Breaking the ice {Mystrade}

Chapter One - A phonecall from Mr Lestrade

Hello. My name is Jim Moriarty. Welcome to the final problem...
Tick tock
Are you ready to condemn the prisoner?
Tick tock
This is where I get off...
Tick tock
Holmes killing Holmes...
Tick -

Mycroft awoke with a jolt. A sharp, intense movement - fast, like a bullet from a gun. Mycroft Holmes had had enough of guns.
He sat bolt upright against the pillows of his large four-poster, breathing heavily into the shadows. His face, damp with a thin layer of sweat.
It had all been so real. He'd felt it - the fear he'd tried to mask, the ice-cold terror that had consumed him in that maze of concrete cells.
Every minute inside that prison, every passing second had been a living, breathing horror. Yet somehow, somehow, he had been able to hold together the broken pieces of the ice that was him. Mycroft supposed this was largely due to the fact that Sherlock had been present - he was, of course, the smarter of the two. If Mycroft could not keep his head, when beside him Sherlock had stood resilient as a soldier, the shame might have consumed him far more than what he faced now.
The bedroom felt intolerably cold.
"The very picture of Mycroft Holmes." He though to himself.
"The Ice Man. Isolated. Alone. Cold."
He reached across to a bedside table and tapped the stem of his lamp. Immediately, the room flooded with amber light and, at least for the moment, Mycroft felt a little safer.
06:45, the digital clock read. Before, Mycroft could hardly bear the thought of a digital clock - analogues were far more pleasant to have around the house - however since Sherrinford, he preferred to know the time instantly. And the tick-tocking had been beginning to drive him insane.
Mycroft was glad of the time - there was no chance of him being able to sleep again, there never was after one of his nightmares. Instead, he wrapped a heavy dressing gown around himself and wandered downstairs to sit by the fire until sunrise. Mycroft passed the many family portraits which lined the corridor to the staircase. He hadn't had the time to send them off to be cleansed, so the blood-like lines still featured in the eyes of every painting. Usually, he would be furious at his brother for defacing family items of such importance. However, the childish prank reminded him of better days: when he would spend hours reading in the library, until Lock would run up behind him and pull at his ears, or dangle a spider from above. That was after Euros had been placed in the institution, of course.
In an odd sort of way, Mycroft was beginning to like the blood-stained portraits. Perhaps he wouldn't send them away.
The fire was already lit, but consisted of only glowing embers: The previous evening had been bitter, and Mycroft felt it best to leave the fire to die out of its own accord. A few pokes and an extra log, and orange flames began to dance in the shadows of the room. Mycroft sunk into his armchair.
"Oh yes, that's me. The Ice Man. Frozen to the core." He murmured gently. It was certainly a Holmes trait, talking to himself. Sherlock did it too, although Mycroft usually knew he was talking to himself. Sherlock did not.
Mycroft would have loved a cup of tea, however once he'd settled into the chair, he found himself incapable of any movement. That was where a servant might have been useful, but Mycroft disapproved of them. In his mind, his home was his place. His place to think without interruption, his place to do whatever he wanted without people taking an opinion on him. His place to be Myc. Not Mycroft Holmes, The British Government. Myc.
Whatever Myc felt like doing, Myc did. Even the most brainless of activities such as watching the television, he could do quite happily in the knowledge that no-one would ever know. He particularly enjoyed the quiz shows - half the questions, he'd know the answer they wanted. The other half, he'd know both answers: The answer the public was told, and the answer the government didn't want the public to know about.
"It is pleasant," he remarked. "To know the difference."
Slowly the sun began to rise from the East of the sky, and a luminous light started to pour in through the windows. Mycroft looked across the room to the clock.
07:03
He was in no rush to get up.
It had only been two weeks since Sherrinford, and Mycroft had been ordered specifically not to do any kind of mentally strenuous activity. The idea was totally illogical to him, but a firm talking to from Doctor Watson had convinced him to (begrudgingly) oblige.
The trouble was, finding other ways to occupy himself was a tedious and aggravating task. Sudoku had worked for a while, however after successfully solving three without erasing one single number, he found he was able to solve them with a single glance.
Then, he had attempted knitting. An abhorrent task indeed. The wool kept getting tangled, and the loops kept falling off the needles. This was far worse than the Sudoku - Mycroft Holmes had failed.
One morning, he felt a sudden desire to bake. He was a surprisingly accomplished chef, despite the fact that he dined elsewhere most nights. The cake was a glorious affair - light, fluffy sponge with heavy cream and rich raspberry jam - a classic Victoria. It was only when he sat down to admire it, he realised a slight issue. He was supposed to be on a diet.
The days just kept on rolling past, and Mycroft was itching for the end of the month when he would be allowed to return to the office and bury his feelings in his work. Only two more weeks to go. Thankfully, Anthea was taking care of his responsibilities in his absence. She was the only person he felt he could trust to perform the job correctly - he could hardly trust anyone surrounding him, seeing as their main source of income was getting paid to spy on people.
Just as his mind was beginning to settle into a tranquil silence, the phone rang.
"For God's sake!" Mycroft cried out indignantly. He walked across the room, loudly cursing the phone: firstly, it had made him jump and secondly it was making him leave his armchair where he had been really very comfortable.
"Good Morning?" He said questioningly.
"Good Morning, Mr Holmes. It's D.I Greg Lestrade, here... Um... Please do excuse me, if I've called at an inconvenient time..."
"No, not at all, Gregory ...How might I ...Help you?" Mycroft stuttered a little. Why on Earth would Lestrade phone him at such an hour?
"I was hoping if, Mr Holmes, you would be able to come down to Scotland Yard this morning if it would be, uh... Convenient?"
"It depends on the occasion, Gregory. I'm under the strictest of orders from Doctor Watson."
"Ah, yes. It is actually about John - um, I mean, Doctor Watson."
"Oh."
"The situation is, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson wishes to see you. He says it's urgent but he won't tell me what it's about."
"Doctor Watson knows where I live, Gregory. Him and my dear brother broke in and disabled my security only two weeks ago."
"Oh... Um... Well... He says he needs to see you here. That's all he'll say to me."
"Give me half an hour. Ensure a piping hot, black coffee will be there on my arrival. Bone China teacup, not paper, thank you."
"Thank you, thank you ever so much, Mr Holmes!"
"Oh, and Gregory..."
"...yes."
"Whatever you do. Don't waste my bloody time."

A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks for reading the first instalment of my very first Mystrade fanfic! I promise, it will get super fluffy, but I think I'm gonna take it slow for a bit - after all, Mycroft has just been through some very traumatic stuff. Hope you enjoyed xxx