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nickelsandcoatsTitle: I'll Give You Everything You Need (You've Given Me Everything I Want) 15/? || at Ao3
Author: Sarah/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nickelsandcoats
Rating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~3,200 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: Forflying_dreamz's prompt here at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which were "The Resurrection Stone" from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II soundtrack and "Amy in the Tardis" from the Doctor Who: Season 5 soundtrack.
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 || part xiii || part xiv
Mummy’s scream of rage and pain brought all three of them⎯Mycroft, Sherlock, and John⎯flying to her as fast as their wings would carry them.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Sherlock barked even as he changed back, feet landing in the clearing where Mother was kneeling in the dirt, hands frozen above a small black corpse.
John had his gun in one hand, at the ready, sharp eyes darting around the clearing, checking for potential threats and exits if needed.
Mycroft, on the other hand, went to Mummy and then stopped short, huffing a breath that was mostly a sob through his nose. He clapped one hand over his mouth as if to keep himself from vomiting.
John hurried over, joining Sherlock and Mycroft around their mother. “Let me see,” John said gently, as he reached out to cover the Morrighan’s hands and carefully move them aside so he could get a better look.
He grimaced and muttered, “Oh, no,” as the small black corpse of one of their brothers, another of the Morrighan’s children, was revealed. Its head was so mangled when it had been separated from the body that making an identification of who it had been was all but impossible.
“Who did this?” Mummy’s voice was tight with rage. “Who killed your brother and desecrated his body in such a way?”
Her eyes met Mycroft’s, then Sherlock’s and John’s. Mycroft swallowed heavily and opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off.
“His name is James Moriarty, Mother.”
“As in the man who held you and John hostage at that pool, the man who we killed?”
“Yes, Mother. We thought he was dead, but he is alive, somehow. We all have received similar…messages, but it’s never been one of our brothers or sisters.”
“Why have you not spoken to me of this?” Mummy was angry, angrier than any of them had seen her. Her eyes were flashing, and while she remained knelt on the ground, she was vibrating slightly with her barely-contained rage.
“We thought it best to see what we could learn on our own, Mummy,” Mycroft said softly. “We did not want to upset you⎯the situation has been under control. We’ve not had any contact with him for several months, now.”
“This could have been one of you!” The Morrighan screamed. “Do you understand what that would have done to me? Imagine it, for a moment, me kneeling over one of your corpses, not knowing how you were killed or who did this to you. And you said nothing because you did not wish to upset me?”
“Ma’am⎯” John said softly.
She rounded on him. “It’s Mother, Mum, or Mummy. Not ma’am. You married one of my sons, I made you one of my own⎯you can call me what you like.”
John nodded, and then continued, “There have been two other messages left like this for us⎯”
“Three.” Mycroft interrupted. “There have been three⎯Gregory had one outside his office at Scotland Yard.” John stared at him; Sherlock looked thoughtful and pursed his lips, but said nothing.
“⎯And there has been no word from Moriarty since the last one. It’s like he’s waiting for Sherlock and I, or Mycroft, to make the next move. None of us know what he’s planning, but it must be something, and he must be making his move soon, if he’s moving to your other children, now.”
The Morrighan stood, drawing her feathered cloak close. “I will investigate this Moriarty’s background and lineage. He must have someone of my status in his family, or else he would not have the power to kill any of my children.” She stopped and looked at all of them, frowning slightly. “If he can reach others of your type, you must all be especially careful. Normal people cannot kill you, but can cause you harm. For him to have killed one of your brothers means he has power beyond any mortal man.”
She bent back down and tenderly picked up the small corpse of her child. When she stood, she looked at all three of them in turn, lingering for a moment on Mycroft, before she melted into the shadows.
As soon as she was gone, Sherlock rounded on his brother. “Where is Lestrade? Is he under protection?”
Mycroft sniffed. “Of course he is.”
“You’ve not told him, still, have you?” John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“How do you know that?” Mycroft asked.
