nickelsandcoats | Fic: I’ll Give You Everything You Need (You’ve Given Me Everything I Want) 9/?

Title: I’ll Give You Everything You Need (You’ve Given Me Everything I Want) 9/? || at Ao3
Author: Sarah/

nickelsandcoats
Rating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~1,400 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Mycroft's never given his feathers to anyone before, but one person wins him over without even trying.
Notes: For

flying_dreamz's prompt here at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "Blood on the Pavement" from the Sherlock Season 2 soundtrack by David G. Arnold and Michael Price.

This is a sequel to Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). You really should read that one first before you read this story or this story will not make any sense. One last note: this story is set pre-Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You) and will eventually end up post-Reichenbach. Expect lots of angst.

part i || part ii || part iii || part iv || part v || part vi || part vii || part viii

First, I apologize for the wait! This was the chapter that did. not. want to be written. I think I went through 6 versions before I was happy with this one.

Second, and this is important! This part takes place just after chapter three of Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). If you've not read the first three chapters of that story, please read them before you read this part!

Five months after they returned from Sussex, flushed and in love and together, bound inextricably in words and feathers, Sherlock and John found themselves standing around a body with Lestrade and his compatriots in tow.

Sherlock was crouched down, peering at the victim’s jewelry, while John and Lestrade stood off to one side, observing.

“He looks happy,” Lestrade remarked offhand.

John quirked his lips at the inspector.

“So do you, for that matter.”

“I am happy,” John replied after a moment, sharp eyes following Sherlock’s every movement. “More happy than I’ve ever been. And so is he,” he finished, nodding at Sherlock. John peered at Lestrade, weighing and judging. “You look happy too,” he said. “Mycroft’s been good for you, and you for him.”

“What? How did you know about that?”

“It’s hardly a secret, Lestrade. Anyway, Sherlock loves to tease his brother, who retaliates by regaling Sherlock with stories about your dates.”

Lestrade started to splutter a reply, but got cut off by Sherlock’s barrage of observations about the corpse, her killer, and how it was done.

When Sherlock swept by them moments later, John turned to follow, but then stopped and looked back at Lestrade.

“I’m happy for you, truly. You both deserve to be happy.”

And with that, he was gone, jogging after Sherlock, who’d already disappeared around the corner.

It was the last time Lestrade spoke to John. Later, after the funeral, he would wonder if he and Mycroft deserved to be happy after seeing the hell Sherlock was going through.

When Mycroft came to see him, two weeks after John died, they both were half the men they were. When Sherlock took his brother in his palm and let him nestle right up against his chest, his feathers tickling his chin, it felt a bit like they were children again, waiting out the nightmares or the storms that would keep them awake long into the night.
“What did it feel like, being bonded?” Mycroft asked him.

Sherlock looked at him, watching him carefully. “You’ve not told him, have you? Even though he has your feather?”

“He doesn’t know that it’s mine.”

They were silent, listening to the flat creak around them.

“It was everything.” Sherlock said into the silence. “I curse every day that I wasted in not giving him one of my feathers myself. He was everything, everything to me, Mycroft, and now he’s gone, and I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Mycroft watched him, waiting to see if Sherlock would say more, but his brother remained silent until finally, what seemed like an age later, Sherlock murmured, “Don’t waste time, Mycroft. I regret that more than almost anything.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and then reached into his pocket, withdrawing one long, black feather, holding it out to his brother, hating himself for having to be the one to give him this, to break any last hope of John returning to him.

When he left, minutes later, his brother was lying on the sofa, his feather clutched tightly in his hand as if it were a lifeline.

Gregory was gone when Mycroft returned home, heavyhearted and angry at his mother. She had made him wait to see Sherlock but had given no reason why. His brother had been left on his own to suffer, and that alone made his blood boil. He leaned out the window and called for Mummy, and settled in his chair to wait.

She flew in a few minutes later and changed, turning to face her eldest, who was watching her with the coldest stare she had received in years.

