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Mycroft Holmes sat in absolutely the last place he had expected to be late on Christmas Eve.
It was the last he wanted to be on Christmas Day, but he was there.
It was the last refuge for those who had nowhere else to go and could not bear to be totally alone.
Especially in late December during the holidays.
“…idiot boy, I’m asking how could you?”
And Mycroft Holmes found himself still there on Boxing Day.
The Diogenes Club.
“Then you should have done better.”
The saving grace of having an office with its own ensuite and change of clothes is that none of the other occupants in the Quiet Room were witnesses to the fact that he had also spent the past two nights there. It was chaos anywhere outside of these walls, and Mycroft needed a moment’s respite from it all.
He glanced at his blinking phone, reminding him of the messages waiting for a response—more chaos.
Anthea was on a rare holiday to visit her family in Australia. He absolutely did not want her to cut her time short because of him, so he left the Quiet Room to respond to Anthea's call quickly. He knew why she had reached out. Sherlock had called her in his worry. She knew something was wrong, if not the details—yet. Still, she understood and respected his wishes for solitude with the caveat that he would call if he truly needed her.
“Then he’s very limited.”
Short of political, alien, or biblical Armageddon, he had no intention of doing so.
“How dare you say that?”
There were several calls and texts from his brother - none of which Mycroft had answered.
He knew what Sherlock would say. His brother had been equally aghast at Mummy’s outburst.
“You are a monster!”
Mycroft simply stood and walked out.
He did not call for a driver. He did not even get his coat.
He quietly closed the door, walked to his car, and drove away.
Mycroft was more than halfway to London before the turmoil in his brain settled enough that he thought to arrange for a car for his brother to return home. He would have to give an apology he knows Sherlock will dismiss in understanding, but he simply could not bear another moment in the emotional chaos of his family.
Anthea had reached out.
Sherlock had reached out several times. At his home. At his offices in Whitehall and Diogenes.
Their father had reached out.
Mummy had not.
Mycroft was unsure she ever would.
“You are a monster!”
Mycroft had heard as Sherlock overcame his initial shock at Mummy’s outburst and ardently began defending him. He was sure no one noticed he had fled the house until they heard the car start up. By the time Sherlock reached the front door, he was a speck in the rearview mirror.
Sherlock and Mycroft semi-jokingly referred to spending Christmas with their parents from the day before Christmas Eve until Boxing Day as Holiday Penance. Mycroft does not know what was said after his departure on Christmas Eve. He can barely comprehend that Christmas itself was just yesterday. He does know, in an unusually petty move, Sherlock left their parents’ home literally minutes after midnight this morning, keeping to the letter, if not the spirit, of typically not leaving until midday on Boxing Day. Mycroft knew that Sherlock had arrived at Baker Street in the early morning hours and had indeed deduced where he was, that his little brother had not immediately come banging down the door at Diogenes and intentionally caused a ruckus was an appreciated show of respect. Though Sherlock had called again, and Mycroft had ignored him again, Mycroft also knew Sherlock would only give him until tomorrow before coming after him in person.
It was an odd reversal of roles - Sherlock checking on him. And Mycroft could not deny the comfort in the knowledge that his little brother would, in fact, come for him.
Unfortunately, that left him time to sit in the morass of his spiraling emotions.
“You are a monster!”
Thus, Mycroft sat in the silence of the main room, the Quiet Room, purposely looking at no one. The few others there carefully avoided looking at him, not wanting him to see their shock at his presence. Mycroft thanked the Universe for the Quiet Room, where none could ask.
He had paced his townhouse.
He had paced his main office at Whitehall.
He had paced in his upstairs office in Diogenes.
No, he had to be in the Quiet Room.
Because Mycroft knew if he were in any other room where he was allowed to be alone, to be without restraint, to be allowed to speak…
He would scream.
“You are a monster!”
Mycroft sat with his churning thoughts.
Yes, he was a cold man. He was occasionally ruthless. It was one thing for such to be said of him from factions who learned the hard way why several call him Iceman and very select few call him Antarctica. It came with the territory of making the hard decisions no one else would or could.
He accepted this.
“You are a monster!”
No, he could not accept that.
Deep in his Mind Index, he once again reviewed every major decision in his life regarding his baby sister. He remembered the exact day the decision was made to remove all traces of Eurus Holmes's existence.
