Archive of Our Own ^beta

Words have connotations, and those words with bad connotations usually make the hair on the forearms of any sane person stand on end. Murder. Rape. Death.. Mycroft's adult life had been defined by criminal words like 'murder' and 'rape', and their connotations; he knew what it was to be repulsed by the sound of combined letters and had envied those whom he worked with who had become desensitised to it. Try as he might, he never could. But no word had ever frightened him as much as that six letter word that sparked fear into the lives of everyone the world over. Six letters - a small word by all accounts. But six powerful letters that combined into a word with perhaps one of the worst connotations. Cancer. Perhaps worse still that the word itself was the effects of what the word meant had on the man he loved. When the line, "I'm sorry, Gregory; it's definitely cancer. And it's metastasized..." had come from the lips of the Consultant that day in August, it was the way that Greg's dark brown eyes had watered and searched for anything to look at but at Mycroft himself that had truly broken Mycroft's resolve.

Greg had been fine by most standards, but the contracting stomach pains he'd begun to experience were concerning to them both and, finally, Greg had given into Mycroft's pressure to see his GP. "Probably IBS," he'd told him. "We'll do a colonoscopy, rule out anything going on there. And we'll ultrasound your abdomen, take a stool sample and bloods. Men experience these complaints at times, and you've got a stressful job." He'd said. "Don't worry," He'd smiled. "I'm sure it's nothing." But when it wasn't 'nothing', neither Mycroft nor Greg had been prepared. Bowel Cancer, with metastases in the liver, right kidney and bladder. The idiom 'riddled with cancer' had never felt so apt. The days that followed the diagnosis had been silent, mostly, broken only by moments of sobbing on Greg's part. Mycroft, for his pains, remained stoic.

Greg agreed to chemotherapy, knowing it would not cure him but would perhaps shrink the tumours enough to give him a little extra time. Time for what? Goodbyes, losing his hair and a lot of weight, losing his dignity? Mycroft sat nights in the hospital at Greg's bedside, as the chemotherapy drip ran into his veins and vomiting was a pass-time. He watched nurses dress and undress his weak partner, touch him intimately, and mop his brow when an infection broke through his weakened immune system and caused a potentially lethal fever that didn't break for five days.

John, for his part, was marvellous. He provided more information than the oncologists were willing to and he was a source of a few rare smiles for the ailing DI. Mycroft could never use the right words to thank him, but he was sure that John knew he did. And when weeks of sickness became a month, then two, then four, Mycroft began to wonder if Greg wasn't stronger than the doctors gave him credit for. He saw Christmas, New Year, and the first days of January through with consciousness and bravery. Their gifts were being together and it was all that Mycroft needed.

But words have a way of sneaking into your mind and planting seeds. "He hasn't been conscious for longer than hour for three days." The nurse had said. "Perhaps now would be a good time for loved ones to gather, and for you to make the decisions as to where you'd like it to happen." Mycroft had felt his lungs force all of the air from them at that word - "It". He wouldn't like "it" to happen at all.

With the help of the MacMillan nurses, Mycroft ensured that Greg was returned to him at home. On February sixth, he sat on the hospital bed with Greg's painfully small body held tightly in his arms as morning began to break through the roughly drawn curtains. He perhaps should have called loved ones like the nurses had encouraged, but he couldn't bring himself to make the calls, he couldn't bring himself to take away the time he needed with the man he loved. He held Greg's head against his chest, his arms wrapped around his bony torso, and pushed his face into the light tufts of hair that had slowly begun to grow back over the beginning of January. It was soft and whispy, like that of a baby, and Mycroft could smell Greg's old scent somewhere deep in the roots.

"Forgive my promise my that you'll never see me cry." He whispered, his lips softly pushed against the cool, clammy skin atop Greg's head.

By six thirty-five, the only sound within the room that had once been Mycroft's study was that of his own, deep breaths. It had been forty minutes, but he couldn't let him go. He was growing colder and Mycroft knew that there would come a time when he would have to loose his hands and step down from the bed. He closed his eyes, his face still pushed against the top of Greg's head, and lost the battle to hold back the tears that welled hot and sharp in his eyes.