The Darkest Hour

by merlinspurpleshirt

Summary:

Mycroft is not okay. His world ended in Sherringford and yet the Earth is somehow still spinning. Greg picks up his shattered pieces and puts them back together.

Please read the tags and the notes!

I hope you enjoy this one :)

Notes:

The title of this fic comes from my favourite quote “The darkest hour is just before the dawn”, which is something I live by. The worst moments of your life are often followed by the best. For Mycroft, the worst moments occurred in the final problem and whilst we see Sherlock finally get the happiness he deserves following this it's very clear Mycroft was deeply traumatised by everything that was uncovered in the last episode. This fic is about Mycroft bouncing back with the help of Greg.

If you're struggling or relate to any of the darker content in this fic, please please reach out. You are never alone and it does get better. <3

Chapter 1

It was night time. He wasn’t sure how late, nor did he care. In the morning, Mycroft Holmes would drink a shot of espresso and get on with meetings, his clients in the government would not suspect that he’d had yet another sleepless night. This was becoming somewhat of a routine. The last time he’d seen his younger brother, Sherlock had run his eyes over Mycroft's frame, his recent leanness not lost on him. He hadn’t said a word but the knowing look in his expression had been enough for Mycroft to spend the next 2 weeks avoiding him like the plague. It was terrifying to have Sherlock actually care for him, given they’d spent so long pretending they despised each other. Mycroft hadn’t been very good at that, his deep worry for his brother extended to every decision he’d ever made, even his entire job revolved around his need to protect his siblings. 

 

Now, Sherlock’s concern wouldn’t be such an issue if he hadn’t dumped it onto a man who Mycroft was frankly ashamed to have his deepest secrets aired to. Detective Inspector Lestrade had been “checking up on him” ever since Eurus had incarcerated them in her fortress and Mycroft had fallen to pieces. He suspected, no in fact he knew, that Sherlock had told Gregory the entire story and it made Mycroft incredibly uncomfortable. Lestrade had far better things to be doing with his time than caring for his junkie friend’s older brother.

 

Mycroft finally worked up the courage to check the time on his phone, 4:22 am. No wonder he was exhausted. But sleeping brought the memories back, the nightmares from which he woke screaming- not that there was anyone to hear those screams in this gigantic house. Thinking about the look in Eurus’ eyes when she thought she’d won, the steel in Sherlock’s glare when he finally told him the truth about Moriarty. It haunted Mycroft, just like the words of his mother ringing in his head ordering him to do better, telling him he’d failed. 

 

Mycroft had been running since the day Eurus was born, everything he had done since and even during childhood had been an act of distraction. He had thrown himself into his studies as a teenager, aimed for the best grades possible, never let himself rest for a moment to think about the past. He’d carried that same work ethic into his adult life which was a 24 hour scheme to keep himself busy. Sherlock had too adopted a similar habit in substance abuse whilst at university, which he had then relied upon for the next decade and a half, whilst Mycroft had worried himself half to death about his brother he knew their intentions were the same. Do. Not. Let. Yourself. Think. But now he found himself awake in the middle of the night, thinking. It was dangerous for him to indulge in this habit for too long, he knew that, but it had become a ritual to let his thoughts spiral out of control. 

 

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have allowed Moriarty to be in the same room as Eurus? He knew Sherlock would never be able to look at him the same way, once upon a time there had been respect in his eyes, buried beneath all the mock hatred when he looked at his brother. But now when he looked at Sherlock he saw distrust in his little brother's gaze. He had caused this, he had caused the drug use, the constant overdoses by lying to Sherlock for years about their past, he was to blame for all the anguish, he deserved to die alone- 

 

A shatter. Loud enough to wake the dead. The glass in his hand was smashed to smithereens. Jagged and fragile and oh so sharp. Almost autonomously, Mycroft’s hand moved to the largest piece he could find with the perfect edge. He was shaking, but he didn’t notice. His once so brilliant mind was completely empty as he took the glass to his wrist- not for the first time in his life and not for the first time since the Eurus incident. But it was deep, too deep. The glass was far sharper than he’d intended. So much blood, decorating the marble floors, he couldn’t stand because his vision was fading in and out and in and out. 

