't enough oxygen any more. In a panic he slammed the taps closed, the water shutting off with a shudder. He almost fell in his haste to get out of the shower. The air out here was cold and sharp, and he gulped it in.

He grabbed a towel, scrubbing vigorously at his face, his hair, his arms. Gregory's towels were old, rough and crisp from too many runs through the washing machine, completely unlike the ones Mycroft had in his home.

The home he was never going back to. Because he couldn't be trusted. Because he couldn't even trust himself.

"Mycroft?"

"Still fine" he replied briskly, fully aware that the strain in his voice was undermining the words.

"Are you certain?" A tentative follow up.

Mycroft closed his eyes, sought out whatever fumes were left in his reserve tank of self control, and took a deep breath. "I am. Do not fret, Sherlock."

He let the towel pool on the floor, dressed in his pyjamas on automatic pilot, then for good measure, wrapped himself in Gregory's robe which was hanging from the back of the door. It smelled like Gregory's aftershave, which was nice. He sat himself down on the edge of the bath, elbows on knees, face in his hands, and gave himself a few moments to breathe.

"Mycroft?"

"Still here, Sherlock."

"I can see that."

Mycroft looked up, startled, to find himself no longer alone in the bathroom. He stood rapidly, pulling the robe more tightly around himself. "Sherlock! You're supposed to wait outside. I might not have been dressed!"

Sherlock looked at him with a painfully confused expression. "It's been eleven minutes since you shut off the water. I was standing outside. I could hear you dressing..."

"Even so," Mycroft attempted to counter, but no reasonable explanation came to mind. In an uncharacteristic show of empathy, Sherlock seemed to sense this.

"You didn't want me to see you showing weakness." He stated. It didn't sound like his normal, obnoxious poking at sore places though. Rather, it sounded like his little brother, aged six, trying desperately to understand the actions of the people around him. Mycroft looked away, blinking a little too rapidly in order to keep his traitorous tear ducts under control.

"That seems unjust," Sherlock said after a minute, "you have observed me being weak a thousand times over."

"That is different."

"Why? Because you are older than me? That might have been reason enough when we were children, but we're both grown men now."

Mycroft took a deep breath, more to give himself time to formulate an answer than for any other reason. "Because you are sensitive, Sherlock. You have always been sensitive, from the moment you were born. And it was my job to protect you."

Sherlock did not move for several moments, quietly mulling over this new information, then seemed to come to a conclusion.

"You said you always breathed easier, when I was close. Is that still true?"

Mycroft thought about lying. Decided against it. Nodded, with eyes averted.

Sherlock stepped forward then. If one excluded the times when Mycroft had carried his younger brother out medical necessity, they were closer now than they had been for years. Mycroft dared not move, caught in a strange spell that had come over both of them.

Sherlock placed his fingers, light as feathers, under Mycroft's wrist, and guided his hand around to rest just below Sherlock's shoulder blades. Mycroft obliged, disconcerted by the gesture but too confused to question it directly. Then Sherlock mirrored the pose with his own arm, wrapping it around his elder brother. They stood there for several seconds before Mycroft's brain finally processed his little brother's intention.

An embrace. Unfamiliar and unpractised, but an embrace nonetheless. He adjusted his stance, wrapping his remaining arm around Sherlock's shoulders as gently as he dared.

Sherlock's hair was as soft as it had been when he was a child. Under the smell of shampoo and wool, there was even the same familiar scent. It brought to mind a perfect little boy, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's neck and demanding to be carried because he was tired of walking.

"Is this alright?" Sherlock asked, uncertainty bleeding through in every syllable.

"It is... Fine."

Mycroft couldn't be sure how long they stood like that. It seemed like hours, neither of them quite certain what to do next.

"I am... Not very good at this." Sherlock said at last.

"We have not embraced for some time, Sherlock. You have no reason to judge yourself harshly."

Sherlock rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder, and Mycroft tensed again. They were deep in unfamiliar territory, and he had no map. Holding people, talking about things... This was Gregory's area, not his own.

"I was referring to the broader 'this', Mycroft. I am not a good caretaker. I am not a good brother. I am not good at seeing you as anything other than my infallible and obnoxious brother."

"It's... fine, Sherlock. You do not have to take care of me. I am not your responsibility."

Sherlock exhaled, somewhere between irritation and exhaustion. It was a feeling Mycroft recognized all to easily from his own recent experience.

Sherlock's words, when they were finally spoken, were muffled by closeness and stilted in their delivery. They were borrowed words, but chosen with care.

"Your loss would break my heart."

Mycroft felt tears once again pricking at his eyes, tracing lines down his cheek.

Sherlock noticed it, of course. But he didn't mention it.

Chapter Text

Mycroft transitioned from sleep to wakefulness almost instantly.

He was not, best as he could tell, woken by any noise or disturbance, and he had no recollection of any dreams, he just... Woke up.

