John closed his eyes, wrapping his short, thick fingers around the still-warm wrist of his partner; his head swam dizzily as he held out with baited breathe for the beat he wished so desperately to feel beneath his touch. Hands grabbed and pulled at him, gently at first, but harder as time ticked past painfully slow. The beat was nowhere to be found, hope was fading fast. John's world began to fade with it – the hands began to win, dragging him away from the misshapen, cold body of his friend at his feet.
Oh god, no. He slurred, blinking slowly and letting the pain he felt bubbling at his core overtake his body. His head was throbbing, his knees and elbows bruised from the impact on the cobbled street; but it meant nothing to him. Nothing would ever mean a thing again. He couldn't believe any of it was happening, and as the tall, lifeless figure was lifted unceremoniously onto a trolley, a small part of him winced as the man he knew so well lay still, letting these strangers touch and interfere with his body.
This wasn't right, he couldn't be gone – he couldn't leave him here.
John slumped on the street, his head in his hands, back arched, shoulders shaking violently for quite some time; the realisation that his friend –his best friend- was gone washing over him in harsh waves of heart-breaking pain. It wasn't right, it couldn't be; not 24 hours ago Sherlock had been his usual self, arguing with magistrates, blowing holes in Mrs Hudson's wall, driving John to the brink of madness with his incessant experiments; it just wasn't right.
Sherlock had been ushered away from prying eyes; to anyone watching it was another tragic suicide – someone on the brink of life and death, too tired to carry on. But he wasn't another statistic, he was unique - He died to save me. John hadn't the strength to follow the trolley into the hospital, he settled for his spot on the floor, the harsh reality of the events sinking in as he cursed the man he watched fall to his untimely death.
He barely noted the footsteps striding towards him, the strong hands placed under his arms, or the familiar voices as he was half-dragged away from St Barthes. John didn't protest; his limbs moved on their own; his legs carrying him towards the sleek black car across the street. He fell into it, not caring enough to check the driver, or where they were going, or even to look up at the man he knew was sitting beside him. He couldn't bear to see him; to look into those horribly familiar eyes and feel the pain he knew he would find there– he couldn't be comforted, nor reasoned with, and the passenger accepted that, after one quick glance at the small, huddled man, he settled on staring ahead, carefully analysing the knowledge he had of the incident in his own head.
The journey was long; daylight faded fast as it does in the dark winter months: the endless street lights of London had disappeared miles back, to be replaced with a never-ending sea of darkness spotted with a billion stars. John stared out of the window, his head pressed against the freezing glass; it'd been hours since he'd spoken, or even moved consciously. His body was numb; his old 'psychosomatic' hip injury began to ache dully – his own natural painkiller gone forever.
Mycroft, sensing the change in consciousness of his passenger, coughed gently, shuffling under his coat, before turning to face him. He couldn't cope with his thoughts any longer. "He always was a pretentious fool, John," He began, not knowing how to comfort the somewhat widowed man beside him. "He could tear a crime scene to pieces in seconds, recite all 24 of Paganini's Concerto's; he was spectacular at many things, but being reasonable was not one of them." The slender man wrung his fingers together, he had torn his brother to pieces in front of others before, but somehow speaking ill of him now was unnatural and cold-hearted. Mycroft had been surrounded by death from a young age; the sight of the most horrifically mutilated corpse had not perturbed him for many long years. But the image of his younger brother falling from grace and hitting solid concrete was something new altogether – the twisted shape of his limbs, the former crimson shadow of his life spreading relentlessly across the pavement – all could have been prevented if not for him.
"Despite what has been portrayed of me in the past few years, I have always loved my brother, John. He was nothing short of remarkable – though the addition of you to his person seemed to make him more of a man than I could ever wish to be." His voice caught in his throat, "I would give anything at this moment to somehow retract my actions and bring him back."
He sighed a deep, bone-weary sigh; the sudden rush of anger towards his selfish actions bubbled to the surface, but he clenched his fists, driving his nails into his palm, and let his eyes flit back to the burning balls of light in the sky; craving desperately that his calculated mind was able to understand the idea of wishing upon a star. Instead he did something he had not done since he was a young boy. He prayed.
He prayed to every deity he could recall; any religion he could remember, bargaining his own life in return for his brothers'. Please, I will do anything. Anything at all.
"Mycroft, I-…" John started, reaching out a stubby hand and placing it on the slender man's shoulder – it was meant to comfort him, yet the discomfort of the gesture did nothing to soothe. John flinched at the sound of his own voice; he sounded broken. His throat grated as his carried on
"I won't pretend for one second to like you; I think you're a cold-hearted, soul-crushing man whose sole mission in life was to make his brother jealous – but I know that he needed you just as much as you needed him." The slender man turned to face the shorter, the pain in his features was clear to see – he was burning.
John gasped involuntarily as saw those eyes that he had been desperately trying to avoid; they were so similar, so alike – the one trait that seemed to be passed down throughout the family. Mycroft didn't possess the same velvet tones his brother did, but they were still similar enough to bring back the fire burning in his heart and it took all his strength to focus on the shallow breaths rattling in his chest; each word he spoke was life a knife being thrust into his back.
"I am sorry." Mycroft finished as John removed his hand from its awkward resting place, "If I'd have known it was quite so dangerous, I would have never allowed Moriarty free."The words fell on deaf ears, this Mycroft knew; but it was the sentiment that was needed – he needed John to know that he was ashamed of his part in his younger brothers' death, that he was sorry; God knows he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.
John nodded coldly, acknowledging the apology; what did it matter if he was sorry? There was nothing to be done now; nothing to save Sherlock. Or himself.
The rest of the journey was completed in silence; Mycroft's phone rang all but once, to which he simply muttered something about their estimated time of arrival before he turned it off and slid it into his coat pocket. John checked his own phone automatically; his heart skipped a painful beat as Sherlock's name appeared in the inbox.