Fic: I'll Give You Everything You Need (You've Given Me Everything I Want) 13/?

[nickelsandcoats]

Title: I'll Give You Everything You Need (You've Given Me Everything I Want) 13/? || at Ao3
Author: Sarah/nickelsandcoats
Rating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,300 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, "SHERlocked" 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 || part ix || part x || part xi || part xii






After Moriarty’s message, none of them heard from him for weeks. It set Sherlock’s teeth on edge, made John jumpy; Mycroft developed a line between his brows from frowning, Greg a habit of glancing askance at his lover and getting no response in return.

Greg also, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, started carrying around the long, black feather he’d been keeping on his nightstand in his pocket whenever he went out. If Mycroft noticed it was missing from its usual resting place, he said nothing.

***

And then came the Woman.

Sherlock flirted and preened in front of her, winning her over to his side without giving away his own endgame. He and John spent the entirety of that case with their rings hidden on chains around their necks, the better to deceive her with. It worked⎯she fell for the ruse, for the love of seducing (or so she thought) the great Sherlock Holmes, and it would prove to be her downfall.

Too clever, John would say later, after Sherlock returned from his meeting with Mycroft and the now disgraced Woman. She was too clever, and she got tangled up in her game.

“She was working for him,” Sherlock stated, fingers tight on his violin bow.

He felt the moment John processed that statement, the weight of his gaze steady on the back of Sherlock’s head. “Moriarty?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Shit,” John breathed. In the reflection from the window, Sherlock watched him grip the back of his chair, head lowered for a moment before he looked up and their eyes met in the reflection from the window. “How much did she know?”

“Nothing more than we already knew. I will have to ask Mycroft if he had her interrogated before he released her.”

John was quiet, mulling over outcomes, exit strategies. Irene had the mind of a strategist, she would have made plans for every eventuality. She and Sherlock were very much alike⎯John knew there was no way she would not have planned for this outcome.

“Will you find her?” John asked an hour later, interrupting Sherlock’s post-case write-up.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock wouldn’t quite meet his eye, and John knew there was something being planned there.

“She may be a valuable ally. And she liked you.”

“She has nothing to lose anymore.”

“That’s what makes her dangerous. She might be willing to work against the man who took everything away from her.”

“Mmm.”

John leaned down and kissed his husband deeply. “Just think about it,” he said when they parted. “And come to bed at a decent hour, please. You’ve not slept properly in days.”




It took Mycroft far too long to realise what exactly Gregory had said to him the night Gregory learned John was not dead. He had asked “would you bring me back,” invoking the power of three with his repetition of the question until Mycroft was all but bound to answer him. The question was not “How” or “Could” but “Would”⎯a more declarative statement wrapped in the guise of a question. And then there had been the wild look in Gregory’s eyes as he claimed Mycroft’s mouth with his own in an almost animalistic manner, snarling and biting, fingers digging deep into Mycroft’s shoulders.

This realisation meant only one thing⎯Gregory must have some suspicion as to Mycroft’s true nature, if he didn’t outright know. There were only three people who could have told him, and that day, all but one of them was accounted for for the entire day. It was impossible to keep track of Mummy, and if he had tried, she likely would never spoken to him again⎯the breach of trust unforgivable. No, Gregory knew something, but what, exactly, he knew remained to be seen.

When Gregory came home that night, Mycroft was sitting in his chair in the study, hands steepled under his chin, eyes fixed on a point far in front of him. He didn’t look up when Gregory walked in, dropped a kiss to the top of his head, talked about his day. The words floated over Mycroft’s head, drifting through his consciousness but not planting themselves there.

He remained distant all evening, not noticing Gregory’s frowns or worried glances. Finally, as they settled into bed, Mycroft curled on his side facing away from his lover, Gregory flat on his back staring at the ceiling, Gregory finally blurted, “What is wrong with you?”

