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Mycroft stared at his reflection with a small frown. There was just something about today that made the ginger haired man uneasy. He didn't know what but the second he fluttered his pale blue irises open, the odd sensation of dread struck him, knotting his stomach.
Perhaps his premonition was telling him something dreadful would be coming ahead but whatever it was … still remained unfortunately unknown.
Mycroft didn't prefer not knowing things or not understanding certain aspects of why such things would happen. He fancied being knowledgeable in everything and being able to predict things far ahead of its time.
The man's lips curled into a soft smile as he adjusted his tie.
Sherlock used to tell him it was preposterous and he was merely trying to be ominous. They even had little arguments on it — stupid arguments if it were anything to go by. Little brother only stopped denying his premonitions when Mycroft had correctly predicted the exact time news about a massive serial kidnapping case would be aired and because of that, they managed to save the kidnapped children's lives.
The little smile slowly flattened. His beloved wasn't here — hadn’t been since five months ago. He was out there, fighting who knows what to atone the blood he had on his hands — Charles Augustus Magnussen's more specifically. The blackmailer he had warned his baby brother to stay away from and not to get himself involved further than he already had.
Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock didn't heed his advice and continued on with the case still. He even went as far as to drug their family on Christmas to attain certain information just to sell him out for the sake of the case, ending up with the gun showdown between him and the said blackmailer.
The talk that followed after that was short yet undeniably heated and as their parents would say; “quite full of barbed wired remarks and wound opening jabs.”
The British Government sighed. It was quite a tense moment and while he was undoubtedly upset with what his beloved had done, he still made an effort to free his brother of the whole situation by using the power his position had despite failing.
Well, there was the option of going to prison for a while but his beloved had hissed, expressing his disdain of the said option, uttering how he’d rather choose the suicidal mission than be stuck in imprisonment where mere minutes were a death sentence by itself, much so with years.
Naturally, the ginger haired suited gentleman did as best as he could to coax the consulting detective to stay because who wanted their beloved sibling to go anywhere where death was the goal despite the said sibling doing something as moronic as killing someone in front of hundreds of witnesses?
Alas, Sherlock was (again) Sherlock and the second he set his mind on something, there was no way around it.
Dusting the invisible dusts on his shoulder, the politician hummed in satisfaction before worrying pale blue irises hardened. No one could see his inner turmoil. He was about to head to the office after all and it would do no one good by showing any cracks to his iceman persona.
As far as Mycroft was concerned, those bumbling fools wouldn’t dare think he’d even care for anyone’s well being; least with the one he’d shown his annoyance to as well as constantly bicker, showing no end to their ‘difficult’ relationship so to speak despite his constant surveillance for the younger Holmes.
To them, he was merely fulfilling the duty of an elder brother albeit unwillingly. As such, they had no way of knowing how it was all an act and that the stoic, heartless iceman himself loved his little brother beyond anyone could comprehend.
Their narrow minds weren’t observant enough to catch the little details (shared fond glances, double meaning sentences, unique gestures of love) shared behind every heated bicker between them, merely seeing what was shown thus concluding a simple conclusion to who they were to each other; arch-enemies.
Naturally they did it for reasons and while he didn’t fault them for their thinking, it did give the secret lovers a sense of amusement for their stellar acting that even those who thought they’d known him or his brother well could still easily be fooled by said acting.
Casting a final glance at himself and the room that once held two occupants, the ginger haired man walked out, grabbing the suitcase on his way with his head held high and shields readily put up to deal with the everyday mundane goldfish.
Work was as usual really. There wasn't anything different other than a few meetings about a debatable passing law and just the prime minister being his bumbling hard-headed self by going over the same indictment they’ve gone through a few hours ago.
For the moment, the pale blue eyed man thought his premonitions might be at fault, much to the amusement of his lover he’d deemed. Surely, Sherlock would get a kick out of this.
Gladder of this than anything, he hummed in relief, chest a tad lighter than it was this morning. Perhaps his intuition failed him for today yet at least, it failed when he truly wanted it to and he was more than happier to be proven wrong this time around.
Even while the dreadful Lady Smallwood entered by the third knock, showing off her shorter skirt to woo him, he didn’t have it in him to mind much because of how relieved he was.
It was perhaps in the late evening — half past five, just as the ginger haired man was speedily typing his report was the minute his premonition showed its righteousness and how one should never celebrate too early.
The civil servant looked up from his computer as soon as the familiar taps of Anthea’s high heels made their entrance into his office. He held a sigh. Just when he thought work was finished. Apparently, there was more even though it was nearing the end of his office hours.
Though when he took a closer look at his assistant, he could sense something was off. What it was … was still unknown but the way she wasn't looking directly at him indicated this was somehow about him … something personal.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Anthea, is something the matter?”
Anthea still kept her gaze down before she came closer and eventually handed the ginger haired man a file. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. More work or … is this about …?
