Archive of Our Own ^beta

(3 months later)

January

The ball was, just like any ball before that, utterly boring. And as always, he spent his time being introduced to woman after woman, all looking him up and down like meat to be soon served. Normally, Mycroft would seek refugee within the circle of intellectuals and friends of his father, and hope the prospect of scientific or political talk would have them keep their distance. But the news that his uncle would soon hand over his duties to his nephew seemed to have made its round among the upper class, and both daughters and fathers were hoping to get a foot in the door, although what it was exactly those duties entailed remained unknown. Therefore, Mycroft, who'd never defy the manners he'd been taught, had been forced to dance with different women all evening. Their company reached from dreary to horrid, and when the clock stroke ten, marking barely the end of the first half of this excruciating event, Mycroft found himself even longing to join his brother. Who, he guessed, was probably crawling under the long tables to examine the odour of the guest's shoes and deduce their secrets by the hem of their clothes.

It wasn't so much the dancing itself that tore at him, but the motivation of his company. Small touches here and there, the fluttering of eyelashes whenever their eyes met, and ridiculous chatter meant to impress as well as determine how well off he really was.

Lost in his thoughts, Mycroft hadn't realised he'd stared into the face of the woman he was currently waltzing around the grand ball room. She, obviously, had and immediately took it as a sign of encouragement. Sensing triumph, she flashed him a wide smile that revealed a line of perfect white teeth and boldly leaned in closer. Before Mycroft could react, he felt her warm breath on his neck, and couldn't suppress the panic that washed over him with no warning.

Mycroft couldn’t think. His heart racing and his body were frozen except for his feet, which still dutifully lead them over the dance floor, his clothes felt too tight, and every breath increased in difficulty. Her closeness, the intimacy she forced on him by trying to erase the space between them, reminded him of whom alone he wished to dance with, while keenly aware that it would never be possible. And as the hand on his shoulder tightened, Mycroft was sure he'd be sick. The urge to run became unbearable, but he forced himself to remain calm. For someone of his status, manners demanded that he finished this dance, so he fought back the pressing urge to simply turn and leave.

As soon as the last notes of music faded away, he stopped and stepped away, only to be held back by her hand which she had curled around his left arm. She dipped her head, her blonde curls bobbing with the movement, and smiled sweetly. Mycroft, trying his hardest to keep up the act despite the shortness in his breath, gave her a fake smile in return and moved to discretely peel her hand from his arm. But she only clung tighter, as if her grip alone could somehow persuade him to proclaim his undying love for her.

"I have enjoyed your company greatly, Miss Roberts," Mycroft said with feigned calm, quite relieved to find that her name hadn't slipped his mind. "But I'm afraid there are pressing matters at hand that require my immediate attention."

She didn't believe him in the slightest, but the request for distance was one she could hardly decline, as the daughter of the very influential Lord Roberts, member of the High Court. However, Miss Roberts seemed to deem it her right to demand his attention, and thereby forgo propriety. She was, after all, determined to continue her luxurious lifestyle. A bit desperate, too, probably. Two older brothers and an older sister tended to cut down one's share of the family inheritance considerably.

Focused on a point behind his right shoulder, she reached for his other hand, but Mycroft pulled away and turned around. The gleam in her eyes had told him already whose attention had delighted her, and his suspicion was confirmed as he met the eyes of his mother watching them from her place on the main table. Eyes full of hope and joy.

Repelled by himself for having put her through such misery and soon breaking her hopes again, Mycroft roughly yanked his arm free and fled, a hurried apology falling from his lips as he blindly pushed his way through the crowd.

After hurrying through the familiar halls, he found himself coming to a halt before the wide, oaken double doors to the library. With a sigh of relief, Mycroft ducked through the entrance and swiftly closed it behind him. He let his gaze sweep the room to make certain that none of the guests had lost their way to end up here. Once satisfied, he stepped between the book shelves. Immediately, his senses were flooded with the smell of old paper, leather, and the faint scent of pine wood. It smelled like home, calm and soothing, and Mycroft felt his muscles relax.