Sherlock showed no signs of doing likewise. The man was curled up in the armchair that he had dragged into Mycroft's room earlier in the evening. He was deep in slumber, lost to the world. It was a spectacle that Mycroft had not had the privilege of observing in person for some time.

Sherlock looked different in sleep. The cliché was true of course, the man did look younger without the focus lines shaping his eyes, or the tension of wakefulness in his bearing, but the inverse was equally true. Sherlock also looked older. Not a child any more, not even a troubled young man. An adult, burdened by all the experiences that adults carried with them.

Mycroft dared not count how many of those aging experiences were caused by him.

He slipped out of bed silently as he could, into his slippers, then drifted down the corridor to Gregory's room. He had no particular end in mind, merely a desire to see the man, confirm that he was here, safe and intact.

Gregory's room was empty.

There was a momentary spike of panic. It was almost two a.m. now, far too late for the bed still to be unmade. Mycroft made his way to the entry hall as quickly as he could, then on to the living room where he finally found his keeper, sitting alone in the dark.

If Sherlock had looked old to Mycroft's eye, Greg appeared ancient. He was sitting, sunken into the sofa, with half a bottle of cheap whiskey and a full glass of the same sitting in front of him on the coffee table. He was staring at nothing.

"Gregory?" Mycroft spoke softly, intending to announce his presence without startling the man.

It didn't work. Greg jumped almost an inch at the sudden sound. "Mycroft? Jesus, you... I thought you were sleeping."

"I was," Mycroft explained, moving towards the sofa but not sitting down, "then I woke."

"Where's Sherlock?"

Mycroft flicked his eyes back the way he had come, "He has always been a very heavy sleeper. Terrible insomnia of course, but once down he tends to remain so, come hell or high water."

"Right." Gregory resumed his staring. Mycroft stepped closer.

"May I?" He asked, gesturing at the empty place on the sofa.

Greg gave a non-committal shrug. "You'll need to get your own glass, if you want a drink."

"I do not require whiskey at this time. Thank you."

They sat in silence for some minutes, Mycroft feeling increasingly uncertain. "I believe you are rostered for work in the morning, perhaps it would be wise to attempt sleep?"

"Hmm." Greg said by way of answer, then picked up his glass, downed half of it in one go, and clunked it loudly back on the table. Mycroft wondered for a few seconds whether anything more would be forthcoming, then Greg continued.

"I put in the paperwork. It was stupid to think this was something we could sort out in a couple of weeks, part time. I'm on indefinite leave without pay. You won't have to stay alone with Sherlock any more, not unless you want to. I'll be here. 'Til you're better. All the way."

Mycroft felt heat rising along the back of his neck, guilt and shame competing to make him ache. "Gregory, please, that's not necessary. Sherlock has learned his lesson, I doubt he will make the same mistake again, and I..."

"You were on the fucking roof of a four story building, Mycroft! Don't tell me it's not fucking necessary. I'm not leaving you alone again. Not until I'm certain. So it's either this or I get you committed to some kind of an institution, and I can't..."

Greg's movement, when it came, came all at once. In a moment, he shifted from stoic and distant to despairing. Elbows on knees, he rested his head in his hands. He splayed his fingers through his hair, causing soft crests of silver grey to fall every which direction. For a brief, terrifying moment, Mycroft feared that Greg might actually be crying.

He wasn't, but it seemed like a near thing. Mycroft felt woefully underprepared.

Mycroft hesitated, then stretched to retrieve the ugly crochet blanket from where it had been neatly folded over the back of the sofa. Working on the premise that it seemed like the sort of thing Gregory would have done had their situations been reversed, he unfolded the fabric and draped it over Gregory's shoulders. He tucked it in best as he could.

Greg responded with a sort of hiccoughing jerk, that might have been a laugh or a sob. Mycroft honestly couldn't be sure. He touched Greg's hand lightly with his own.

"I'm sorry." He said.

"I know." Greg replied, his words muffled by his posture.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know that too."

"I never do mean to hurt you."

Greg exhaled a slow, painful sigh. "Mycroft..." He began.

"And yet I do," Mycroft cut him off, "over and over."

"I just... Need a bit of time right now, Snowflake. Just a few minutes to collect myself, okay?"

It seemed like a reasonable request. Mycroft was a private man himself, requiring time to think through the more complicated situations he found himself in. But by his reckoning, Gregory had been here, alone with his thoughts for over seven hours. With half a bottle of whiskey. A few minutes had long since been and gone.

Decision made, Mycroft leaned over, pressed his lips gently as he could to Greg's cheek, then withdrew. Greg swallowed, looked at him with confusion and sadness.

"What are you doing?"

Mycroft pressed his lips tight. "I'm not entirely certain." He admitted.

Then, using the blanket as leverage, he pulled Greg towards him until he was lying lengthways on the sofa, lying himself down beside him. He readjusted the blanket so that it lay over the both of them, and curled into Greg's chest. Greg placed a tentative arm over Mycroft, uncertain.