Sherlock had gone nonverbal immediately after the fire. Sherlock awakened two days after the fire that destroyed Musgrave and nearly took Sherlock’s life, and walked into the family room of Uncle Rudy’s home where they were temporarily staying. Sherlock saw a picture of a smiling Eurus and started screaming. Removing all the pictures helped. Except in the spots where Sherlock remembered that a picture had existed and that would set him off. It was nearly three weeks of intermittent screaming when the boy was not sedated that it finally stopped. It was three months after the family had moved, with absolutely no pictures of Eurus anywhere except in a safety deposit box, the only place a curious curly-haired little genius could not get to, that they realized Sherlock had rewritten his memories. He was no longer the happy cherub that played pirates, but he was no longer the nonverbal, near-catatonic child who seemed to be living solely by rote.
Doing the correct thing, keeping Eurus in Sherrinford, was not necessarily the right thing. Nor was not telling his parents. At first, his silence was at his Uncle Rudy’s behest. It seemed a sensible enough thing to his young mind. When Rudolph Vernet passed, it was Mycroft’s choice to continue the status quo. Everyone seemed better off with the sweet-faced, pig-tailed, pyromaniac elephant out of sight and, in Sherlock’s case, out of mind – literally.
And all of them shielding the emotionally distraught Sherlock from the truth of Victor’s murder instead of teaching the young boy to process his grief and anger properly had perhaps been the biggest mistake of all.
The adults cut their losses and counted their blessings.
And the then teen Mycroft, well under the grooming of his uncle, followed suit.
Even knowing all he knew now, Mycroft could not see where he would have done anything different.
“What Uncle Rudy began ... I thought it best to continue.”
“I was trying to be kind.”
“I’m sorry.”
Elbows on his knees, Mycroft’s head fell into his hands. As much as he did not want to be alone, he also could not bear another minute of pretending he did not know the others were pretending not to look at him. He was Mycroft Holmes, Antarctica, Iceman. He has worked hard for decades to cultivate the impression that nothing and no one could touch him.
Except there was someone if only he had the wherewithal to say such to him.
Gregory.
Gregory Lestrade, the highly intelligent detective inspector. He was a well-respected cop in his own right – even without his brother’s occasional help. The man who entirely, if not necessarily easily, can deal with Sherlock. And really, Mycroft should have realized Gregory was a Holmes Whisperer, considering how he slowly and patiently took what was once an acrimonious association between them to their deep-binding friendship. Effortlessly handsome as only those born naturally beautiful can be. A stern taskmaster, yet quick-witted and affable. He was well-liked among his peers.
And secretly loved by Mycroft.
And God, what he would give to touch is to be touched by the silver fox right now.
And just like that, Mycroft felt the chaos in his mind begin to ease at just the thought of him. That is what the man unknowingly does for him.
Thus, he blatantly ignored the multiple texts from his brother as he started to type a new message.
» I have no right to ask on such short notice, but I really
Mycroft paused. As much as he wanted to, he could not type: wish you were here to hold me…
» I have no right to ask on such short notice, but I really could use a friend right now. – MH
» If you’re available. – MH
» If not, I’ll understand. – MH
Head back in his hands, Mycroft huffed to himself when someone else’s phone coincidentally buzzed with a text almost immediately after he sent his text. He internally sighed, as he could only wish that Universe was indeed not that lazy for him. Thus, he nearly dropped his phone when it buzzed in his hand with Gregory’s pattern.
» Your friendship means you will ALWAYS have the right to ask on any notice. – GL
» Ask, and it shall be given; I will make myself available. – GL
Mycroft silently, gratefully, enthusiastically thanked Universe for the gift as he read Gregory’s rapid back-to-back replies. Then the phone buzzed again.
» You’re not a monster, Mycroft. Look up. – GL
Mycroft’s head snapped up in shock at reading those words. He nearly cried when his eyes met Gregory Lestrade's gently smiling face and warm brown eyes before him.
Sensing the many questions about to fall from Mycroft’s lips, Gregory quickly placed a finger to his own lips in a reminder of where they were as he tilted his head in a follow-me gesture.
All Mycroft could do was stare at the man in wonder as he slowly rose and did precisely that.
While the downstairs of Diogenes remained neutral in décor out of respect to the various theologies of its members, Anthea, mainly to take the piss, always had the Diogenes office decorated. Mycroft left the main lights off, leaving fairy lights in the windows, the tree, and the fireplace the only light sources.