“Ah,” she said in greeting, sinking down in the chair that Gregory usually occupied.

“Why?”

She sighed. “Mycroft⎯”

“No,” he interrupted. “I will not hear any of your half-truths. I asked you why I should not go and see him two weeks ago, and you told me to wait. I obeyed, and I wish I had not done so. He is broken, Mummy, far beyond anything I could imagine, and I cannot abide the fact that I left him be on your orders. So, I will hear why you bade me abandon my brother when he needed me most, and I will not be refused.”

“I bade you to do so because it is what will happen to you. You will lose Gregory, Mycroft, that is inevitable. And because you are not bound, you will not survive the guilt of living without binding yourself to the one person who means more to you than any other person. You have denied the both of you the happiness you could have, and misery is the consequence. Sherlock told you he curses every day he did not give John his feather, and they have known each other far less time than you and Gregory. What will happen to you, Mycroft, if you refuse to tell him?”

Mycroft stared at her, aghast. “You allowed Sherlock to fight through his pain alone because you thought it would teach me a lesson?”

“No,” she said, gently, moving to stand in front of him, “I did it so you could see what you would lose. You were not old enough when your father left me to remember the agony of that loss⎯” she looked away, gathered herself, and continued, “and I will not have you suffer the same fate.”

“But you’ll let Sherlock suffer instead?”

“Do not concern yourself over that. They are bound to each other, and as such, I can help them. I will bring John back for your brother. I could not do the same for your father, because like you, I was afraid to give my heart to another and bind myself to him. And when he died, I could do nothing to bring him back to me and to you and your brother. And if you do nothing, when you lose your Gregory, I will be able to do nothing to save you the loss and the pain. Sherlock needed to understand that pain so that he and John will hold on ever tighter.”

Mycroft swallowed, reeling with what his mother had just revealed. “When? When will you bring John back?”

“He’s waiting for me now. Once I return home, I will bring him back.” She reached out and brushed her hand over his hair, smoothing it.

“You speak as if you can see the future. You speak in absolutes⎯you say I will lose Gregory. How can you know that?”

She leaned down and touched her lips to his cheek, lingering for a moment before she pulled away. “My darling, you are far too like me. Do not deny yourself a bondmate because you fear giving your soul over to someone else.”

The front door banged shut and Mycroft looked at her with wide eyes. She changed and croaked, “And I speak the truth of the future, Mycroft. Think on what I’ve said,” and then she was gone.

Gregory opened the study door just as Mycroft turned away from the window. “Who were you talking to?” he asked as he walked over to join him, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek in greeting.

“No one,” Mycroft replied, pulling him tightly.

Mycroft kept Gregory within touching distance the rest of the night, and when they finally crawled into bed, Gregory pulled him close and held him, one hand resting over Mycroft’s heart.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Hmm?”

Gregory paused for a moment, tracing a nonsense pattern on Mycroft’s chest. “You’ve seemed a bit…off tonight. Did something happen?”

“No,” Mycroft said softly. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing, truly.”

“You sure?”

“Very.” He rolled over and kissed Gregory soundly, running one hand up and down his back, feeling the warm, living heat of him. He chased the sound of Gregory’s blood thundering under his fingertips until finally, they fell back, too exhausted to do more than perfunctorily clean themselves up with Gregory’s old t-shirt. They slept tangled up in each other, breathing in sync.

When Mycroft woke the next morning, he was alone. Gregory must have been called in for a case⎯the bed was cold. He rolled over to see if he had left a note on the pillow, but there was none. Instead, his feather was resting on Gregory’s bedside cabinet. He hovered his fingers over it, but withdrew them, trembling slightly.

His mobile trilled, jarring him from his thoughts. He opened the text message and sucked in a sharp breath.

My, my, my, Mr. Holmes. Little brother’s got his playmate back, and now you’ve got one for me to play with too. Oooh what fun we’ll have! But yours looks a bit old⎯maybe I should just have him put down like dear old Doctor Watson was. :)

Ciao for now!
⎯JM

part x