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She stopped him as he reached to open the door. “Inspector?”
Greg paused, letting her catch his gaze. “Yeah?”
Anthea was quiet for a long, long moment. Her eyes flickered back and forth, scanning up and down his body.
Greg did not let himself flinch under her scrutiny. He was a mess, he knew. Unshaven and tired, his shirt wrinkled, shoes probably untied. He had snapped awake at her first knock and spent the last two hours waking himself up and growing more and more horrified as she trickled answers and stories to him. He had known it was bad. He’d been there when they took her away. He’d loaded Eurus bloody Holmes—of course there was a third, for Christ’s sake—into the chopper himself. He’d known it had been a bad, bad day. Even Mycroft had looked strained. Exhausted. On the brink of… something. Something Greg hadn’t thought Holmeses were capable of.
But he hadn’t known it was this bad.
He hadn’t known what she’d done to him until Anthea had appeared in his bedroom, bundled her into a car, and driven him herself—no white-gloved driver, this time—to a small cottage far, far outside London.
Make sure he’s looked after, Sherlock had said. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.
“He is fragile, Detective Inspector,” she said finally, her voice too sharp and too soft all at once. “He…” She paused again before continuing on. “Trust that I would not contact you like this were it not worthy of your attention.”
“ ‘Course it’s worth my attention,” Greg said. “He’s— Christ, you know he’s my best mate.”
Why’s it you calling me? he wanted to ask. Why’s it you and not him?
“He may be volatile,” she cautioned. “Eurus’ actions have caused increased levels of paranoia. Some of his behaviours have been erratic and unusual. He—”
“Hey,” Greg interrupted, as gently as possible. “You don’t have to warn me. I get it. He’s been through some insane shite, yeah? People respond to that in unexpected ways.” He let himself smile, reaching out to gently rest a hand on her arm. “You’re worried about him,” he said.
Anthea breathed deeply. The pause stretched long once more, but it was far more comfortable this time. “Immensely,” she murmured. Another pause. Then— “He has not been himself.”
Greg’s reassuring smile faded. “Yeah,” he said. “I can imagine. He hasn’t, er, he hasn’t called. Or texted, or anything. Old phone’s disconnected so I can’t call him. Thought he might reach out, but…” He trailed off, shrugging.
Anthea nodded. “I had hoped he would reach out on his own,” she said, finally turning and opening the car door. “Knock lightly and announce your presence. He does not like to be surprised.”
I know, Greg thought as he climbed out, shoes crunching on the gravel. But he never would’ve shown it. Not before.
There were two time periods, now. Two eras. Before and after. Greg knew what before Mycroft was like. But what about after?
Anthea had shown real, genuine worry. Vulnerability. Concern.
Seeing that from her—seeing anything from her, really—was worrying.
Greg made sure his footsteps were loud, twisting his toes a little in the gravel as he walked up to the front door. Mycroft had been staying far, far from London these past few weeks, it seemed. The cottage was sweet. Small. Ivy grew up the walls, bursts of colourful flowers brightening its appearance. Greg could understand wanting to be here. To be away from London, away from the walls that reminded him of that day. Of those hours. Of her.
Gently, Greg reached up and tapped on the door. “Mycroft?” he called, loud enough to be heard but softened at the edges. He wanted to sound cheerful, not frightening. “ ‘S me, Greg. C’n I come in and visit?”
A long silence followed. Greg listened intently, but could only hear tiny movements beneath the hum of the bees and the music of birds in the nearby woods. A scrape, here; a breath, there. The careful, silent movements of a terrified person.
Finally, suddenly, the door opened.
And Greg’s heart cracked a little.
Mycroft looked like a ghost. He was all sharp lines and sunken features, his eyes clouded and lips chapped. Something was different about him; something in the way he stood, the way he walked, the way he clung to the door as if he were going to slam it at any moment. He wore a loose t-shirt, the sleeves too long and flopping over his hands. His pyjama trousers looked soft, a cool navy blue that gathered at his ankles. His feet were bare.
Greg had never seen him dressed so simply. Somehow, that said even more than the strange expression on Mycroft’s face.
“Hey!” Greg said, pasting on a chipper smile. “Christ, it’s good to see you. Nice place, yeah? Doin’ alright?”
“Yes,” Mycroft said, his voice rasping a little. “Yes, I am well.” The hesitation was just long enough to be awkward, but Greg pushed through it, resisting the urge to cough or bounce on his toes. “Would you like to come in?”
“Yeah, I’d love that,” Greg replied.
Mycroft just nodded silently, opening the door wider to let Greg in. Greg pretended not to notice him lock it several times as Greg stepped into the small cottage. It was sweet, much like its exterior. The main room was small, a combination living room, kitchenette, and small dining area all in one space. It was decorated by hands that had obviously not been Mycroft’s, but it was cosy all the same.
“Tea?” Mycroft said after a moment.
“Yeah, thanks.” Greg sat down at the dining table as Mycroft bustled about the kitchen. He noted how Mycroft moved. Quick, but quiet. Flitting from place to place. He paused a little too long between actions as if he was questioning them. Second-guessing them. Greg let the quiet stretch until the cup was placed before him.
You alright? he wanted to ask. But it wasn’t time for that yet. That might be a bit much.
“Sherlock been by yet?” Also a bit much. But talking of Sherlock usually lightened the mood. Or at least changed it.
Mycroft scoffed. “Of course not. If he comes for anything, it shall be for the bees, not me.”
Greg laughed, setting his cup down a little harder than he should have. The sound of china on wood was a little loud, bouncing through the small cottage.
Mycroft flinched so hard the tea sloshed over the edge of his cup, spattering on the table.