 

Head in his hands, trying to keep conscious for all he was worth, Mycroft reached for his phone. Who was he supposed to call? Not Sherlock, he didn’t need anything else on his plate. The emergency services were out of the question, it was far too embarrassing for a middle aged man with such influence to admit his weaknesses in plain sight. And if this got out? He would lose the reputation he’d so carefully crafted over the years. But maybe there was one form of emergency service he could use. Mycroft's hand hovered over Detective Inspector Lestrade’s name for 5 seconds. He couldn’t stay focused for longer than that. He took one final look at his lanced wrist and hit the dial button. 

---

Greg would like to say he answered on the first ring. Despite the late (or early depending on your perspective) hour, Greg was wide awake. He didn’t sleep well anymore, not since his wife walked out on him. Even as a child, sleeping alone was something he struggled with, as a teenager the only time he could revise was in the dead of night meaning he would wake up exhausted for school every day. So really there was no excuse as to why Greg didn’t immediately answer. His initial emotion was panic, who on earth was calling at 4am? And then further panic when he saw the name. He didn’t want to let either Holmes brother down. He’d come to develop a genuine curiosity for the elder Holmes, he had always been an elusive figure in Greg’s life and now that he had an actual reason to interact with Mycroft he wasn’t going to throw it away. But he’d found himself developing an attachment to Mycroft, constantly thinking about what he was doing or if he was honest when he told Greg that really he was fine. 

 

When Greg finally answered, it felt like a lifetime had passed although in reality it had been no more than 4 rings. 

 

“Mycroft? Is everything alright?” 

 

There was a long beat in which Greg felt his stomach drop, like the first time he went on a roller coaster with his mates at 13 and had to pretend that he was okay with completely defying the laws of physics on a random Tuesday. 

 

“Gregory, I-” Mycroft struggled to get the words out for the pain that threatened to consume him. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

 

The shakiness in what was usually such a controlled voice, never not laced with sarcasm, made Greg stop in his tracks. Something was profoundly wrong and it was scaring him. 

 

“Can you tell me what happened? Whatever it is, I can find a way to help.” 

 

The earnestness in Gregory’s voice made Mycroft smile, even in his incapacitated state. 

 

Mycroft took a long glance at his wrist, still bleeding violently. “Gregory in a moment of weakness just now I appear to have done something stupid and I require assistance.” 

 

This was definitely not good. It was apparent Mycroft was an extremely powerful man with more connections than Greg could imagine. Anything he needed at any time of day or night, he could get help with at the touch of a button. And yet he had called Greg, asking him for help. If Mycroft was calling his own actions stupid then he had to have done something really bad. For a moment Greg wondered if he was about to confess to murder. But then he remembered how Sherlock had described his brother vomiting at even the thought of murdering the Governor’s wife in Sherringford, he was no sociopath. 

 

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” 

 

The relief flooded through Mycroft’s body involuntarily, the part of him that he was actively fighting against, the primal part that at all costs will keep you alive had rung Greg. He didn’t have it in him to regret that decision yet, the shame was overpowered by the immense agony he was in. And then in one final hurrah, Mycroft Holmes blacked out. It would be 3 days before he woke up. 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Greg rushes to Mycroft's house to find him half dead. He is then faced with the task of telling Sherlock.

Greg drove through the streets of London like a maniac, nearly curbing the car 3 times. Pure fear had seized him the moment he hung up, an urgency he’d never experienced before. He’d only been to Mycroft’s house once, with Sherlock and John to discuss some things post Sherringford, it had been an act of attempted kindness from Sherlock. Mycroft had been his usual polite self but all 3 of them knew he didn’t want the interference in his life. At least Greg had ended that trip knowing where the younger man lived. 

 

When he arrived at the exquisite Victorian townhouse Greg rang the doorbell 4 times before accepting he was just going to have to enter. One deep breath and then another and he was in. The beauty and the care Mycroft Holmes had clearly taken to decorating his home wasn’t lost on Greg but right now he had greater priorities. “Mycroft!” No response. It was worth a try at least. He crept through the hall, found no trace of him in the downstairs loo or the living room. When he came to the final doorway in the corridor, Greg had another gut feeling. He knew that whatever lay behind this door was going to alter him forever. He turned the door handle and steeled himself. 

