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Sherlock was dreaming, or was he?
“she would be pleased to know that she won against her oldest enemy at last”
“ well, some wounds never heal and all that. I bet she prefered actually burning you, but one has to be content with what they have”
“Musgrave was a good home for a while, yes. And is there another of your spies among us? I am simply curious”
He was there, standing like a statue, frozen in place when the bullet hit his brother’s chest, tearing flesh and bone and nestling in his heart.it was almost as if he could hear every bit of muscle tearing up, every single bone breaking, each red cell that left his brother’s vain and joined to the crowd that were busy staining his crisp white shirt with red…
My would be so mad, blood was so bloody hard to get rid of, especially from white oxford shirts..
But he did not say that, or that how stupid Sherlock was, or that there was at least a dozen ways Sherlock could have prevented him being shot..
Oh Gods! Myc was shot, and he was on the ground and there was blood every where.
“I loved being your brother so much…”
“Goodbye brother mine”
And again.
And again.
Some nights, he found out that it was a memory-mare, cause it was not a nightmare if it was a memory replaying a hundred times.
Some nights, Moriarty made Mycroft jump from the roof.
Some nights, he beat Mycroft to death.
But the worst one was not even close to that.
Sometimes, some very bad nights, there was no Moriarty. There was only Richard Brook, and him being High as a kite. And when he was in the middle of beating the crab out of Moriarty, suddenly he would find his brother under him, bloody and broken and terrified.
He would stop, he would try telling himself it was a lie.
But his mind knew it to be true, somehow. How else these nightmares did not improve at all?
Or
Did he really wanted them to stop? He could lie all he wanted… but those momments, those precious short-lived momments were the last time he saw his brother. Those were not so bad, he knew they were false, most of the time, except when he was Moriarty.
Could he stop them, and bear to not see him at all until…
Somedays, he surprised himself with praying, not to go to heaven, or that he even believed in such a ridiculous thing, but to let him see My, just for one last time…
The other half of his time he spent on theorizing.
Mycroft was too clever for both of them combined, no way he did not forsaw this disaster and had a plan for it. He just needed to bide his time.
Time sherlock could buy.
Right?
He needed to stay hidden, in some god-forsaken underground base, so the traiter was found and he could resurface again. he was oh so lazy to do leg work, so he had to make sherlock do it.
If his method was a bit cruel, sherlock could take it. He was a big boy; he knew he had screwed up royally and getting Myki hurt. There was no way ever those good for nothing secret service were not prepared for that. They probably had a farm of kidneys and hearts and spare parts for the likes of his brother or the king.
Right?
He had not gone to that farce of a burial, what was that to him? It was a fake body with a fake stone. He needed to focus.
So focus he did.
John was sitting across from Greg, staring at the empty cup he was not sure when he had drunk.
“so”
“so nothing”
Greg scratched his chin, were the stubble was growing the most horribly.
“has he…”
John sighed.
“No he has not spoken a word. No he has not came back to Bakerstreet. Yes I check on him each evening like his parents and all the other bloody peeps asked me to. No he has not stepped out of his…out of Mycroft house at all”
“oh”
“yeah, OH”
At first they were shocked. Shocked because how in the name of bloody queen Sherlock had not saw that? Or Mycroft?
Their shared brain cells could have just, been divided into whole Britain and they still could have some left, so how..
How they did not see that blow?
Then came the second wave.
Mycroft was dead.
He seemed so, so larger than life, and he was so brilliant and so utterly young.
What was his age? Forty something?
Greg was still at Mi5 in his early forties. He was still smoking like mad and had a habbit of going home with two arms full of gorgous girls for only one night stands.
It was so crueal for him to go like that.
It was so crueal to know there would never be a late night call, to go get his brother out of some god forsaken hole he went into for his bloody cases. It was heartbreaking to know how he had died to cover for Sherlock, again.
It was horrifying to know they were on their own taking care what he valued more than his life, his kid brother and..
