Chapter Text
A bad hair day
His laptop screen glared at him, as if personally offended by the lack of words on it.
Blank. It’d been blank a while now. His words were lost, wandering a parallel timeline. A timeline where he was adequate.
Mycroft readjusted his tie for the 23rd time, since sitting uselessly at his office desk. Apparently he’d counting. 24. 25. 26. Perhaps it was a way to make him feel professional and secure; useful, as though he wasn’t on the verge of quitting all together. It was just one email. He had sent thousands in his time as the British government. He was a one-man department, the country’s life buoy, preventing wars, economic crises, and daily terrorist attacks. Yet he was left paralysed by a simple email.
Sherlock paced 221b, oblivious to the stacks of letters, containing his precious potential cases, that he was knocking right over. Mycroft: where on earth was he? Usually, he’d have meddled at least 4 times this week, considering the shenanigans he had pulled as of late. Sneaking into a top-secret military base for one!
Yet he hadn’t even called. This was abnormal- no- it was obscene. Unheard of. Even during the busiest times of the year: the American election, peace treaties, Mycroft still found time to snoop round sherlock’s flat on the daily. He was officially concerned…however embarrassing that was to admit.
Though he couldn’t quite bring himself to ring his brother.
Lestrade had knocked on Mycroft’s door a few hours ago. He’d realised, a few days too late, that he’d organised a meet up between then a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago, when all was fine. Oh, how he damned his past self. It always did seem to be such an inconvenience. He'd merely dismissed the DI, after curtly claiming he was amidst an important meeting between diplomats, and promptly slamming the door.
He knew Lestrade was suspicious though. Of course he was suspicious: Gregory Lestrade was the best Scotland yard had to offer…which is an impressive feat no matter how incompetent his little brother complained the force were.
Gregory, although a world class detective, wasn’t perfect at concealing his thoughts however, displaying every opinion and emotion like a book where he was paid by the word. The slight crease of his brow, the growing concern in his eye, the downturn in the corner of his mouth, that always seemed to appear when he was doubtful.
It was 3 hours later when it dawned on Mycroft what gave so much of his anguish away. His tie was perfect as always, not the issue. As where his shoes, polished to perfection. All his clothes where spotless as ever- but his hair?
He’d always taken exceptional care in his hair, polishing every hair into perfection with the obscenely expensive hair gel his private Barbour recommended. Sherlock used to mock him incessantly in their youth, when he’d spend hours in front of the mirror combing his locks, only making a perceivable difference in Mycroft’s eyes.
The teasing got even worse as he entered his teen years and moved into a boarding school. There the kids knew harsher insults than 7-year-old sherlock. They’d also discovered the bright new concept of homophobia, which they weren’t afraid to whip out at any moment they deemed amusing, carving burning lashes into his soul, and herding him miles deeper into the closet. Any chance of coming out seemed futile; even being out to himself.
But the hair. Even through the teasing, the taunting, the agonising bullying, his hair stayed a reassuring constant. It was something predictable and changeable. It was the only control he had in his life.
So when he opened the door to Lestrade and his hair was a mess, something was terribly wrong.
Upon waking up that morning, Greg had felt that sort of light and inspiring happiness only accessible on a work free summers morning- Like the first day of the summer holidays as he remembered it. Gentle rays massaged his chest as he lay in what truly could be described as bliss. A delicate yellow hue seeped into his face. It was a precious sort of morning. One you’d look back on with a deep nostalgia. He’d woken up with a strange sort of clarity. Not the usual fumbling grogginess and groaning of an average morning start. Hed woken up, fully aware and mind already spouting some strange faux deep poetry about his surroundings, including too many words he only half knew the definition of after reading in the daily poetry section of his local free newspaper.
With a spring in his step, reminiscent of scrooge after his miraculous transformation, he sauntered down his stairs, not even a complaining thought about the badly done plastering, the squeaky floorboard, or a suspicious looking stain on the carpet. He was ‘as light as a feather’, he was ‘as giddy as a schoolboy’.
Upon reaching the cool bronze ochre of his kitchen floorboards, and seeing his calendar, just to realise today’s date wasn’t as empty as he’d prior assumed his heart dropped. The kitchen cooled, sunlight fleeing from the room even faster than his short-lived joy.
Slowly, and with the caution of one in contact with a twisted Rodger, he approached the calendar, eyes trained on the floor: he couldn’t bear to witness what mundane activity was set to sully such a perfect day. However, upon finally stealing a glance at the date and seeing the name ‘Mycroft’, any reproach he had before instantly dropped, and he couldn’t help but feel silly (as well as vaguely guilty) for reacting such a way towards a social drink with him. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten, since the nerves towards the meeting (does it count as a meeting) had been through the roof over the past few days- almost like before his proposal to his first wife-
Greg shut these thoughts down immediately. Mycroft was nothing like his devious ex-wife. Mycroft was intelligent, thoughtful, caring, smart, attractive- wait no.
