Note : I personally think Mycroft has helped Sherlock to fake his death, but in this story, he is as clueless as you and I about this, and doesn't even know if his little brother is still alive.
By the way, this is going to be a two chapters, three at most, fanfic. I've already written most of it.
Please keep in mind that I'm French, hence the English mistakes. ;)
THE SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT
Chapter 1.
His phone vibrates on the cab ride home, shaking him out of his torpor. It's a text from Anthea.
Shall I cancel your meeting at the Embassy of Belgium tomorrow?
He sighs, his fingers typing only two letters in the reply box.
No.
He stares at the screen a few seconds, as if his Tudor rose wallpaper would answer his silent question, and finally sends another message to his personal assistant.
Any news?
He perfectly knows this question is useless. If there was any news about his brother, he'd be the first one to be informed and yet he can't help but ask.
Just in case.
No, Sir. Anthea's reply comes within seconds.
He lets out another sigh and puts his phone back into the inside pocket of his Paul Smith new collection suit.
'Life goes on', he tries to convince himself. Those words have been repeating in his head over and over for the last hours, like some kind of mantra. He leans his head on his hand and looks back through the car window. Everything is normal. Everything looks normal. And Mycroft suddenly feels the urge to yell at this woman smiling at her boyfriend on the pavement, because no one should be smiling. No one should be allowed to smile. Not tonight. Not when the person he cares most about may be-
No. Sherlock can't be dead.
Just the thought of it makes him feel sick to his stomach. Oh, he's always thought his brother was playing with fire, in every possible way. Cocaine overdose ceased to be a threat the day John Watson entered Sherlock's life, but Mycroft has always feared getting a call one day saying Sherlock has been killed by some criminal. But killing himself? The whole idea sounds absurd.
Yes, he identified the body as his brother's at the morgue, next to James Moriarty's, Moriarty whose death he decided to keep secret for now, and yet he can't bring himself thinking Sherlock is dead. After all, Sherlock was also absolutely certain it was Irene Adler's body lying on the cold metal table, on that Christmas night that suddenly feels an eternity ago.
Yes, he listened to that poor John telling him what he had witnessed with as many details as his distressed mind could remember.
Yes, he watched the security video's footage of Sherlock's fall in a loop until his eyes hurt, but he spotted a couple of details that made him hope that Sherlock has faked his death.
Anyway, hours have passed and he still hasn't heard from his brother. And hope is slowly fading away.
His heart is racing as he reaches the door of the manor. He shoves the key in the lock, turns it and pushes the door open. He puts his umbrella into the umbrella stand –that's the first thing he does whenever he comes back home- and locks the door behind him –that's the second thing he does whenever he comes back home. He searches the house, his steps echoing desperately against the marble floor, but there is no sign of Sherlock and the only other sound that can be heard is the monotonic tick-tock of the living-room's grandfather clock. An old family heirloom.
Disappointment.
He is alone. Like he always is. Like he always feels. Even in the middle of high-society banquets. Oh, he is used to solitude. He even enjoys it. But the house feels emptier than ever, and he's never felt so lonely in his whole life.
He sits at his desk and considers doing some paperwork for his meeting tomorrow, but it would be just a waste of time. He can't think of anything else but Sherlock. 'Life goes on', what a lie! His life stopped the moment he received Anthea's coded text earlier today. A code meaning Sherlock's life is at risk. Or worse.
Loosening his tie, he opens the second drawer of the desk. It smells of old wood and of tobacco. It used to smell of chocolate too and Mycroft suddenly regrets having gotten rid of all those foods packed with calories which he used to keep in strategic places of the house. He could have done with Swiss pralines right now. He lights a cigarette instead, but the nicotine that fills his lungs is unhelpful.
He can't chase away the memory of his last conversation with John.
Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition.
Sherlock can't be dead. He can't. He would never forgive himself.
Never.
Never...
He remembers that time Sherlock returned from school with a black eye. Sherlock was about seven at the time and he wouldn't tell Mycroft what had happened. It's only when Mycroft threatened him to tell Mummy that he had stolen her perfume for an experiment that Sherlock had spoken and said he had been called a freak, and been punched in the eye.
He remembers the promise he made Sherlock that day. Tell me who they are and it won't happen again. I'll protect you. Always.
Always.
Always...
He exhales a long line of smoke and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. And then, unexpectedly, he breaks. He buries his face upon his crossed arms on the desk and cries the tears he has been holding back all day. The tears he has been holding back for years. Because he hates crying. Oh yes he does. He hates losing control. He hates feeling so weak. He must be strong. Because he is the older brother. Because the Holmes don't show their feelings. Because caring is not an advantage. But what's the point in being strong when there is no one to protect any more?
2.17am
The doorbell rings and even if he would never admit it, it is the sweetest sound he's ever heard...
~to be continued...
Thanks for reading!
Published on October.5 2013