Chapter Text
Mycroft wakes up feeling ridiculously tired. With a groan, he tries to roll onto his stomach and finds he can’t, so he groans once more, remembering why he’s in such position. He absolutely despises going into Heat, but he hates even more the morning after it finishes, always making him feel terribly self conscious.
Waking up tied to bed would do that to you, he supposes.
It’s a ridiculous notion, really. That just because he’s a Prince he’s supposed to be completely untouched (not even by his own hands) until he mates is really stupid. And old fashioned. There’s nothing he can do, though; things are well out of his control.
He sighs, eying the ropes tying his hands to the bedpost with disdain. They’re perfectly sturdy, impossible to break no matter how hard he pulls. Therefore, as usual, his wrists are chafed and he knows they’ll hurt for the next few days.
The door opens and a couple of maids come in. The females bow politely (which he finds ridiculous, because he’s in bed, naked and tied up, so in a not a very dignified state) and then hurry to undo the ties. They leave without saying a word, bowing one last time before closing the door and leaving the Prince on his own once more.
He lies in bed for a while longer, cradling his hands to his chest, rubbing his sore wrists. He’s probably in the desperate need of a bath, but he supposes it can wait for a little longer. He’s too tired to move or to care about how dirty he might be.
That he must still subject himself to this torture every 4 months it’s… well, ridiculous. At 24 by all means he should be already mated, but he has managed to scare off every suitor his father has found for him and, luckily for him, his mother is open minded enough to be willing to intercede before the King on his behalf to let him choose his Mate.
All within reason, of course. Because the one that Mycroft would willingly have--
Well, it’s pointless to even think about it.
With another sigh he forces himself out of bed and into the adjacent bathroom.
He has a long day in front ot him.
He walks into the dining room, expecting it to be empty. Instead, he finds his parents, breakfast long forgotten in front of them, glaring at his younger brother.
Mycroft suppresses a groan and he wonders what has Sherlock done this time.
His parents look at him when he walks in and he smiles briefly, before taking his usual place at the table. Breakfast should have been over hours ago; he was kind of counting on that. He doesn’t particularly care for company the morning after his Heat is over and he was hoping to enjoy his breakfast with only his thoughts for company.
He looks at Sherlock questioningly, but the younger Prince ignores him completely and continues playing with something on his plate. Still, that’s telling on itself and he immediately knows what’s the reason of his parents displeasure.
He stares at his brother for a couple of seconds, trying to hide his worry. Sherlock has always been skinny, but now he’s looking unhealthily so. His pale skin also seems paler and there are dark bags underneath his eyes.
Of course he knows the reason for his brother’s illness, but he also knows there’s no real cure for it except time.
Or at least, he hopes time will make things better.
“Sherlock, you need to eat something,” his mother chides and Mycroft contains a sigh. Even in the best of his moods, it’s pointless to try to make the younger Prince do something he doesn’t want to and considering…
Well, he knows it’s useless.
For a little longer, his parents try to coax the younger male to eat something, but Sherlock steadily ignores them. Mycroft eats in silence, pondering his options, trying to figure out the best way to approach his brother. He knows that as soon as he’s done eating, he’ll be expected to handle Sherlock and he’s really not looking forward to it, particularly not in a morning such as this.
But he has no other option, really.
Finally one maid takes his last plate and that’s his parents cue to leave the table. Mycroft sighs, running a hand through his hair and turns to Sherlock, still unsure of what to say.
Fortunately (or not), Sherlock beats him to it. “When you first brought Mary into the castle and insisted on John showing her around, I was so angry at you.” The teenager isn’t looking at him, his gaze unfocused and so Mycroft allows his face to show his emotions, even if it’s just briefly. “But you were trying to help, weren’t you? You were trying to avoid… this.”
