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It was the tenth time Mycroft had washed his hands in a row. This was no exaggeration, and Mycroft knew this for a fact because he had been counting.
He had washed his hands ten times over each time for exactly 30 seconds.
Greg must have been starting to worry, after all, Mycroft had only gotten a little raw egg on his hands while preparing breakfast, he had said he would be back in a moment, yet there he was.
He told himself that this time his hands would be clean.
Carefully he toweled them dry, ignoring the way his skin had started to crack and bleed especially around his knuckles.
He carefully put the hand towel back in place-
But when was the last time he had washed the towel? Was it clean?
He tried to assure himself that it was, but there was a chance it wasn't of course, and if it wasn't then his hands wouldn't be clean either, and if his hands weren't clean then he was certain to get Greg sick.
He started washing his hands again.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
He couldn't stop there, it was too little time.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Twenty should have been enough, but it felt wrong.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30-
He rushed to get his hands under the faucet as soon as he the imagined timer in his head hit 30, because anything past thirty would be bad luck which meant something horrible was sure to happen to Greg, or Sherlock, maybe even Watson.
He had just finished rinsing off the soap when he began to wonder if he had timed it all right…
Had he got his hands in the water at exactly 30, or had it been a second or so too soon?
If he had been too fast then his hands weren't clean, and what if he touched Greg, and then Greg got hurt and the wound was contaminated because of Mycroft's lack of care?
It wouldn't do.
He started scrubbing his hands again, lathering them up thoroughly even though his skin was burning.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
A third of the way there.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16-
His hand inadvertently bumped into the sink faucet.
He rinsed off the now contaminated soap and started again.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
He would be careful this time.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
He was nearly there
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
Perfect!
Although… He had rushed a bit.
Maybe just once more.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean yet.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Still not clean.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
The water had small red streaks in it from the growing cracks and gaps in his skin.
He went to shut the water off but instead sent his toothbrush tumbling into the sink.
With a sigh he picked it up and covered it in soap.
Once it had been scrubbed for exactly 50 seconds he set it back in place and washed his hands once more.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Not clean
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29.
He was too hasty.
Once more.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Not clean
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
Another bump into the faucet.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Not clean
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31.
Too slow.
Again.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Not clean
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
Not clean.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Not clean
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
Not clean.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Not clean
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
He caught himself before he could begin another repetition.
His hands were shaking now.
He was exhausted.
He wished he could stop, he wished he could feel clean.
But if he let himself stop now then he would be unsafe, he would just be a source of disease.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
Not clean.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
Not clean
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
Technically even by his own illogical rules he had done everything right, but he still found himself eyeing the sink.
Maybe just once more… Better safe than sorry.
But he found that there was simply no soap left.
That should have been more than enough of a sign to stop, but instead he found himself reaching into the cabinet for a fresh container.
He couldn't help but hate himself just a bit as started the process once more.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
He wanted to stop.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
He was so tired.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29.
Too fast.
Again.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
He felt like crying.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
At this rate he thought he was going to scrub right down to the bone before he could satisfy his unruly imagination.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31.
Too Slow.
Again.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
He hated himself by this point.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
He wanted this to stop, he wanted to feel clean.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30.
This time he knocked his hand on the sink basin itself.
Again.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.
He couldn't keep doing this.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.
His whole body ached.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29.
Too fast.
Again.
He just stood there staring at the soap.
He couldn't stand this any longer.
He desperately wanted to wash his hands, he wanted to feel clean, but he simply couldn't bring himself to do it.
His skin hurt so much.
His mind was pleading with him to stop.
He felt empty, as if this had drained him of every ounce of energy in his body.
Very reluctantly and with many glances back at the sink Mycroft dragged himself out of the room.
He only made it as far as the kitchen table where he practically collapsed into his usual seat.
“Mycroft?”
He heard Greg's worried voice somewhere behind him.
But he couldn't bring himself to look at him.
“Mycroft, are you okay?”
Greg's voice was much closer now, somewhere at his shoulder.
Mycroft silently held up his hands.
Greg instantly recognized what he meant.
Mycroft didn't know if that fact was comforting or humiliating.
“Honey,” Greg said with a sigh, sinking into the seat next to him, “Your hands are clean, I promise.”
Mycroft desperately wanted to believe him, he really did, but he simply couldn't; that thought brought tears to his eyes.
He simply felt broken.
“Trust me,” Greg said imploringly, and then to Mycroft's great horror, he took his hands in his.
Mycroft sat up straight with a start, quickly trying to pull them away, but Greg kept a firm grip.
“Your hands are clean,” Greg repeated, “I promise, Mycroft, I wouldn't lie,” He very carefully brought Mycroft’s hands up to his lips, gently kissing every finger.
Mycroft found himself frozen, too terrified to even fight back.
One thought and one thought alone ran through his head, ‘Not clean’. It replayed over and over again, echoing in his head which seemed to be completely empty otherwise.
But as Greg continued to pepper his skin with carefree kisses he felt his thoughts begin to slow.
Some part of him couldn't really doubt Greg, and if Greg wasn't scared then maybe he didn't need to be.
Very slowly he relaxed into the moment.
Greg drew back, although he still kept Mycroft's hands in his, cradling them with greatest care he could.
“Feeling any better?” Greg asked.
Mycroft gave a very brief smile,
“I suppose…” Then he very reluctantly added, “I lost count of how many times I rewashed them, I fear I may have broken my record,” He managed to give a small self deprecating laugh at this, “God, I'm exhausted, Greg,” He admitted, hanging his head.
“Come on, let's get you to bed,” Greg was already up on his feet and pulling him up.
Mycroft retorted, “It's barely ten in the morning, I can't go to bed,” but he followed him nonetheless.
“You need to rest,” Greg insisted, “Besides, doesn't breakfast in bed sound nice?”
“It does,” Mycroft replied because he would have been lying if he said anything else.
Very soon he was back in bed. He may have only left it a few hours ago but he was certainly glad to be back.
“I'll get the food in a moment, one thing first,” Greg ducked out of the room and quickly returned with a bottle of hand lotion, “Gotta do what we can about your skin.”
“Thank you, Greg,” Mycroft said with a small smile, although he felt horrible that he had done such damage in the first place.
Greg was clearly intent on spoiling Mycroft because he insisted on massaging the lotion in himself, apologizing gently at the unpleasant sting.
“It'll feel better before you know it,” He promised.
Then he was gone again, although he was back very quickly and this time he carried plates of freshly made waffles for both of them.
He climbed into bed next to Mycroft.
“I really do appreciate all of this, Greg,” Mycroft said, although he found himself incapable of looking into Greg's eyes as he spoke so earnestly, especially when he admitted, “I can't help but feel I don't deserve this.”
“Of course you do,” Greg said with causal confidence.
Then he gently pulled Mycroft in for a kiss.
He was soft and warm and he smelled like black coffee and cheap cologne.
In that moment Mycroft couldn't help but feel safe…
The world felt closer to right; peaceful, clean even.