 

A corpse. At least that's what it looked like. It took a lot of deep breaths to convince himself that it wasn’t Mycroft Holmes’ dead body lying on the floor. As he took another step closer he finally understood the reason Mycroft had been so vague in his cry for help. This was a bloodbath, a massacre. Mycroft lay in the fetal position, clutching his wrist which was severely bleeding. The depth of the wound was undeniably close to fatal. He was lying in shards of glass, they were everywhere, crunching beneath Greg’s feet as he got closer. One giant shard was covered in blood and significantly sharper than the rest. Jesus Christ. No wonder Mycroft had been unable to speak properly. You could see things that Greg didn’t even know existed in the wrist. 

 

Suddenly he was legging it to the bin, his dinner exiting gracefully from his body. He needed to be strong now. Greg forced himself to kneel next to Mycroft, touching him felt so unbelievably wrong and every alarm bell told him to back off. But he took his pulse from his neck. It was so weak you almost missed it. Greg was no doctor but he had handled enough dead bodies to know that Mycroft was close to joining the long list of people Greg couldn’t save. He scrambled for his phone and rang 999. Mycroft’s wish for discretion would not be fulfilled tonight. 

 

Waiting for the ambulance felt like a lifetime. He followed their instructions, applied pressure on the wound, monitored his breathing, and didn't leave him alone for a second. When the paramedics arrived Greg could ,for half a moment, let himself believe that Mycroft would pull through. The thought of Mycroft Holmes being alone in such a big house with his thoughts at 4am and deciding to do this to himself nearly reduced Lestrade to tears. And he wasn’t an overly emotional man. He wished the Holmes family had been taught early on to ask for help, it would’ve saved a lot of emotional distress. 

 

---

“Greg it’s 6 am how can you possibly have a case for me-”

“Sherlock, mate, it's your brother.” 

The tremor in the final word struck fear through Sherlock's heart. 

“Mycroft? What happened?”

“Last night at around 4 in the morning I got a phone call.” Greg swallowed, hard. “It was Mycroft, asking for help but he wouldn’t specify what with. I went round there and-”

“And?”

“He was unconscious, Sherlock. Half dead. He’d cut his wrist with glass and I’ve never seen wounds like that.”

There was a long pause, so much unsaid.

“Where is he now?” The anxiety in the younger Holmes was transparent. 

“A & E. He’s going to be okay, they said he’ll pull through. He’s not woken up yet though.”

“Shit. Greg, I- Thank you for being there when I couldn’t.”

“It’s my pleasure but Sherlock, he’s not alright. Anyone could tell you that. What happened at Sherringford is eating him alive.”

“He won’t see me. He’s avoiding me and I don’t know why.”

Greg had a pretty good idea why.

“I think he’s isolating himself so you won’t find out he’s struggling.”

 

It would’ve been hypocritical of Sherlock for criticising his brother’s behaviour given he’d spent the majority of his adult life doing the same.

“Look Sherlock, I gotta go, there’s a doctor waiting to speak to me. Just get here as soon as you can alright?”

“I’ll be there Greg.”

 

---

 

After a long conversation explaining to John why on earth he was leaving the house so early for the first time in his life Sherlock was out the door, trembling slightly. He knew that this was the same anxiety which had plagued his brother for years and years and Sherlock wondered if this was the universes’ way of making him develop further empathy. 

 

When he got to the ward Mycroft was being kept on, of course in some back room of the hospital to protect anyone important from finding out about this, Sherlock’s heart sank. His brother was bandaged to hell and he was still unconscious. What made it worse was the utterly defeated expression on Lestrade’s face.

 

Greg stood up, pulled Sherlock into a hug. For a long while neither said a word, the guilt threatening to consume them both. 

 

Sherlock ever so tenderly, much to Greg’s surprise, sat down on the opposite side of Mycroft’s bed and took his hand. 

 

“Do you want a moment? I can leave for a sec-”

 

“NO. Sorry, didn’t mean to shout. Please don’t go.”

 

Greg nodded, he knew the feeling. Right now he was completely out of his depth, only acting on Sherlock’s plea to him outside Musgrave. Or was he? Greg couldn’t deny the pull he felt towards Mycroft. The need to understand him, learn as much as he could about the mystery government official. 