“Because he came to Baskerville and tried to tell us that he didn’t always do as you asked him to do,” Sherlock replied. “And he’s been staying at his own house for at least two weeks, if not a bit longer. Hard to tell with the jacket he was wearing.”
Mycroft’s expression twisted then, into something like grief and hollowness all at once. “How did you two do it? How can I tell him now? He can’t spend the rest of his life with me⎯he’s too honourable to accept a bond that would last all of my lives and only one of his.”
John’s jaw was dropping further and further. “You know, for a Holmes, you’re pretty fucking stupid,” he blurted, making Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “Have you even asked Mum if she would turn Greg like she did for me?”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different? I was just as ordinary as Greg.”
“You and Sherlock are meant for each other. You need each other⎯you’re two halves of the same whole. Greg is⎯”
“Exactly the same to you!” John exclaimed. “He needs you, Mycroft, just as much as you need him. Besides, what will happen to you if anything happens to him?”
Mycroft blanched a bit, and John’s expression softened. “Listen, Mycroft, I bet he’s figured some of it out already. Doesn’t he have one of your feathers?”
“Yes, but Mummy gave it to him.”
“Well, Mum gave me two of Sherlock’s before I met him. And I saw him in dreams⎯well, not him him, but ravens and his eyes.”
“You did?” Sherlock interjected. “You never told me that.”
John gave his husband a small smile before turning back to his brother-in-law. “If you’re worried that he won’t take it well, don’t. He loves you too much. And I can guarantee that if he asks Mum, she would do for him what she did for me, hopefully under less traumatic circumstances.” John stared Mycroft down. “Don’t let it be under traumatic circumstances.”
Mycroft shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.
“Go,” Sherlock said quietly. “Go and find him, now, today. Talk to him.”
Without another word, Mycroft changed and flew away. Sherlock and John looked at each other⎯John gave a small shrug before he, too, changed and headed back home, Sherlock just behind him.
As soon as he got home, Mycroft changed and sent a text:
Will you meet me at home? I must talk to you.
He paused for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys, and then added:
Please.
⎯MH
It was an agonising ten minutes before his mobile chimed with Gregory’s response.
Forty-five minutes.
Mycroft settled into his chair and steepled his fingers, plotting out the course of the most difficult conversation he would ever have in his life.
Exactly forty-five minutes after Gregory had responded, the man in question stood in the door to the study, watching Mycroft watch him. Gregory shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning against the door frame, assessing Mycroft’s mood and the seriousness of his request before he stood up straight and murmured, “Let it out.”
Mycroft raised a brow at him, hoping that Gregory could not see the arteries pulsing in his neck, the sweat on his brow, hear the pounding of his heart or the dull roar between his ears, understand the turmoil and dread that was waging war in his prodigious imagination.
“Whatever it is you need to say,” Gregory continued. “It’s got your shoulders up to your ears you’re so tense. Just say it. Are we over?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t lead me on. If you’re ending it, just say it. Please.”
“Gregory⎯” Mycroft half-stood, unsure of what to do or what to say. He flushed a bit and stood up, holding out one hand to Gregory, who hesitated for a mere fraction of a second before taking it. Both of them let out a small sigh when their fingers intertwined, and Mycroft allowed himself a long moment to indulge in the feeling before he tugged Gregory to the sofa, and sat.
“Thanks.” Gregory’s voice had a small tremble in it, but he swallowed hard and looked down at their linked hands.
“I literally do not know how to begin to tell you this,” Mycroft said after a moment. “I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes trying to think of the best way to tell you, but I simply cannot.”
“Then just say it. Don’t think about it so hard⎯just let it out.”
Mycroft let his voice have free reign, and he was surprised when “The feather you have? It’s mine,” was what he said first.
Gregory frowned, and then reached into his pocket, pulling it out carefully. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take it.” He held it out, but Mycroft’s rueful smile stopped him.
“No, no, it’s been given to you⎯it’s yours, now.”