Mycroft’s shoulders tensed under the duvet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve not listened to a word I’ve said since I walked in the door, you’re acting all….Holmes-y right now with the standoffishness and the denying that you need touch and comfort like the rest of us ordinary folk.”

That made Mycroft’s breath stutter in his chest. Was it really so obvious that he was different? That he held himself away because of who and what he was?

“Hey,” Gregory’s hand was warm on his shoulderblade. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What if it was true?”

“What if what was true?”

“What if I wasn’t ordinary?”

Gregory laughed long and loud before he got himself under control long enough to gasp, “Oh, love, I know you’re not ordinary. You’re a Holmes⎯that automatically makes you extraordinary.”

Only slightly mollified, Mycroft rolled over so he was facing Gregory and said, “But, truly, what if I weren’t ordinary? What would you do then?”

Gregory sobered. “What’s brought this on?”

Mycroft sighed. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Gregory frowned, cupping his cheek with one hand. “Does this have something to do with what you’re keeping from me? ‘Cause I’ve not forgotten that.”

Mycroft mustered a smile and lied. “It’s really nothing.” At Gregory’s look, he added, “Truly. I would tell you if it was.”

“Except for your secret.” Gregory’s voice was flat.

“Yes,” Mycroft said slowly, quietly, “Except for that.”

Gregory abruptly sat up and switched on the light. He sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, knuckles standing out in sharp relief where he clutched the sheets, head down. Mycroft had not seen him look so defeated in a long time, and that realisation brought a thick lump to his throat.

“Gregory⎯” he reached out, intending to stroke his hand down the other man’s tense arm, but the chill, the despondency in Gregory’s voice froze him in his place.

“What if I knew? What would change between us?”

Mycroft’s heart, which had been located somewhere around his toes, now surged into his throat, choking him.

“I’ve trusted you for a long time. I’ve held my tongue about this damned secret of yours because I thought you knew best in that regard. But now, now I don’t know. John Watson died, he fucking died and your brother was devastated and now John’s back and I don’t know what to think about that. There’s a madman on the loose who you, Sherlock, and John all claim was dead, too, and now he’s alive again. So now I start to wonder about some things. Some things that aren’t adding up for me. And then you go on about this secret you can’t tell me, of all people, the person who fucking lives with you, who sleeps in your bed, who I trust completely. Now I think maybe I shouldn’t trust you at all.”

Mycroft was stunned. There was no other word in his vocabulary to describe the maelstrom of feelings Gregory’s speech had sent swirling through his entire body. “What⎯” his lips were dry, so he wet them and tried again. “What do you want to know?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Gregory turned to face him, eyes blazing. “What do I want to fucking know? Everything! I want to know what you’re hiding from me, how the hell John is alive, why there was a dead bird outside my office this morning⎯”

That drew Mycroft up. “A dead bird? What kind of bird?”

Gregory blinked at him, startled out of his tirade. “A black one. Raven? Crow? I don’t know, I’m not an orinthwhatsit. It was decapitated and sitting right outside my office door when I got in. Cameras had malfunctioned, no one saw anything.”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Gregory was watching him warily. “If it was a warning,” Gregory said, “I didn’t get what it was warning me about. I almost rang Sherlock about it, see if he had any ideas.”

“All it was was the bird? No note, nothing else?”

“Just the bird. Cleaning staff came by and disposed of it, before you ask.”

“Damn,” Mycroft breathed.

Now Gregory was frowning at him again. “Is it a warning? No, you won’t answer that either will you? Never mind Greg, he’s just as stupid as the rest of the world. No need to know what you know about some fucking creepy thing that happened right outside my fucking office. Well, let me tell you something, Mycroft Holmes. I’m not as stupid as you think. I know a few things myself.”

“I never have thought you to be stupid, Gregory, and if I’ve made you feel that way⎯”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“What do you know?”

