Confessions of the Emotionless Git

Bitter, overflowing emotion drowns the sinking mind. Control lays lifelessly like the Titanic; a smart ship lost at the bottom of such a cold, crushing ocean. Some claim technology to be the cause, others suggest fate. In the end, either way, it was still an event of humankind. 

Like you, my dear Jim, if I were to be the intelligent ship, then you would be the iceberg - the uncontrollable, unpredictable force which would do the unthinkable, manage the impossible. 

Sink the unsinkable without any form of apparent effort or conspicuousness - mankind Vs. nature, and naturally nature wins. 

If this is making any form of sense to you, then I applaud you, if not, then I must apologise. Currently, it's as clear as I can bring myself to make things. I find this emotion confusing, and I remember why I detest hangovers so. 

Our fights... they seem pointless, less than mature, as soon as one finishes, another is instant to begin - we both have issues with the prospect of emotion, and both have a tendency to keep it hidden, to either wait until it almost destroys us, or take it out on the world with a petty plan of revenge, designed like the blade of a knife to rip through the other's protective shell, shattering the frozen heart just as a bullet would. Are you the bullet to destroy the Iceman? Of course. 

During out relationship, I have never felt so unstable, so alone... although contentment is no longer alien to me, despite the arguments and general bitterness at times. 

Your attempt on my brother's life, your faked suicide, (thank you for that, my dearest love.) the bullying of Lestrade, the kidnapping of John, impregnation of the prostitute, forcing of the role of Prime Minister onto me, taking it away without further discussion, and not to mention the continuous stalker-like behaviour in regards to my family was all overlooked. All forgiven. Perhaps too easily. 

Although, I do take issue with this. I would be foolish not to. 

When we first met, you chose the name 'James Ardan'. An attempt to conceal your identity, to hide yourself and this is something which I now choose to look back on fondly. As an almost - dare I say it - romantic notion. 

However, due to the role of Prime Minister, we have been featured in press, on live television and heavens know of any other form of media, as an engaged couple, how do you think this façade of Mr. Patrick Leary affects me? The way you intended, or perhaps I feel the usual sensation of nothingness? No. 

Everything you first approached me with now seems like a lie (even more so than the one that it was.) You have told me that you would not have children, look after children with just anyone, now look at Miss. Adler. James Ardan, Patrick Leary... is there a difference, Jim? It's the same pointless game of affection, which I can only assume you feel towards this other man. Be happy with him. I will not have the entire nation reading about this scandal on a daily basis, knowing that the ex-Prime Minister's husband-to-be has openly cheated on him and he has stood by, doing nothing. I refuse to look any more naive than I may seem already; if that is at all possible, of course. You were not there when I needed you the most, like so many times before, and I am no longer sure that I can go through with this. 

It's becoming too much. 

~Mycroft Holmes. 

How I need you.

The smoking habit seems to have returned again. Tenfold.
Rather a fair amount of events have taken place since my last blog, recently one which persuaded me to return to this small pastime.

Over the past few months, so much has happened and a chronological order, I feel will only make sense despite my sheer desperation to be free of the guilt I now carry. The sense of drowning beneath the weight of a crushing claustrophobia, brought further about by the support of family around me.

Well, how to start? I'm sure Brother would make some form of spiteful comment here about my uncertainty. Strangely it would be appreciated.

Ah, I know.
James Moriarty. Otherwise known as 'Jim'. When does a story ever not begin with Jim? Or end with him, for that matter?
It was supposed to be a quiet month Government wise, thank the heavens, and yet I managed to be put in care of a young baby which James had decided to create by combining the DNA strands of my brother with his own. This was the beginning of life for my two nephews Eoin and Ewan. Both of whom are now in my care.
Using the want he'd developed to see Ewan for his excuse - true or not, I am unsure - Jim attempted to persuade me into a relationship with him upon discovering that I didn't entirely hate him, despite he being the reason for my elder nephew and Sherlock to be sent into a coma.
Naturally, I declined.
The next thing I knew, he had taken me to a tropical island; a holiday, apparently. Kidnapping more like.
I shan't go on about the details during this time, it's something my mind was quite determined to lock out.