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop this Sherlock. I broke your promise.”

 

“Greg, you didn’t break any promise. My brother called you in a moment of weakness. Do you understand how much he’d have to trust you to expose himself like that? He’s the most stubborn man alive and yet you’ve somehow got through to him.”

 

They both stared at Mycroft for a long time, his emaciated features becoming increasingly apparent.

 

“Our parents always weaponised food.” Sherlock breathes, this is something he can’t talk about, even with John. “It was a constant competition, ‘Sherlock, look at how well Mycroft’s eaten all his dinner, why can’t you be more like Mycroft?’ and then on other occasions ‘Mycroft you need to lose weight, you have an appetite bigger than your father’s. Why can’t you be more like Sherlock?’” 

 

Greg felt his hatred for the Holmes’ parents rise even more in that moment.  No wonder both Sherlock and Mycroft had such an odd relationship with food. 

 

“Mycroft has been dieting since his teens. It's something I should’ve been kinder to him about. He just looks sick Greg, this isn’t healthy.”

 

Greg had heard over the years he’d known Sherlock some of the comments he’d made about his brother’s weight. It wasn’t right and it made the problem worse. But he knew that Sherlock didn’t understand what he was saying and the consequences to his actions, so he didn’t have it in him to be angry.

 

“Just, maybe less of the pointed comments would be nice.”

 

Sherlock nodded wearily, still holding Mycroft’s hand like it was tethering him to the Earth. 

 

“Why would he do this Greg? Why would he let himself come so close to death? Both of us have had more first aid training than most doctors. He knew how to save himself or at least make it less likely he would die. And yet he didn’t even apply pressure to the wound. What was he doing?”

 

Greg could probably take a wild guess but he didn’t want to be the one to tell Sherlock that his big brother was actively suicidal so he chose a different route.

 

“He’s struggling, Sherlock. This is a cry for help.”

“He’s always been the strong one, I’ve always been the one pressing self destruct. I don’t know how to be there for him in the same way he’s been there for me.”

“Well this is a good start.” Greg smiled genuinely at Sherlock, knowing and understanding the reassurance he was craving.

Chapter 3

Those 3 days were the longest and most exhausting of Greg’s life. Something compelled him to never leave Mycroft’s side, he couldn’t bear the idea of him being alone in this sterile institution. There was also a level of guilt about this decision, despite the fact he and Mycroft had spoken a handful of times outside of Sherlock or work, Greg thought there was so much more to the younger man than met the eye and he was desperate to be there for him given no one else was. 

 

Sherlock and John paid multiple visits but they were awkward and it was obvious how upsetting Sherlock found the entire situation. He also knew that Sherlock hadn’t quite expected him to be so fervorous in his dedication to the promise he’d made at Musgrave but was deeply grateful that he had been. 

 

After 75 hours of unconsciousness, of constant worry that he wouldn’t make it through, Mycroft Holmes opened his eyes. Greg was the only one in the room, pacing, debating whether he should go and eat some more of that awful cafeteria food. The ringing in Mycroft’s head was so loud that he couldn’t focus on anything. He didn’t feel well rested at all, the dreams he’d experienced had been so vivid and so bizarre. The last thing he remembered was ringing Greg, oh God he’d rung Greg. And now Greg was here. How long had it been? What had he said or done and who knew? The panic was enough to wake him up just as Greg noticed that he was back.  

 

“Mycroft!! You have no idea how glad I am that you’re awake mate”

 

Mycroft took another deep breath, speaking was difficult when the drugs were messing with his mind. He had no idea how Sherlock found this enjoyable. He managed a small, weak smile.

 

“How long was I out?” He took a quick glance at his heavily bandaged wrist and his heart sank. 

“Over 3 days.”

 

Well shit. This was going to be hard to explain to work. Although they’d been cutting him some slack recently, he knew if he wanted to keep the level of success and power he currently held he seriously needed to get his act together. 

 

Greg noticed the expression on his face. 

“Some people from your job came round, checking on you. Lady Smallwood? She looked very worried but she told me to tell you that she has it all covered. Only a handful of people know about this.”

 

Mycroft breathed a noticeable sigh of relief and the air became heavy with uncertainty.

 

“Does my brother know?”

 

Greg took a moment to figure out how he wanted to word this.