"I don't want to die." Mycroft confessed to Greg's shirt buttons. The tentative arm holding him gripped a little tighter.

"And yet less than twenty four hours ago, you tried to jump off a building." Greg pointed out.

"I didn't realize that was what was happening until it was almost too late. Her control over me... I don't know what else I can do. But I swear to you, I didn't go out there with the intention of harming myself."

"We'll figure something out, I promise." The sentiment should have been right, coming from Greg, but instead it sounded hollow and empty. Mycroft took a moment then to consider his next words.

"This feels safe". He said, eventually.

Greg pulled back a little way, far enough that they could see each other's faces. He was clearly confused at the non-sequitur. Mycroft pushed ahead.

"You suggested some time ago that perhaps the de-programmers might have more luck if I submitted to their process when feeling safe and calm. When you are here, I feel safe. Perhaps if you were present, and with the aid of some medications, I might be willing to try again."

He watched as his words sunk in, and Greg came to understand their magnitude.

Then Greg nodded. "We can call someone in the morning, organize another appointment."

They lay there in silence for some time then, each studying the other, although what they were hoping to learn was unclear.

"I went to see her." Mycroft said softly, after several minutes. He saw Greg's forehead furrow in confusion.

"How? She's miles away. On an island. You'd have needed a helicopter."

Mycroft forged ahead. "It was afternoon, Sunday, mid-March. We had spent the morning at a church fete. You had been enamoured of this ghastly crochet blanket, because it reminded you of your grandmother. You somehow managed to convince me to purchase it for you, despite my protestations that it clashed with literally every other possession we owned. You expressed your gratitude by sharing your plate of cupcakes from the ladies auxiliary."

Mycroft sensed the sudden tension in the air, the moment that Gregory had realized exactly what story was being told. He pushed ahead, afraid that if he stopped now he might never find it in himself to start again.

"I was... happy. That, I fear, was my mistake. I had not been happy in her presence for as long as either of us could remember. It took her mere seconds to deduce all of it. All that had happened in months since my previous visit, the leisurely breakfast we had shared that morning, the hours we had spent at the fete. Even the ring I had in my pocket, and the intention that it carried.

"She was... Oh God in heaven, she was curious. You cannot possibly hope to comprehend the horror of that. In my entire living memory, she had only been curious about a handful of people. Sherlock, Victor, Moriarty..."

Even now he could picture her, head tilted to one side, eyes bright and inquisitive. It sent a shiver down his spine.

"She wanted to meet you. To have you in the same space as her. She would have promised anything in the world to see the man who could change me as you had done. But I couldn't. I couldn't risk losing you like that. Not to her. She would have, I cannot describe..." He swallowed, his words failing him, his eyes unforgivably damp. He took a deep, centring breath.

"In ending what you and I had, I had chosen the lesser of two very cruel evils. But I have spent every waking moment since regretting that visit. If I had not gone to see her, if I had chosen some other day, if I had not been so visibly in love with you, then perhaps we could have had..."

His words were halted by gentle lips touching his own, the shock so complete that his eyes went wide and his hands lifted into the space between them of their own volition, hovering awkwardly in the air. After a few charged seconds, Gregory withdrew. His pupils were wide, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

"You had a ring?" He breathed.

Mycroft blinked rapidly, trying to untangle his thoughts. "The laws had not yet changed at the time. It would merely have been symbolic."

"Bloody hell. Bloody hell, Mycroft." Gregory drew back, sitting up himself and in the process forcing Mycroft to do the same. He combed his fingers through his already messy hair. "This is a lot, just... Bloody hell."

"I understand that you may be angry. I kept this information from you with only the best of intentions... But I have learned recently that good intentions are a poor substitute for honesty." He resisted the urge to sigh unhappily. "I wished only to give you the safety that you deserved."

"Safety? Jesus... You broke my heart, Snowflake." Greg said, everything about him looking shaken.

"I... am aware."

"I was so bloody in love with you."

"As I was with you."

"And you bought a ring."

"Yes."

They were still for some time, neither looking directly at the other. It was Greg who spoke first.

"I would have said yes, you know."

Mycroft hadn't realized it was possible for the same heart to break twice. His chest ached with it.

"I would have treasured you, Gregory. I would have given you the world." He looked up then, only to realize that he was being watched with a fierce intensity by the man sitting beside him.

"And now?"

Mycroft furrowed his brow in confusion. "Now?"

Greg leaned in, slow and cautious, and kissed him again. This time Mycroft had the presence of mind to reciprocate, allowing himself to live in the present for a few precious minutes as he rediscovered something he had thought lost for so many years.

Then Greg withdrew again, guilt passing over his face.

"I shouldn't... Look, Myke, I'm still painfully in love with you. I never stopped, not really, even when I hated you. And I think you know that." He sighed, and it was a broken sound. "But if I take this now, then I would be taking advantage of you. You're in a bad place, Myke. You're scared and hurt and lonely, and it's messing with your judgement. And I'm responsible for you. That's too much power. It's not right."