Several months after my return, I received a worried text from Gregory Lestrade stating that 'Somebody knows'. He was referring to our few brief affairs, and unfortunately a certain woman had managed to gain pictures and footage. Irene Adler, actually.
When she finally decided to text myself, rather than the Detective Inspector, a rather unexpected source had decided she had gone too far. Later that very day, I opened a text from Jim. He had found the photos and, I admit, I genuinely saw the devil surface. The eyes like coal, ablaze in their anger and the last human elements that became James Moriarty were drowned by the jealousy painted across his face. After a great deal of reasoning, and a frankly stressful argument concerning the possibility of him cutting off his ear, he came out with the unexpected words; I shan't displease him by repeating the first few, but they did end with 'I love you' and he was serious. You could see in his eyes, the toning of his voice.. How I miss that so. This was the start of my relationship with James Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal; everything I was against. Everything that could ruin me with a mere click of his fingers. The worst part was that I returned these emotions, I'd come to love Mr. James Ardan, after all we'd been through.

With emotions in the way, I'd lost security of my family, I gave him a clear path to my little brother.
A month or so into our relationship, I found myself sitting around the conference table I am accustomed to within Parliament when Jim's brother sends me a text urging me to call him. That phone call was the most crushing moment of my life. The deepest slice within my heart... My brother and my lover had committed suicide. Jim had shot himself and Sherlock had jumped from the hospital rooftop.

I visited my brother in the morgue, looked upon his body and... I realised that I had done this to him... I had killed my little brother, and it should have been me. I'd failed to do the main task I'd set for myself; I failed to protect him. And Jim... why did I have to lose them both upon that day?

Father was surprisingly there for me, I informed the close relatives and the funeral was arranged. John, naturally cannot stand the sight of me now, I can't blame him - he made it quite apparent that I had taken Sherlock from him. That it was my fault. That I knew it was.
And here I am now... Sitting in my room of silence... blogging simply to be able to think straight, to keep track, to pull myself away from the stabbing hurt within my gaping wound.

Still, the cigarette companies must have made quite the profit, and as the phrase goes; life must go on.
Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty.
My brother and my love,
May you feel peace at last.

~Mycroft Holmes.

Love And War.

It has come to my attention, in a rather unfortunate manner, that this Mr. James Ardan is indeed, as I expected, not who he claimed to be. For the purpose of keeping this discrete to those reading my blog, I shall only highlight certain aspects of the events which have been taking place over the past few days.

Being that this is mainly for my own peace of mind, I expect only a select few shall be interested, or curious enough to read past this introduction.

My mistakes are generally few, but when I, the so called ''Great Mycroft Holmes'' over look a detail, or simply ignore my gut instinct the consequences are (or tend to be) great.
Saturday the twenty-ninth of October, two-thousand and eleven, at seven O'clock exactly, I left 221B Baker Street after having tea with my younger brother, in order to meet ''Mr. Ardan'' where we attended The Ivy to dine. Little to my knowledge, my phone had slipped out of my pocket whilst at 221B, being found by Sherlock. Having hacked into my personal mobile, he took it upon himself to pay a trip to Mummy, no doubt in order to prove his suspicions to her that I was indeed dating James. (Nothing was confirmed at this moment in time.) The two decided to follow me back to The Ivy, for reasons I am still unclear on. Whilst in The Ivy, I was noticed by my father (apparently) and my elder brother, Sherrinford, who took it upon himself to keep Mummy and Brother informed of my actions via text.