They were failing so miserably.
Sherlock had not spoken a word, nor returned a call, or a message.
Lady Smallwood had their parents informed, and John too.
“its just..”
Greg played with the lonely spoon in his cup “ Mycroft and I, we knew each other long before I knew of Sherlock”
Wait, WHAT?
“ I was in..in Mi5 for about a decade before I had to retire. And there was this guy, called R or Medusa, yeah I knew it is a woman’s name, but believe me, I only saw him once and that was terrifing. I would have been more surprised if he could not turn anyone shake in fear just by a glare or a hiss. And one day, the only time I saw him, thank God, he came to me with a young ginger boy. He was… he was too young to be trained, but he demanded it, and I just did it.”
“don’t tell me”
“yes, it was him. Mycroft Holmes. He was like, in high school age? He had those baby fat, chubby cheeks and he was still a boy, but he had his first fucking degree in social sciences and media. How in the world…”
John let him rant a bit. Not just because he needed this, to know about their sort of not friend, friend gone by a …. Right. Maybe a little? Because Bakerstreet was not like home anymore. Even when Sherlock had sat on the cold floor after he had been discharged form hospital, staring at the wall. Because it was not.
They both knew it.
There would never be anyone controling their safty from above, no secret cameras, no one to bail them, no one o tell sherlock he was not the smart one.
Because there was no one now, who was smarter, no one.
So forgive him for being the sentimental duffer he was, longing for what was lost for eternity.
Trying to pretend everything was alright. Sherlock was home, talking to his skull, and Mycroft was having tea with queen, bitching politely about his unsufferable little brother antics.
You know, john had thought for a while, that all would be well. That sherlock could deal with the loss and come back, after all he had came back from losing Irine, whome he had been in love, as much as love one like him could feel.
That he and Molly and Greg and Mrs Hudson were enough.
That his Mom and dad could pull Sherlock from the shadow of his mind.
Of fucking course it was not the case. How naieve they were?
Cause Sherlock remained the way he was, did not talk, did not move or eat. He did not go the funeral, and any attempt to move him was faced with hostility. Mrs Holmes cried and begged and begged.
No change.
Mr Holmes just closed his eyes “ Violet, dear, you know…”
He seemed lost, and about to burst into crying, but with quite an effort, he stoned himself” there is no way to move him now. We are…we.. there was.. oh Mycroft”
And then he broke too.
And after the funeral? He had left 221b to go and live in his old room- the one he had at his brother’s- and he never came back. It was a month ago.
“so there he was, the ginger lad with soft features and analyzing eye, not even fucking grown to his full height and… bloody hell was polite to death, and…after that..when nearly 8ish years later I saw him I did not suspect that.. tall aristocrotish powerful man who came to me to search for his brother, and keep an eye on him was him, it took me, it took me half a year and..”
His phone rang, then John’s too.
They both knew what it meant, oh Sherlock! What the hell he had gotten himself into?
*********************************************************************************
Sherlock had a plan.
A month in hiding was all hhe could offer his idle brother. He better pull his act together and use those legs for work, less he get fatter sitting on his arse, laughing from a far:
‘ oh and the service was lovely, thanks Mommy’
Sherlock could not wait to see mommy holmes handing his ass to him because of faking his death.
Because there was no way Mycroft was dead. He had fucking promised, promised to be there for him. And he was not one to break his word. He only said goodbye right? Never said anything like this is our last time together or other sickly sentimental thing.
So sherlock stopped and thought for good. For a month.
Maybe he was afraid of the traiter in his ranks?
Maybe…
so
after that,Sherlock had found Norbury in 3 days. He had broken all her fingers, and both her legs when lady S and Co arrived.
“Oh, Sherlock..”
She only took a look, and asked if she had confessed anything worthy. There was never a way in hell he would do that to an innocent woman, if he had a drop of Mycroft’s blood in his vains. So it was 100 percent certainty Norbury was guilty.
