I've been around for a long, long time. Most likely longer than any of you. I have watched the creation and destruction of planets. What has been and what will be. But of all the amazing, fantastic things I've seen in this universe, there is one thing that remains an endless constant. Human kind. You are brilliant, you are. You have inspired millions of races across the galaxy. And you thought you were alone. It's true, you had started out as an experiment. A few dozen lab rats to try out the new atmosphere. But you've evolved into so much more.
I'm not here to tell you amazing you are, and how your very existence pleases me to my core. I'm here to tell you of the things I have seen. Of all the civilizations I have watched rise and fall, and the men of them, there is one man's story I enjoy telling above all. One of deceit, chemical warfare, and, of course, heartbreak.
-
Mycroft entered his flat to see his younger brother sprawled across the sofa. His long, gangly frame took up the three cushions quite easily. Sherlock's coat was wrinkled and his scarf was askew.
"I hope you don't mind," he called lazily. "But key under the plant pot? You're the British government. I honestly expected more from you."
The older man angrily snatched the dangling key from Sherlock's long finger. "What business is it of yours to be breaking into my flat anyway?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes. Anything is my business as soon as I decide to make it mine."
Mycroft left the main room and headed to the kitchen. He could hear Sherlock still going on in the other room as though he hadn't even left. He shook his head as he began heating up the water in the kettle.
"... And you being my brother has nothing to do with it! You're just too obvious..." He continued.
"Tea?" Mycroft asked, entering the room once more. Sherlock stopped mid sentence, coming to the realization that his brother hadn't even been listening. While Mycroft was pouring two cups of the warm, spiced liquid, his brother turned on his side, sulking quietly. A knocking came from the front door. "You see," Mycroft said to Sherlock's back. "That's what a proper guest does. They knock. Oh, but I suppose you don't need to- the great Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see if Mycroft was still watching him. After all, a tantrum was no good if no one was there to watch. He turned his mind to deducing. The knocking was rapid, almost as if the person belonging to it was distressed. At ten on a Friday night, Mycroft was unlikely to get visitors. In fact, he hardly ever got visitors. Not even so much as a phone call. It began to dawn on him how lonely his brother truly was.
However, there was no time for sentiment.
"Sherlock, it's for you!" He cried.
"John," he whispered, barely audible. He stood up, un-creased his suit as best he could, and walked to the door.
"Sherlock," he replied, heaving out a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad you're alright. I was worried."
"I know," he responded coldly. "I would appreciate it if you didn't worry so much."
"Yeah?" John retorted, dropping his concerned attitude immediately. "Well, you may not care about what happens to you, but there are some who do."
Sherlock's face remained unchanged. "What I do is my business, and my business only." He closed the door on John's shocked face.
The tall man strode back to the sofa and placed his fingers together contemplatively.
"You know," Mycroft admonished, settling down on the arm of the chair across the room. "You should really be kinder to your friends. They care about you."
"So?" Sherlock scoffed. "What good does caring do; where does it get you?"
"Does he know?" Mycroft asked, changing the subject.
"Of course he does." Sherlock said. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, even though the very words he had spoken condemned him.
"He what?!" The man's voice had risen suddenly. "Sherlock, this is a secret government project. Do you know how many favors I had to call in? How many enemies I made? How many people would kill you if word got out?"
"He wouldn't tell," Sherlock said, his cocky smile falling. "He knows the consequences."
Mycroft looked down on his little brother and sighed. He felt the slightest twinge of pity for him, for what he was going through. Sherlock picked up the tea, which was quickly cooling off, and looked at the dark, lukewarm liquid. It reflected his face, youthful and glowing, as though the past five years hadn't happened at all. His eyes traveled up to Mycroft's. His face and hair bore the marks of years of stress. The fine wrinkles growing around his eyes were like a taunting reminder of his, and everyone else's, mortality. Everyone's but his.
Sherlock quickly drank the liquid and set down the mug. "I should get home," he replied. "I wouldn't want John to get any clever ideas while I'm gone." He strode to the door to let himself out. Neither men said a word as Sherlock walked down the dark hallway toward the lift. He pressed the arrow pointing down, and moments later the doors opened. He stepped in, turned up his coat collar, and submersed himself in his thoughts.
It seemed only moments later he was on the doorstep of 221B, and John was standing in front of him in his striped sweater and gray sweatpants. Sherlock wordlessly pressed by and tossed his coat on the chair.
"You can't do that." John said softly.
"Do what?" Sherlock asked, his lips slightly open and pulled back, not quite in a smile or a sneer.
"Pretend none of this is going on. You can't act like you don't notice it, because I know you do. You're Sherlock Holmes, you notice everything. You can't just imagine that this isn't happening. That I'm growing older and you haven't a single gray hair on your head. That time isn't catching up to me and not you." There was silence. John's voice hadn't risen a decibel over what was necessary, but it ached with desperation. His voice cracked when he spoke again. "That I'm going to die one day, and you won't."
Sherlock stood there, feet planted on the carpet as though he was frozen. "I'm going to bed," was all he said before turning and disappearing into the bedroom.
John sat down on a chair and stared out the window. And above the sounds of the city, still busy at half past midnight, above the sound of the couple fighting next door, he heard only three words. Words that had haunted him for days. Playing and replaying in his head for countless hours. Words spoken by his closest friend. His only friend. "I am immortal."