 

“I had to ring him pretty much straight away. He was devastated to say the least. He’s spent a lot of time here at your bedside.”

 

The embarrassment on Mycroft’s face was unmissable.

 

“Thank you, Gregory. It appears I owe you my life.”

 

The implication of this statement was immense. They were forever tied by this event now, Greg had seen the side of him that nobody else saw. And he hadn’t run.

 

“That’s my job.” He shrugged. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

“Oddly enough I find myself thinking I’m also glad.”

 

A warmth passed between them and for the first time, Mycroft found himself wondering if things really might just improve. 

 

---

Sherlock blundered into the hospital room like a maniac but when he lay eyes on his big brother he stopped in his tracks. Greg saw the gravity of the situation hit him for the first time, and watched the light leave his eyes. 

 

Not a word was spoken between the Holmes brothers and yet the intensity of the deductions passing between them was almost tangible. 

Greg left the room, this was a conversation he didn’t want to hear. 

 

Meanwhile, Mycroft found it hard to breathe. How many times had he walked into a hospital room to see Sherlock lying there after an overdose? How many times had he held his brothers frozen hand and begged silently to anyone who would listen for him to wake up? And now he was the one lying in the bed, scaring his brother to death. The guilt was all consuming as he met Sherlock’s eyes. 

 

“Why?”

Mycroft dropped his gaze, genuinely considering the answer. 

 

“Because my presence in this world is benefitting no one.”

 

Sherlock felt like he’d been stabbed. All the air had left his lungs.

 

“You can’t possibly mean that.”

 

The exhausted and sorrowful look on Mycroft's face spoke the words he couldn’t.

 

“Mycroft you have 2 people who’ve sat here for over 72 hours, willing you to wake up. Greg would’ve done anything to make you better and I- 

Jesus Christ Mycroft I need you to be okay. No matter how much time passes or how close me and John become I can’t do this without you. You're my rock and I- I just I can’t, okay?”

 

It was transparent how painful it was for Sherlock to admit this.

 

“I’m sorry Sherlock.” His voice cracked. “I haven’t been the brother you deserved.”

 

“Why can’t you see what everyone else sees? You’ve been more than I could ever deserve. My whole life I’ve pushed you away and yet you’ve never stopped saving me, you could’ve let me do my worst and believe me I tested your limits. And yet I’m still here and the only person I have to thank for that is you. So for God’s sake for once in your life admit that I’m right and accept help.”

 

Mycroft swallowed once and nodded. 

---

The conditions on which Sherlock bargained Mycroft’s way out of hospital with him were as follows: 1. He was to eat at least one decent meal a day, 2. John would assess his physical wellbeing once a week and 3. He wasn’t to isolate himself.

 

That last condition came with a bonus. 

 

Greg Lestrade had, for some reason unbeknownst to Mycroft, refused to leave his side since he woke up. And now he was offering to stay with him for a few days. And Mycroft was expected to give an answer.

 

“Detective Inspector, I couldn’t possibly ask this of you-”

“It’s Greg. And you’re not asking me, I’m asking you. Let me do this for you.”

“Gregory I-”

“Please?”

This caught Mycroft off guard. He was strangely intrigued by Gregory. His stubborn refusal to let Mycroft give up was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He was like bottled sunshine. His warmth and love for being alive was palpable and touched everyone he met. If anyone needed someone like that in their life, it was Mycroft Holmes.

 

And so, the icy figure behind the British government let the glittering Detective Inspector into his home and into his heart. 

Chapter 4

Summary:

Early Mystrade fluff

Greg Lestrade was in his scruffy one bedroom flat, all he could afford in the ever increasingly expensive London these days. Especially since, well since he found himself being the sole household income. He folded jeans, t-shirts, work shirts, a toothbrush, everything he could remember he would need into his black nike duffel bag. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. The thought of being alone with Mycroft Holmes for multiple weeks, in his house, filled him with emotions he didn’t quite understand. He was frankly amazed that the man known for his secrecy and unwillingness to open up to people had even considered agreeing to the proposition that Greg would move in with him. Maybe it had been the morphine, that usually affected the Holmes’ brothers in weird ways- his friendship with Sherlock had taught him that, if nothing else. 