The frown deepened, and now Gregory was looking at him as if he’d gone mad.
“I mean that literally, it is mine.”
“I’m sorry, love, but I’m totally lost here. You’re not a bird, so how can this be yours?”
Mycroft sighed and stood up, motioning to Gregory that he should stay where he was. He took a deep breath (nothing else for it, he thought) and changed.
Gregory’s eyes widened and the feather he had been holding fluttered to the floor. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally managed to croak, “Okay⎯so you are a bird. Um.”
Mycroft settled on the arm of the sofa, spreading his wings slightly before folding them in close to his body. He peered at Gregory from one blue eye, trying to gauge his reaction.
“Can you understand me?” Gregory asked, reaching out with one hand before checking himself. He curled his hand on the cushion instead, rubbing them against the brocade.
“Of course I can,” Mycroft said primly.
Gregory jumped. “You can talk?!”
Mycroft gave him an approximation of an eyeroll (it was all in how he moved his head and shoulders, Gregory would tell him later) and said, “Of course. And I am a raven, before you ask.”
“How can you do this?”
“It’s a long story, and it’s not comfortable to talk for long periods of time in this form. Let me change⎯”
“Wait! Can I…can I?” Gregory reached out again, as if he couldn’t help himself. Mycroft hovered above Gregory’s hand, which was palm down, until Gregory took the hint and turned his hand over so Mycroft could settle into his palm. Gregory slowly, carefully let his left index finger hover over Mycroft’s head before he gently stroked over his head and down his back. Mycroft closed his eyes and shivered a bit in pleasure. Gregory’s touch was gentle and so, so careful even as he grew bolder and let his fingers trail down to his wings, tracing the shape of each feather. Mycroft allowed himself to indulge in the feeling for minutes on end before he finally shook himself vigorously and took off so he could change. He kept his distance when he stood straight again, hardly daring to look Gregory in the eye. But Gregory surprised him, as he always did. He held out his hands to Mycroft and told him to “Come here, so I can touch you,” and Mycroft found himself unwilling to keep himself away.
“Go ahead,” Mycroft said after a moment of Gregory’s eyes raking over every centimetre of his face. “Ask your questions. And get comfortable⎯my story is long.”
Greogry’s face was a picture as he warred with himself over which question to ask first. Finally, he decided on, “Who are you, really?”
Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “Mycroft Holmes, the same I have always been. I am a son of the Morrighan.”
“A son? Wait⎯is Sherlock, is he?”
“He is, too. As is John.”
“John?”
“You asked me how John returned from the dead. It was Mummy’s doing.”
Gregory looked awed and confused and faintly angry all at once. “Explain,” he commanded, “And start from the beginning.”
And so Mycroft began to talk. He told Gregory about his father’s murder and how it nearly destroyed his mother. He explained who his mother was (although Gregory had got much of what he knew about the Morrighan from school, there were some inaccuracies⎯really, Mummy did not fly around and shoot fire from her eyes, where on earth did you hear that?) and how she could not die. He told Gregory part of the reason why he had one of Mycroft’s feathers and how important it was, especially now, to keep it on him at all times. (Mycroft did not say that the main reason Gregory had a feather was because Mycroft wanted to give him one himself, but knew in his heart of hearts that Gregory would refuse it. This was the closest he could get.) He glossed over John’s resurrection, claiming that he did not know how or why, only that Mummy had made that choice and so it was done.
Finally, his voice wore out and his story wound down. He had not told Gregory everything; in fact, he had told him nothing at all about his many lives, the fact that he was all but immortal, about feathers and bonding and what-if-you-died-before-me.
Gregory was leaning back into the corner of the sofa, left ankle crossed on right knee, long fingers rubbing under his bottom lip. He considered Mycroft for a moment, and then said, “You’re not telling me everything. You’re still keeping something from me. God knows I’m glad you’ve told me this much, but still. What are you not telling me?”
Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “I forget sometimes, Inspector, how well you read me.” He stopped and levelled his gaze at Gregory, who did not even blink. “May I take a break?”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?”