He handed her the papers, the flash drive and all missions she had compromised. The list of her accomplices and everything.
Wordlessly.
Sherlock have not spoken a word after …
That damn day, even when he was injured, even…
His ribs didn’t bother him, his wound did not matter when…
No, don’t go there.
The mess, Moriarty’s mess and his reputation was being cleaned, yet he didn’t care on bit. He had took all these days to think and find the mole, the one who knew his….know who ‘Antarctica’ was and tattled to Moriarty. In the end, it wasn’t that hard. Sir Edwin had not the gall, and Lady S was not one to work behind the scenes like that.
He had taken his sweat time, torturing the bitch. She had thrown up info in her first hour, but Sherlock delayed informing the p…Lady S until then. Norbury would not make it past this day, her mind too frail.
And sherlock didn’t feel guilty at all.
He had called lady S, to inform her that he found the traiter.
He had used a recorded voice, because what use there was for his voice, when there was no one to hear his undertones? To know exactly what he meant by them? To talk with idiots who only heard what they wanted?
So he was certain.
Because there was not a message, because nobody came to his location in 30 minutes time.
Because he had not revealed his location to Lady S, in a far fetched hope that maybe , if My was alive, he would come. And he would knew where he was.
And he would definitly come to get him out of this mess.
Because he was always there when it most mattered. When he was in danger.
So he was certain now.
Ceratin that..
That My..
So sherlock didn’t feel guilty at all,if he felt abit uneasy, it was that she lacked any person she cared about that sherlock could destroy. There was her cousin, but Norbury had not even called her in a decade. So he had killed her dogs by feeding them chocolate, watched her cry.
And then he was convinced his brother was gone forever.
Because he fucking called Lady S, and there was no message from him.
There was no “ don’t do any other stupid thing until I arrive “ from My.
Nothing.
So of coarse he knew it was a long shot, that there was only less than 1% chance My was alive,
But…
Toturing the bitch had not helped.
It didn’t help to quench his internal fire, his revenge. He could feel a thing.
He had not slept one minute, or had he? He had not even used any kind of drugs, My…he wouldn’t like that.
It was a useless loop, every time he closed it.
“ she would be pleased to know that she won against her oldest enemy at last.”
“ well some wounds never heal and all that. I bet say she prefered actually burning you, but one has to be content with what they have”
“ Musgrave was a good home for a while, yes. And is there another of your spies among us? I am simply curiuos”
There was blood everywhere. The world smelt of blood and sweat and…
He couldn’t look, wouldn’t look.
There was his brother laying in the center, with a hole in his chest, eyes forever open.
And it was cold.
Sherlock was cold.
Mycroft was cold.
Pale, pale, pale.
And his voice would echo.
“ I loved being your brother so much..”
“goodbye brothermine”
Why he had not put pressure on the wound? Why he had stood there like a useless brick and not saved him?
Why he had failed to say he loved him?
And he would run.
Sherlock had not been in the funeral. He couldn’t bring himself to do, he was weak.
Weak because his brother left.
He had not shed a tear, not a single one.
He couldn’t allow it while the main person behind his brother’s loss was breathing, had a helathy heart which beat in their chest and wasn’t punctured by a bullet.
He would not sit still until he rid the world of them all..
And then..and then..
And then he would make a decision.
To jump after him.
To join his brother.
*************************************************************************************
It was like it was yesterday, yet it was so long ago. Mr and Mrs Holmes stayed in 221b, because they couldn’t use Mycrofts, and he wasn’t there to pull the strings and get them a suit in 5 stars hotels.
It was shocking how the invisible man had changed them all, how he was always there.
John always was feeling safe before, knowing the man- the government- had their backs. If they slipped, if they were in touchy situation, he would come to the rescue and get them out of it and all would be well.
Guess it wouldnt be well any time soon, or ever.
