I have read tons of stories according to which Mycroft knew Sherlock was alive all along, but a quick look at Mycroft's reaction in the series says they're wrong. Mycroft wouldn't fake that emotion - he has no reason to. And then we'll see in season 3 that he did know and I'll be blushing and laugh awkwardly... Anyways, I've been told (giggle blush giggle giggle) that this was an awesome piece, so you get to read it! Please review, though. I've had so many views on one of my stories but not one review, which is sad if you think about it. Anywho, enjoy:)
Beta: Uchidakarasu
Mycroft's Disadvantage
Mycroft stared at the fresh grave with blank eyes and an expression that didn't give anything away. His hands rested in his pockets and his posture seemed calm and confident. He didn't bother picking up the umbrella he had brought with him, which had fallen to the ground when he first read the name on the tombstone. His mind, usually brilliant with its speed of thoughts and deductions about his surroundings, was filled with nothing but the sound of the wind blowing in his ears. He let out a deep sigh, raising his eyes once again to the stone. SHERLOCK HOLMES, it read. The rest was unimportant, irrelevant.
He remembered a warm café and the sound of pouring rain. He remembered a wet umbrella and the taste of a cigarette that wasn't particularly good. He remembered saying it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him in faking a woman's death. No; The Woman's. But this time… this time even Sherlock Holmes would not be enough.
He had checked, thoroughly. And then checked again. He had ordered for a dozen of his men to guard the room in St. Bart's where Sherlock's bo-
Mummy would be upset. He expected she already knew. He abhorred the idea of having to sit with her and talk about his death. He would avoid the subject altogether if he could. Better not call her at all, then.
The funeral had been a nightmare. Being who he is, the security kept away those who wished to sabotage the ceremony, and allowed only a minimal number of people to enter the graveyard. It didn't stop some of the invited people from whispering in harsh tones insults that Mycroft chose to ignore. He didn't even regard Dr. Watson as he stood motionlessly with a slouched, defeated posture and tired eyes. The elderly Mrs. Hudson had sniffled quietly throughout the burial and left alone at the end of the ceremony. A few officers looked uncomfortable, some pleased, and returned to their merry chatter on their way out. A young woman who had allowed Sherlock access to the laboratory and morgue at St. Bart's was present, shock plastered across her face.
And homeless people. Dozens of them, in pairs or groups or alone, all dressed in worn-looking clothes that were not black like the traditional funeral wear, their faces colored with grief. A man, a boy, really, with a can of spray paint had stood before the stone, hesitating for a few moments before tucking the can in his bag and leaving.
It went without saying that the last impression Sherlock had made had been of a fake, of a fool. That everyone knew him now as a criminal, average-brained, disloyal scum.
They didn't know Sherlock.
They weren't there when the pink, tightly-shut-eyed baby cried for the first time. They didn't see the pale, chubby infant struggle to get the punctuation right and end up with 'Ma-ckt' for his big brother's name. They didn't feel the clumsy grip of tiny arms as the infant hugged his brother after a frightening dream. They didn't watch as the beautiful boy tried to make friends at the playground, only to be shunned by lesser-witted children. They didn't have those piercing blue eyes twinkle with joy at them over the remains of a poor attempt to make a cake. They didn't smell the metallic scent of blood slowly seeping down a scratched, brave knee that tried to jump from the top of the slide at the playground, just to impress those simpletons who had rejected the boy. They didn't hear the desperate, hoarse voice of a man call out for help over the phone as he suffered from an overdose. They didn't take part in trying to get him better, forcing him into cold, heavy handcuffs and restrains and letting stranger men take him away to a place where they knew he would suffer. They didn't cry when he cried, locked in a sterile room during the affects of the withdrawal. They didn't get the same sarcastic, harmless, bordering-affectionate inquiry about their weight every single time, knowing the only reason it was that harmless retort was that he couldn't bring himself to cause his older brother any real pain.
They weren't Mycroft, and therefore didn't know Sherlock at all. Not his quirks, not his expressions, not his true laughter or true tears or true affection. Not how the word 'please' sounded from his lips, or how 'I love you' rolled off his tongue. They didn't know a thing, and for that Mycroft hated them all.
Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft had said to his brother during a rare moment of vulnerability, seeking to protect the fragile heart from harm, knowing it was too late to do anything to prevent it. He believed in those words – caring wasn't an advantage. But it was unavoidable, unpreventable. It couldn't be stopped, not with Sherlock. Never with Sherlock.
Mycroft let out another sigh. He didn't wear a scarf, and the wind was cold against his neck. He regretted not bringing a scarf, though. Sentimentality drove him to do irrational things – leaving the scarf behind because the thought of Sherlock never wearing a scarf again caused him sorrow, calling his assistant by her true name for the first time in years because the thought of her dying as an anonymous, replaceable part of his schedule caused him nausea. Speaking to a grave of a dead man as if he could hear.
"Sherlock," Mycroft started, his voice being the only thing to ever indicate his state of emotion. Dark mourning laced his voice, a tone of desperate forfeit eminent, making him cringe mentally. "You were an idiot to trust your heart over your mind. Look what you have done now. I'm afraid I can't help you out of this one, brother." Another troubled sigh. Exhaustion started to take over. It was going to be a long, long night.
Anger welled up inside him. Anger at Sherlock, for not seeking his help when he most definitely needed it. Anger at himself, for telling Moriarty about his little brother, for breaking that trust, that delicate trust his brother had in him. For not forcing Sherlock to ask for his help. For not offering it more aggressively. For not helping him without his consent. For not killing Moriarty when they had him in for interrogation. For not taking Sherlock and running away.
The leaves in the few trees scattered around the graveyard rustled as an especially strong gust of wind blew and made the umbrella on the ground roll a centimeter on the mud.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, a tell-tale sigh added to his breath, the words quiet yet clear.
It was surprisingly hard to turn away, to walk back to the black car and Avery texting furiously in it. He did so slowly, trying to prolong the last contact he had with his brother for as long as possible. With one last, longing look at the letters ingrained into the stone, he turned around and walked with quick, staccato steps to the car, his head bowed and eyes clenched shut.
Watching the black, bulletproof vehicle drive away, a pale, tall man approached the grave. He crouched slowly, his long fingers extending towards the forgotten umbrella. He let his fingertips stroke along the dry, black material, stopping at the curving handle. He wrapped his fingers around it, flexing them stiffly before firmly grasping the object, lifting it as he rose to full height.
He left the graveyard, the black umbrella swaying back and forth as he gripped it with shaky fingers, whispering bewilderedly into the wind, "Sentiment, Mycroft?"