Work Text:
Molly met Mycroft in a small cafe near St Bart's. This had become a regular occurrence, something kind and surprisingly easy that that both loved. It was strange, and Sherlock would definitely rage when he found out that they were friends. That hardly mattered, though.
As usual, Mycroft was waiting at their table, the one in the corner beside the window. He was turned so that he could see the entire cafe, almost like a king surveying his land. In reality, it was something more like paranoia (not that he'd ever to admit to it if she called it that). Before him was a cup of tea (Earl Grey, one sugar, splash of milk) and a raspberry Danish. He got the ame thing every time. Her food was already waiting, a steaming cup of green tea and a cinnamon bun. Little kindnesses.
"Hope you haven't been waiting long," she said, smiling at him as she draped her bag across the back of the chair, then her jacket. She sat down and he gave her a thin little smile. This eliminated hers; it wasn't like him, at least not where she was concerned.
"What is it?"
There was silence for half a moment, but it felt closer to a year. Three years, in fact.
Deep breath from Mycroft.
Eyes darting away from hers, to his tea.
Wooden smile disappearing entirely.
"He's currently on a plane, expected to land at Heathrow in two hours," he finally said. There was no mistaking who he was. Her heart stopped. This could be either very good or very bad, depending on how he was coming home, in a seat or in a...a box.
"Is he—"
"As far as I know, he's exhausted and half-starved, he's broken three different bones which are healing badly, two wounds in need of immediate attention, post traumatic stress disorder, and depression. But he is alive."
Those three words, so lovely and heartening and good.
He is alive.
The tears that had been threatening changed in tone with those words, like a magic spell cast by this cornerstone of the country. Rather than an expression of grief or horror, it was relief. Hell, it was joy. But that still didn't explain Mycroft's unhappiness.
"There's more," she said, accusingly. "He's your brother, and he's coming home, so why do you look so upset?"
Heavy sigh.
"I should be happier," he said softly. Molly had to strain to hear the quiet words. "I should be more pleased that he is coming home. I am pleased, of course, but more than that, I'm worried. Moreso than usual."
He looked up, finally meeting her eyes.
"I have always worried about him, but this is different. It was so much easier to fix something, should it be needed. This is more. I cannot fix him. I let him get hurt, let him destroy himself—"
The rest of the admission was bitten off into something quite like a sob. Molly's heart ached to hear it.
"I couldn't save him, Molly. I had no way to keep him from this."
Then, worse.
Stifled moan.
"I gave him to Moriarty. I threw him to the wolves. These past three years have been my repentance, but I don't think I'll ever be forgiven."
She grimaced at the ache as it worsened. It was a deep, horrible thing clawing at the empty spaces in her chest.
"Mycroft, I'm sure he forgave you," she murmured, hoping to soothe him. He blinked, and there was something endlessly miserable in his eyes.
"He has," he said quietly. The misery threatened to drown them both. "But I never will."