Archive of Our Own ^beta

6 weeks later

(June)

In the end, the day came not with a bang, but on treacherous souls. Quiet, unseen and without much of a warning. Of course, Mycroft had known it would arrive sooner or later. But despite its inevitability, it still managed to catch him off guard.

June had only just arrived, bringing with it the first faint traces of summer. The day was pleasantly warm and Mycroft would still remember, years later, how the sunlight had caressed his hands where they rested on the soft cushioning of the carriage seats. It reminded him of Gregory's touch, light and warm and gentle, and his thoughts strayed further away. Dust glittered in the still air, illuminated by the sun beam. He let his eyes wander along the sharp lines where light met dark, higher and higher until they reached the window by which they were formed. It was then that he noticed the young horseman drawing up beside them, clad in riding cloth and with a sturdy, small leather bag tied to his arm. It took one glance to his hip – the outline of a revolver barely noticeable beneath the thick material – and Mycroft's dream shattered like a glass sphere in a storm. So delicate and fragile. He closed his eyes for a fracture of a second, surrounded by the thousand tiny pieces, letting them dig into his skin, before thrusting a hand out to accept the offered letter.

The envelope was thin and white, innocent. He breathed in the clean smell of the parchment, letting the pain flood freely through his body and burn every emotion in its path. Only when the blood had run dry and taken the pain with it did he knock on the carriage door. He'd barely opened the letter when the driver had already changed directions, forcing Mycroft to turn his back not only on his previous life, but also a grey-haired Inspector who was currently sitting in his small flat. Waiting for the arrival of a man who might quite possibly never grace his doorstep again.

The ceremony was short and simple. There was, after all, very little to talk about. Not that Mycroft remembered much of it later. Few people were present, and even fewer raised their voice. He would only recall lots of handshaking and then the encouraging smile of his uncle as Mycroft was passed the signet ring, a symbol of his new position. It was heavier than he'd imagined and its weight seemed to symbolise the responsibility it entitled, pulling at his right hand and causing him to feel slightly off balance.

Hours later, standing in the shadows of the grand balcony of his room, Mycroft fought the urge to twist it around. His fingers itched to touch, but he forbade himself this small sign of discomfort. Hands pulled tight around his body instead as he studied the dark sky, trying his best not to fall apart inside. Other things were far more important now. After all, the well being of the British Empire and its people now rested on his shoulders. His personal affairs were of very little importance in comparison and he must not let himself be distracted. Scars would soon form, as they always did. And then they too, would fade, taking their memories with them.

This was no time for weakness. It would never be again.

~

Extract letter #1, 7 years ago, recipient: Gregory Lestrade

Dearest Gregory,

While it pains me to be robbed of the ability to converse with you face to face, at least for the time being, expressing myself on paper relieves some of my sorrow. Our relationship may be new, but it already runs deeper than anything I've ever felt. The tightness that has lain itself upon my heart when my hand left yours that morning but a week ago, decreases with every word. Though I fear it will not dissipate completely, for it would take your laugh to achieve such wonders.

This is my first attempt at nonverbal communication, but it will quite certainly not be the last. Upon realising I could not count the nights I'd spend alone until our paths would cross again on both my hands, it dawned on me that this would be the course of future days and impending destiny. Not because we long for distance, but because our acquaintance has been made known and we must yield to the boundaries of what is socially acceptable.

It is, I reckon, mostly my status that brought our parting, and I cannot help but ask for forgiveness. From now on, we'll be forced to interact in secret, for your reputation as much as mine, though it is the former that bestows on me the willpower to do so. My family's influence runs wide and goes deep enough to offer security, but yours would fall from grace with you. And I could never allow that to happen. [...]

~

Accompanied by three men, Mycroft left for his uncle's estate the following morning. It had been agreed that he would stay there for a handful of days to get accustomed to his new responsibilities under the supervision of his uncle and be introduced to his future security personal. And so, Mycroft found himself yet again on the roads, this time accompanied by three royal guards, who'd been kindly appointed to him back at the ceremony. They did not wear their usual attire, but Mycroft could see years of service in their stiff posture and expressionless faces.

