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His knee twinges with every marching step. The pavement is broken underfoot, and it makes his gait uneven, putting more pressure on his aching joints. He looks up to see a woman airing a dishcloth out of a kitchen window. She smiles at him, though it is forced and she cannot hold his gaze for more than a few fleeting moments.
He feels her loss without needing to ask. He can only imagine that she is one of thousands of women now left alone and husband-less, getting through the day with a strength and courage he is sure he cannot even imagine. He supposes it must hurt her, to see a man walking down the road in uniform as she longs for it to be someone else.
He knows loss, and he knows despair, and he knows grief. And he feels it all around him, even in the empty road. He feels like a ghost, a shadow, walking down a street he remembers so well. The boys used to play football by the bins, but they’re not there now. Without their laughter and shouts, it feels as though this part of London has been left to rot.
He adjusts the backpack and smooths down the non-existent creases on the front of his uniform. He isn’t sure what he expected. He didn’t expect adulation, he didn’t expect waving crowds and flags, not like there were on the day he left for war. But he isn’t sure he expected this silence either. His train had been the first to arrive at King’s Cross that morning, just as the sun rose. He had watched that sunrise as he had watched so many in the past four years, but this one seemed as unpromising as the others.
The war is over. Not officially, but almost, as good as over. At least, that’s what the newspapers say. Hitler will soon surrender. Freedom is in the air.
But not for Gregory. His nerves feel shot to pieces, and the silence is deafening. He is used to noise, bangs, conversation, explosions, every second of every day. And this… this peace? This peace feels unnatural.
He fishes his key out of his bag, one of a few personal effects he was given back when he was told he would be on the next train to England. He turns it, opening the green door, and steps inside. It smells musty, the scent of a house unaired for weeks, perhaps months.
The door closes with a soft click, and he is left alone in the hallway with its navy walls. The grandfather clock tells him it is just past seven o’clock in the morning. Its ticking is reassuring in its constancy.
He shrugs off the backpack, leaving it at the bottom of the stairs and then unties his tan shoes. He has been wearing them for a day, or more, and his socks are damp, smelling of stale sweat and dirt. He coughs to clear his throat of the dust, and the thick emotion suddenly filling his chest as he looks around the hallway. Everything is the same.
Everything is different.
He unbuckles his belt, and loops it around his wrist once, before walking into the living room. His fingers skim over a layer of dust on the mantelpiece, and he knows the house has been unoccupied for weeks. Perhaps months. Mycroft would be able to tell him just by studying the dust, he is sure of that, but Mycroft isn’t here, and clearly hasn’t been for a while.
He expected nothing else. ‘We thought you were missing’, he was told as he was counted onto the train, and he still cannot understand how his superiors believed that to be the case. But somewhere, in the confusion of war, he was declared missing in action, and Mycroft will have received the message somehow. Perhaps Mycroft believes him dead.
Well, he isn’t dead, but he feels it. He cannot smile, for he feels he has little to smile about.
His parents are dead. They died within six months of him arriving for his first deployment in Africa, and he was unable to return to London for the funerals. They died together, and there is some peace in that, but little, because now he longs to tell them he is safe and well and not missing.
His eyes land on a photograph of him, the day he went to war, dressed in his clean, neat uniform. He looks defiant. He isn’t smiling, but there is light behind his eyes. As he sees his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, he doesn’t recognise the man he is now. He is thinner, undeniably thinner, with more lines on his face, greyer hair and a burn on the side of his neck.
Is he a war hero? Or just lucky? He isn’t sure, and the emptiness of his home makes him feel alone. Peace is coming. And suddenly he is no longer needed. His war tales will soon only be a bitter reminder of a time people would like to forget.
His first cup of tea tastes heavenly. He has his first spoonful of sugar in months, and he is grateful for the rations he was given as he left the train station, milk powder among them. He bathes next, and the water turns murky in colour. He grits his teeth when his eyes sting from unshed tears, and he blinks them back because he is fortunate to be alive.
He cannot cry, when so many men did not return home. He has no right to feel sorry for himself when he has carpets beneath his bare feet, and food in his stomach.
He lies in bed, and it is cold even under two layers of blankets. He is hungry, but cannot bring himself to eat. He longs for Mycroft, and it occurs to him for the first time that he doesn’t even know if Mycroft is alive.
The thought makes him want to cry, but he will not, he will not.
He hears only silence, and his breathing. One of the last thoughts he has before he falls asleep is when he wonders if he will make it through the night. Only then does it really hit him that he is home.
Home isn’t home without Mycroft. He learns that as he wakes at 5am and makes the bed and dresses and prepares to face the day. The sun is still rising, but he cannot bear to be inside. He runs, and runs, and runs, and his knee aches with every step and the pain makes him feel alive.
He knows he cannot find Mycroft. He could be anywhere, and he will appear when he is ready to be found, and not until then. That is his way.