“Because,” Mycroft said sadly, “when I tell you, you will leave, and I will be alone. There’s no one like you, Gregory, and I cannot bear to think of what my life would be like without you in it.”
Gregory looked at him, thunderstruck. “That’s the first time you’ve told me you love me,” he said, slowly, in response to Mycroft’s puzzled look. “Do you really think I will love you any less for whatever else it is you have to say?”
“I think you’ll love me too much to stay,” Mycroft snapped, standing up and stalking out the door to make tea. Gregory did not follow him to the kitchen, so Mycroft allowed himself a moment to fall apart, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that it hurt.
When he came back, tea tray carefully balanced and set just so, Gregory was still in the same position he’d left him in, only now he was turned just a little further so he could look out the window. Mycroft sat the tray on the table and handed Gregory his cup and saucer without a word. They sipped their tea in silence, and when they were done, Gregory leaned forward and clasped Mycroft’s knee. “Tell me,” he implored.
“Have you ever thought about immortality? About being reincarnated?”
Gregory frowned at him. “No, not really.”
“It is a most peculiar way to live. People you know die, and you never see them again. Ever. The world changes so much, and yet some parts stay the same. It is even more noticeable when the ones you rely on are gone.”
“Wait⎯you’re saying⎯”
“I have lived for a very, very long time, and it never gets easier to die and be reborn, only to do it all over again.”
“Sherlock too?”
“Yes, Sherlock too, and John, now.”
“My God.” Gregory breathed. “But that’s incredible. How much you must have seen and known!” He looked out the window again, gathering his wits after that stunning revelation. “But you would have told me that earlier. I mean, it’s stunning and nearly unbelievable, but why didn’t you say something about it an hour ago?”
“My father’s death nearly undid my mother.”
“So you said.”
“But I have not told you why. My…kind, for lack of a better word, bond for life. All of our lives. We give a feather to our loved one and it bonds us to them, forever. The bond cannot be severed, not even by death. The act is sacred, akin to marriage, and when it is done between two of my kind, leads to eternal happiness. But…” he cleared his throat. “but my father was human, and my mother, well, she thought they would have more time. They never bonded, and it is the single thing that she regrets the most in her very long life. She does not speak of her reasons for not doing so, nor do I know what would have happened to my father if they had been bonded. I do know that being bonded did not save John’s life.”
“Then how is John here? How is he like you now?”
“Because my mother is merciful.”
Silence settled over them as Gregory mulled this over. “Have you ever bonded with someone?”
“No.”
“Oh. Oh.”
Silence.
“Mycroft, I can’t. I can’t bond with you and know that when I die, you’ll be alone for eternity. I can’t allow that to happen. I love you too much to let that happen to you.”
“And I love you enough to bond with you and accept the fate given to me.”
Gregory was crying now, a few tears trickling down his cheeks. “I can’t. I just can’t. Not when I know what will transpire⎯I saw Sherlock after John died, and I cannot, will not let that happen to you. Never. Not while there is still breath in my body.”
Mycroft reached out and brushed away the stray tears. “I know, love, and that is why I never wanted to tell you this. I cannot give you up, and yet I knew you would not accept something that you could not return.”
“I’m sorry,” Gregory choked out.
“I know.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Never. Not unless you want to leave, and even then, I will use every trick I know to beg you to stay. Stay as long as you can, and let us be happy for the time that we have.”
Gregory let Mycroft pull him into a tight embrace and locked his fingers into the back of Mycroft’s dress shirt. When they had both calmed somewhat, they separated just long enough to stagger down the hall to their bed, where they collapsed in and listened to the other breathe.
