At the time I met him, I never even knew that he was special. I was just a teenager, thinking that the world was collapsing and crumbling, not even knowing how bad it could truly get.
I met him for the first time in the woods. There were many things I forgot that year, like why I was running, and how in the world I ended up there- though I believe, now, that It was fate- but I never forgot him.
I never forgot that moment, either. A golden light, semi-blocked by the leafy canopy of what seemed like giants shined down upon him. The little specks of dust in the air, only visible in that light, seemed to dance around him, leading me closer and enchanting me. He was strikingly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made someone like me feel inferior. The way his gentle red waves framed his soft, slightly rounded, freckle-covered face made him look almost angelic. His eyes, Christ, even thinking of them now made me shiver.
They were a sharp blue, a bit of grey laced in, seeming like they would cut you if you came too close. However, I soon came to find out that they were so much more than the intimidating front they held, just as he was so much more than his beautiful, yet cold, exterior. He was also more than the mind that everyone knew him as.
He was Mycroft Holmes, the man who saved the world, and the man I loved.
Mycroft was a man of silence and peace; he always had been. This had been something that he had experienced for a while, and in many ways, had laced that into his personality. His severe dislike for others had stemmed from many years of his peers, despite being nowhere near qualified to comment on his intellectual abilities, teasing and mocking him for his quirks. That, and his style.
From the age of five, he had insisted to his mother that he would only wear suits. She would not have indulged such a habit if she had been aware of how long into his life he would be wearing nothing but the finest clothes, but at first, she found it endearing and saw no reason to turn down his request since they could indeed afford it.
Mycroft had been eternally thankful for this, as he saw suits to be the only type of clothing that was sufficient in executing a look that outwardly presented his brilliance.
He would never explain this out loud, of course, as that would sound utterly pompous in his opinion, but that was he felt. His brain needed to match his body, and since he was unable to do that with his weight at such a young age, his style of clothing had to do. It also was helpful in the summer, as the pale complexion that came with his horribly unprofessional red hair and freckles allowed him to burn easily, and the long sleeves of his suit kept most of him covered.
These glorious pieces of fabric tailored to perfection also helped the elder Holmes gain the persona that he wanted; he wanted to go into politics.
It was not unusual for the Holmes family to gather around the telly every night after dinner, watching the news. Mrs. Holmes thought it dreadful, not wanting to “waste another insufferable minute of her life” on it; or so she said, her eyes glued on the screen just as much as anyone else’s. Mr. Holmes, however, was the true junky, sitting there and arguing, quite loudly, with anything he disagreed with.
Mycroft, however, adored the news. He sat there for hours, utterly fixated. He would predict the way the stock markets were going, create solutions to problems in the world, and even laughed as the people on the screen tried their hardest to discuss topics that they had no idea about.
His favorite bit, however, is when he would get to see the politicians. With every single word that fell from their lying lips, Mycroft grew more and more confident that this is where he belonged; that he could do so much better.
He also noticed that each and every politician he saw had a suit, and to be like them, he would have to have one as well.
Five years old was the first time that he had this life-changing realization, and after eleven years, this wish still held true, and Mycroft still wore suits.
That would be wonderful and all; however, now was a time that he had regretted his choice of fashion the most.
Remember the mention of the posh teen’s liking to personal space? Well, that had quite possibly become his own downfall when a group of rowdy boys, no doubt from one sports team or another, infringed upon his hideout.
Well, it wasn't a hideout, per se, but rather the only quiet corner of the public library near the school; the one that he had practically claimed as his own. In fact, it was the only quiet place anywhere nearby beside the woods. No one else sat here, and no one dared. He came here every day after school to do his work, to clear his head, and to simply relax. With his brother now nine years old, he rarely got any time to relax for himself, and even less time to watch the news. That meant that he needed a respite from time to time, and this was is. However, now that it was taken, he had a choice to make.
Would he risk his suit to go sit in the woods, or would he risk his sanity?
In the end, sanity won out, and he gathered his faux leather messenger bag over his shoulder, brushed the one annoying curl that refused to stay gelled back out of his face, and headed off for the woods.
The walk, he had to admit, was truly pleasant. It was a beautiful autumn day, the type that had always caught the red-headed boy’s interests. He adored the way that the trees, the seeming grandfathers of nature, turned bright colors, lighting up the day.
Though, he was completely unaware of the irony for the love of the orange goliaths. For every reason that the prodigy hated his own hair, he loved their tops and adored looking at them.
This comparison did not escape a certain silver fox, however.
As Mycroft found a large, seemingly free of dirt, rock in the middle of the woods and placed his belongings down, as gently as ever, Gregory Lestrade had begun to wander into the neverending trees as well.
Greg was a year older than Mycroft, head of the rugby team, and filled with wonder. As he walked between the trees his deep brown eyes, known for being warm and inviting, were sparkling with joy. His hands, rough and calloused from many years of sports, gently traced the trunks of trees, admiring every crack and bump of the rough bark under his fingertips. There was nowhere specifically that he was going, but he was simply walking, wanting to simply spend the night by himself, letting his thoughts drift off as he listened to the gentle crunch of dead leaves under his feet. Halfway through his walk he paused, bending down and gently plucking a small, yellow flower, and placing it behind his ear. If he kept good care of it for the rest of the day, he could hang it up tonight and dry it. In his opinion, yellow flowers looked the best, by far, when dried, and he already had a few in his room already. These bright flowers always helped to make his house feel a bit more like home.