Sherlock.
The dread from his early awakening began making its appearance once more, twisting his stomach in knots. The civil servant however, kept his calm facade and grabbed the file before glancing at his PA.
Anthea sighed. “It’s about Sherlock, sir.” She began to explain. Mycroft raised his eyebrows once more as if to say ‘And what about my brother, Anthea?’ because he didn’t dare open the file yet.
Usually he would delve into them, scanning every bit of information there was while Anthea summarised the situation but this time, the ginger haired man found he couldn’t because he knew — whatever it was about, wasn’t good.
And by God, he wasn’t ready for such information to befall onto him especially concerning his lover.
Anthea finally darted her gaze to Mycroft’s, her voice softer as she gave him the grievous news. “Our intels from Russia found that Sherlock hadn’t moved after a while. They thought Sherlock was captured at that area’s base and they were right.” She motioned to the file, as if to hint to Mycroft to open it now to see what she was on about but still, the civil servant kept it shut tight in his grip.
At Mycroft’s reluctance, the personal assistant dropped her arms to her sides and continued. “Sherlock was captured but he managed to escape.” So far so good, Mycroft thought to himself. Sherlock managed to escape so that meant his brother was somewhere; perhaps similarly as Serbia. Therefore, he must be in a forest or somewhere in the wild, hiding.
If that were the case, why did Anthea seem upset or seemingly about to give horrid news?
“I suppose Sherlock is still out and about then? And we are to locate him, yes?" It wasn't actually a question. No, as he doubted his sharp assistant wouldn't have done such a task already. She was diligent and would cover her duties without waiting for his commands, which made his work far easier.
This was a silent confirmation to what his mind was concluding by the given data or at least, making up with it unless there was a saving grace to it and he was fatally wrong (which he was hoping for).
Anthea hesitated slightly before she sighed and slowly shook her head. "No, sir. We already know where he was located but the agents reported by the time they got to him, he wasn't breathing. They managed to resuscitate him but as they were getting him medical attention, his heart stopped again."
She stopped, eyes staring at him with melancholy. Naturally, he knew by then the outcome wasn't to be celebrated. No, it was an outcome to be mourned then.
They've lost him.
Mycroft had lost his beloved.
The ginger haired man turned his attention to the file in his grip, his throat dry as he took a deep breath and asked his assistant another question.
"Anthea, is the body already on its way here?" No, Mycroft wouldn’t call the body his little brother until he saw it with his very eyes. The assistant's eyes widened slightly at the flat sounding question but nodded nonetheless.
"Yes, sir. It's on its way as we speak and supposedly, it'll be here by tomorrow morning."
Mycroft stiffly nodded, "Good. You're dismissed, Anthea. Thank you for telling me this."
Quickly, the personal assistant nodded, muttering a gentle 'Of course, sir' and walked out of his office, leaving the civil servant to digest the newly horrid information on his own.
For a moment, he didn't know how to feel. It was as if his emotions froze for a few minutes, none daring to peak from their respective places in his mind.
All he could feel was a slow searing pain in his chest, piercing and aching as his mind carefully dissected the new information he received before going over to store the piece of information.
It wasn’t until the ginger haired man loosened himself into his mind palace and started going up to his beloved’s floor did it all explode.
Everything he kept about Sherlock bursted, filling every crevice of the elder man’s mind palace with bits and pieces of his beloved.
From the moment of his birth until the last moment they had with each other, how Sherlock bloomed in his presence to the day they admitted their love, eyes fondly staring as their lips clashed and silent vows were made.
How Sherlock smelled (sweetly honey with lingering goat milk from Sherlock's favourite body wash and the slight peach from his shampoo), his beaming smiles directed to Mycroft in their private spaces, his knee bent guffaws (contagious, music to Mycroft's ears and something he never failed in doing when the consulting detective was down in the dumps), his breathtaking verdigris eyes that Mycroft absolutely adored and kissed almost every time, his face, his skin and just about everything about who Sherlock was.
It bombarded Mycroft's mind palace until the civil servant couldn't stand it anymore and closed his eyes, silent tears running down his cheeks.
He just lost his beloved and wouldn't be able to get him back.
Shakily, he put aside the slightly crippled file before fishing out a key in his pocket.
It was a key to his locked drawer. A drawer that contained something valuable from his beloved little brother.
Mycroft gulped, wiping his eyes. Carefully, he inserted the key and twisted it until a click could be heard.
As soon as he heard it, the civil servant pulled the drawer, revealing a well made scarf that belonged to none other than the man his heart belonged to. It was something Sherlock had gifted him on their fifth anniversary, saying it’d be useful for the elder man whenever he would miss the younger one.
“Are you certain about giving me this?” He remembered asking the minute his fingers gripped onto the soft midnight blue fabric, warmth for the giver intertwining in his soul.