 

He’d given Mycroft a morning to settle in before he arrived, he knew that anyone who’d been through what he had would need some time alone. Sherlock hadn’t been happy about this but Greg had overheard John in a low voice reassure him, “He’s not you Sherlock. He’s not going to relapse just because the opportunity presented itself.” It had been the bitter, stinging truth. 

 

When a car pulled up outside Greg’s block of flats he felt his stomach drop for the a millionth time in the last few weeks. Mycroft Holmes, the British government, the puppet master behind all modern institutions was using his resources on Greg. Because Greg was going to be looking after him? The enormity of the situation threatened to choke Greg. He went to pick up his bags but before he could, a tall man in a suit, wearing sunglasses, swept them away from him. The privileges of the elite had never been so evident to Greg in this moment but there was no way he wasn’t going to enjoy them. 

 

The drive was far too quick and suddenly Greg was back at Mycroft’s house, knocking on the door. He half expected a butler to answer but it was just Mycroft. Just Mycroft, who looked absolutely exhausted. Greg ran his eyes over the combed hair and the freshly shaved face, but also the grey joggers and black t-shirt, things he couldn’t in a million years have pictured the elder Holmes wearing. And God he looked good. He pushed that thought to the side.

 

“Hi”

“Hello Gregory, do come in.”

 

In much better circumstances this time round, Greg entered Mycroft’s lavish house, mouth agape at it in daylight. It was beautiful, exquisite even. He lived in this gigantic house… all alone? No wonder he’d gone off the rails, houses like this. They drive you mad in the end. 

 

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Greg had to laugh, “more like I’ve just seen how the 1% live.”

 

That got a genuine laugh from Mycroft, his first in a while.

 

“Well, one has to do justice to the Victorian era. I’ve seen what some of my neighbours have done with their houses. Grey and beige and no life whatsoever. It's so sad.”

 

Greg wondered if there was another dimension to Mycroft he hadn’t yet discovered.

 

“Tea?”

 

“Definitely, two sugars and milk please. I can make it if you want?”

“No, no. Don’t be silly.”

 

Greg watched Mycroft work his magic and honestly he’d never had a cuppa like it. The atmosphere was quiet for a while although not awkward. He could practically see Mycroft thinking aloud.

 

“Thank you, Gregory. You’re sacrificing so much by being here and I can tell you your company means the world.”

“Sacrificing? Myc, I’m not sacrificing anything. I want to do this for you.” 

 

The nickname came far too easily and got a raise of an eyebrow in return. Mycroft didn’t want to admit the way that sentence had made him feel.

 

“Sherlock cares a lot about you. He’s trying, I hope you know that.”

“My brother has always been more emotionally intelligent than I am. He truly has a heart, it’s his weakness and his greatest strength.”

“Oh don’t give me that, I think we both know you have a heart.”

 

A look passed between them, quiet and fleeting.

 

“Perhaps, but it doesn’t come as naturally to me.”

 

“Which makes it all the more genuine, don’t you think?”

 

Another silence.

“Why don’t we watch a movie?”

 

“Splendid idea, what do you have in mind?”

Greg looked momentarily embarrassed. 

“Frozen.”

 

“FROZEN?”

 

“Come on Myc, it's the best film of all time, the world building, the characters, the back story.”

“As in the Disney movie, Frozen?”

 

“You’ve never seen it?”

 

“I have to say I had better things to be doing at the time.”

“Like running the country? Booooring. Missed out on a classic. Well that’s what we’re watching.”

 

Greg made hot chocolate and threw Mycroft a blanket. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa but it was strangely intimate. When they started the film, Greg was enthralled and Mycroft was astounded at how seriously he took it. 

 

“Oh Anna, if only there was someone out there who loved you.”

 

“No???” Gasp

 

And suddenly the 2 middle aged men were laughing like children on the sofa, Greg wiping tears from his eyes and the room warm with something unspoken.

 

“I knew that would get you. I knew it.”

 

“I have to admit this has a better plot than some Oscar nominated movies I’ve been forced to endure.”

 

“This deserved this an Oscar.”

“Debatable”

 

And for a second, debating Frozen reviews and drinking hot chocolate, Mycroft Holmes could almost forget about his failures, his childhood, his siblings. Because the man in front of him was describing the plot holes of Anna and Elsa's back story and looking so damn good whilst doing it. He could breathe, just a little.