When Gregory finally dropped off into sleep, Mycroft watched him, thinking of the feather he had plucked a few weeks ago and hidden away in his bureau, hoping and wishing that his instincts had been wrong. He swallowed down the bitter pill of disappointment and instead focused on committing the sound of each of Gregory’s breaths to memory so he could call on them in the long twilight of his lives to come.
part xvi
Author: Sarah/
nickelsandcoatsRating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~3,200 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 were "The Resurrection Stone" from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II soundtrack and "Amy in the Tardis" from the Doctor Who: Season 5 soundtrack.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 || part xiii || part xiv
Mummy’s scream of rage and pain brought all three of them⎯Mycroft, Sherlock, and John⎯flying to her as fast as their wings would carry them.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Sherlock barked even as he changed back, feet landing in the clearing where Mother was kneeling in the dirt, hands frozen above a small black corpse.
John had his gun in one hand, at the ready, sharp eyes darting around the clearing, checking for potential threats and exits if needed.
Mycroft, on the other hand, went to Mummy and then stopped short, huffing a breath that was mostly a sob through his nose. He clapped one hand over his mouth as if to keep himself from vomiting.
John hurried over, joining Sherlock and Mycroft around their mother. “Let me see,” John said gently, as he reached out to cover the Morrighan’s hands and carefully move them aside so he could get a better look.
He grimaced and muttered, “Oh, no,” as the small black corpse of one of their brothers, another of the Morrighan’s children, was revealed. Its head was so mangled when it had been separated from the body that making an identification of who it had been was all but impossible.
“Who did this?” Mummy’s voice was tight with rage. “Who killed your brother and desecrated his body in such a way?”
Her eyes met Mycroft’s, then Sherlock’s and John’s. Mycroft swallowed heavily and opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off.
“His name is James Moriarty, Mother.”
“As in the man who held you and John hostage at that pool, the man who we killed?”
“Yes, Mother. We thought he was dead, but he is alive, somehow. We all have received similar…messages, but it’s never been one of our brothers or sisters.”
“Why have you not spoken to me of this?” Mummy was angry, angrier than any of them had seen her. Her eyes were flashing, and while she remained knelt on the ground, she was vibrating slightly with her barely-contained rage.
“We thought it best to see what we could learn on our own, Mummy,” Mycroft said softly. “We did not want to upset you⎯the situation has been under control. We’ve not had any contact with him for several months, now.”
“This could have been one of you!” The Morrighan screamed. “Do you understand what that would have done to me? Imagine it, for a moment, me kneeling over one of your corpses, not knowing how you were killed or who did this to you. And you said nothing because you did not wish to upset me?”
“Ma’am⎯” John said softly.
She rounded on him. “It’s Mother, Mum, or Mummy. Not ma’am. You married one of my sons, I made you one of my own⎯you can call me what you like.”
John nodded, and then continued, “There have been two other messages left like this for us⎯”
“Three.” Mycroft interrupted. “There have been three⎯Gregory had one outside his office at Scotland Yard.” John stared at him; Sherlock looked thoughtful and pursed his lips, but said nothing.
“⎯And there has been no word from Moriarty since the last one. It’s like he’s waiting for Sherlock and I, or Mycroft, to make the next move. None of us know what he’s planning, but it must be something, and he must be making his move soon, if he’s moving to your other children, now.”
The Morrighan stood, drawing her feathered cloak close. “I will investigate this Moriarty’s background and lineage. He must have someone of my status in his family, or else he would not have the power to kill any of my children.” She stopped and looked at all of them, frowning slightly. “If he can reach others of your type, you must all be especially careful. Normal people cannot kill you, but can cause you harm. For him to have killed one of your brothers means he has power beyond any mortal man.”
She bent back down and tenderly picked up the small corpse of her child. When she stood, she looked at all three of them in turn, lingering for a moment on Mycroft, before she melted into the shadows.
As soon as she was gone, Sherlock rounded on his brother. “Where is Lestrade? Is he under protection?”
Mycroft sniffed. “Of course he is.”
“You’ve not told him, still, have you?” John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“How do you know that?” Mycroft asked.
“Because he came to Baskerville and tried to tell us that he didn’t always do as you asked him to do,” Sherlock replied. “And he’s been staying at his own house for at least two weeks, if not a bit longer. Hard to tell with the jacket he was wearing.”