After the meal, Mr. Ardan and I took a trip to the local cinema, where Sherrinford followed us. Half way through the film, he sent a text to Mummy, explaining that Mr. Ardan had kissed me.
Deciding it would be best to avoid my family for a short while, I returned home and unplugged the land-line, taking in a few large glasses of brandy. It was only shortly after this, that my attention seeking brother decided to fake hanging himself. Calling his bluff, I had him sent to a hospital, where the CCTV went down for four minutes, enough time for Moriarty to have my brother taken from his room and placed into an SUV which sped off only ten to fifteen minutes before I, myself, arrived. With no traceable tracks to follow, I managed to convince Lestrade to allow me to stay on the site, where I was glad to receive a phone call informing me that my younger brother had been returned home safely, with no physical harm.

Having noticed Mr. Ardan moving towards Sherlock's room before the Cameras went down, I became instantly suspicious of this, and so decided to distance myself from James. After this event, Sherlock and I sat down and discussed the the appearance of Jim Moriarty, and with Mr. James Ardan matching the profile exactly, asides the Westwood suit, I believed with very little doubt that they were one in the same.

Avoiding Mr. Ardan did not go at all in my favour - Mummy had been kidnapped and my nephew knocked unconscious after I had agreed to meet James on Wednesday the second of October. Several members of the defending team I had sent were shot dead, and the only contact I had with Mummy was the red flashing light, symbolising her movement on my phone.
It was at this point that I was contacted by Jim Moriarty using an anonymous number, though his identity was later confirmed to me as Mr. James Ardan himself. My suspicions were correct - he informed me that I had taken too long and he was an impatient man. Informing me of my new nephew, Ewan, I immediately visited Mummy as soon as she was returned.

We are still to be meeting next Wednesday at six O'clock. Somehow I doubt things shall be going down well for me, however, there are greater things at risk here.

All in all, things could have been much worse, though at the same time, much better. All I can say is roll on Wednesday, and until then, I shall hope for the best.

~Mycroft Holmes.

''Hectic.''

I arrived back from Spain two days ago, yet this is the first opportunity I've had to update this blog.
Amongst various Governmental situations and problems I've been dealing with, I returned home to receive a rather worrying text from Doctor Watson concerning the health of my brother. He stated that I'd been as immature as Sherlock was, and that he couldn't believe that someone working for the British Government could be as stupid to agree to such a ''illegal'' act.

Feeling he would need a little space to calm down, I decided to pay Detective Inspector Lestrade a little visit. Or he visited me, either way. I wished to discuss the situation of House Arrest, concerning my brother and a few more eyes around the place could never hurt. We may as well face it.

I visited our eldest brother yesterday at five PM exactly, though the less said about that, the better I'd think.
Later today I'm dining with the Mr James Ardan, once again. See if I can bring any more light to the table as to his true identity, if not, I dare say I shall enjoy the company.

As for the now, I'm off to the land of Bedfordshire for a rest before work in the morning.

Oh, and the truffles were divine.

~Mycroft Holmes.

''Mr James Ardan''

The evening seems to be going rather well. The food is delicious, and there's an extravagant selection of wine. Blogging from under the table without seeming suspicious, however, is a rather complicated thing to do... Clearly another of my skills.

The restaurant is wonderful - scenery is perfect, though I just can't seem to get my head around this 'James Ardan' character. Only people working with, or for, the British Government would have access to my personal number, asides family and close friends, of course; though I doubt any of them would have given it away.

He wears an expensive Italian suit, his hair is combed back and is, in general, perfectly groomed - I'd say he has a lot of time on his hands. Given the restaurant of choice and the aforementioned clothing, I can tell that this man is from an extremely well-off background; The name card, and clear wealth would cause me to believe he owns a business, rather than someone with a high position and working under another. The business is profitable, if not bursting at the seams with clients - how else would there be time for such immaculate grooming?

Name: 'James Ardan.'
Age Estimation: 34 years of age.
Features: Tainted brows, dark hair and eyes, slim build.
Ethnic Background: Most probably Irish x Italian.
Occupation: Self Employed.
Interests: Apparent Government information.
Company Name: Unknown.
Matches to business: None.

Conclusion: Possibly a fake - find more information to prove / disprove.

~Mycroft Holmes.