DISCLAIMER: I do not own

A/N: A Mystrade Merm!Lock fan fiction for you all. Enjoy. Reviews are as always much appreciated.

Warning : Suicide attempt, self hating, depression. This fic does get fluffier! So hold on tight!

Mycroft stared down at blue gush of water beneath the boat. The light reflecting off of the surface of the water almost looked like an invitation. It was one that he was happily going to accept. The sound of running water was drowned out by the sound of the blood inside his head pounding against his ear drums. His heart was beating so fast that he was almost certain that the other passengers would be able to hear it, a glance backwards showed him that it's all in his head. They're all so stupid, Mycroft thought bitterly as he turned his eyes back to the deep blue water once more. He found himself wondering what it was going to feel like. Did it hurt? Was it a painful process? Drowning. How fast would the water fill up his lungs? Was it going to be a graceful death? Would he glide through the icy cold waters like a pebble or sink like a stone? Would everything just stop? Or was it going to take a while for the sea to claim him as its victim.

He closed his eyes and allowed the sea breeze to ruffle his auburn hair. Today was his 21st birthday. Today was the day that he had chosen to die. He sucked in a deep lungful of the air swirling past him, revelling in the ability to be able to breathe without a struggle. It would be taken from him the moment he hit the water. He liked breathing. Unlike his brother he did not find it boring. You see, Mycroft Holmes didn't want to die. The mere thought of death scared him witless, not that he would ever admit to anyone that he was scared of anything. Perhaps that's what he was doing up here on the top deck, preparing to end his pointless life. He was fearful, of everything. Emotions. Feelings. Sentiment. It made him feel physically sick. He just couldn't understand it. Why did people care so much? Caring wasn't an advantage. Not from his experience anyway. He'd cared for his mother and in turn she had drank herself to death, leaving Mycroft to be his baby brother's guardian. And of course he had cared for his father, on some sort of level. He had repaid him with fists flying at him on a daily basis. Eventually his father had left them alone. Mycroft hadn't questioned where he'd gone. He was just grateful that the beatings had stopped. He cared for his little brother and worried about him, constantly. Yet that hadn't stopped Sherlock from going down the path of drugs and nearly overdosing, at such an early age too. Mycroft hated caring with a passion, that being the reason he took the career path in the government. You were expected not to care in such a job, you were anticipated to be cold and methodical. Emotion simply didn't come into the equation when dealing with world crises. Yet that didn't deter him from caring for his brother. And where did caring for his brother get him exactly? Nowhere? Sherlock would usually spit at him, poke fun at his weight, and tell him to piss off; all whilst on a cocaine high.

He frowned and glanced down at his belly. It was pushing against the waistline of his trousers, making them dig into him painfully. Mycroft knew there was now a red line settled there on an almost permanent basis. The job he'd taken on in the government may have been perfect to rid himself of emotions on a tempory basis but whenever he got back home to check on Sherlock they would all come rushing back to him, the effect being he over ate. The business meeting he had to attend didn't help either. He drank far too much wine and attended far too many banquets. The overeating and his weight gain had only piled on more emotions, stronger and more deadly. Whenever he looked into a mirror he wanted nothing more than to break it into a million pieces.

He was filled with an unhealthy amount of self-hatred. People tended to avoid him like the plague. They found him strange and unsociable, and perhaps too clever for their liking. Being clever as far as Mycroft was concerned was a curse. It meant the world around him moved at lightning speed. He was ahead of everyone else, they were dawdling behind him. That made him the odd one out. He had no one. No one who he could turn to, who he could talk to, who could possibly even comprehend the daily struggles he faced. And so he bottled up his emotions, the effect being like a bottle of pop being shaken up with the lid still on. Once the lid was taken off Mycroft exploded. He'd crawl into bed and scream into his pillow, trying to drown out the speeding world around him and the unwanted emotions. Mycroft just wanted to feel numb, to be rid of all emotion. And that's why he was here. It was the only logical option in his mind; to die. It was the perfect solution. Mycroft wasn't a religious man. He didn't believe in the afterlife, or heaven, or hell. It was in his belief that once you stopped breathing in this life that was it, forever. Just darkness. He was too much of a coward to kill himself of course. His fear hindered him. He'd come close, sliding a blade into his skin but he couldn't bring himself to cut deeply. Whenever he had slashed at his wrist with his father's old pocket knife he had felt such a rush of relief, and most importantly a numbness like no other. Death would fix that feeling to a permanent setting. So that's when he'd come up with the plan. Jumping into the sea was in theory an easier way out. Mycroft wouldn't have to do anything. The blue waters would take his life for him. And no one would care. Certainly not his brother. Not his colleagues. Not even his PA would care.

His heart clenched inside its cage. He'd miss Anthea. She was loyal to him. She may not care about him but she had always made sure that he was as comfortable as possible. He was quite taken with her. Yes, if the dead could grieve after the living he would definitely grieve after her. Of course he'd miss his baby brother too, but he supposed in some way he had already come to terms with the loss of his brother. There was too much bad blood underneath the bridge now. Sherlock was a changed man, and Mycroft barely recognized him anymore. He clambered up onto the railings of the boat. Still no one had noticed him. Mycroft was glad that he'd chosen a boat with ignorant people on it. He couldn't risk being saved, and forced into living out yet more days of unwanted emotional turmoil. His eyes slid shut and he stretched out his arms. He lips formed a tight smile as the scene from the titanic edged into his mind.

I believe that the heart does go on …

Mycroft snorted. His heart wasn't going to go on. It was going to stop. It was beating it's last rhythm right this very second. And how ironic that he was thinking of the titanic now ; a boat which crashed. It wasn't a boat that was going to crash this time. It was going to be him to crash as his body hit the icy water below. His breathing was erratic now. His chest felt tight with tension. It wouldn't take much now, just a fractional movement. He tilted forwards and felt the winds hands curl around him, giving him a push in the right direction. And then he fell.

The air gushed around him, forcing him further and further down. For a fractional moment he felt like he was actually flying. He could just imagine suddenly taking off into the sky, as free as a bird. The only thing to break the perception of flying was the sharp jolt of pain he felt as he hit the water. His head dipped below the blue surface and the water came gushing at him from every direction. It pounded against his ear drums and squeezed at him, the pressure quite frankly was making him feel nauseous. He found himself daring enough to open his eyes. They stung severely for what felt like a long while but he eventually got used to it, not that there was particularly much to see. Just darkness. A never ending darkness. He suddenly felt smaller than he'd ever done in his entire life time ; small and frightened like a child who was hopelessly lost. The only thing that told him he was still alive was the tightening of his chest as his body demanded him to breath, and the way his heart was pounding harder by the minute as it desperately tried to pump oxygen that he was craving for. And then the pressure became too much, too painful. Mycroft was forced to open his mouth, just a fractional amount. Water gushed into his mouth and as he was forced to take a deep, gasping breath it began to fill his lungs. That was the painful part. The more water that flowed into his body, the deeper the breaths he took, allowing yet more water to enter. By this point his body was screaming at him, telling him that if he didn't hurry up and resurface for air then he'd die. In response to his body his mind seemed to pull back into the shape of a devious smirk. His vision was blurring now. Good, hopefully that meant that it was all going to be over soon. As his eyes slipped shut he completely failed to notice the ginormous, gleaming fish tail that swirled past him and the fact that that tail belonged to a kindly faced man. He barely registered the arms wrapping around his waist, tugging him upwards and even as his lungs took in actual air instead of water he remained unconscious.