None of them had uttered a single words so far, neither did they seem inclined to change any time soon. Not that Mycroft was very keen to engage in small-talk. Still, he was quite glad they were only temporary and would be replaced by the final guards that awaited him at his destination. If the security his uncle had personally picked would be reason for joy, however, was left to be seen.

~

Extract letter #2, 7 years ago, recipient: Mycroft Holmes

Dearest Mycroft,

Please do not fret. There's no doubt in my heart that you shall do your utmost to cut our time apart as short as possible. And I would not have agreed continue our relationship had I been intimidated by the restrictions we are breaking while doing so. Certain measures to keep it hidden from the face of the public are, of course, unpreventable.

I'm well aware of the risks involved and what great damage our discovery will undoubtedly provoke. But while my mind urges me to reconsider, I know in my heart I could not severe the ties that bind us together. It is a battle I lost long ago. How long, I cannot say. Nor do I regret it. My affection is yours and yours alone to receive. [...]

~

“Good.” One more glance at the carefully acquired information and Mycroft had committed it all to memory. A man's entire life, catalogued and stored away in his head.

“Very good,” he repeated, nodding absently. The perfect solution to a possible future problem. Cut off the threat at its roots, his grandfather always said, and take it out of the game before it can even ponder the rules. 'Who we are is defined by the life we've lived and dream of having in the future; while the experiences and memories we've made and hope of acquiring are, in return, what shapes us.' With just a flick of his hands, a single word, Mycroft was able to end him. Take away everything this man held dear. His past, his dreams, his future. Even himself; the essence of what he was.

It would be so easy, Mycroft thought, and wondered where his dreams and future had gone. And if whomever took it had felt just as powerful and weary and hollow.

“He will be an excellent personal guard, Sir,” the commander assured him, the careful pride of an experienced soldier in his stance and voice. “I've picked him myself and can personally vouch for his capability. The rest of the guard have served under my command for at least three years and Sir Edward Holmes has never expressed any complains of feeling crowded.”

The commander showed him the rest of the files, laying before him the life of one man after another. While he talked, Mycroft listened and nodded along. Back straight and head held high. It was warm in the house and the thick walls and small windows of his uncle's dining room did nothing to encourage a cooling breeze. His clothes were tight and his skin prickled with unease. But he kept composed, while the commander stood just a little too close and the house was just a little too still and unfamiliar.

When the last file was closed and the commander faced him again, Mycroft did the same. “It is an honour to be head of your security, Sir. I assure you your safety will be in the best of hands.”

Mycroft couldn't have cared less.

~

Extract letter #73, 5 years ago, recipient: Gregory Lestrade

[…] My brother informed me you have, as he terms it, been rewarded for 'outstanding stupidity and an astonishing lack of brain activity' by being appointed Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. The stupidity, I can only conclude, does not lie with you but with the people who only now find that step advisable. You were a brilliant Sergeant and there is no flicker of doubt in my mind that you will make an even more brilliant Inspector. I am incredible proud to call you my love and know for certainty that you shall excel at your new work. If you find yourself free next Thursday night, we can celebrate your promotion accordingly. I will make sure to charm the cook into putting together something transportable for dinner, so that I may sneak away with a few bits and a bottle from the cellar. You deserve to be indulged, and I shall do my utmost to provide, my love. [...]

~

He was shorter than Mycroft had imagined. Then again, few people were taller than him and he tended to look down on others frequently; a fortunate will of nature since it served as advantage in his line of profession.

However, Mycroft did not doubt the man would make a more than adequate personal guard. It was clear from the way he moved that he was agile and strong, the distinct line of muscles noticeable even through his dark clothes. His blue eyes never rested but darted around to access his surroundings, undoubtedly seeking out threats, possible weapons and escape routes all at once. His face framed by short blond hair, was round and kind, but inconspicuous enough to not draw too much attention.

"John Watson, Sir," he introduced himself and bowed slightly. He'd not said 'Captain', Mycroft noted, making a mental note to explore that further. Few men refrained from using and insisting on their titles and Mycroft had the suspicion his was well earned. That Commander Sholto had picked him to ensure Mycroft's personal security was only proof of that.

