Chapter Text
Mycroft sat up at the sound of distant shouting. For a moment he couldn’t recall how long he had been locked inside his sister’s cell. Minutes, hours, days—his mind refused to calculate.
He pushed himself upright with a groan, his head throbbed. The voices got closer. He should have known what was happening—could always tell from sound alone who was approaching, what kind of intent. He should know. But now all he heard was chaos. No patterns, no clarity. Only noise.
His heart pounded as he backed against the far wall, eyes darting across the small, sterile space that offered no cover. When the lock finally clicked, he clapped a trembling hand over his mouth to stifle the cry rising in his throat.
“Mr. Holmes,” came a familiar voice. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood by the glass, breathing hard. “Glad to see you in one piece.”
Mycroft ran his eyes over Greg. Trying to determine how he got involved, what was happening on the upper levels, how his brother was. Anything. But he could see nothing. He rubbed his eyes, his headache worsening.
“Are you all right?” Greg’s worried voice reached him finally.
“Unharmed, yes.” Mycroft looked up.
Greg exhaled, visibly relieved. “Good, glad.
“My brother?” Mycroft breathed.
“He’s safe. John too. Your sister’s in custody.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft nodded.
“Let’s get you out of here.” Greg began typing in a code, frowning when the light stayed red. “That should’ve worked… She must’ve changed the code. Any idea what the new one could be?”
Mycroft blinked at the keypad. The answer should have come at once—a dozen logical deductions converging into one elegant solution. Instead, his mind was silent.
“Maybe birthdays?” Greg prompted.
“Start with Sherlock’s.” His own voice sounded frail, uncertain.
“Nope.”
“The year, maybe?” the door remained closed.
They tried again and again—his parents, Eurus, even his own.
“Anything else?” Greg looked at him expectantly.
The small space in front of the cell started to fill with people.
“I…” Mycroft’s eyes flicked helplessly across the room, searching for anything.
“Mycroft,” Greg said softly, his calm a lifeline through the noise. “It’s all right. We’ll get you out soon.”
“I should know,” Mycroft whispered, voice cracking. “I always know.” The admission burned in his chest.
“You’ve had a rough day,” Greg replied gently. “We’ll just break the glass. Stay back.”
Mycroft nodded, retreating a step.
As they set the charge, he forced himself to observe—to see. But their faces told him nothing. Once, he could discern a man’s history from the way he tied his tie; now, even fear and exhaustion looked the same.
Mycroft turned away, hands over his ears as the blast shook the cell.
“All good?” Greg asked Mycroft once the dust settled.
“Perfectly,” he walked towards the new opening, paralysing dread took over him at the threshold, his legs nearly gave out. He had to steady himself, one hand gripping the frame so tightly that blood slicked his palm.
“I’ve got you,” Greg murmured, steadying him.
“What happens now?” Mycroft asked, eyes fixed on Greg. By keeping his eyes on the detective he was able to leave the cell.
“Medic will treat your hand.” Mycroft only now registered the pain. “Then you leave the island. Lady Smallwood’s waiting for you,”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Greg said after a pause. “I don’t think you have anything to fear.”
But Mycroft did fear—deeply. Not prison, not retribution. It was the silence where certainty used to be.
Mycroft walked towards Anthea, she was waiting for him by the car.
“Sir,” she opened the door for him. “Are you all right? Should we go to the hospital?”
“No need.” he answered curtly.
“You are expected,”
“I’m aware.”
“It can be rescheduled if you are not,”
“I’m perfectly capable of answering questions.” Mycroft snapped.
“Of course, Sir.” Anthea mumbled.
He looked at her. The face before him was familiar, perfectly catalogued in his memory: Anthea, thirty-two, precise, discreet, loyal. He could recall her personnel file in detail. And yet, in this moment, she was unreadable. The minute flicker of her eyes, the small shift of her hand—none of it made sense. He could no longer tell what she was thinking.
“I know you only wish to help, Anthea. But,” Mycroft sighed deeply. “This is it. The end for me.”
“I doubt. No one in their right mind would dispose of you.”
“Were you briefed on the happenings?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know what fate awaits me.” He hoped she did, because he no longer did.
Not wanting to continue the conversation, Mycroft turned toward the window, watching the lights smear into colourless lines. For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes could not read the world. He tried, again and again, a deduction, a prediction. But even his memories felt disordered. He couldn’t recall the sequence of events that led him here. Couldn’t remember the exact words Greg had said.
His mind—the one tool that had defined, protected, and imprisoned him—had slipped from his grasp. And in its place, there was only quiet.
—
When the door finally opened, Greg was standing there, smiling faintly.
“Hi, Mycroft.” Mycroft froze for a moment.
“How long have you been standing here?” his voice came out thin.
“You know that well.” Greg smiled.
“How the hell should I know?” Mycroft’s voice came out sharper than intended. The keys trembled in his hand as he tried to close the door.
“You always know,” Greg said with a small shrug. “Everything.”
“What do you want?” Mycroft managed to shut the door at last.
“I came to see how you’re doing. Anthea told me you resigned.”
“It was time.” Mycroft moved past him, down the stairs. “I’m tired. So, so tired.”
“You haven’t answered your phone.”
“There’s nothing I can do for you anymore.”
“That’s not why I called.”
Mycroft stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, hesitating.
“I was worried,” Greg said softly. “About you.”
“I’m perfectly fine!” The words came out too fast, too loud.
“Are you?” Greg stepped closer. “You’re shaking. You’ve lost weight.”
“I needed to.”