The older Prince considers his next words carefully. “Sherlock, you must know that-- if there was some way--”
The other nods tightly, standing up abruptly and upsetting his plate, making the food fall onto the floor. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
Mycroft watches him go, full of remorse, desperately trying to figure out how to help his little brother, but he knows it’s pointless. He can’t bring John Watson back from the dead and to wish for things to be different it’s an exercise in futility.
There’s nothing he can do for Sherlock.
Nothing to do but wait.
He goes through his usual obligations, his morning exchange with his younger brother still weighing him down, but he forces himself to look completely unaffected. He’s got many duties to attend to and it won’t do to look distracted. The last thing he needs is his father getting overly concerned about him and therefore getting a closer eye on him.
He has learned that it’s better to be ignored by the King and the easiest way to ensure that is to do exactly as he’s expected to.
There are many things that his father is willing to overlook, but Mycroft had never really thought he would be able to hide Sherlock’s friendship with John from the King, although he had hoped that John would see reason and find himself a suitable Mate before Sherlock was old enough to find a Mate himself. But of course the stubborn boy hadn’t, firmly convinced that his feelings didn’t matter, since Sherlock didn’t return them and then--
Well, better not to think of that.
He blames himself for what happened, though. He should have known better really, and should have made everything in his power to ensure things didn’t come to this. He can’t change the past, of course, but he can’t stop himself from imagining all the things he could have done differently either.
Useless and yet--
He knocks on Sherlock’s door later that night. When there’s no answer, he can’t help to worry. He knows there’s a group of spies following his brother day and night, making sure he won’t do anything drastic but Sherlock has always been a sneaky one and to think…
He orders the door to be open, causing a commotion, but not caring particularly about it. He just hopes his parents won’t find out unless it’s strictly necessary. No use in worrying them (although now Mycroft isn’t exactly sure how much they care about their children’s well being, considering--)
His brother has curled himself into a tight ball and is lying in the middle of the bed, apparently having fallen asleep. Mycroft curses inwardly and dismisses the guards, closing the door behind them. That Sherlock is still asleep after all the commotion tells him enough about his brother’s tiredness and he can’t help to feel another pang of guilt at the thought.
He sits at the corner of the bed, watching the teen sleep. There’s evidence of tears on his face and Mycroft sighs, gently running his fingers through the other’s curls. It’s been two months since… everything and Sherlock shows no sign of improvement. He honestly doubts there’ll be, but he must hope.
Hope is all he has left, after all.
He curls in bed behind his brother, holding him close just like he has been doing for most of the past two months. Sherlock protests weakly in his sleep, but quickly rearranges himself into a more comfortable position. Mycroft presses a kiss against the top of his head and decides to settle in for the night.
He could do with some sleep himself.
Something wakes him up in the wee hours of the morning, although he can’t exactly say what. It takes him a few moments to realize he’s in his brother’s bedroom and that the sound that woke him up is the little whimpers leaving Sherlock’s lips.
Mycroft runs a hand through the younger male’s messy curls, knowing there’s nothing he can say or do to ease his pain. He hopes his presence comforts the teenager a little, since that’s all he can offer at the moment.
Oh, but if he could--
“I love him,” Sherlock whispers, not facing him and Mycroft hugs him closer, unsure of what he can say to that. It’s not the first time he has heard the confession, but he still hasn’t figure out what to reply. “And he loved me. Is it such an awful crime?”
The Crown Prince presses another kiss against the top of his brother’s head, rubbing what he hopes are soothing circles against the younger’s arm. It is a terrible crime, in the eye of the crown, but he can’t tell Sherlock that. “It’s not fair,” the younger prince whispers brokenly, his body shaking with a suppressed sob.
Mycroft hums, feeling frustrated with his own helplessness. He wishes there was something he could do to make things easier for his little brother, but--
Life is rarely fair, is it?
He keeps running his fingers through the other’s hair, hoping he’ll eventually fall back asleep. He knows that talking is useless; he can’t give any reassurances and everything he could say has probably already crossed Sherlock’s mind.
“It’s never going to stop hurting, is it?”