Mycroft studied the man's face, guilt and anxiety crinkling the lovely features.

He pressed his lips gently to Gregory's.

"If I have been scared, it is you who has protected me. If I have been hurt, it is you who has comforted me. If I have been lonely, it has only ever, ever been you I sought for companionship. It has always been you, Gregory. Always."

"Jesus..." Breathed Greg, and then they were kissing again.

For the first time in weeks, Mycroft didn't feel tired.

Chapter Text

Mycroft felt calm and refreshed.

Then he felt confused about why he felt calm and refreshed.

Then he felt nervous about why he felt confused.

Then he felt warm fingers tracing lines along his scalp, and he opened his eyes.

"Hey Snowflake, welcome back. You did it."

The ceiling was white, the room various shades of beige. Judging from his orientation, his head was in Gregory's lap, with the deprogrammer sitting in a chair just on the edge of his peripheral vision.

Every internal alarm he had went off at once.

"Get out." He said, alarmed to find that the sound came out as little more than a whisper. Gregory's smile faltered.

"What? It's okay, Myke, you did it. You did so well. Everything's okay."

Mycroft angled his head so that the man who had infiltrated his mind was in a clear line of sight. "Get out." He repeated more firmly.

"Please try to relax, Mister Holmes." the man in question said. "I assure you, you are in a safe place. If there is something upsetting you, perhaps it would be best to talk about it plainly?"

"Get. Out." Mycroft enunciated clearly, imposing, drawing on his years of experience terrifying men of steel. The sound of wind rushed in his ears, and everything in the room was a touch too bright.

He pulled away from Gregory and stood, blanket crumpling to the floor. He took a step towards the man, vibrating with anger. "Get out. Get out!"

The psychologist stood, calm and unflustered. "Alright, Mr Holmes. I'll be right outside when you're ready. Take your time." He passed a significant look to Greg, but Mycroft was not in a position to see the response. He glared at the man until he left the room.

Then, as rapidly as it had come on, the vibrating anger dissolved into shaking terror. The howling winds in his ears fell silent. He put a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob, using his other hand to prop himself up with the arm of the recently vacated chair.

"Myke?" Gregory's voice. Familiar, soft, so very worried.

Mycroft responded with a sound that even he could not claim was intelligible.

"Is it okay if I join you over there?" Greg tried again.

With his eyes closed, not trusting his voice, Mycroft nodded once. Only seconds later, he felt the radiant warmth of another human body beside him.

"So... How are you?"

Mycroft made a hiccoughing sound at the absurdity of the question. He opened one eye in the hope that he might be able to communicate his thoughts without words.

"Yeah," Greg responded, "Fair enough. Come here then." He came around to stand in front of Mycroft, and wrapped his arms around him.

It was not an elegant hug. Mycroft stood stiffly, straight as a pole and almost as still in Gregory's arms, letting the man support him both physically and emotionally. It was not an insignificant weight.

"It's okay Snowflake, you're safe. Just you, me, and that blanket you hate. Just breathe."

It took some time. Mycroft's internal clock was too damaged by his emotional state to give him an accurate indication of exactly how long, but eventually his breathing calmed and his nerves settled. Greg walked the two of them back, inch by steady inch, to the sofa where he had been lying earlier. He sat them both down and draped the blanket over Mycroft's shoulders.

The hug had been replaced by a slightly more dignified hand sitting solidly between Mycroft's shoulder blades. It wasn't moving, just holding its place there. Grounding him in the space.

"He was successful then?" Mycroft asked, finally.

"You were under for probably twenty minutes." Greg confirmed. "I'm not exactly a professional, but I think the two of you made good progress."

"He was able to get inside my head."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. That was kind of the point of all this, wasn't it?"

Mycroft willed Greg to understand.

"He is nobody. And yet he was able to enter my mind. Reshape it. Like clay. Like putty."

"That is his job, Myke." Greg replied earnestly, as his thumb started to stroke smoothly side to side. "He spends his life doing this for people, and even then it wasn't exactly easy. Honestly, it was bloody hard work getting you under, and we'll probably need to do it a dozen or more times before we can be really confident that it's sticking."

Mycroft shuddered at the thought. "There will be other patients waiting," he stalled, "we should leave."

Greg tilted his head, looking thoughtful. "It's a psychologist's office, Mycroft. I'm sure you're not the first person to need a bit of quiet time to collect himself after a difficult session. There's no rush."

Mycroft stared at the floor, saying nothing for some time. Then, "I'm not sure I can go through it again."

"You mean, being hypnotised?"

"Being altered." Mycroft clarified, an unplanned hiss of venom coming through in the delivery. "Having my thoughts changed by someone else."

"Oh." Said Greg, unhelpfully.

