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Mycroft came awake curled up on the floor of a cold cell. He sat up, scrubbing his face in his hands, trying to stay calm. He was alone, and he couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. At least he wasn’t dead, and he was reasonably certain Sherlock and John were probably both alive as well as he’d seen the darts a moment before he was hit with one.
“Eurus?” he asked, but there was no answer, only heavy silence.
Swallowing, Mycroft looked at his reflection in the glass, adjusting his tie out of habit. HIs eyes tracked over to the hatch. It was empty but as he blinked he could see the dead governor all over again.
David Goldstein, his brain unhelpfully supplied. Married, no children. 57 years old. Thirty-two years of government service. Head of Sherrinford Facility seven years.
Mycroft took a breath and forced himself to stand. It wouldn’t be any use to dwell on the past, after all. He couldn’t help a bitter laugh at the thought. This whole situation was all about dwelling on the past.
Caring is not an advantage. All lives end. All hearts are broken.
Mycroft closed his eyes, saw the bloody image again, and opened them quickly. He’d tried to shield Sherlock from all of this. Tried to keep Eurus safe at the same time as he tried to protect the world from her. Sherlock had seemed to have erased his sister and so he’d gone along with it, encouraging their parents to do the same.
He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. What had been the point, in the end? Sherlock had become a junky, burning up his brilliant mind. Eurus had, in the end, manipulated him as well, getting him to bring her Moriarty and five minutes alone.
David wasn’t the only casualty. Nor were the Garridebs. Perhaps he couldn’t prove all of Moriarty's involvement, but he knew it had happened. Because of Moriarity, because of Eurus, Sherlock had jumped off that roof. John Watson had nearly not survived.
The best laid plans of Mice and Men go oft awry
Mycroft closed his eyes and quickly opened them again. He’d seen terrible things before, of course. But this was different. This man had been, if not a friend, then at least a colleague, someone he’d spent a significant quantity of time with.
He took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. The silence weighed on him. Being alone with his thoughts was generally a preferred state of being, but here, now, it was menacing.
Suddenly there was the crackle of a speaker and a familiar voice. “Mycroft?”
Mycroft never thought he’d be so happy to hear that voice. “Grego…. Lestrade?” He wasn’t sure who else was listening. “I’m in Eurus’s cell. How are Sherlock and John?”
“We’re sending someone to let you out,” he said. “We’ve got Eurus in hand, John and Sherlock are fine.”
Mycroft’s sagged against the wall in relief. “Thank you,” he said, voice almost certainly not shaking.
“We’ll get you home, don’t worry.” The sound cut out and Mycroft quickly collected himself before anyone came to get him.
**
Several hours later Mycroft was home, in his study, drinking his second (or was it third?) scotch. Either way, his decanter sat half empty close at hand. He was listening to music. Violin. Recordings of Eurus that he’d had made some time ago. Sherlock and John were safe at John’s house. Last he’d looked they’d been asleep together in bed, Rosie tucked between them
But there was no way he could sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he could see it again. Mostly David. But also the three brothers dropping into the sea. His failure. His inability to protect his own family or anyone else's.
The soft tread of feet on the carpet told him Greg had arrived. He closed his eyes, preferring ghosts to seeing disappointment on his lover’s face. When the footsteps hesitated, he spoke aloud.
“Gregory.”
Crossing the room, Greg reached over to shut the music off and took the drink from his hand. “I think you’ve had enough, yeah?”
Mycroft looked up at him for a moment, then at the decanter. “How does one know?”
“Well, suppose that depends on what your goal is.” Greg set the glass down just out of reach and took a seat next to him. “Sherlock told me to check up on you.”
“You would have anyway.” Mycroft fidgeted with his hands, as if not quite knowing what to do now that they were empty.
“True, but he meant it.” Greg reached over and covered Mycroft’s hand with his own. “Can you talk about it?”
“I do suppose that is part of the purpose of the drink,” said Mycroft, looking down at Greg’s hand. “Five people are dead today. Because of me. More in the past.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Greg softly. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve done all you can for your family.”
Mycroft scoffed and stood, running a hand through his hair. “I should have done more. What kind of man am I? What kind of brother? One a junky, the other locked away and yet I still allowed her access to a man I knew was dangerous. Always warned Sherlock about sentiment, and yet my life has been as warped by it as his.”
Greg fliniched. “Love has made you who you are.” He stood up and crossed to him. “You’re a good man. You couldn’t have known what she did. And you didn’t make Sherlock start taking drugs.”
Mycroft looked into the fire. “I was fourteen when she was put away. Nineteen when I assumed care of her from Uncle Rudi.”
Greg put a hand on his shoulder. “And all your life you’ve tried to keep her protected and safe, even if that meant locking her away.”
“She played a game with us. She always liked games. In this case she played a game with lives.”
“The five who died,” Greg watched the firelight flicker across his face.
Mycroft gave a short nod. “The first one, either I or John were to shoot him or else his wife would die. I couldn’t even take the gun. John did, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. David killed himself, Eurus killed his wife.” Mycroft drew in a ragged breath. “Soldiers, was what John said. That we had to be soldiers to get through it. Sherlock agreed.” Mycroft took another breath. “I’m not a soldier.”
“No, you’re not,” agreed Greg, squeezing his shoulder. “And that is okay.”
“I should have done better.” Mycroft’s voice cracked.
Greg moved closer to Mycroft and folded him into his arms. Mycroft rest his head on Greg’s shoulder, just breathing.
“You did the best you could,” repeated Greg, quietly. “You were just a kid yourself, you know.”
“I made a promise,” said Mycroft. “I swore that I would look after them.”
“And you did and you have.” Greg pulled back to look Mycroft in the eyes. “And now Eurus is safe. And Sherlock is clean and has John and Rosie. You’ve done a good job.”
Mycroft studied his face a moment, then leaned in and kissed him, very gently. “The liquor, it seems, has gone to my head. Would you help me upstairs?”
“Need me to check the closet for clowns?” teased Greg.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Only if you insist. I’m going to regret ever telling you why I wouldn’t watch that film.” He leaned on Greg and let himself be led upstairs.
**
Greg made a show of checking the closet and under the bed, just to put a smile on Mycroft’s face while he changed into his pyjamas. “I do believe I’m safe,” said Mycroft.
“Well, just to be sure, I better spend the night,” he said, stripping down to his undershirt and boxers.
“If you must,” said Mycroft, getting into bed.
“I must. And Anthea said you aren’t allowed anywhere near the office until after noon tomorrow. At the earliest.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “A conspiracy, I see.” Still he curled up with his head on Greg’s chest. Greg put an arm around him and kissed the top of his head.
“It’s okay if you need someone to protect and care for you too, you know.”
Mycroft scoffed a bit, but the liquor really was going to his head and he quickly drifted off.
**
“No!” Mycroft sat bolt upright, reaching out as if he could stop the gunshot ringing in his ears.
He breathed hard, panting, eyes slowly focusing in front of him. Next to him he could feel Greg moving, slowly resting a gentle hand on the small of his back.
At the soft touch he was undone, a sob breaking loose.
“Oh, Mycroft,” said Greg softly, pulling him back against his chest.
Mycroft folded up against him, resting his head against Greg’s shoulder, shaking as he started to truly cry.
Greg wrapped his arms around him, just holding him tightly, rocking him gently. Mycroft clung to him knowing that Greg would protect him, that he would stay, that he would keep him safe. That he didn’t have to do this alone anymore.