A quick nod from Mycroft and Watson led the way out of his guest rooms, through the carpeted halls and across the yard to the waiting carriage. Behind Mycroft, one of the many servants followed silently, carrying his luggage. Without wasting much time, Mycroft thanked his uncle for his hostility and accepted the wishes of luck in return.

To his uncle's right stood Sir Ledford; to his left Mycroft's aunt, and they all said their goodbyes, before Mycroft entered the carriage. As they passed the gates and the house disappeared from view, he wondered briefly where Ms Ledford had been.

They drove in silence, Mycroft sitting behind the driver with Watson across from him. The carriage walls were thicker than what he was used to, blocking out most of the noises around them.

Without really intending to, Mycroft estimated the solidity of the walls and what distance it would take to breach it with the bullet of a revolver. How high were the chances it would hit him? How likely was it that the wound would be fatale? Would the driver react fast enough? The next hospital was more than haf a day's ride away. But John Watson was a doctor. Had he drunk and eaten enough that morning to ensure his body was strong enough to cope with the maximum amount of endurable blood loss?

It was too quiet and the memories kept pressing to the front. Like wasps against a net, buzzing and pushing. Ready to strike.

"Sir." Watson's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. “Is there anything I should know before we arrive?”

“I am unsure of what you are referring to."

Mycroft examined him with an intense look, but the man did not flinch. “I was merely ensuring I would not be unaware of habits which influence your daily schedule. Security is much easier indoors and I would rather be prepared should you decide upon extended trips around the city.”

“No,” Mycroft answered. Just a bit too fast; a bit too defensive. But Watson didn't notice.

~

Extract letter #158, 3 years ago, recipient: Mycroft Holmes

[..] There is little point in dwelling on dreams, but I cannot help but fantasise what we could have been had the circumstances been of a different nature. Less dark and doomed. Do you reckon a change will ever come? Perhaps, with time, things will evolve. They always do, after all, and if society develops, why not for the better, for once. It is a pointless thought, I'm well aware, but nonetheless comforting.

Just imagine, you and I walking side by side through the streets. Hands entwined, visible for everyone to see or stuffed into coat pockets when the air is chilly. We would sit side by side at your mother's birthday and brush hands under the table. At your brother's wedding – should this day ever come – you would take my hand and I would follow you past the long dinner tables to the wide space under the crystal chandelier. Your steps are sure, mine still a bit clumsy, but it does not matter. With your hand warm on my hip, the saloon around us disappears as we dance. [...]

~

They had long left half of their journey behind, before Mycroft broke the silence that seemed to become thicker with every passing minute. He felt bare under the soldier's gaze, with wounds still too new to be familiar, subconsciously convinced the other man could see them, would examine them, and draw his conclusion.

“You have been praised by many for your abilities. Mainly quick thinking, a clear head when under pressure and a remarkable sense of loyalty.” Mycroft paused, contemplating. “What made you believe you would be a good personal guard?”

“Commander Sholto offered to train me after my return from active duty and it was him who approached me in regard to your personal protection.”

“And you just thought you would trust his judgement?”

Mycroft studied Watson intently, one eyebrow raised in feigned surprise. This time, the other man fidgeted a bit, the slight clenching and unclenching of his hands barely noticeable. His body grew rigid and his chest still, before the air left his lungs in a soundless, but forced stream. Mycroft wondered what it meant.

“The battlefield of a war is not that much different from that of politics, Sir.”

And with a startling clarity, Mycroft realised that Watson feared him. Not the fear of cowards, who shrank in front of nobility and lowered their heads when faced by men of higher status then themselves. But the fear that came with knowledge. For Watson, the man sitting in front of him was one of the most powerful and most secret in the land. Someone who was capable of destroying him if he wished to do so, without having to justify his motives later. He held in his hand the future of the Kingdom as well as the citizens inhabiting it. And it had fallen on Watson to protect him, to ensure he'd keep breathing until his duty was finished, or face the consequences of failure.

~

Extract letter #201, 1 year ago, recipient: Mycroft Holmes

[…] Do you remember that night we spent on your grandparent's grounds, when we had a full day to ourselves? Your grandfather had died, and since your father had had business elsewhere, it fell on you to survey the estate and appoint a temporary groundskeeper. One of my more difficult cases showed ties to a smith's family nearby and with a bit persuasion, I was allowed to go investigate on my own.