After some minutes, Greg's hand moved from the centre of Mycroft's back to his far shoulder, and he was coaxed back down to a horizontal position. Greg resumed his stroking of Mycroft's hair, moving the strands in various, random directions. Mycroft's eyes drifted closed. The sensation was calming, even in this awful place.

That was almost certainly why he was doing it, of course. And why he did it before, when they were trying to push Mycroft under. Mycroft closed his eyes, and tried not to think.

"You know there's a difference right? Between what your sister did, and what we're doing here."

"I'm not an idiot, Gregory."

Greg chuckled. "I can't imagine anyone ever thinking that, Snowflake. But... Your sister, what she did, that was breaking and entering. She broke in, and she ransacked the place. That's pretty cut and dry to me. But what we're doing here, with a professional hypnotist? That's you inviting someone in. Asking a tradesperson to come into your home and help repair the damage." The hand which was stroking Mycroft's hair stilled for a moment, tightening, pulling very gently on the strands. "Sure, they're both people coming into your house, and they're both kind of messing with your stuff, but the circumstances are different. The intention is different, yeah?"

Mycroft opened his eyes. Nearly every part of field of vision was filled by Gregory. Soft, kind, patient Gregory. Mycroft gave a wan smile.

"Of course you would describe it thus, Detective Inspector. Breaking and entering indeed..."

Greg returned the smile nervously. "Am I wrong?"

Mycroft's words felt small in his mouth, scared. He hated them, but he used them even so. "I worry... With so many voices in my head, how will I ever know which one is mine?"

Gregory's hand resumed its movement. "I guess that's why you need to surround yourself with people who know you," he suggested. "Independent witnesses."

"Hmm..."

Greg paused again briefly, adjusting the hideous blanket from its tangle it had ended up in, back into a more sensible arrangement. Mycroft focused on the ceiling, not certain he wanted to see Greg's face as he asked his next question.

"And what would happen, if I revoked the invitation? If I said that there would be no more visitors, invited or otherwise, in my head?"

Even in his peripheral vision, Mycroft could read Greg's disappointment. It was subtle, naturally. The man was incredibly skilled at difficult conversations, but this conversation was being had with Mycroft Holmes. The signals, even faint, were all still there to be read.

"Then I would support you." Greg replied firmly. "Of course I would support you. It's your head, you get to decide what happens to it."

"I see. And what do you think I should do?"

"It doesn't matter what I think, Snowflake. This is your choice." Gregory replied, a little too quickly.

"It matters to me." Mycroft said, softly. It was an admission with far more weight than any of the individual words would merit. "What you want matters a very great deal."

Greg took a deep breath, pursing his lips in thought before he spoke.

"I want you to want to be happy, Myke. I want you to wake up every morning with the energy to face the day and the desire to keep on living."

Mycroft nodded. This was not unexpected.

"I spoke in truth the other night, Gregory, I no longer want to die."

"Do you really mean that?" Greg asked, searching.

Mycroft nodded solemnly, then gave himself a moment to phrase his next thought, "But I desire your happiness as well. You are a wonderful man, kind beyond all sense and reason. You deserve all the happiness in the world, and I know that I have been a hindrance to that. Not only in recent weeks, but for many years now. It is a source of some shame."

Greg tensed.

"We talked about this Snowflake. Needing help is nothing to be ashamed of."

"We have spoken on this before, it is true. So perhaps then, we might help each other?" Mycroft suggested, allowing a hint of hope to glimmer in his words. Gregory grew even more wary at the implication.

"Myke... It's complicated. You know that. I'm still the one responsible for you."

"That is also true," Mycroft acquiesced, "but you need no longer carry that responsibility in its entirety." A quick look at Greg showed that he was growing increasingly confused.

"I trust you to keep me safe, Gregory, but you are no longer alone in that task. Sherlock and Doctor Watson have shown themselves to be capable guardians in their own right."

Greg was working his jaw, a habit that came out whenever he was trying to process something particularly complicated. "Mycroft, what are you asking for, exactly?"

Mycroft took a few moments to give the question fair consideration.

"I wish to continue with the hypnosis, if you are amenable."

Greg blinked, cautious and surprised, but clearly pleased nonetheless. "Of course. I'll be there every step of the way."

"I wish for you to continue being a part of my life, in whatever shape or form you deem appropriate."

"That was never in question."

Mycroft hesitated then, an unexpected touch of nervousness playing at the edges of his resolve. "I also want you to go out with your work friends at least once a week. Sherlock will mind me, and I promise that I will not leave without your express permission."

Greg sighed, gripped the arm of the sofa a little tighter. "Myke..."

Afraid that his resolve would crumble completely if he allowed himself a moment's pause, Mycroft pushed on over the top of Greg's objection.

"And I want you to speak with someone yourself. Not one of my numerous therapists, not someone involved in my care. You need to find someone who will care first and foremost for you. I'm certain Alicia will be able to recommend someone with appropriate clearance."

Greg's brow furrowed. "Slow down Snowflake. It's okay, I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me. Just focus on getting better yourself, and let me worry about the rest."