His home life wasn’t the best, which, besides the love of the game, was the main reason that Greg played rugby. There was no way that his dad, the one that spent more money in bars than on their food or rundown house, would spend a single penny on a university. He had to pay himself, which was why a scholarship for rugby would be more than a huge help. This was, unfortunately, the same reason that Greg stalled going home after practice. Every single day he would pack up and quickly shower after practice, before making his way to the woods.
The woods were his favorite place to go. If there was one thing that Mycroft and Greg could agree on, even though Mycroft only just learned it for himself, were that the woods were peaceful and calm, quiet, and devoid of any other people.
Or so they both thought.
For Greg, he knew this forest like the back of his hand, and he never saw another person on his walks. In Mycroft’s mind, no one would have any need to come back here. Both thought they were alone, and despite their many, many differences, they both enjoyed their self-enforced solitude. The boy with the fire hair spent his time reading, legs crossed, completely engrossed in his mythical world, while the boy with the warm heart spent his time exploring.
Eventually, Greg slowly made his way deeper in, following the sound of rushing water and chirping birds. As he stumbled his way closer, he paused, his eyes laying upon a gorgeous boy, about the same age, sitting on a rock under the trees, surrounded by light.
Before Greg could even get a word out, Mycroft looked up, jumping so hard that his book flew out of his hands, straight into the lake. A sound, halfway between a sob and a cry, escaped Mycroft’s lips. He could not possibly go after it in his suit- he had made a horrible decision to come. However, before he could even worry about that properly, the man that had snuck up on him, the one that he had now identified as Gregory Lestrade, was in the water, going after his book.
What Mycroft saw next, in his own eyes, could only be described as porn. No, the man was not naked, but as a gay boy, the one movie scene that he had always loved was the one where Mr. Darcy appeared from the depths of the river, white shirt drenched and exposing his muscles. This scene almost exactly played out in real life with Lestrade, his white rugby uniform clinging to his chest instead. Suddenly, suits were no longer the most attractive piece of clothing to Mycroft anymore. The words that fell from the rugby captain’s smiling mouth next in that sultry, East End accent did not help the flutter in Mycroft’s chest, either.
“Sorry for spookin’ you, Mate. I believe this’s yours.”
Years later, not much had changed. Mycroft still wore suits, and still adored politics. In fact, he was a politician. Not one like he had originally planned to be, but one much higher. He still enjoyed the News as well, but this time, for many different reasons. His now husband, Greg Lestrade, was the detective inspector for Scotland Yard, and he was on the news constantly.
After the incident in the woods, the two began to talk. They soon became close friends, Mycroft still a bit hesitant, but friends nevertheless. In Greg’s final year of secondary school he came out as bisexual, and the two began to date, shocking everyone. His coming out did not go seamlessly, as Greg’s dad got worse and worse, and his home life became unbearable. Not long after Mycroft deduced that Greg moved into the Holmes household, his dried flowers now joining the one from the day in the woods that now sat permanently on Mycroft’s windowsill. As an apology for the soggy book, Greg had pulled the yellow flower from behind his ear and handed it over to the then bright red boy.
Their story only continued from there, date upon date that lead to year upon year, they were in love, no doubt. They expressed their love in different ways; Greg more verbally, whereas Mycroft felt more comfortable showing his love. They were both happy with that, and they understood each other. One day, Mycroft decided to truly show his adoration for the other and proposed in the restaurant where they had their first date.
From the beginning, Greg had known that Mycroft’s job was dangerous, but he also knew it was necessary, For what, he didn’t know, as it was classified, but he did know that the other was happy and important. As long as he returned home, it was okay.
What he didn’t know was how important he truly was. The world was not in a good place then, and Mycroft was the man sent to fix it. How I can not say, but he did. People began to notice the effects of his actions as well, as the world tensions began to revive themselves. People were sent home from war, happy and alive, and other people began to gain more rights. The change was subtle, of course, but if the people from now went back to the time that Mycroft was a boy, they would notice the difference.
Even though his actions were not noticed by the general public, they did not go completely unnoticed by those he wanted the least attention from; those that were stuck in their old ways, not wanting things to get better.
It was those people who kept Mycroft Holmes from keeping his promise- from coming home to Greg.
It was those people who forced a crying Anthea to call Mycroft’s panicked husband, and it was them that caused the two to cry silently together through the night.
And because of the man in the suit, his accomplishments, and everything he had done for the world, the universe weeps. For the man behind the computer without a face or a name who made the world better without a need for recognition, the universe weeps. For his loss, the universe weeps. But most of all, there is one man, silently weeping alone in what used to be their room, surrounded by what used to be his.
This man is Greg Lestrade. For him, the one that Mycroft Holmes has left behind, the universe weeps, and in his honor, I tell this story.