His hands glided over spine after spine, caressing it as if it might turn to dust beneath his finger, until he reached the wide round space reserved for reading. Although small in comparison to the library itself, its size was remarkable. To Mycroft it had always been the centre of the Holmes manor, for it resembled the still eye of a storm. Here, either sitting on one of the round tables or in one of the comfortable armchairs, he'd found understanding and comfort. Whenever he'd lounged in the armchair beneath the window in the ceiling, book open on his lap and surrounded by nothing but paper and wood, Mycroft had felt safe. No title to his name, no obligations, no prying eyes. Nothing but silence.

He remained frozen in the middle of the round space, eyes fixed absently on the place where he'd spend a few of the best moment of his childhood. The image of Sherlock sitting on his lap, first begging him to read to him and, many years later, teach him whatever language he was reading in, was as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. Absorbed in his memories, Mycroft almost didn't hear another person step up behind him.

"As the eldest son of the Holmes family, you are heir and therefore it is your obligation to secure its continuation. You have to marry, Mycroft," Violet Holmes said with a shimmer of regret in her eyes. "It is expected of you." She knew of her son's reluctance to commit himself to a woman, afraid that it would pose nothing but a distraction. At least that was the conclusion she'd drawn after many years of seeing him turn down every possible opportunity and throwing himself face first into his responsibilities as soon-to-be ruler of England.

Mycroft hung his head in defeat, his voice frighteningly small as he whispered, "I know."

"Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes laid a soothing hand on her eldest's shoulder, eyes full of concern. "I know it's not ideal, but I'm sure there's one noble woman in the Commonwealth who'd be able to hold your interest."

There already is someone, Mycroft thought bitterly, and no woman could ever compare.

"Is there?" Violet's heart clenched at the tiredness in his voice. "Tonight I've only seen women so filled with greed, their eyes shining at the prospect of money and influence," Mycroft continued, something akin to bitterness lacing his words. "Marrying the Holmes heir, known to be one of the most wealthy men in the Commonwealth!" He chuckled darkly. "Oh, if they knew of the power I'll soon hold! They'd rip each other apart as they fight over who gets to lay a hand on me first. After all, what better way to secure their extravagant and luxurious lifestyle and achieve the look of permanent jealousy on their rival's faces."

"Mycroft..." But he brushed his mother's hand from his shoulder and stepped away, back still turned to her.

"And in exchange for all that, all they have to do is smile with fake joy in their eyes, and lay with me at night. What little price to pay, what little pain to endure in comparison to their gain."

Never before had he regretted being born eldest as in this very moment. All public eyes turned on him, no one cared much about his brother's dealings, a privilege Mycroft envied more than he'd ever admit. His brother, tall and handsome, dark hair and slim form drawing admiring looks from all sides. What he would give to have inherited their grandfather's looks. But there was no use wasting time pondering what-ifs. Sherlock wasn't heir, nor would he ever be able to carry the responsibilities Mycroft had been trained to shoulder since his childhood for that matter. England would fall.

Violet knew better than to object. Mycroft would simply put down her encouragement to her feeling of duty and obligation as his mother to reassure him in his appearance and attractiveness as potential lifelong companion. Not for the first time, Violet Holmes realised just how much her son had not just grown up, but changed with the burden which had been laid upon him without his will. She missed the carefree boy who'd hidden in the library, ginger hair peeking out between bookshelves and making it impossible to hide anywhere in the manor. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a kindness and politeness his brother had never possessed.

Unable to act, Violet had had no other choice but to watch while Mycroft had built up his walls of ice, piece by piece. He'd hidden his own vulnerable thoughts and feelings, and had carefully crafted the image of a cold man nobody wanted to befriend, but whom England so desperately needed, in its wake. Until no one remembered the boy, and only saw the ice man.