Mycroft pressed his mouth closed, pressed a finger over his lips to centre himself. "Please?" He asked softly, "I could not bear it if my recovery became the thing which broke you."

Greg didn't answer for some time, and Mycroft didn't press. He recognized the signs an internal struggle all too well.

Eventually, he saw Greg's shoulders loosen, watched the tension in his neck smooth away. With the slightest hint of a smile, Greg answered.

"You always were a much better negotiator than I was, Myke."

Mycroft dared attempt a small smile of his own. "That was only because you were always willing to give up far too much in order to reach an accord."

"Is that what we've done? Reach an accord?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I believe that is up to you."

Greg nodded slowly. "I can agree to the weekly drinks condition, but I get to choose how long I stay. And if anything comes up, you still tell me straight away, and I can still come straight home without forfeiting our deal."

"Agreed." Mycroft paused, then pushed gently. "And the other terms?"

Greg reached over, squeezed Mycroft's hand.

It was all the confirmation he could have asked for.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you're okay with this? Nothing's planned that can't be cancelled."

Mycroft looked over at Greg with exasperation. "If I were not fine with this, I would have said as much. Please, stop fretting."

"Can't help it," Greg admitted, pulling the car in a short distance from his brother's Baker Street residence, "I worry, that's all. You're always just a bit more fragile after visiting Paul."

It was a fair observation. Sessions with the deprogrammer were still extremely trying, despite their increasing frequency. But Sherlock had been better since the incident, and it was important for Greg that he could go out with confidence. Mycroft brushed his fingers over Gregory's fingers, where they rested on the hand break.

"I will be fine. Have a lovely night out."

Mycroft was met at the door to the building by John Watson, who was in the process of leaving. It was to be an exchange of sorts - Watson was to spend the evening watching sports and sharing drinks with Gregory, while Mycroft would spend the evening with Sherlock doing... Whatever it was Sherlock had decided they would be doing.

"Mycroft. You're looking well."

The statement was as generous as it was polite, but Mycroft acknowledged it appropriately with a dip of the head, "As are you. Doctor Watson. I hope the game ends in your favour tonight."

Watson smirked. "Do you even know what we're watching?"

Mycroft did, of course. He had researched the league, the teams, the statistics of each of the individual players going back years. He could have given the precise odds of every conceivable outcome on demand had he been asked, but that was not the point of the question. This was gentle teasing, intended to demonstrate a shared joke, a shared experience. Mycroft raised a single, supercilious eyebrow, and enjoyed the sight of Watson's smirk growing.

"Have a good night, Mycroft." The man said, turning towards the car where Greg was waiting patiently. Taken by a sudden urge, Mycroft reached out, stalling him before he travelled far. Watson looked back, surprised.

"Please try to ensure that Gregory has a good night." Mycroft said quickly, "He worries... Too much, sometimes."

It was Watson's turn to raise an eyebrow, but he nodded even so. "Don't we all? Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him."

Unsure what else to do that wouldn't make the situation more awkward, Mycroft turned and headed up the stairs.

He found Sherlock in the main room, lying on his belly on the floor next to a rapt Rosie, both of them poring over a large book. The book was an expensive looking, glossy thing, full of massive pictures with tiny captions. More a coffee table book for the pretentious than children's literature, but then the Holmes family had never been particularly fond of children's literature, even as children.

"Pointy." The child explained, pointing at a picture.

"Yes, it certainly is pointy. It is a spire. They were added to many cathedrals and religious buildings, to represent a connection to heaven."

"Sharp?" She queried. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, not normally sharp. Just made to look that way."

"That particular spire is over four hundred feet tall." Mycroft volunteered cautiously, unsure of his welcome in the domestic scene. "The Salisbury Cathedral was one of the world's tallest spires in its time."

"Unkuh Mycoff!" The little girl exclaimed in delight, waving at him from her place on the floor. She had clearly been so engrossed in the book that she had not noticed his entrance. Mycroft blinked, disarmed. He had not realized he had been rewarded with such a familial designation as "uncle".

"Good evening, Miss Watson. What are the two of you reading?"

"Book." She answered firmly, then no doubt judging that more data was required, added, "Arpatetcha".

"My goodness. Architecture is a very interesting topic to be reading about."

"Mmm hmm." She agreed, returning to the book and turning an excessively large page.

Sherlock took her hand, moved it gently to one side, then turned several pages in close succession.

"What do you think about this one, Rosie?"

Rosie tilted her head in consideration. "X" she said, tracing the shape of the letter on the page. "X, X, X, X".

Mycroft glanced at the page from his oblique angle. The photo showed an old wall, its surface partially stripped away to show the exposed support beams. They were, as the child had noted, 'X' shaped.

"Quite right. It is a Pombalino building. They made frames with the 'X' shape in them, then filled them with stone to make walls."

"Pom-ah-lea-loh?" She repeated, forming the tricky syllables surprisingly well given her age.

