Work Text:
There was never enough work to do.
The stars shone their dim light onto the sparsely populated streets of London, signalling that it was not an hour at which a sane person should be awake. Yet, inspite of what nature demanded, one man had stubbornly created more light for himself with a candle, rebelling against the lack of sunlight.
This man, of course, was Mycroft Holmes, the government himself.
He needed to work at every minute he could, not because there was a huge amount of work to be done, but simply because he couldn't live with himself if he allowed a moment of rest to sneak into his schedule.
As previously mentioned- there was never enough work.
Mycroft couldn't sleep unless he'd stretched the limits of his brain at least a bit. He had to stay a wake just a bit longer than what was comfortable. He had to. He had to.
To do what?
Something, but not anything. No, it had to be an important task. He couldn't feel content with reviewing documents he knew were perfect.
There was never enough work. Never.
So he didn't sleep, because how could he allow himself such a luxury when he hadn't earned it. Forget the work he did during the day. The only work he was allowed to consider was what he did right before he slept. In his mind, there was no permanence to his effort. Every night, he had to prove he deserved to sleep right before he put the candles out.
Or else he was a failure. There was never enough work to make him feel otherwise. He finished it all in the day.
So he simply wallowed. Hated himself. Oh, how violently he hated himself! He despised his life.
Alas, he had had to bear this curse, that is, this feeling of failure and fatigue, ever since he was a child.
He couldn't remember who had instilled it in him, but even then, the work was never enough to feel worthy of existence.
He had to prove he deserved to live. Deserved to call himself by his family's name. Deserved to bear the family punishment in place of Sherlock.
Mycroft Holmes was worthless, after all, if he didn't work.