Sherlock’s eyes twinkled in amusement and fondness. “Of course, dearest.”
“But lover mine, this is one of your favourites!” How could Mycroft ever forget the way Sherlock’s face beamed with utter love at the civil servant’s statement and simply answered it by a gentle “Perfect for my favourite person then.” before crashing their lips together?
A wet chuckle escaped the elder’s lips.
God, how lovely and simple it was at the time. He loved Sherlock so damn much that despite knowing his little br— the body was on its way to its rightful place to be properly buried, he couldn’t help the little flaming hope of it being like last time.
That perhaps his beloved was clearing his trail once more by using his ‘death’ as a distraction so that his enemies wouldn’t be out to hunt him down. Maybe, maybe once he was safe, Sherlock would come back just as he did last time.
He would come back and fall into Mycroft’s arms again, safe and unconditionally loved without a second thought once it was safe for him to do so.
A part of Mycroft (the emotional and definitely his denial) was taken by this idea and wanted to believe it. It made sense, did it not? Surely if Sherlock could do it once, he could do it again even though a small voice in his mind scolded him, telling him Sherlock wouldn’t just leave him in the dark if his plans had taken another turn.
Another part of Mycroft (the logical side naturally) told him that would be impossible. Sherlock was reported dead — not merely just by anyone but also agents tasked to search for him.
Not to mention, there was supposedly a body. A body of his beloved, indicating he was very much dead and naturally everyone knew, the dead will forever remain dead.
The elder brother sighed. He didn't know what to believe or think even though he was certain what he needed to do after all of this. A funeral wasn't going to just suddenly happen after all.
Ultimately, even though he was still slightly in denial and hopeful this was merely his little brother pulling his leg, there was still a body in need to bury and funeral preparations to be made.
But Mycroft wasn't going to think about that now.
For now, the mourning lover gently picked up the neatly wrapped scarf and buried his teary face into the soft fabric, letting the smell of him flood his senses for just a bit longer.
"Guess this is it, huh?" Sherlock uttered as the two stood side by side alone after he had wished his personal goodbyes to the Watsons. Well, as alone as they could be if you counted veering off to a corner of the large field, the guards and obviously, Watsons were waiting for them.
His other half smiled ever so gently, his voice silvery and warm as he replied, "Just so … but this isn't goodbye, Sherlock. We will see each other again."
Sherlock was well aware such sentiment was to reassure him but there was no denying the hidden fear and utmost despair in Mycroft's voice.
The young detective was certain if they were completely alone in the safety of their home, he would've pressed his lips against Mycroft's passionately possibly for the last time and basked under the older man's attention.
He would've drunk up every detail of his lover's body up close and randomly tell Mycroft how breathtakingly stunning he was and how much Sherlock adored the man every moment he could — like he always did but with more … finality he supposed.
Technically, they've had their last night together but to Sherlock, it wasn't enough. He … He wanted more — more time, more … more of everything together. Just more. He didn't want to be separated from his beloved but now …
"Shhh … Don't cry, Lock. It's unbecoming of a Holmes to cry when facing a challenge, hmm?" Sherlock didn't even realize he was crying until of course his beloved uttered such a thing and gently wiped his running tears for him.
Perhaps he could've joked about or banter a bit like he did with John but John was a friend. Mycroft wasn't just a friend to Sherlock — he was more than that so a joke wasn't suitable for this non-goodbye.
Humming, Sherlock decided to throw all caution down the window and gently wrapped his arms around Mycroft's sides before pulling the civil servant into a warm embrace.
Mycroft didn't hesitate to hug back, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder as the younger man pulled the warm and steady body of his lover, letting himself soak in every bit of Mycroft that he could.
"I love you, My." He ended up saying as they loosened their hug.
Mycroft's smile — something he had grown to love for so long — was warm as he gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze. "I love you too, Lock. Take care of yourself and come back to me, will you? Remember, this isn't a goodbye."
Sherlock softly smiled and nodded, taking Mycroft's free hand and giving it a squeeze in return. "I'll try, My. You take care of yourself too, alright?"
"Of course, brother mine."
Sherlock nodded. "Good. Let's go then. Shall we?" He gave Mycroft his arm. Sherlock wasn't sure if his brother was going to take it, seeing as there were still people around and they couldn't possibly hint something was different between the two of them.
Still, he couldn't help the blossoming warmth flooding his chest as soon as Mycroft looped his arm around Sherlock's and together, they silently walked to join the rest to send the young detective off to his exile mission.
Sherlock had desired to be back as Mycroft wished but here was one thing about his older brother.
Mycroft's premonitions were never wrong and while in other situations, it was a reliable tool, Sherlock could only have a tiny flame of hope it was wrong this time.
He could only hope he lasted far longer than six months and come back home to his beloved.
'Into battle.'