"Indeed. It is a style of architecture that originated in Lisbon in the 1700s. They had a very good reason to build like this. They didn't realise it at the time, but they had built Lisbon on a fault line. Do you know what a fault line is?"

The child, of course, shook her head. Mycroft swallowed, feeling suddenly uneasy. He didn't imagine that Sherlock would push him too hard with such a young child present, but he was still feeling raw from the afternoon's session.

"Uncle Mycroft," Sherlock said, looking at Rosie even as he spoke, "would you like to come and sit with us and explain what a fault line is?"

Mycroft joined them, wary, sat cross legged on the floor a short distance away.

"Unkuh Mycoff?" Rosie asked, earnest and curious.

"A fault line," Mycroft explained gently, "is a very thin crack the ground. They only exist in a few places around the world, and most of the time they are invisible. But sometimes things go wrong, and then they cause earthquakes."

What the explanation lacked in scientific accuracy, it made up for in brevity. Rosie, however, seemed to find this information troubling. She looked back to Sherlock, who obligingly continued his story.

"In 1755, the fault line in Lisbon caused a very big earthquake, and all of the buildings fell. The people who lived in Lisbon were understandably upset, because they thought they would have to leave their home. But then a clever person had an idea. They would build new homes in their city, but they would make sure that the buildings were strong enough not to fall over, even if another earthquake happened."

Rosie tilted her head once more, considering, then turned back to the book. "X, X, X" she traced again, then looked up enquiringly.

"Correct, Rosie. The 'X' shape is very strong, and the stone inside the walls made it even stronger. They learned from the earthquake, and found ways to make sure that their homes were safe in future."

"Safe," Repeated Rosie. "X, X, X." She looked to Mycroft for approval, proud of her deductions, but when her eyes landed on his face, hers scrunched up again in confusion.

"Sad?" she asked, much to Mycroft's consternation.

"Why do you say that, my dear?" He asked softly.

"Cry." She pointed.

Mycroft's hand darted to his cheek, only to discover with some mortification that she was correct. "Ah. Well... It is very sad when people's houses fall down, don't you think?" He suggested, blinking rapidly in an attempt to disperse the moisture more quickly.

Rosie screwed up her mouth, then pushed herself up from her spot on the floor with determination. She crossed the short space between them in barely a moment, all but falling onto Mycroft's chest to wrap her arms around his neck. Instinctively, Mycroft placed one hand on her back to steady her, and the other on the crown of her head. He looked to Sherlock, feeling lost.

"No cry." The child comforted, oblivious. "Safe. X, X, X."

Her hair was soft and curly under his fingers. It reminded him of a different time, a very long time ago. Sherlock looked at him, hard, willing him to understand.

He did.

"Yes, my dear," he agreed, stroking fingers gently through her soft toddler curls, "X, X, X indeed".

-----

Mycroft woke once again to a cold sweat and his sister's voice echoing in his head. He had hoped that the dreams might have stopped as his therapy sessions had accumulated, but it had rapidly become clear that the opposite was true.

The doctor had insisted that this was entirely reasonable, and to be expected. They had been exploring her suggestions for weeks, dragging them from their shadowy hiding places and into the light. As the subliminal became liminal, it was both normal and expected for her presence to feature more clearly and more vividly in his thoughts.

It was hardly a fitting reward for his efforts.

The room was dark and silent, which was to be expected given that it was also 4am and freezing cold.

Mycroft walked down to the kitchen in slippers. He was supposed to be trying to sleep, so coffee was out, and if he attempted to boil the kettle for tea there as a reasonable chance that the sound would wake Gregory. So he stood in front of the open pantry, stared, and thought about a million different things, none of them related to the dry goods in front of him.

It wasn't until some time later that a soft creak behind him betrayed his loss of solitude. It occurred to Mycroft head that he needn't have worried about the kettle after all.

"Gregory." He acknowledged, dropping his head in quiet defeat.

"Couldn't sleep?" Gregory asked without pretence, coming closer and placing that reliable, steady hand between Mycroft's shoulder blades.

"I didn't mean to wake you." Mycroft responded, in preference to answering what was clearly meant to be a rhetorical question.

"You didn't." Reassured Greg. Mycroft processed that for a moment, attempting to ascertain if there were any other possible explanations for the available data. There were not. He sighed, dejected.

"You have an alarm set." He said, hoping against hope that he had somehow misread the situation. Gregory bunched his fingers in the fabric of Mycroft's nightshirt briefly, then released his grip once more.

"Since you first arrived, Snowflake. Every two and a half hours, give or take. Just need to be sure you're still breathing, that's all."

It was disappointing, but he supposed it could not really be considered unexpected. As far as recent humiliations went, this was minor. And it was only in front of Gregory.

"The doctors have assured me that I am no longer a risk to myself," he protested, even so, "you do not need to disturb your sleep any longer."

"Yeah, well... Maybe after tomorrow's assessment comes back clean."