 

Chapter 5

Summary:

Mycroft Holmes has an eating disorder.

Notes:

Mark and Rupert are going to be in season 2 of bookish together??!!! I'm so incredibly normal about this guys

For as long as Mycroft Holmes could remember, food had been an essential part of who he was. Throughout the years of Eurus and the turbulence of his childhood, food had been a comfort. He’d always eaten more than his siblings, than his peers and his mother had taken delight in pointing this fact out whenever she wanted to make a point. Of course, Sherlock eventually had adopted this habit and it became casual dinner time conversation to laugh at Mycroft, “Oh isn’t it typical Mycroft, always wanting more than your fair share.” At secondary school it had been no different although the passive aggressive snarky comments had become simply just, aggressive. “Oi, pudge what’s wrong with you? Why’d you not talk?” Had been a comment delightfully thrown in Mycroft’s face many times during his teen years. His nickname of pudge was so cruel and so perfectly upsetting in the way the bullies had intended it to be.

 

At the age of 13 Mycroft had learnt that if you throw up your food, you don’t consume the calories. He’d learnt you could find that comfort from food and not have to endure the comments and stares. Meal after meal, whenever he could he’d raced to the bathroom. He’d lost weight, and gradually people stopped talking about his body. They mocked his personality instead, his isolation from the rest of society, his coldness, his lack of friends. But Mycroft didn’t mind that, it was intentional that he kept to himself. He could control it. At 16 after a dentists appointment where they told him and his less than amused mother that if he carried on in this manner he would have no teeth and his heart would give out Mycroft had to stop. He managed to eat relatively normally until he left home, counting down every second until he could move out.

 

At university he was free to starve and starve he did. The dentist's warnings still rang in his mind and so Mycroft chose another route. Restricting felt better than he’d ever imagined it would and missing meals became an addiction. He enjoyed going to bed feeling empty, he craved the lightheadedness and just as food once had been, the absence of it became a comfort. At some point he crossed another line and he awoke on the floor of his lecture theatre to his middle aged lecturer looking more concerned for him than his parents ever had in his life. He’d started eating disorder treatment the next day. 

 

Over time, with age, whilst the thoughts never truly left, Mycroft found it easier to ignore them. He sustained his body enough for him to do his job and well. You can’t run the country on an empty stomach after all. That had been until, well until Eurus happened again. The stress and anxiety had left him with little appetite. He’d started missing meals and then one thing led to another and suddenly he was binging and throwing up like he was 13 again.

Greg had been made aware by Sherlock that Mycroft struggled with food. He’d thought he’d meant restricting, he’d always assumed Mycroft was anorexic. So he’d been extremely shocked when he’d agreed to have Chinese and ate the entire meal. Relieved even, he’d allowed himself to hope that maybe Mycroft was going to be okay. That was until Mycroft had excused himself and left the table before they’d even cleared the plates. Greg could hear the toilet flush and he still didn’t come out. He had a sixth sense that something was wrong. 

 

Greg apprehensively knocked on the door and the immediate silence that followed was enough to chill him to the core. Mycroft being locked in a room full of razors was especially concerning.

“Myc? Can I come in?”

 

After a minute or so of silence, the door lock turned. Greg walked in, what he found was Mycroft on the floor, red rimmed eyes full of tears. He could smell what had happened. Greg rushed over.

 

“Hey, hey its alright.”

And then without even realising what he was doing, Greg pulled Mycroft into a hug. And God help him, Mycroft hugged back, clinging to him like his life depended on it.

 

“I’m sorry”

 

Greg’s stomach dropped, still holding him and stroking his arm he replied tenderly.

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, none of this is easy or going to be fixed overnight.”

 

“I took advantage of your ignorance. That was wrong of me.”

“No, you’re struggling and you had a minor setback. All that matters to me is that you’re okay.”

 

“Why, why are you doing this Gregory? I don’t deserve-”

 

Greg pulled back so he could see Mycroft’s eyes.

 

“Stop, Myc. You just answered your own question. I’m doing this because you can’t see how brilliant you are and nobody else is willing to show you. I need you to see that.”

 

“Thank you.”