“Mycroft,” Greg’s voice dropped to a whisper, “You’re not fine. You can’t even leave the building.”
“Who told you that?” Mycroft’s eyes darted away.
“You did,” Greg said simply.
“I can go out.” Mycroft opened the front door and stepped outside. The moment the air hit his face, the world tilted. His heart raced, his chest felt tight, the pavement swayed beneath him. It was too open, too bright, too loud. He wanted—needed—to run back inside.
“My,” Greg’s hand settled gently on his shoulder.
“See?” Mycroft forced the words out, clearing his throat. “I can leave.”
“Where are we heading?”
“The shop.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“I’m going. Alone.” His tone was brittle. “Good day.”
He walked off, determined to reach the corner, Greg would surely give up by then.
At the corner, he turned and nearly collided with Greg.
“Sorry,” Greg said quickly, hands raised.
“You…” Mycroft tried to steady his breathing.
“Didn’t mean to startle you. Thought you knew I was behind you.”
“How would I know!” Mycroft snapped, his voice echoing down the street. He flinched as a woman with long, dark curls passed them.
“It’s not her,” Greg said gently.
“How would you know?” Mycroft’s eyes flicked across the street, frantic, trying to see—anything. But the details wouldn’t come together.
“Let’s try this,” Greg said softly, stepping closer. “Name five things you can see.”
“I can’t…” Mycroft’s voice trembled. “I can’t see anything.”
“Of course you can.”
“I can’t.” His hands flew up to his face. “I can’t.” His whole body shook.
“It’s all right,” Greg murmured, drawing him in, wrapping his arms around him. “Deep breaths, My. Breathe with me.”
Greg breathed slowly, evenly, until Mycroft’s trembling began to ease.
“Let’s get you home,” he said quietly.
Mycroft didn’t resist. He clung to Greg’s side, eyes closed, following the familiar path back inside.
The next thing Mycroft knew, he was on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, his chest still heaving shallowly.
“Here,” Greg said, pressing a mug of tea into his hands. “Ordered you some groceries.”
“Thank you.” His gaze stayed fixed on the tea.
Greg sat on the coffee table opposite him. “Why are you doing this?” Mycroft asked at last, voice quiet, frayed at the edges.
“Because you’re my friend,” Greg said simply. “And I’m worried about you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,”
For a long moment, neither spoke.
No one else had come. No one else ever did. Only Greg.
“Ever since Sherrinford,” Mycroft began, barely above a whisper, “I can’t see anything. My deduction skills were leagues above my brother’s, but now… nothing. I can’t, and—”
“It’s terrifying,” Greg finished softly.
Mycroft nodded, throat tight. “I’m scared to go outside. Not knowing what people think, what they’re about to do…”
“It’s probably a response to trauma.”
“Trauma.” Mycroft gave a short, humourless laugh. “I’ve survived worse. I was betrayed, kidnapped, nearly killed more than once.”
“This is different,” Greg said gently. “It was your family this time.”
“My family,” Mycroft echoed.The words made his stomach twist. Shame, guilt, grief overtaking him at once.
Greg didn’t press.
“With time,” Greg began softly.
“Not going to therapy,” Mycroft interrupted sharply.
“I’m not forcing you. Just saying—it helps. I go, you know. Since the divorce.”
“Good for you.”
“It is,” Greg smiled faintly. “Should’ve done it sooner.”
The doorbell rang, and Mycroft flinched so hard he nearly spilled his tea.
“Must be the delivery,” Greg said, standing. “I’ll get it.”
“I should,” Mycroft said but hesitated to get up.
“No need to push yourself,” Greg said, smiling over his shoulder.
Mycroft was in the kitchen when Greg returned with the bags.
“I do need to push myself.” he was holding onto the counter for balance. “I have to.”
“No,” Greg said gently. “You’ve spent your whole life serving this country—and your brother. It’s time to start prioritising yourself.”
Greg unpacked the groceries, placing them on the counter one by one.
“Milk, bread, eggs,” Greg murmured, half to himself. “Tea, of course. A few ready meals for when you can’t be bothered to cook.”
“I always cook,” Mycroft said automatically, they both knew it was a lie.
Greg didn’t correct him. He just nodded, slid a tin of soup into the cupboard, and said softly, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Mycroft’s breath caught. “I’m not pretending.”
“Right.” Greg’s tone was gentle, he leaned against the counter. “You’ve been through hell, My. It’s normal to be shaken.”
“I don’t get shaken!”
“You do now,” Greg stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “And there is nothing wrong with it.”
Mycroft let out a short, bitter laugh. “I told myself I just needed rest. That I’d recover. But each day it is worse. The disappointment, the fear, the uncertainty. All my life I was ‘the clever one’, without it who am I?”
“You are Mycroft Holmes, my unique and amazing friend.” Greg’s hand brushed his sleeve, grounding him. “You’re just—hurting.”
Mycroft’s eyes darted down to where Greg’s fingers rested against the fabric. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move either. His breathing was shallow. For the first time in days, someone’s voice—someone’s warmth—was louder than the chaos in his head. His hand lifted slowly, almost absently, to touch Greg’s wrist.
“What if it’s gone for good?” his voice was barely audible.
“Then we find a new way forward.”
Mycroft looked at him, searching, almost desperate. “We?”
Greg gave a small, wry smile. “You think I’d just let you drown in all this?”
Mycroft let out a shuddering breath, and when he finally leaned forward, it wasn’t graceful or controlled — it was a small, clumsy surrender, his forehead brushing Greg’s shoulder. Greg didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stayed still, holding Mycroft’s trembling frame against him.