FILL: We who were living are now dying (1a/?) [WARNING: character deaths]
anonymous
July 2 2011, 11:16:34 UTC
It had been almost three years since the incident at Reichenbach.
Incident. That's what the press had called it. The 'incident' that had taken two men's lives, left an unimaginable void in countless others and set the base to the destruction of a criminal empire.
Mycroft was lying on his bed, back resting against the headboard, half a dozen mobiles scattered on the sheets. Sherlock had been gone for two and a half years now. Two years, eight months and four days to be precise. And Mycroft was always precise.
But if he was always so precise then how, how could it have happened? How could he have lost his brother's location? How did he disappear? How?
Mycroft passed a hand on his face and squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock's last message was still saved on one of his mobile phones and it was seven days old. The team that had the task to surveil him last reported back almost five days ago. Usually in times of secret wars and underground operations Mycroft considered his men lost after a mere 24 hours of silence.
Mycroft felt his eyes burn and his cheeks oddly wet.
"It's not the first time Sherlock has ignored me for days, typical of him... He will call. He will send a message. Most likely he's just harassing my team to shut up because their mundane thoughts are disrupting his thinking process. Yes, that's it."
Yes, that was it. But if that was it why couldn't he sleep? Why couldn't he eat? Why was his skin so pale and why was his hair so thin? Why weren't the tears stopping?
Mycroft felt tired. Tired of checking his phones for messages that weren't there, tired of waiting for a status report that would never come, tired of calling Mummy every night and hear her sob through the phone. Tired of trying to run away from what the facts were telling him: Sherlock was dead. And he wouldn't come back this time.
Mycroft felt tired.
He felt a light breeze of cold air sending shivers up his spine and opened the eyes he didn't realize he had closed. Standing at the foot of his bed was Sherlock.
No, it couldn't be his little brother. Sherlock never wore white suits. And last time he saw him he didn't have an unnatural glow of dark light surrounding him.
Mycroft blinked. He tried to stand up but he felt too tired, his limbs were shaking. He felt so tired...
"Sherlock...?" he called out.
The glowing Sherlock slowly shook his head. "I'm not your brother, Mycroft Holmes."
The most powerful man in the United Kingdom was shaking. He didn't know if it was fear or happiness or fatigue or a combination of all. He was shaking and he was staring at something that looked exactly like his little brother. His dead little brother.
"The end is here, then," Mycroft replied in a whisper.
Death didn't have any difficulty hearing him. "People usually take longer to recognize me, I am impressed."
Mycroft felt his lips curl up in a weary smile. "It wasn't a difficult deduction. Exhausted body, outworn mind and my dead sibling at the foot of my bed..."
Death didn't reply. She walked around the bed and sat on the edge near Mycroft, offering him his glowing hand. "It's time to go."
Mycroft looked at the hand and then moved his gaze up into those lifeless eyes that looked so much like Sherlock's. "Where will you take me?"
"To a door," Death answered. "I always take the souls to a door. Where that door leads is something you will find out after you have closed it behind you."
Mycroft gave her a slow nod of understanding. He took a moment to think about this, the end, and he realized he felt different: he wasn't scared anymore. He was relieved, almost happy. He hoped he could Sherlock on the other side. And Father. It would be nice to see his father again.
He slowly lifted his trembling hand and placed it over Death's ice cold one, her fingers tightening the grip and weightlessly lifting him up.
Mycroft's soul looked behind him at his body, still sitting up in the bed: his forehead was free of the constant worry lines that had been there since Sherlock had left, his face was relaxed like it hadn't been in months. And a small smile was playing on his still warm lips.
Incident. That's what the press had called it. The 'incident' that had taken two men's lives, left an unimaginable void in countless others and set the base to the destruction of a criminal empire.
Mycroft was lying on his bed, back resting against the headboard, half a dozen mobiles scattered on the sheets. Sherlock had been gone for two and a half years now. Two years, eight months and four days to be precise. And Mycroft was always precise.
But if he was always so precise then how, how could it have happened? How could he have lost his brother's location? How did he disappear? How?
Mycroft passed a hand on his face and squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock's last message was still saved on one of his mobile phones and it was seven days old. The team that had the task to surveil him last reported back almost five days ago. Usually in times of secret wars and underground operations Mycroft considered his men lost after a mere 24 hours of silence.
Mycroft felt his eyes burn and his cheeks oddly wet.
"It's not the first time Sherlock has ignored me for days, typical of him... He will call. He will send a message. Most likely he's just harassing my team to shut up because their mundane thoughts are disrupting his thinking process. Yes, that's it."
Yes, that was it. But if that was it why couldn't he sleep? Why couldn't he eat? Why was his skin so pale and why was his hair so thin? Why weren't the tears stopping?
Mycroft felt tired. Tired of checking his phones for messages that weren't there, tired of waiting for a status report that would never come, tired of calling Mummy every night and hear her sob through the phone. Tired of trying to run away from what the facts were telling him: Sherlock was dead. And he wouldn't come back this time.
Mycroft felt tired.
He felt a light breeze of cold air sending shivers up his spine and opened the eyes he didn't realize he had closed. Standing at the foot of his bed was Sherlock.
No, it couldn't be his little brother. Sherlock never wore white suits. And last time he saw him he didn't have an unnatural glow of dark light surrounding him.
Mycroft blinked. He tried to stand up but he felt too tired, his limbs were shaking. He felt so tired...
"Sherlock...?" he called out.
The glowing Sherlock slowly shook his head. "I'm not your brother, Mycroft Holmes."
The most powerful man in the United Kingdom was shaking. He didn't know if it was fear or happiness or fatigue or a combination of all. He was shaking and he was staring at something that looked exactly like his little brother. His dead little brother.
"The end is here, then," Mycroft replied in a whisper.
Death didn't have any difficulty hearing him. "People usually take longer to recognize me, I am impressed."
Mycroft felt his lips curl up in a weary smile. "It wasn't a difficult deduction. Exhausted body, outworn mind and my dead sibling at the foot of my bed..."
Death didn't reply. She walked around the bed and sat on the edge near Mycroft, offering him his glowing hand. "It's time to go."
Mycroft looked at the hand and then moved his gaze up into those lifeless eyes that looked so much like Sherlock's. "Where will you take me?"
"To a door," Death answered. "I always take the souls to a door. Where that door leads is something you will find out after you have closed it behind you."
Mycroft gave her a slow nod of understanding. He took a moment to think about this, the end, and he realized he felt different: he wasn't scared anymore. He was relieved, almost happy. He hoped he could Sherlock on the other side. And Father. It would be nice to see his father again.
He slowly lifted his trembling hand and placed it over Death's ice cold one, her fingers tightening the grip and weightlessly lifting him up.
Mycroft's soul looked behind him at his body, still sitting up in the bed: his forehead was free of the constant worry lines that had been there since Sherlock had left, his face was relaxed like it hadn't been in months. And a small smile was playing on his still warm lips.
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