Sherlock had not come to Baker street, or returned their calls, even his mothers. John knew that sherlock was tramatized, that his lips was sealed or real, no sound came from him, even in the early hours when he was sedated and still had nightmares, he was silent.
Staring at the wall.
Mrs Holmes on the other hand, cryed. Then cursed her brother and Mycroft- how it worked cursing a dead man for dieing was beyond him- and then cryed some more. Mr Holmes only hugged her and draw cicles on her back.
The funeral..
It was sad.
There were only him and the Holmeses, Anthea and Lady Smallwood.
He had been cremented at his demand, he didn’t even have a grave.
Only an empty stone.
Neither himself, or Greg, or Molly knew what would happen. How Moriarty gotten him up there. Molly told them of the plan, the fake body and the jump. But something was wrong.
.Who had outsmarted the smartest man on Britain, dare say world?
***********************************************************************************
Elizabeth was pissed.
As John and Greg arrived at the appledore, Lady S was already on the phone.
“yes he is talking now. No he has not demanded a thing, yes of fucking coarse he is not in his sound mind! He had watched his brother murdered in front of his eyes only 5 weeks ago!”
They looked at each other. When the calm and collected woman with always manicared hands yelled and cursed like that… just What had Sherlock done now?
“Yes! I bloody took responsibility of the Norbury case, she was sufficiently out of any data when we arrived. Yes I am fucking certain she jumped from the bloody building on her own!”
The she threw the phone and cursed under her breath. Turning to face them” fucking finally!”
John was hesitant to ask anything, the woman looked like she could smoother them with her bare hands ,but Greg had a tougher skin than he looked and went forward.
“ Lady Smallwood I presume? I am Gregory Lestr..”
The woman cut him sharply” of bloody coarse I fucking know who you are, former specail agent, the one who taught Mycroft the basics when he first was introduced the system, why else would I call you and that ex army follower of Sherlock to come here?”
Then she filled them in.
And boy, were they in for a treat.
Sherlock had truly outdone himself this time, he was so in deep a shit that there was no way to even begin with that farce of a situation.
It appeared that Sherlock in fact, had not sat idly in that house. He had indeed found the one who had sold out his brother to Moriarty, and went after her. Even she was not sure why when they found out where he was keeping her, and came to sort of rescue, he handed them all the info he had gotten out of her.
They did not know why Norbury had jumped from the 2nd floor window, as soon as they cut the ropes that secured her to the chair and was now in a coma.
They did not know why sherlock had broken into Appledore, 2 hours ago.
(they did not knew how he had escaped from house arrest in the first place, the house arrest because no one was sure what had he done to drive Norbury to commiting suiside)
And he was talking. Not so much, just one thing.
“tell me what I want”
And then horrible horrible screams would fill the air.
There was no way to get a visual, or a sound beside that awful screaming. The door was the bullet and explosion proof, and the walls were built to thick for them to reach inside.
They only knew that Sherlock had infiltrated Appledore somehow, had a gun, and a hostage named Charles Augustus Magnussen.
If Moriarty was Sherlock’s nemsis, Magnussen was Mycroft’s. Albeit the multi billioner lacked The older Holmes’s influence, he was not doing half as bad totally.
He was the devil incarnate. Money, flow of the news, and brains. The only thing that held him back was Mycroft, and she was fearing a move from him for a month.
Well, not this kind of move, to be taken hostage by Sherlock, or to be the one Norbury sort of passed information too.
Just who else Norbury passed info? Taliban? Black water? Hostile aliens? Who knew?
She sighed inwardly, what a mess.
Then, she reluctantly told them that many many years ago the owner, Magnussen had harassed Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft, sexually, and that Mycroft had stopped persuing the matter out of the blue.
Yes Magnussen was powerful, yes he had friends on the cabinet, had dirts on anyone and anything under the sun,
But why Mycroft had done it, it baffled her.