“You are not a monster,” Gregory repeated aloud as he softly closed and locked the door behind them.
“How?” Mycroft is startled again by the repeated words. His voice cracked, and the hurt he had barely kept under wraps was now plain on his face. He started to walk away, but Gregory did not let him.
Instead, he pulled Mycroft in his arms and held him.
It was a moment of shock for Mycroft to find himself exactly where we wanted to be suddenly.
He froze.
“Anthea called me when she learned you were not speaking to Sherlock after you left your parents on Christmas Eve. I was on the phone with her when Sherlock called, worried you had remained non-responsive. I demanded to know what was so bad that Sherlock and Anthea were worried. He told me what she said.” Gregory tightened his hold. “Had I known you were here alone, they would not have needed to call me. I’d’ve come for you. Though I was already here, I am so glad you realized you could contact me. I am honored and beyond moved that you not only know this but put it into action. Thank you.”
Mycroft did not need to deduce him. He knew it was true, and Mycroft was ashamed he had not trusted in what he felt to ask for him, to ask for this, sooner.
His friend. No. That was not correct. He looked at the man, the sparkling lights catching the ends of Gregory’s silver hair, once again partially sticking up from the man’s wont to constantly run his hands through his hair.
“I asked for a friend, Gregory. But I think you know that is not what I want.”
“Tell me what you want, then.”
“You.”
“I am yours, Mycroft.” Gregory looked at him with such earnest tenderness. “I have been yours in my heart for a long time.”
Mycroft has never felt such a level of care or safety in all of his adult life. It was everything he ever imagined and so much more. Mycroft’s arms finally snapped around Gregory desperately as he succumbed to the warm, tender, solid arms that held him.
Still, one voice continued to ring in his mind.
“You say I am not a monster, Gregory, but I have done… so much… how do you know?” Mycroft hated the neediness in his voice, the shakiness, but he could not help it
Gregory leaned back to look at him as he spoke.
“My fears of being unworthy of you blinded me from seeing it for myself, but I do see what is being placed directly in my line of vision. Sherlock and Anthea both called me. They called Me. The two people on earth closest to you have entrusted your well-being to my care. That’s how I know. Not just because they deduced that I’m in love with you and also trust that I will take care of you, but because they have deduced that you’re in love with me, they are trusting that you will let me take care of you. And I’m just enough of a narcissist to trust they would not let me walk into the clutches of a monster. That’s how I know.” It took all Mycroft had not to turn his head to kiss the hand that caressed his cheek. “And most of all, Mycroft, because while my ex was a LOT of things - even at her worst, one thing she was not was a monster. I am not in the habit of falling in love with monsters. And, Mycroft, I am so very much in love with you. That’s how I know.”
“Oh, Gregory!”
And with that- the dam broke.
Mycroft’s heart first shattered darkly in the heat of his mother’s angry words, is now shattered anew in the beauty of knowing that every single crystalline fragment is collected and held safe in Gregory’s heart, as he now knows he holds Gregory’s heart.
Gregory's whispered words wash over his trembling body.
In balm.
In solace.
In anointing.
“It’s okay.” “I’ve got you.” “You don’t have to bear this alone anymore.” “I’m here.”
Gregory’s whispered breath, warm against Mycroft’s ear, slowly permeated and pushed away all the other voices that choked him until he felt he could breathe again.
“Hey.” Mycroft took a shaky breath and stepped back.
“Hey, yourself.”
Mycroft pulled out his phone and sped dialed a number. He nodded at Gregory’s knowing smile as the callee immediately picked up.
“Hello, Brother Mine… I am…not yet myself…but I am better than you saw me last. .... No, I am not ready to talk about that…I...need more time to process. ... Yes, he is with me…” Mycroft looked at Gregory and smiled his first genuine smile in days with those words. “You and Anthea can threaten him later…" Gregory smiled at those words. “And Sherlock…? Thank you. Thank both of you for sending him to me…” Mycroft stepped to Gregory again. “I must go now. There is something important I need to do. ”
Sherlock was still speaking when Mycroft rang out on him.
“And what’s so important?” Gregory teased.
“This…”
Mycroft pulled him into his arms and pressed his lips against Gregory’s at last.
Mycroft had entered Diogenes in need of a friend.
But oh, as he walked out into the December night, arm in arm with Gregory, he left with more.
So much more.