A/N Yet another idea that refused to go away. I'm growing rather fond of those. I hope you enjoy and any feedback is welcome :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or it's characters.
The ward was eerily quiet at this time of night, with the exception of the humming and occasional beeps from the machines and the rasping breaths that seemed to be amplified by the respirator. However there was very little activity either outside or inside the room. The two men were in one of the private wards which lay deep in the bowels of the hospital, where the sounds of the sick and the dying had been tuned out into peaceful silence. The inhabitants of the ward were as quiet as their surroundings, one because he was lying unconscious in a hospital bed and the other because he knew that there would be no point in uttering a word.
Mycroft did not want to be here and yet it was his duty. He needed to stand witness for the moment when the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind finally took his last breath. He needed to make absolutely certain that Moriarty was dead. True, he could leave here if he wished to. He could place the consulting criminal in the care of a nurse or a doctor who could report the time of death to him later. However, unlike Mycroft, their conscience may get the better of them despite what they'd been ordered to do and there was a chance that they would rush to Moriarty's aid should he require urgent assistance. He couldn't have that, he needed to be sure that the other man's continued existence lasted for as little time as possible. This was both harsh and cruel but in the end this would ultimately make the world a slightly safer place for him to protect tomorrow. Eventually someone would be brave, and insane,enough to fill Moriarty's shoes but that threat could be dealt with later.
Mycroft continued to quietly observe the serene picture before him. It was almost unnerving how vulnerable Moriarty seemed when he'd been stripped of all his power and his presence. He lay pale and unmoving against the crisp white sheets, large bandages obscuring the deep burns which had ruined his torso. The only things keeping his body functioning were the machines by his side. Even they wouldn't succeed at keeping him alive for much longer. Already the monitors were showing that the consulting criminal's heartbeat had grown sluggish and the respirator was the only thing that helped provide oxygen to his lungs. He wouldn't survive the night.
This had been his own doing, although Mycroft imagined that he'd have preferred to go out with a bang rather than with the appearance of a pitiful child in a hospital bed. It had been common knowledge among his fellow government officials that the consulting criminal had somehow survived his own suicide three years before, although he had remained surprisingly quiet while Sherlock had slowly torn his vast web apart, piece by piece. He seemed to have been lying in wait for something important to occur, something interesting that would allow him to resume his twisted games. However such a thing had never happened and instead he'd had his power stripped from him as more and more time passed. Even as a shadow who remained concealed from the rest of the world it had been obvious to both Mycroft and Sherlock that he was growing weaker.
Until something had finally forced him to snap. At a guess it had been the death of his loyal sniper three weeks before however that could not be certain as the consulting criminal's motive. Either way, Moriarty had finally emerged from the shadows wearing his old bravado as if nothing at all had changed. He'd been like an excitable puppy as he lured Sherlock into a situation he couldn't resist. He'd had the air of a composer about to unleash the final magnificent act of his grand symphony. However there was no music, no grandeur or applause at the end of his display. Only blazing fire and the deaths of innocent people.
It had almost been disappointing. A typical hostage situation, albeit one where neither of the hostages had been any older than seven years old. Even Mycroft's cold brother had not been heartless enough to refuse the opportunity to help save them and he'd rather foolishly ran into the building unguarded to confront his nemesis for the first time since their 'final problem'.
Barely five minutes later an explosion had ripped through the building, killing five innocent people and wounding many others. It had come as a shock, and also a disappointment, to find that Moriarty himself was among the injured.
Sherlock had been relatively lucky in comparison. A few days rest in hospital promised to repair the worst of the damage, although knowing his brother's reputation when it came to hospitals he would have managed to cause even more damage in that time and would constantly demand to go home from the moment he awoke. John would be sitting by his side at this very moment, which had mercifully lifted some of the responsibility from Mycroft's shoulders for the time being. John had predictably overreacted when he'd heard that Sherlock had been hurt, understandable given the events of three years before, but at least this assured that he'd refuse to leave his brother's side. Mycroft trusted John with his brother more than he dared to let on. Sherlock was in good hands, he knew that.
Moriarty was not so lucky. Mycroft could tell from the grey pallor of his skin and the shallow, erratic breaths that now seemed to be a struggle that the consulting criminal wasn't going to last long. One of the world's most dangerous criminals was about to die and the only one who would bear witness to this event would be a cold government official. He'd left no loved ones behind, his grand empire of crime had been destroyed and there was no longer anything left that could shine a light on his name. The very name that had once struck terror into the minds of even the most sadistic of men. No, the only thing that lay in Moriarty's wake was a murky trail of blood and death and that was hardly going to be forgiven regardless of how fragile he appeared as he lay amongst the white sheets.
It was almost a tragic waste. If there was one thing that Mycroft respected and admired it was brilliance, and Moriarty had certainly shown plenty of that. It was a crying shame that he'd dedicated his life to becoming a nuisance. In another timeline he could have been looked up to as a great man by peasants and townsfolk, as a man who could achieve everything he could possibly aspire to be without the fear of retaliation from the simple masses. The 21st century had been a rather unfortunate time for him to exist as a part of. Rather than a great king or respected leader, Moriarty was going to die alone as a common criminal.
Mycroft felt no remorse as a result of this. In fact he'd experienced so much in the way of death in his line of work that he barely felt much of everything. He could only watch as the minutes passed him by and the life slowly drained from his nemesis.
In the end Moriarty left the world with neither a bang nor a whimper. He remained silent as his chest fell and then stilled while the machines started their symphony of frantic cries, screaming out for attention. Nobody came running, nobody rushed to save him. There was no point.
Mycroft rose to his feet and took in the lifeless form of the consulting criminal, silently confirming the other man's death to himself while a strange feeling of emptiness washed over him. A numb detachment that he'd grown too used to recently. He wandered over to the machines and finally silenced them, letting the eerie quiet take hold of the room again. He had no purpose here anymore unless he wanted to provide comfort for the dead. And he knew that right now his living, breathing little brother demanded greater attention.
Without a word or even the bat of an eyelid Mycroft finally tore his gaze away from the figure on the bed and turned away. Still he refused to feel a thing.