Gregory rests on a brick wall just outside the library, and he watches the milkman, and the newspaper boy go about their errands. He reads the front of the newspaper, which announces Churchill is due to announce victory any day now.
When he returns home, he eats, but he can manage only very little. His stomach isn’t prepared for grand meals and flavoursome food, and he is sick just two hours later.
A reporter knocks on the door, from the Croydon Advertiser. They are trying to speak to every returning serviceman in their area. Gregory agrees to a brief interview, just because he hopes Mycroft may see it and know he is home.
He speaks in very general terms, says he is well, and the morale of his fellow officers is high. His own morale is anything but, but he knows the readers want to read something positive, so he gives the reporter what he suspects he wants. When the man goes, Gregory is left alone again and he feels as though he cannot breathe.
He doesn’t break, he will not break.
He breaks the teapot in a rage, and regrets it immediately, because he does not own another teapot. This is still war time, and supplies are short, and he is still waiting for his ration book and payment for his service.
He curls up on the settee beneath a blanket and listens to the wireless. I’ll Be Seeing You is playing, and he cannot even believe it is true, that he will be seeing Mycroft, even though he has only been home a day and it takes time for news to travel.
He fears Mycroft is not waiting for him.
The waiting ends after one more night. On the third day back in London, there is a knock on the door and the sound makes him jump. He rubs his face and hauls himself off the settee, folding up the blanket. He smooths down his shirt and tie, and opens the door.
The breath is forced out of him.
Mycroft.
His hair has receded a little, but he looks just the same otherwise. He seems alert, confident, considered, in short everything Gregory has spent years remembering.
Wordlessly, he steps aside to let Mycroft in, and he closes the door behind him. They turn to each other, a foot apart. Frozen, disbelieving. Mycroft reaches out his hand and Gregory touches his fingers. They hold on loosely, still observing one another. The years have brought distance between them, a distance which never existed before. On this spot, four years ago, they had held one another, and refused to cry as they kissed and Gregory stepped into the street and began his lonely march to the train station.
“Well, you’re not missing,” Mycroft murmurs, a frown between his eyebrows. “I was told you were missing in action.”
Gregory swallows. “No. Not missing.” His voice is tight, his mouth dry. Is this truly his lover of 10 years? He looks the same, his fingers feel the same, but he looks so scared all of a sudden, so concerned. He looks fragile, and terrified, and it makes Gregory want to wrap his arms around him and not let go.
He looks down to where their fingers are still entwined. He looks back into Mycroft’s grey eyes.
“It is almost over,” Mycroft informs him. “The war. Any day now, we suspect.”
“Are you not needed?”
“Yes, I am. I shouldn’t be here, in truth, I am needed by the Government at present. But I had to… had to see. I was told you were missing, or I would have been here when you returned. I hadn’t heard you had been… found.”
“I was never missing.”
“Yes. A misunderstanding. There have been a great number of those, of late.” Greg nods, and hangs his head. Mycroft’s fingers touch his chin and lift it up. “You look dreadfully thin. Do they not feed you in the army?” Mycroft’s questions are abrupt and plain, and Gregory shouldn’t have expected anything less from this practical man. It is why he loves him so easily and so dearly, but now all he needs is his touch. But if he sinks into it, he doubts he will be able to allow Mycroft to leave, and his lover has duties to complete.
“We are on rations too," he answers.
“Yes, but. You look unwell.” Mycroft is assessing him, his eyes searching, observing. Gregory imagines Mycroft can see everything of the past four years written in his skin and in his posture and in his eyes. “My darling,” Mycroft suddenly breathes out and his eyes soften. “Gregory. You’re here.”
Gregory nods, unable to reply. His throat feels constricted, his vision is blurry. He has not allowed himself a tear, not once, and he won’t now, not yet. Not in front of Mycroft.
But his strength is gone, and the future is so unclear he cannot breathe. He wants to tell Mycroft that the war was hard, but it was easy, because he knew what he had to do and where he had to be. He wants to tell him he misses the structure and the noise, and it has only been three days and already he cannot stand London.
There are four years to discuss, four years of memories he does not think he can let spill from his lips. Memories which break his heart, which cling to his waking hours, which haunt his dreams. He doesn’t know how to tell Mycroft that he did his duty. But he still feels like a terrible person for doing the things he has done.
Mycroft squeezes his fingers and then lets go. “I will only be a few hours, at most. Drink some tea, and eat something, and I will be back soon. I promise.” He kisses Greg’s cheek, a hesitant kiss, assesses him once more, then spins around and leaves the house.
The house is too quiet again. Gregory feels invisible, sitting on the bed, a book open in his hands, but he has not read a word. This was once their home, now it feels like a shell.
He flinches at the bang when the door closes and it takes him a minute to compose himself. He snaps the book shut and puts it on the side. Then he picks it up again, and holds it open in his hands, to make it seem as though he was doing more than staring into space, thinking, wondering.