It was so burried, so deeply burried that only now, and with clues they had gotten from Norbury’s confessions to Sherlock, that she found out.
Of coarse she thought about Sherinford, if not saying it out loud to the two men standing before her.
But why?
Mycroft’s sister was top secret, more than top secret, because there were only a pitiful number of people knew, and they knew if they tell a soul, they were done.
Even if Magnussen knew, why in the heavens above he would breathe a word?
Was sherinford of imporatance at all?
If not, What was the fucking link that connected Norbury to knowing about Magnussen, that linked Moriarty and Mycroft . where was the thing that connected these scattered dots to each other? The more she thought about, the less she was convinced she knew a single thing.
Fuck her stupid slow mind.
Oh, how she would have liked to have Mycroft with her now, how she badly wanted him… sod her promise to him, fuck her promise to keep his brother safe. Sherlock was making it extremly hard to do so.
Ok. So Moriarty wanted to destroy Mycroft, not Sherlock. Because it was never about Sherlock.
Because if he killed sherlock, Mycroft would have followed.
Norbury was working for Moriarty, the mole in their ranks that sold info to him.
So Moriarty knew of their plan for Sherlock to survive, and Sherlock was not going to survive.
And Mycroft went and rescued his brother, as always. The problem was that he was shot right in the chest..
Then Sherlock got tramautized, the way nobody saw that coming. He went and stayed in Mycroft’s until a week ago.
That bastard was probably gathering his thoughts on the traiter.
And he went and got Norbury.
Norbury revealed Magnussen hand in it.
What was the connection again? Moriarty, Mycroft, Norbury, Sherlock?
Her thoughts come into halt when there was another yell, the loudest by them all:
“TELL ME!”
And another voice, timid and small sobbed:
“REDBEARD!”
What in hell?
Redbeard?
What was that supposed to mean?
By the queen herself she was stuck among lunatics. Yes that was it.
And then came the sound of a gun firing.
******************************************************************************
John and Greg ran into the room, fearing for the worst.
There , sat sherlock with a gun in his hand, staring blancly to the wall. At his feet, Magnussen was sobbing and clutching his head, chanting no.
No. no . no .
Then he sobbed harder.
They were all relieved to see both the kidnapper and kidnapee relativly safe, yet Elizabeth still feared. She held back her team, less something terrible happened.
Doctor Watson, bless his idiotic soul, tried to step closer and take the gun from sherlock.
“Sherlock, Sherlock please. It is us, you know? Me and Lestrade. You.. you are Ok. We are Ok. It is.. it is gonna be alright.”
Then Sherlock stared at John’s eyes directly. It broke his heart to see his eyes so lifless, so blanc. Like something had drained the life out of him.
“Sherlock please, I am begging you. You have us you know? You are not alone. Let us help you, give us, give me and greg and your parents a chance. Give Molly and Mrs Hudson a chance. All would be well. It is.. it is gonna be alright…”
Then he spoke, his voice empty of any emotion
“: No, it won’t”
Then he tilted his head and offered the gun to Magnussen, who had stopped his pitiful wails.
John’s eyes widened, Greg went for his hand gun and Lady S stiffened.
What the fuck he was doing handing a gun to a man he literaly tortured for 2 whole hours? Didn’t he valued his life? Their life? Anyone’s life at all?
To his utmost horror, sherlock only smirked and raised an eyebrew. Standing upright and spreading his hands to both sides like an eagle, as if…
As if he invited Magnussen to..
As if he wished to..
When they saw Magnussen move, all three of them jumped to help, to not allow him to murder Sherlock.
The gun fired.
Magnussen took his own life.
John did not know what to think, what to do, what to belive.
Magnussen had shot himself rather than Sherlock.
Just … what the bloody fuck?
Then he makes the mistake of looking Sherlock's way as he is being detained, smiling all too comfortably as if he has not a care in the world.
What has happened to his best friend?
Is there anything left of him at all?