Mycroft’s expression twisted then, into something like grief and hollowness all at once. “How did you two do it? How can I tell him now? He can’t spend the rest of his life with me⎯he’s too honourable to accept a bond that would last all of my lives and only one of his.”
John’s jaw was dropping further and further. “You know, for a Holmes, you’re pretty fucking stupid,” he blurted, making Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “Have you even asked Mum if she would turn Greg like she did for me?”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different? I was just as ordinary as Greg.”
“You and Sherlock are meant for each other. You need each other⎯you’re two halves of the same whole. Greg is⎯”
“Exactly the same to you!” John exclaimed. “He needs you, Mycroft, just as much as you need him. Besides, what will happen to you if anything happens to him?”
Mycroft blanched a bit, and John’s expression softened. “Listen, Mycroft, I bet he’s figured some of it out already. Doesn’t he have one of your feathers?”
“Yes, but Mummy gave it to him.”
“Well, Mum gave me two of Sherlock’s before I met him. And I saw him in dreams⎯well, not him him, but ravens and his eyes.”
“You did?” Sherlock interjected. “You never told me that.”
John gave his husband a small smile before turning back to his brother-in-law. “If you’re worried that he won’t take it well, don’t. He loves you too much. And I can guarantee that if he asks Mum, she would do for him what she did for me, hopefully under less traumatic circumstances.” John stared Mycroft down. “Don’t let it be under traumatic circumstances.”
Mycroft shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.
“Go,” Sherlock said quietly. “Go and find him, now, today. Talk to him.”
Without another word, Mycroft changed and flew away. Sherlock and John looked at each other⎯John gave a small shrug before he, too, changed and headed back home, Sherlock just behind him.
As soon as he got home, Mycroft changed and sent a text:
Will you meet me at home? I must talk to you.
He paused for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys, and then added:
Please.
⎯MH
It was an agonising ten minutes before his mobile chimed with Gregory’s response.
Forty-five minutes.
Mycroft settled into his chair and steepled his fingers, plotting out the course of the most difficult conversation he would ever have in his life.
Exactly forty-five minutes after Gregory had responded, the man in question stood in the door to the study, watching Mycroft watch him. Gregory shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning against the door frame, assessing Mycroft’s mood and the seriousness of his request before he stood up straight and murmured, “Let it out.”
Mycroft raised a brow at him, hoping that Gregory could not see the arteries pulsing in his neck, the sweat on his brow, hear the pounding of his heart or the dull roar between his ears, understand the turmoil and dread that was waging war in his prodigious imagination.
“Whatever it is you need to say,” Gregory continued. “It’s got your shoulders up to your ears you’re so tense. Just say it. Are we over?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t lead me on. If you’re ending it, just say it. Please.”
“Gregory⎯” Mycroft half-stood, unsure of what to do or what to say. He flushed a bit and stood up, holding out one hand to Gregory, who hesitated for a mere fraction of a second before taking it. Both of them let out a small sigh when their fingers intertwined, and Mycroft allowed himself a long moment to indulge in the feeling before he tugged Gregory to the sofa, and sat.
“Thanks.” Gregory’s voice had a small tremble in it, but he swallowed hard and looked down at their linked hands.
“I literally do not know how to begin to tell you this,” Mycroft said after a moment. “I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes trying to think of the best way to tell you, but I simply cannot.”
“Then just say it. Don’t think about it so hard⎯just let it out.”
Mycroft let his voice have free reign, and he was surprised when “The feather you have? It’s mine,” was what he said first.
Gregory frowned, and then reached into his pocket, pulling it out carefully. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take it.” He held it out, but Mycroft’s rueful smile stopped him.
“No, no, it’s been given to you⎯it’s yours, now.”
The frown deepened, and now Gregory was looking at him as if he’d gone mad.
“I mean that literally, it is mine.”