Mycroft closes his eyes, fighting back his own tears. It breaks his heart how lost and scared his brother sounds, but all he can do is hold him tighter.
Never in his life has he felt so useless.
He wakes up to the feeling of someone watching him. Mycroft rubs the sleep out off his eyes, sitting up slowly and taking in his surroundings. Sherlock is still deeply asleep against him, looking very young and very tired. His heart aches at the sight, but he quickly forces his face to remain perfectly blank of emotion.
“When did you get back?” he asks calmly, having already figured out the identity of their mysterious guest, so he doesn’t even bother to look at the intruder. He can hear to other man sighing, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the younger Prince.
“Just an hour ago,” Gregory Lestrade replies evenly, coming to stand right in front of the bed and Mycroft looks up briefly at him. He feels the usual stab of sharp longing at seeing the other male, but he keeps himself together admirably.
Unlike his naive little brother, he knows better than to let his infatuation show.
“How is he?” his personal guard asks, signaling the sleeping boy with his head. Mycroft sighs, running his fingers through the Prince’s curls, the feeling of hopelessness hitting him full force once more.
“Not so well,” he confesses. “I don’t think he’ll ever be well again.”
Gregory hums. “He normally would be already berating us for even being in his room.”
Another show of his brother’s distress. Mycroft closes his eyes, trying to keep his emotions under control. “It was-- what Father did-- it was particularly cruel.”
The other male doesn’t comment, knowing better than to speak against the King, no matter what. However, Mycroft knows he shares his thoughts. “I brought you those cakes you like.”
A small smile makes its way to the Crown Prince’s face. Such an unsubtle way of changing subjects, really. “Did you now? What about the other thing I asked for?”
Gregory is his personal guard, but he’s also one of his most talented spies. Mycroft hates sending him away, but sometimes it can’t be avoided; the security of the Kingdom relies on what the other man might manage to find out.
Gregory nods. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing for them to leave the room. Mycroft sighs once more and sends one last despairing look in Sherlock’s direction.
“I suppose we must,” he agrees, standing up. “Give me a few minutes to wash and get a change of clothes and I’ll meet you at the library.”
He has a long day ahead of him.
He’s really not looking forward it.
Gregory is a Beta, a real rarity among genders. Only 1% of the population are Betas and the scientists and doctors have been unable to determine why exactly they seem to lack characteristics of a secondary gender. They aren’t affected by Ruts or Heats and are practically immune to the pheromones of both Alphas and Omegas, which is of course part of the reason Gregory was appointed as the Crown Prince’s personal guard.
Betas can’t form mating bonds or reproduce, but it’s not entirely uncommon for them to marry Alphas. Not Omegas, because Omegas own biology demand an Alpha to see them through their Heats, but Alphas aren’t quite as complicated to satisfy during Ruts.
Of course none of that really matters to Mycroft. If he could-- if he was up to him--
Well, it’s pointless to think about it.
It’s torture, having the other male so close and yet knowing that nothing can ever come of their association. Not even true friendship, since he’s not as reckless as Sherlock is to risk it. Better to stay cold, detached and professional, so nobody might ever suspect. Not even Gregory.
Particularly not Gregory.
He thinks he wouldn’t mind the unsatisfying Heats, nor the lack of offspring if he could have the guard for himself. But he knows that it also doesn’t really matter, because he’s a Prince and Gregory lacks any rank and therefore…
They would be just as doomed as Sherlock and John. Although maybe even worse, since Gregory can’t even give him heirs.
So he tries not to entertain silly daydreams. However, he sometimes finds himself observing the other male and wondering how it would feel like to be in his arms, to be kissed and--
Pointless, really, but unavoidable.
He shakes himself off his musings and turns his whole focus on the information Gregory has brought him. He needs to focus on the needs of the Kingdom; his own needs and wants matter little in the great scheme of things.
But when Gregory smiles at him-
He can’t help wishing things were different.