“I’ve studied a bit of mythology myself. The dead birds, the black feathers, they all point to the wrath of the Morrighan. But she is just a myth. Someone is playing a joke on us, and I’ll figure it out somehow. Get Sherlock on it.”

Mycroft blinked in confusion. What were they teaching people about Mummy? Mummy would never kill her own kind to send a message. Then Mycroft remembered something that had been bothering him. “You asked me if I would bring you back.”

“What?”

“The night John came back. You asked me if I would bring you back if you died. You said it three times. Why?”

Gregory licked his lips nervously. “I want you to tell me how John is alive.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Gregory, please.”

“I have dreams,” Gregory said, apropos of nothing. “I dream of you and I being separated and it hurts more than anything has a right to. It’s enough to stop my heart, it hurts so deeply. I see you standing over my body, and you are…magnificent in your rage. It scares me, sometimes, to think of the power you must wield. If anyone could bring someone back from the dead, it would be you. But I don’t know how someone would make that decision, so I asked if you would, not if you could. And I have my own superstitions, too. I know about the power of three, and I thought that maybe you did, too. So I asked you three times to see if that worked and it did.

“But I find I can’t bring myself to ask you three times about your secret. It’s apparent I’m not worthy enough or you don’t trust me enough with it, so I won’t even try to compel you.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you⎯”

“Then what is it? What can possibly be so bad that you can’t tell me? Believe me, I won’t leave you over your secret, but I will leave if you can’t trust me. Trust is all we have, Mycroft. I trust you not to hurt me, to keep my secrets. It kills me to think you can’t trust me with yours.”

“If I told you, you would leave. Not because I forced you to, but because you would sacrifice yourself in the name of something you don’t understand. And if I told you, someone” he didn’t say the name Moriarty, but Gregory heard it loud and clear, “would kill you to learn it. I cannot put you in harm’s way. Can you understand that? Can you understand that I am protecting you by not telling you?”

“I don’t need protection! In case you’ve forgotten, I am a police officer, and I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

“I’m not just talking about your physical self.” Mycroft said cryptically.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Mycroft dropped his eyes. Gregory stood, roughly jerking on his trousers.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asked, panicked.

Gregory jammed his arms into his shirt, did up the buttons without looking at them. “Home,” he said shortly.

“This is your home.”

“No, it’s yours. I live here, but I can’t call it home right now. I need some space to think and breathe.”

“Are you…are you leaving me?” Mycroft tried to sound flippant, like the answer didn’t matter, but instead he sounded like he had when he was so young and Father had just died and he was scared and small and trying to be brave for Mummy and Sherlock.

Gregory looked up from his belt buckle, met his eyes and softened a bit. “No,” he said. “I’m not leaving you, but I think we both need some space. I feel like I don’t know you at all, Mycroft, not now. There’s too many secrets and weird happenings and I just need time to process it. Please. Don’t follow me around for a few days. I need to learn to trust you again.”

That hurt more than Mycroft wanted to admit. “All right,” he agreed. “Can I still contact you?” He was stiff and formal as he had not been around Gregory since they first met. He didn’t know how to react to a Gregory who was hurt and confused and it must have showed because Gregory, bless him, saw it and leaned in and kissed him terribly gently.

“It’s not a breakup,” Gregory said, his hand on the doorknob to their, well, now just Mycroft’s, bedroom. “I think we both need space. You’re not used to trusting people, and I’m pushing you too hard.”

“Gregory⎯”

“Good night, Mycroft,” Gregory said and slipped out the door, closing it behind him with a terribly final sounding click.

It took five full minutes for Mycroft to realise Gregory had never said if he could contact him. He opened his mobile and texted Anthea.

Put very discreet surveillance on DI Lestrade. I want a full report every four hours and to know instantly if anything happens to him.
⎯MH

Yes, sir. Is everything all right?
⎯A

Mycroft’s fingers hesitated over the keys for a long moment.

I dearly hope so.
⎯MH


part xiv