Mycroft brings up a tray with tea, and biscuits, and bread and butter. Somehow he has made tea without the teapot. He strips off his tie and his jacket and sits beside Gregory on the bed. He doesn’t say a word. Gregory doesn’t either. They sip their tea, legs stretched out, shoulders brushing together. Time has made them strangers. Gregory cannot even remember the ways they used to touch. In hs memories they seem so carefree, they felt so young. Now he feels old, and Mycroft looks powerful and in control.
Perhaps it is a facade. Mycroft wears many skins, and only Gregory sees the man beneath them. A loving, tender man, who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, but cares so deeply. At least, that is how it was once, but it doesn’t seem that way now. Now they cannot speak, they’re hardly touching. Gregory is searching for words, but he knows Mycroft abhors smalltalk, and Gregory has nothing to talk to him about except the war.
He fears Mycroft wouldn’t understand.
He fears it would hurt Mycroft to know what he went through, because Mycroft is responsible for so many of the wartime operations, and the decision-making which led so many men to their graves.
Countless deaths are on Gregory’s conscience. He dreads to think how many are on Mycroft’s.
Finally, Mycroft takes his hand. “Were you at Normandy?” he asks.
“Yes,” Gregory replies.
Mycroft falls quiet again, and Gregory can hear the strike of the grandfather clock from downstairs as the time reaches eight o’clock in the evening.
“I mourned you,” Mycroft whispers. “I couldn’t bear to think you were alive, so I dreamt you were dead and I made peace with it. Your name was in the newspaper. The Croydon Advertiser. Did you know?”
“Yes.”
“Even as I reached the front door today, I thought it was a trick. The last I heard was you were in Normandy. And so many died on the beaches. So many remain ‘missing’. So many are presumed dead. And I simply thought… I had to keep living, because my country needed me, and my Prime Minister needed me.”
Gregory squeezes his fingers, imagining Mycroft going about his work, burying himself in it. “I understand. I knew, when I arrived, that you wouldn’t be here.”
“But I am so sorry. You deserved better. You deserve honours and plaudits, and I fear you will receive neither. Churchill is readying for the announcement tomorrow. And we will be at peace. And the country will move on so fast. I can already sense it. That we will all try to forget, so we can begin to live again.”
Gregory stares blankly at the wall. Practical. Mycroft is being practical, as ever, and it seems right that he is. Gregory doesn’t need plaudits, anyway. He isn’t a hero, he just did what he was told. He served a politician he hadn’t voted for, and fought for a cause he didn’t understand.
Mycroft squeezes his hand, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Gregory?”
“I know.”
“What do you know?” Mycroft asks, and he sounds so gentle.
“That I’m. That I’m home.”
Mycroft kisses his cheek, and it is warming and comforting. “You are home. You’re home with me, in our house. Tell me what I can do for you. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“What are you feeling?”
Gregory swallows, his chest tightening. “Nothing.”
Mycroft lets go of his hand and wraps his arm around Gregory’s shoulders, drawing him close until his cheek rests against his chest. He kisses Gregory’s head, kissing him like a lover does.
“Just breathe,” Mycroft murmurs. “Keep breathing with me. Just know you are home, and I am here, and I will always be right here now. You won’t go away again.”
“They stole so much time from us,” Gregory finally says, his eyes filling with tears. “Time we can’t get back. I feel as though I’m… I’m stuck and I don’t know where I go next. I don’t think I’m the same man I was when I left. What if I’m not… if you’re not…”
“You are still the man I love.” Mycroft’s voice shakes and he strokes Gregory’s shoulder. “We will mourn for those who did not make it. We will remember them. But we have to live. We have to go on with our lives.”
“How?”
Mycroft sighs a defeated sigh and lies down on his back, bringing Gregory down with him and stroking his hair. “We take each day at a time. I re-learn you, and you re-learn me.”
“It’s all different.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
Gregory gazes at him, biting his bottom lip. He loves this man, he does, with all of his heart. “I.” He tries to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say.
Mycroft cups his cheek and answers questions Gregory doesn’t know how to express. “You’re home. I’m home. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
The first tear spills down Gregory’s cheek. Mycroft pulls him into his arms, and Gregory sobs until it hurts. Mycroft rocks him and whispers soothing phrases, and they lay there as it gets dark outside.
Mycroft falls asleep first, and Gregory lays with his head over his heart, listening to it beat. He is afraid of the sunrise. For what the next day may hold. He fears peace, because he has forgotten how it feels to not be fighting. But at least it isn’t silent now, not with Mycroft snoring at his side.
“Mycroft?” he says into the darkness, and Mycroft tiredly hums his response. “I love you.”
“And I, you,” Mycroft replies, his voice thick with sleep, his fingers stroking through Gregory’s hair. “Close your eyes, darling. I’m here.”
Gregory nods and leans up and kisses him. Mycroft responds, and his lips are soft and warm and familiar. He will take each day at a time. It is all he can do. All they can do. But they are together. And for that, he is now willing to be considered one of the lucky few.