Greg wasn’t gay. He never has been, never would be. He loved women. That’s why he’d married them 4 times. Admittedly, they had all failed, but that really wasn’t the point was it. Hed only found a few men attractive, which is perfectly normal straight dude behaviour. Just Mycroft, a man at the bar a few days ago, Richard in his year 13 chemistry class-
He realised he should probably stop counting.
Gregory Lestrade was not gay.
Yet as his meticulously picked out his favourite tie to meet Mycroft in, his body seemed to disagree.
After the most fidgety cab ride of his life, and checking his phone over every buzz, just to be met with ‘this is so you coded’ by Pinterest, and ‘remember to drink water’ by finch, he finally arrived outside Mycroft’s foreboding house.
Greg had always joked to Mycroft it was more of an evil villain’s lair than a true house. However, there was a slight hint of truth in his joke. It couldn’t be good for anyone, living in such a looming, massive house by yourself. It surely got incredibly lonely, with only the portraits of long deceased relatives, and creaking suits of armour as company.
With an ear-piercing screech, surely only possible through centuries of use, rust and wear and tear, he made his way inside of the grounds.
As usual, the grounds were pristine. He wouldn’t even want to know the extortionate amounts of money Mycroft spent keeping it that way. It would surely be thousands.
The trail of delicately trimmed hellebores and lilies spanned for miles. However, he became aware that at this point his mind was just stalling ringing the doorbell. If he spent all day wandering his grounds, he wouldn’t consider what this meeting really meant- or how he really felt about the older Holmes. At some point however, the nausea and light headedness from the anticipation became unbearable, and without properly realising, consciously, what he was doing, he had knocked with the gold-plated doorknocker resembling what he had assumed was the Holmes family crest decades long lost.
The gentle padding of Mycroft’s obscenely priced oxfords could just be heard padding down the corridor. The house was poorly insulated, as it was so old. He'd assumed Mycroft only even stayed to uphold the family tradition
After a few painstaking moments, which felt like hours, the door creaked open. Mycroft poked his head around the door, and before he had even uttered a word, Lestrade’s jaw dropped
he was officially enormously concerned
At 221B, the stairs up to sherlock and john’s flat rumbled. Sherlock groaned. It was definitely Lestrade. However, after listening for a second he perked up, his steps where frantic, with no attempts to avoid the floorboards that make the terrible creak, like he always did. Something big was up, which usually meant an especially good case.
This was perfect as sherlock was getting extremely agitated (definitely from boredom, not his missing brother). At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.
Upon Lestrade stumbling in, sherlock quickly realised this wasn’t about a case though. He was considerably paler than normal, a stark difference from his usual tan look, achieved by long, hard hours on cases. His eyes where wide, incredibly worried, and his movements seemed frantic and jarred, as if he was trying- and failing- to contain his overwhelming worry. Additionally, sherlock recognised that dark grey suit. He was dressed to impress. His silver hair was also slicked to more care than usual, as if there was a certain standard he was upholding in himself…
Mycroft.
Sherlock always knew about Lestrade’s feelings, even when Greg himself was in a deep denial. He knew about all the ex-wives, and how they all ended up cheating, and claiming he never really loved them. He knew that deep down that rung true. Perhaps that was why each divorce stung more, hitting him harder than the last: each time showed his fading hope for normalcy.
Sherlock knew, however much he despised the fact, that Greg loved Mycroft. He cared most about him over anyone, though even he himself was too blind to see the fact. Too blind, as well as holding the cloth that was covering his eyes.
The only reason why Gregory would be getting so agitated would be because Mycroft was in serious trouble!
“Spit it out then Gary. stop floundering in my living room”, sherlock said drily, trying his hardest to keep the slight panic out of his voice. In credit to him, he was incredibly good; his whole childhood was one big masking practise amidst the isolation and mocking. And God, it must be bad to provoke such a reaction
“Its Mycroft…he forgot about our meeting, slammed the door on my face after lying about a meeting…and….his hair was messy!”
That last sentence. His hair…
Sherlock paled to the shade of his mobile screen. This was bad. Worse than hed even considered, which is saying something.
Mycroft’s last bad hair day had led him to the er. And it was a sort of extraordinary luck it wasn’t the icy dulled slab of the morgue instead.
Sherlocks mask dropped instantly. It wasn’t worth it anymore. Not when he could end up an only child- not after just loosing Eurus…not after finally repairing his damaged relationship with his elder brother,
“Why now Mycroft” he uttered, almost inaudibly, knowing how selfish he sounded. Especially considering the numerous times sherlock had ruined Mycroft’s prosperous career prospects with his overdoses and attempts. It was because of sherlock that he even worked in the government in the first place: to protect and watch over him.
Hadn’t he always wanted to be a writer?
The least he could do was drop everything to be there for his older brother.
The first thing Lestrade thought to do after the terrifying events that took place at Mycroft’s porch was to head to 221b baker street. He was unsure of how he’d react, after learning he’d involved his younger brother. Probably grateful, though he’d never show it. They always did have the strangest relationship, caring about each other so intensely, though never once showing it. The Holmeses where much too stubborn, for the good of the people around them, or their own personal relationship.
