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Mycroft's vision is already blurrying when he hits send, but he doesn't worry too much because it's not the first time this has happened. He knows it will go away.
He throws his hand out in search of the nearest surface and tries to breath deeply as the darkness overcomes him and his knees go weak.
Usually that's enough. Usually, after a few seconds of uncertainty within the black that surrounds him and of his mind going momentarily blank, his vision slowly comes back and strength returns to his limbs.
Usually he blinks a few times and goes into the kitchen, drinking big gulps of water as he ponders whether his body really needs some kind of sustenance and whether he can get it without really wasting any of those precious calories he has perfectly planned out.
When Mycroft's legs give out further and he has to slowly slide himself onto the ground, he barely thinks about it. He's gone through this a few times as well, and it's a sign that he definitely needs to get something in him. Usually a couple peanuts or a piece of fruit ought to do the trick.
When the clarity starts to return to his mind and he can start to ponder again what foods would do less damage to his diet but the blurriness doesn't return something starts to pick at the back of his mind.
As he starts to feel his body again and tentatively move his fingers and hands but still his eyes won't open, his concern pushes itself further.
He counts to thirty and opens his eyes, but when he still can't see he brings his shaky hands towards his face and tries to see if his eyes are really open.
His breathing starts to quicken as he notices his eyelids are truly open. He can feel the burn of them being open for too long faintly, but he can't see his fingers or make out anything in front of him.
His eyes flutter as he tries to think. Mycroft knows this is the sign he's taken it too far, that the control he holds onto too tightly has dragged him along further than he wanted.
It doesn't make sense, because he's barely hovering the mark of being underweight. He isn't even as bad as to be classified as anorexic. Apparently, his body hasn't gotten the memo. It's just shutting down before it's time, because what? It's mad of the abuse Mycroft has been inflicting upon it?
'Your body doesn't have a conscience, Mycroft,' he thinks to himself at the thought, 'it doesn't have thoughts or feelings of its own.' He bites his tongue. He should have eaten something, he should have upped his intake ever so slightly.
He starts to fumble around him as he stands up and tries to remember the schematics of the room he's in. If he goes back enough he'll stumble against his desk and he's pretty sure there's some food in one of the lower drawers. Well, if he didn't eat it all on his last binge. He scowls at the thought. He can't remember.
Mycroft's figured out he's holding onto the chair people use when they discuss something in his office and how he can go back to the desk without falling over something when he hears footsteps and voices and the door being slammed open.
He lowers himself onto the chair he's been holding onto the whole time, accidentally sitting on his phone and tries to listen to act as normal as usual. He's the British government. He can't let anyone find out his body's giving up on him. That would be England's doom.
"Mycroft! Are you trying to take revenge on me, is that it? If this is about Mother, you needn't ban me off all cases. You could have just-" He hears his little brother complaining irritably and Mycroft has to suppress a sigh because he really can't deal with this right now.
His tension and the sugar in his blood need to be restored and as long as Sherlock decides to bother him he can't do anything.
Mycroft squirms as he tries to fish the phone from under him. If he could just get Anthea to get Sherlock out of his office long enough so he could take care of his needs in private–
"You know, I was busy with something-" Mycroft starts, and Sherlock scoffs.
"Yeah, what, shoving Delikatessen down your throat?" Sherlock says as an estranged sound escapes John.
"-before you stormed in here. You could at least have the decency to wait outside until I finish. I mean, honestly, Sherlock, you know exactly what to do if you expect to get your little entertainments back. This is a waste of both our times."
Mycroft finishes, ignoring Sherlock's interruption without even a blink, as he finally gets a grip on his phone and looks down to it to pretend he has to continue with what he was occupied earlier.
Sherlock only hums, and as the silence drags on Mycroft fumbles with his phone, but as his stupid flat-screen smartphone won't tell him anything and his vision won't return anytime soon, he doesn't even get past the lockscreen.
He momentarily wonders if they've left when he doesn't hear them for a while and tilts his head to catch any stray sounds better.
He's about to try to stand up again when John clears his throat and he feels something bump against his leg.
"Uh, Sherlock? What are you doing?" John asks obliviously.
Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. He can't tell what's going on, so he doesn't know what to do to keep up the facade.
He sits up straighter and moves his phone forward as he looks up to where he thinks Sherlock is.
"Do you mind?" He asks in a dismissive tone.
"We're so sorry," John, ever kind and civilized, answers. "Of course. Sherlock?"
"Of course," Sherlock parrots, and Mycroft turns violently towards the sound. He knows it's too late already though, the self-satisfaction and amusement in Sherlock's voice too present to be ignored. "Why don't you show us to the door?"
Mycroft tightens his hands on the armrests of his seat minutely, but forces himself to roll his eyes and stands up slowly, mindful of the shakiness he can't control and the headache that's forming itself as he thinks and charts the best course towards the door without bumping into anybody.
"If I must," he answers. He hears typing and some kind of gasp from John before more typing ensures and again, silence.
He takes a step forward as he ignores the slight anxiety that comes with knowing Sherlock and John are communicating and he can't glance toward them to read the situation, and walks slowly as he scans what's in front of him with his feet before resuming walking. Extending a hand in front of him would be too obvious.
Mycroft walks for what he thinks it's enough time to have covered the distance between his chair and the door and allows his hand to wonder in front of him in search of the knob.
He struggles a few seconds too long. He can feel sweat trailing down his spine and his legs trembling menacingly at the extended effort.
When he finally finds it and opens the door, he has to suppress the triumph and pride he feels at completing the task and tries to keep the smile off his face as he turns to encourage Sherlock to leave.
"Well?" He says, pressuring them to rush.
John responds accordingly and speeds towards the exit, while Sherlock purposely drags his feet towards him.
Sherlock brushes against his arm as he passes him and Mycroft flinches, but doesn't step back as he knows he'll lose his footing if he lets go of the grip he has on the doorknob.
Sherlock chuckles. It sounds like John's making a call on the background. "See you later, brother." He says. Mycroft scowls.
He waits until he hears their steps fade away and closes the door, leaning against it in an effort to get his strength back enough to walk back to his desk.
It isn't long before he hears a knock on the door behind him and he has to suck in a breath to force his weight away from it to open it.
Immediately after he does, something cool's shoved into his right hand. He identifies it as a glass of water, as it doesn't smell, and smiles lightly at the kindness.
"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft says before turning around to take the nearest seat available; the chair he had just gotten up from. His legs feel too unsteady to keep tempting his luck.
Before he gets to close the door, though, Anthea smacks her lips together.
"Your ambulance will be here in four minutes, sir."
She announces and he feels himself pale at the information. He nods and hears her heels click as he resumes his walk to his chair.
Knowing he'll probably have nutrition forced into him once the medics take a look at him –he knows how persistent they can be even if he claims he's fine from precious experiences–, he gives up on his mission to retrieve something edible from his desk and slumps into the thin cushions.
The chair is extremely uncomfortable, cleverly designed to keep whoever interrupts him that way so they'll be quick and concise in their endeavors.
"Damn it, Sherlock." Mycroft mutters under his breath. "I can't see, I'm not sick yet. I could have fixed it easily."
He sighs and crosses his legs. It won't be long now. He just hopes Anthea was discreet enough to get help that won't attract any attention. After all, he is the British government. The can't have the public panic, or, worse, find out Great Britain's weakness.