Despite her disapproval, she couldn't blame him. His mind was chaotic and fast, something Violet understood all too well. And yet she knew he cared; for his brother, for his family and for his nation. Happiness in intelligent people, she'd found, was the rarest thing there was. She'd been lucky to be born as daughter to the late Holmes' close friend, and to marry his son out of love. It had been frowned upon that Siger Holmes had taken a banker's daughter as his wife, yes, but the gossip had died down soon enough. And she'd made quite a statement as she'd started managing the Holmes finances. No one had ever doubted the part she'd played in giving birth to two highly intelligent sons after she'd demonstrated her talent with numbers.

All she wanted for her children was to experience just the same luck and find their happiness. Now, if they'd only accept themselves.

"Mother."

"Yes, my dear?"

"What if I..." He hesitated and took a shaky breath to calm himself. His thoughts were in chaos. If he couldn't think straight, he might say things he'd greatly regret later.

"What if I could find someone who doesn't care about the name Holmes?" he finally asked. His hands absently wandered over the smooth surface of the oaken table and traced the artfully stitched hemline of the golden tablecloth. "What if the richness of those halls, the power in my words and the honour to my name were of no importance to them?"

Violet Holmes studied her son for a long moment, unsure how to read his words. Her eyes took in the slight bend in his shoulders, the still hand that had come to rest over the red Holmes emblem - a stark contrast to the golden background - and the shadows under his eyes. His face was turned away, but she knew without seeing them that they were full of sorrow.

Mycroft rarely showed what was truly going on in that brilliant head of his. He was reserved, always had been. Even as a child, Mycroft had acted more like an adult, excepting responsibility and duties with a quiet determination–a development both Violet and her husband had observed silently, all too painfully aware of the necessity. That he was unable to hide his emotions now didn't bode well, and if Violet were a different woman, she would have been frightened.

"You'd recognise yourself a lucky man," Violet answered thoughtfully. "And if your feelings were of the same nature, you'd offer them a place by your side and proudly stand up to them."

"And what if that would prove impossible?"

Violet furrowed her brow, confused. "You mean if you wouldn't be able to reciprocate their feelings?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No. No, I feel very much the same. It would, however, be of serious consequence should I decide to make our relationship public."

He'd switched tenses without really realising it, and Violet could now see the reason for the inner conflict she'd observed on her son's face whenever he'd thought himself alone. Mycroft himself, however, to absorbed in his speech, didn't seem to have noticed his lapse.

"If anyone should ever find out..." With a defeated sigh, Mycroft sank down in one of the chairs and took his head between his hands. "...I'd never forgive myself."

It felt strangely relieving to speak aloud what had troubled him for such a long time now, without being met by immediate resentment. Not daring to look up, Mycroft sat and waited, enjoying the small relief of having his secret -or at least part of it- in the open as long as he could. Even if his mother was the only one who knew, a burden shared did indeed weigh half as much.

Violet watched her son with sadness in her eyes. He looked worn and tired, like he'd battled the world and the world had won. Without hesitation she sat down beside him and started stroking his hair, wanting nothing more than to reassure him of her unwavering support. It didn't surprise her when Mycroft couldn't hold back an anguished sob.

They sat like that for what felt like ages, with Violet stroking his hair soothingly and watching the stars through the window in the ceiling.

"When did you know?" Mycroft finally asked, his voice hoarse. "That you loved father enough that marrying him would be worth the malicious gossip and defamation?"

"Loving someone and deeming marrying them worth the risk of social disgrace are two very different things, Mycroft." Violet answered truthfully, hand still moving slowly over his head. "Yes, I love your father and yes, I was willing to risk falling from grace when I agreed to become his wife. But that doesn't necessarily take a certain degree of affection. Sometimes, it is an unimaginable amount of devotion that is needed to love them despite ever being able to take that risk, despite ever being able to enjoy their company without fear. No matter how much one may wish to."

Head still in his hands, Mycroft seemed to think about that and then nodded, as if he knew exactly what she meant. It was that small gesture that told Violet just how grave the situation was; that he really, actually felt and hurt. And there was absolutely nothing Violet could do about it.

"Go to bed, Mycroft. I'll go back to the ball and inform the guests of your absence concerning the rest of the evening." She gave his arm one final reassuring squeeze and left the library, hoping tomorrow would bear better news.