“I’m sorry, love, but I’m totally lost here. You’re not a bird, so how can this be yours?”
Mycroft sighed and stood up, motioning to Gregory that he should stay where he was. He took a deep breath (nothing else for it, he thought) and changed.
Gregory’s eyes widened and the feather he had been holding fluttered to the floor. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally managed to croak, “Okay⎯so you are a bird. Um.”
Mycroft settled on the arm of the sofa, spreading his wings slightly before folding them in close to his body. He peered at Gregory from one blue eye, trying to gauge his reaction.
“Can you understand me?” Gregory asked, reaching out with one hand before checking himself. He curled his hand on the cushion instead, rubbing them against the brocade.
“Of course I can,” Mycroft said primly.
Gregory jumped. “You can talk?!”
Mycroft gave him an approximation of an eyeroll (it was all in how he moved his head and shoulders, Gregory would tell him later) and said, “Of course. And I am a raven, before you ask.”
“How can you do this?”
“It’s a long story, and it’s not comfortable to talk for long periods of time in this form. Let me change⎯”
“Wait! Can I…can I?” Gregory reached out again, as if he couldn’t help himself. Mycroft hovered above Gregory’s hand, which was palm down, until Gregory took the hint and turned his hand over so Mycroft could settle into his palm. Gregory slowly, carefully let his left index finger hover over Mycroft’s head before he gently stroked over his head and down his back. Mycroft closed his eyes and shivered a bit in pleasure. Gregory’s touch was gentle and so, so careful even as he grew bolder and let his fingers trail down to his wings, tracing the shape of each feather. Mycroft allowed himself to indulge in the feeling for minutes on end before he finally shook himself vigorously and took off so he could change. He kept his distance when he stood straight again, hardly daring to look Gregory in the eye. But Gregory surprised him, as he always did. He held out his hands to Mycroft and told him to “Come here, so I can touch you,” and Mycroft found himself unwilling to keep himself away.
“Go ahead,” Mycroft said after a moment of Gregory’s eyes raking over every centimetre of his face. “Ask your questions. And get comfortable⎯my story is long.”
Greogry’s face was a picture as he warred with himself over which question to ask first. Finally, he decided on, “Who are you, really?”
Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “Mycroft Holmes, the same I have always been. I am a son of the Morrighan.”
“A son? Wait⎯is Sherlock, is he?”
“He is, too. As is John.”
“John?”
“You asked me how John returned from the dead. It was Mummy’s doing.”
Gregory looked awed and confused and faintly angry all at once. “Explain,” he commanded, “And start from the beginning.”
And so Mycroft began to talk. He told Gregory about his father’s murder and how it nearly destroyed his mother. He explained who his mother was (although Gregory had got much of what he knew about the Morrighan from school, there were some inaccuracies⎯really, Mummy did not fly around and shoot fire from her eyes, where on earth did you hear that?) and how she could not die. He told Gregory part of the reason why he had one of Mycroft’s feathers and how important it was, especially now, to keep it on him at all times. (Mycroft did not say that the main reason Gregory had a feather was because Mycroft wanted to give him one himself, but knew in his heart of hearts that Gregory would refuse it. This was the closest he could get.) He glossed over John’s resurrection, claiming that he did not know how or why, only that Mummy had made that choice and so it was done.
Finally, his voice wore out and his story wound down. He had not told Gregory everything; in fact, he had told him nothing at all about his many lives, the fact that he was all but immortal, about feathers and bonding and what-if-you-died-before-me.
Gregory was leaning back into the corner of the sofa, left ankle crossed on right knee, long fingers rubbing under his bottom lip. He considered Mycroft for a moment, and then said, “You’re not telling me everything. You’re still keeping something from me. God knows I’m glad you’ve told me this much, but still. What are you not telling me?”
Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “I forget sometimes, Inspector, how well you read me.” He stopped and levelled his gaze at Gregory, who did not even blink. “May I take a break?”
“Why don’t you want to tell me?”