However, when he’d told sherlock the news of what he witnessed and saw the pure unmasked terror and panic on his face, he knew the situation was even worse than he had first suspected. Hed never seen that face on sherlock, only coming close when john said he was done with sherlock. When he said he was as good as dead to him.
“Sherlock…what’s wrong. What does it mean?”
he asked carefully. Sherlock looked almost fragile for a second, like he’d collapse with one word or movement too harsh…like he was in shock. Suddenly stunned over what to do, Greg took a tentative step forward to offer and solace he could, before sherlocks slight shake of the head reminded him that his comfort was probably directed at the wrong Holmes brother.
Sherlock padded over to his armchair, and sat with his head in his hands, as if he was cursing the world, and regretting any bad deeds that lead this into fruition.
Greg sat on the wooden chair, reserved for those on cases. Sherlock liked it wooden, so clients were more inclined to finish their story sooner rather than later. It was quite uncomfortable to be fair.
“sherlock, what’s wrong with Mycroft mate!” the words escaped Lestrade’s lips, admittedly, slightly harsher than he would have liked, but at this point his concern was off the roof, and any prior butterflies and teenage nerves he’d possessed due to his and Mycroft’s planned meeting had been replaced with a suffocating insatiable wolf in his chest, tearing at all his insides and organs uncontrollably,
The new tone did seem to snap sherlock from his thoughts however, and he looked up at Lestrade with surprise, as if he’d forgotten he was even there.
“Please, sherlock. Tell me what’s wrong with myc. We need to know what we’re working with here”
The nickname slipped out. ‘myc’. It had a nice ring to it. However, he didn’t let himself dwell on it and didn’t think sherlock had picked up on it. There were a lot bigger matters on hand other than a silly new nickname.
Finally, sherlock spoke up, reluctantly albeit, and after clearing his throat and adjusting his seating position about 3 separate times
“Mycroft killed himself when he was a teenager” he said bluntly. Lestrade was stunned into silence. Hed scold sherlock for making such an inappropriate joke if it weren’t for the solemn, devastating look on his face that told Greg it was the truth.
“He was dead for a total of 128 seconds before they managed to bring him back. It was a medical miracle. Brother mine thought it intelligent to take ricin, no antidote and all that. It was me who spotted the warning signs…it was me who spotted something was wrong…it was me who realised his hair was a total mess. I realised he’d given up on the thing that gave him a sense of control in his life, the thing that gave him comfort. I deduced that it meant that he’d decided on an alternate pathway of control- taking his life” he swallowed deeply, as if trying desperately not to cry.
Greg leaped up.
“Shit sherlock. We really need to go! Anything could happen, we cant just sit here chatting…myc needs us!” he exclaimed. Once again, the nickname slipped out like second nature to him.
This reminder seemed to spur him into action, as he swiftly grabbed his coat, moving as fast as the light and shadows around him. He was a man on a mission
“Cook dinner for 4 today Mrs Hudson!” he exclaimed as he ran out the door with Greg, his tone serious enough for Mrs Hudson to not to retort that she wasn’t a housekeeper. she frowned. Something bad was afoot.
They ran like madmen. The rays of the sun where no longer gentle and embracing. Now, scorching and garish, they seared into the duos backs as they raced, singing battle cries of “taxi?!” repeatedly, till eventually one stopped.
“Straight to pall mall, ill pay double if you get there in under 10 minutes!” sherlock exclaimed at the cab driver.
On any other day, Lestrade would have rolled his eyes; sherlock volunteering to pay double when he knew all well it’d be coming out of Greg's pay check seemed a regular occurrence now days. However, today he didn’t mind, and welcomed the uptake in pace from the cab.
They managed to arrive at the manor in 7 minutes. A record. Lestrade did have to hold sherlock back from offering the driver triple though. 30 quid for a 7 minute taxi driver would be going too far.
Finally, they arrived at Mycroft’s front door. This time, Gregory wasn’t dawdling, and poncing around the flowers. He made a beeline for the doorknocker and knocked with firm purpose. In the back of his mind, there was a lingering guilt: Lestrade had never felt this dreadfully worried about any of his past wives.
Mycroft sat with his head in his hands. Gosh, he’d messed up with Gregory terribly. He was sure he’d hate him now, his reputation with him forever sullied. Slamming the door on him, when he was in that amazing suit, with the tie that suited him so well, and that delightful handsome, oh so charming grin (oh how he could go on about it forever) should be unheard of. On any other day, he’d of probably kissed the mas right there and then.
“What are these obscene thought! He’s a co-worker, a friend of my brother…a growing acquaintance…a tool to spy on brother dearest with. So why do I-“ he cut himself off before he could say anything else.
Saying something, pouring it out for the world to hear, makes it real. And when somethings real one can’t take it back. Mycroft’s usual method for storing those sorts of thoughts was to lock them away in him mind, and forget about them for years until they don’t affect him anymore.
Though to be fair, that’s how he got in this mess to begin with.