“Shit, I’m sorry—” Greg reached out, catching Mycroft’s cup as it slipped from his fingers. “Christ. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I am easy to startle, these days,” Mycroft said. “I imagine Anthea has filled you in on all the sordid details.” He was clearly attempting to make light of it, but his trademark sass fell flat. His voice was hollow, somehow. A shell of his usual hyper-intelligent snark.
“Nah,” Greg said. “Just a sketch. Little bit more about what went on with John and Sherlock. Not a lot about you.” He let that sit for a moment, before adding, “She’s worried about you.”
“She does that.” Mycroft’s tone was flat, but a hint of a smile fluttered around his lips.
“She said you met with your parents.”
Mycroft scoffed, though the sound lacked its usual snark and carried a little too much anger for comfort. “Of course she told you about that.”
Ooh. That touched a nerve. Greg shrugged, backing away from the topic. “Yeah, just briefly,” he said. He glanced around, leaning back in his chair. “How d’you like it here? Nice place.”
Unfortunately, changing the subject didn’t lighten Mycroft’s mood. Instead, his face just darkened further, a deep frown creasing his face as his eyes flickered back and forth around the room. “It is satisfactory,” he said sharply.
The silence was thinner this time, far less comfortable. Mycroft was obviously on edge. His hands shifted around his cup constantly, occasionally flitting down to pinch at the fabric of his pyjama trousers before returning. Greg had never seen Mycroft Holmes fidgeting. Never.
“Look,” Greg said, figuring honesty was the best policy, here. “Anthea’s worried about you. She just… We just want you to be alright. I want you to be alright.”
“I am fine,” Mycroft said shortly. “You are both unduly concerned with my personal welfare. Which, as I said, is perfectly normal.”
“It’s not, though,” Greg said softly. “You’re not fine. We both know that.”
Mycroft’s voice fully turned to ice as he spoke. “Who is this we you speak of, Detective Inspector?”
Ooh, that hurt.
“That’s not fair,” Greg snapped back. “I care about you, you git. You look like hell, mate. You’re jumpy. Moody. You won’t call. Anthea said you’ve been paranoid lately, and you’re not yourself. She’s right. You’re not you, Myc. We’re worried. I’m w—”
Mycroft slammed his hands down on the table, making them both jump. Before Greg quite knew what was happening, Mycroft was up, facing away and crossing the room quickly as he spoke. “You were not meant to know!” Mycroft’s voice was harsh, now, laced with a rasping anger that Greg had never heard from him before. “Contrary to your obvious belief, Detective Inspector, my life is none of your concern. I am fine. I do not require your pity!”
“Myc— Christ, Mycroft, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
When Mycroft turned, quick and frantic, Greg’s heart cracked. He was utterly struck, unable to speak as he stared at Mycroft, feeling nearly as lost and broken and Mycroft looked.
Greg didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He was really fucking out of his depth here. Christ, he knew Mycroft. They were friends. But he didn’t know him like this. Never before like this.
Greg had never seen Mycroft cry.
“Myc,” Greg found himself saying, standing up. He spread his hands, taking a quiet step forward.
Mycroft, obviously moving on instinct, took a small step back.
“Hey,” Greg said softly. “Hey. ‘S okay. Everything’s okay.”
“I know that,” Mycroft snapped, haughty and fiery. His eyes blazed through the tears sparkling in them. He blinked hard, swiping a hand over his eyes to dash them away. “I am in an uncharacteristically heightened emotional state, Detective Inspector, but I am not an idiot.”
Greg half-expected him to turn and flee, but Mycroft held his ground, swaying a little on his feet. “Hey,” Greg said gently again. “We both know that. No need to ‘Inspector’ me. ‘S just me. Just Greg.”
“I know!” Mycroft’s voice was sharp and loud, brash in the small space. “I am not stupid!”
Oh, Myc, Greg thought. What did they say to you? What did she do to you?
“ ‘Course not,” Greg said easily, taking another step forward. “You and I both know that.” He took a deep breath as Mycroft flinched away once more. “D’you want me to go?”
Mycroft deflated as quickly as he had started, rubbing a sleeve over his face once more. The blotchy red flush on his face calmed a bit, his breathing audibly slowing and growing more controlled.
The silence was so long. Almost too long.
But finally, Mycroft broke it.
“No,” he said quietly. “Please.”
“Can I…” Greg cleared his throat. “Can I hug you? If that would— If you think it might help?”
Mycroft’s eyes were narrow and suspicious, flickering up and down Greg’s body.
Greg took another slow, gentle step forward. His palms were spread, wide open and obviously empty. He kept his posture deliberately casual, shoulders loose, soft smile on his face.
Tightly, Mycroft nodded.
Greg worried he would flinch away again when they got close, but Mycroft stayed perfectly, utterly still. Good. Every step closer to calm was a step worth taking.
Slowly and obviously, Greg reached out and put an arm around Mycroft. He shifted a little closer, wrapping the second. He moved extremely gently, touching Mycroft as if he were a frightened kitten.
Somehow, it worked.
Mycroft’s body trembled a little at his touch, but he did not push Greg away. Gently, carefully, Greg pulled him close. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, smoothing his palms across Mycroft’s back. Greg inhaled as deeply and slowly as he could then tightened his embrace as he breathed out.
He could feel Mycroft’s heartbeat. A little fast, a little erratic, but beating. Anxious, but strong.
Slowly, hesitantly, Greg felt hands lift to loop around his waist.
“There you are,” Greg murmured, sighing against Mycroft’s shoulder. “That’s it.”
Mycroft trembled less and less the longer they stayed like that, his body’s thrumming tension releasing moment by moment.
“There you are,” Greg whispered again. “There you are. ‘M gonna look after you, now. ‘S all going to be alright. ‘M here, Myc. I’m here.”