“Because,” Mycroft said sadly, “when I tell you, you will leave, and I will be alone. There’s no one like you, Gregory, and I cannot bear to think of what my life would be like without you in it.”
Gregory looked at him, thunderstruck. “That’s the first time you’ve told me you love me,” he said, slowly, in response to Mycroft’s puzzled look. “Do you really think I will love you any less for whatever else it is you have to say?”
“I think you’ll love me too much to stay,” Mycroft snapped, standing up and stalking out the door to make tea. Gregory did not follow him to the kitchen, so Mycroft allowed himself a moment to fall apart, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that it hurt.
When he came back, tea tray carefully balanced and set just so, Gregory was still in the same position he’d left him in, only now he was turned just a little further so he could look out the window. Mycroft sat the tray on the table and handed Gregory his cup and saucer without a word. They sipped their tea in silence, and when they were done, Gregory leaned forward and clasped Mycroft’s knee. “Tell me,” he implored.
“Have you ever thought about immortality? About being reincarnated?”
Gregory frowned at him. “No, not really.”
“It is a most peculiar way to live. People you know die, and you never see them again. Ever. The world changes so much, and yet some parts stay the same. It is even more noticeable when the ones you rely on are gone.”
“Wait⎯you’re saying⎯”
“I have lived for a very, very long time, and it never gets easier to die and be reborn, only to do it all over again.”
“Sherlock too?”
“Yes, Sherlock too, and John, now.”
“My God.” Gregory breathed. “But that’s incredible. How much you must have seen and known!” He looked out the window again, gathering his wits after that stunning revelation. “But you would have told me that earlier. I mean, it’s stunning and nearly unbelievable, but why didn’t you say something about it an hour ago?”
“My father’s death nearly undid my mother.”
“So you said.”
“But I have not told you why. My…kind, for lack of a better word, bond for life. All of our lives. We give a feather to our loved one and it bonds us to them, forever. The bond cannot be severed, not even by death. The act is sacred, akin to marriage, and when it is done between two of my kind, leads to eternal happiness. But…” he cleared his throat. “but my father was human, and my mother, well, she thought they would have more time. They never bonded, and it is the single thing that she regrets the most in her very long life. She does not speak of her reasons for not doing so, nor do I know what would have happened to my father if they had been bonded. I do know that being bonded did not save John’s life.”
“Then how is John here? How is he like you now?”
“Because my mother is merciful.”
Silence settled over them as Gregory mulled this over. “Have you ever bonded with someone?”
“No.”
“Oh. Oh.”
Silence.
“Mycroft, I can’t. I can’t bond with you and know that when I die, you’ll be alone for eternity. I can’t allow that to happen. I love you too much to let that happen to you.”
“And I love you enough to bond with you and accept the fate given to me.”
Gregory was crying now, a few tears trickling down his cheeks. “I can’t. I just can’t. Not when I know what will transpire⎯I saw Sherlock after John died, and I cannot, will not let that happen to you. Never. Not while there is still breath in my body.”
Mycroft reached out and brushed away the stray tears. “I know, love, and that is why I never wanted to tell you this. I cannot give you up, and yet I knew you would not accept something that you could not return.”
“I’m sorry,” Gregory choked out.
“I know.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Never. Not unless you want to leave, and even then, I will use every trick I know to beg you to stay. Stay as long as you can, and let us be happy for the time that we have.”
Gregory let Mycroft pull him into a tight embrace and locked his fingers into the back of Mycroft’s dress shirt. When they had both calmed somewhat, they separated just long enough to stagger down the hall to their bed, where they collapsed in and listened to the other breathe.
When Gregory finally dropped off into sleep, Mycroft watched him, thinking of the feather he had plucked a few weeks ago and hidden away in his bureau, hoping and wishing that his instincts had been wrong. He swallowed down the bitter pill of disappointment and instead focused on committing the sound of each of Gregory’s breaths to memory so he could call on them in the long twilight of his lives to come.
part xvi