Mycroft tensed. He had been trying very hard not to dwell on the forthcoming interviews. Whatever strains and stresses had been inflicted upon him by his therapists would pale in comparison to the morning's planned ordeal. "There is no guarantee..."

Greg's hand stilled, and he stepped closer, his dressing gown shifting the too-light fabric of Mycroft's pyjamas.

"It's going to be fine, remember. If Smallwood and her team give you the all clear, then that's great. But even if she doesn't, even if she says that they can't take the risk, that's okay. It's not the end of world. We keep going, yeah? You and me. It's fine. It's all going to be fine."

The words were indeed familiar. They had talked about it, at length. Mostly Gregory had done the talking, at moments when Mycroft had felt lost or weak or vulnerable. His words had helped in the moment, but as time passed those reassurances were always subsumed under uncertainty.

Mycroft turned, rested his forehead on Greg's shoulder. With practiced ease, Greg pulled him close, a strong arm around slim shoulders. They rocked very gently from side to side, almost as though they were swaying to a tune neither of them could hear.

"What outcome would you prefer?" Mycroft whispered. It was the one question he had wondered about since the topic had first been raised, but never dared ask.

Greg pressed his lips to Mycroft's temple. "The one which makes you most happy, of course."

"I..." Mycroft began, then hesitated. "I want her to be gone. I want her to have failed."

Greg stopped swaying then, leaning back just enough to catch Mycroft's eye. He looked suddenly pensive, and slightly troubled.

"Gregory?"

Greg pursed his lips, taking both Mycroft's hands in his own. "Come sit with me, yeah?"

Mycroft did as asked, his trepidation growing with every step. Eventually they were both sitting on the sofa. Mycroft felt like he was barely moments from passing out with tension.

"Look, I wasn't going to mention it. Not until after the assessment at least... But..." Gregory paused. Mycroft nudged his knee as prompt, and Greg sighed. "The thing is, she did make a mistake. She failed even before that very first day I found you. Because she made one really big miscalculation."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Mycroft asked, sounding sharper than he would have liked. Greg gave him a soul searching look.

"She wanted you gone, yeah, but she wanted you to suffer first? That's why she set up all those crazy tests and scenarios; she wanted you to look your brother in the eye while he killed you."

"Yes..." Mycroft agreed, bemused.

"And that plan, the one with the gun and the window and the bullet to the brain? Sherlock said that it had to be her plan, right? Because of the angle of the bullet."

Mycroft nodded mutely.

"But if she just wanted you dead, that would have been needlessly complicated. She proved she was more than capable of just sending you up a tall building, so why would she set up a compulsion like that? If it was just going to end with a bullet shot from a stranger? That would be fast, painless, impersonal. All the things she didn't want."

Mycroft felt like his world tipped on its axis. Again. A thousand details that he hadn't realized were shards of a whole suddenly resolved into a single image.

"She intended for you to kill me..." He whispered, so soft it was almost inaudible.

Greg nodded slowly.

"You said she was curious about me, and about how you felt about me. And she expected me to hate you for leaving me, like she hated you for sending her away. I think she knew that I would be the one called in. She wanted to make you die by my hand.

"That was how she would make you suffer. She would make you watch the man you wanted to marry you put a bullet in you. But she miscalculated, didn't she? Because I could never have gone through with that, not in a million years. She screwed up, because she didn't consider the possibility that I might have forgiven you."

Mycroft stared, unable to form even a simple sentence, for an indeterminate amount of time.

"She," he began, eventually, then paused and started again. "She could not have considered that possibility, because she has never in her life met a person so good and kind and forgiving as you. She would not have imagined it to be possible."

Greg smiled, sad and gentle, and stroked his hand down Mycroft's jawline.

"Look, it doesn't really change anything, you know. You still go to your assessment tomorrow. I'll still be waiting outside to bring you home after it's done. Whatever happens though, she did fail. You won. That's already locked in. Okay? If that's what really matters to you, then it's done."

Mycroft leaned in to Gregory then, letting the man's warmth ward off the chill of the room and his thoughts. He wondered at what point seeking comfort such as this had become easy. He wondered when he had realized how much he had been missing it.

"Hey Myke," Gregory nudged, "don't get too comfortable. I don't plan on sleeping on the sofa tonight, and I'm pretty sure it's not a great idea for you to sleep here either."

Mycroft smiled, a small and private thing meant only for himself.

"No, I suppose not. But then the thought occurs; you must be exhausted, waking up every few hours just to check on me. Perhaps you would not need to set an alarm, if I were not quite so far away from you while you slept?"

"Yeah?" Gregory replied. His voice was already lighter than it had been only a few moments before. "I suppose that might be true. Did you have something in mind?"

Mycroft didn't answer, choosing instead to tilt his head and stare into Greg's eyes, communicating without words. Greg's lip quirked in amusement, and his eyes lit up with a familiar, affectionate glint.

"Okay then Snowflake," he agreed softly, "let's go get some rest."