I still dream of the gardens every now and then, and how the sunlight caught in your eyes. It washes over me with a pleasant warmth whenever I stroll through St James' Park on my way to Scotland Yard, the memory so clear, so tangible I often catch myself reaching out to take your hand in mine. Sitting by the river bank under the clear canopy of stars that night, I felt convinced no one and nothing could ever touch us again. It was an addiction of an entirely different kind and so much harder to obtain. I was high on love and the incomparable, ineffable knowledge of being understood without restraint.

You were reading, do you remember? Some old book which you'd found in your grandfather's library, covered in dust. Head nestled in my lap you tried to decipher the words by the diminishing daylight and glow from the lamb we brought with us. We talked and you read, neither moving until the candle had burned out and I felt more emotionally naked than ever before in my life. It was frightening, it was liberating. Being alive had never felt so wonderful and so much like a gift. [...]

~

With such care and gentleness many if not most would not have thought Mycroft Holmes capable of possessing, he sealed envelope after envelope and bound them together. The royal blue of the satin bands stood in stark contrast to the cream-coloured paper beneath. His elegant script in royal blue so different to the messy scribble written with graphite. The parchment alternated between Mycroft's expensive, thick stationery and the cheap envelopes Greg had used, darker and wrinkled. They'd agreed early on that Greg would always send Mycroft's letters back along his, thus forgoing the necessary precaution to burn them. Here, in the safety of the Holmes manor, they would not fall into unwanted hands and, if Mycroft was completely honest with himself, he liked keeping them close. A relationship, deep and complex, forever etched into paper.

When he was done, Mycroft stared at the neat stacks, shoulders hunched and eyes glazed. They were twelve in total, with about twenty letters each, depending on their thickness. Up to four letters a month, but always at least one. Filled with memories and dreams, confessions of love and hopes of a better, brighter future for them and themselves.

Mycroft blinked, irritated by the dampness in his eyes, and sighed softly. Not trusting himself to linger any longer, he swiftly pulled forth the square wooden box his mother had given him on his 12th birthday, and sorted the stacks in before shutting the lit with a dull thud. It was made of a stern, dark wood and richly embellished with delicate ornaments. He gently traced the smoothed-out surface along the edges and around the sturdy steel lock, rounded by frequent contact with his younger self's fingers and gleaming in the daylight.

It had kept safe his most treasured possessions of his youth - as short as it had been -, when a delicate flower-shaped stone or a favourite book had still seemed of highest value. That from now on it would hold his heart seemed only fitting. Old, a bit battered and looking rather inconspicuous, it would not draw attention. The complicated lock was merely a matter of assurance. It clicked shut and trapped a life within.

An end to everything that would now define the past.

~

Letter #241 - not sent, lying on top of twelve carefully bound stacks of letters

My dearest Gregory,

It has now been many years since we first stumbled upon each other on the streets, and a lot longer since my eyes first caught yours. It seems a lifetime ago, but the tenderness with which you held my brother close, despite whatever crimes he might have committed, has never escaped my mind. Whenever I find myself lucky enough to catch you looking at me with that same care, but grazed with deep affection, my heart swells with the force of a love too great to describe.

It is all-consuming and makes me believe I am able to fly. Hoping to never again touch ground. You showed me freedom of heart and mind I would have not found by myself and without which I'd undoubtedly be a much colder, lonelier man. Bitter and resentful, forever destined to suffer abhorrence when faced with the cruel reality of this world. For that deed, I'm eternally in your debt.

And while my heart aches at the thought, I hope you'll receive with which you have gifted me from someone else who you someday call dear. Please, do not hesitate to put this doomed relationship behind and open yourself to one that has a future. If you chose to forget, be assured guilt is not necessary, for I believe it is essential to commit to a new, intimate connection. And if it makes you happy, I can wish for nothing more; nothing less.

You are an extraordinary man, Gregory Lestrade, never doubt that. Both your intelligence and wit exceed that of many and you possess a heart that this world is not worthy of. Gentle and caring, and above all, kind. Even to those who deserve it least. Even to me.

I have and will always love you, forever.
Be safe.
Mycroft