This is probably totally wrong, especially as I couldn't really see the people in the scene, but this was just what I thought the ending of THoB might have been. Written within half an hour, so sorry about that. It's more just a way to communicate my theory. Enjoy x
Mycroft Holmes had once told his little brother that caring was not an advantage.
He was right, of course. At the time, he was offering advice, consoling Sherlock, in his own way, over the death of Irene Adler. But it is impossible for anyone, including the Holmes brothers, to not care at all. Sherlock himself seemed to be growing more human all the time, evidently caring for his flatmate, and even a woman who he had seen in person for only a short time.
Mycroft had, however, remained silent. But he did care, of course he did. He particularly cared for his brother.
As he stood there, in the cold afternoon, watching John and Sherlock, he knew, as he always did, what John was thinking. And he found himself thinking of the same thing.
The day that it started.
John's phone buzzed on the other side of the room, and he glanced up from his laptop. It was on the table next to the sofa, where Sherlock was lying.
"Could you pass me the phone, Sherlock?"
Sherlock opened his eyes almost lazily, and gave John a look that could only be described as 'withering'. The phone continued to buzz.
"Right, then…"
He put the laptop down gingerly, holding in the power-lead, and retrieved the phone himself.
[NUMBER WITHELD]
"Hello?"
"John? It's Mycroft. I knew Sherlock wouldn't answer his phone."
"Mycroft? What do you want?"
Sherlock moved a fraction at his brother's name.
"It's important that I speak to Sherlock, John. Do you think you could convince him?"
"I'll try." He took the phone away from his ear. "He wants to speak to you. It sounds important."
Sherlock simply glared at him. John replaced the mobile.
"Could I take a message?"
He could hear Mycroft sigh at the other end. "Before I tell you, you have to understand that I had to do it."
John's stomach tautened. His voice became low. "What?"
Another sigh. "It's… it's Moriarty."
The army doctor eased himself back into his chair. He paled. He croaked down the line.
"We were forced to release him."
"What?" He was sitting straight and strong again, gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles were stark.
"My hand was forced, John."
"Forced? Do you know who you're talking about?"
On the sofa, Sherlock had angled himself so as to hear the conversation a little better.
"Look, John. It wasn't an easy decision to make. You think I want my brother in danger? Why do you think I'm warning you?"
"He tried to kill us!"
Within a second, Sherlock was on his feet. He stood before John, hand outstretched. "Let me talk to him."
John sighed almost angrily, and tossed it over. He disappeared into his room.
By the time he surfaced, Sherlock was sitting in his own chair, in his typical 'hands-under-chin eyes-closed' stance. The phone lay discarded on the floor.
"Sherlock…?"
The detective exhaled at length, before snapping his eyes open and jumping up. He approached John. He gripped his shoulders. He actually smiled. "It's alright, John, don't you see? We can finally get him!"
John smiled weakly back. He did not share his flatmate's confidence. But it was something.
And now, Mycroft could do nothing but stand and watch as John held Sherlock, willing the ambulance to arrive soon. He rationalized that, had the man not been released, many more would have died. Half the country in fact. Moriarty had more sway than even Mycroft.
It didn't make things easier. His brother. His little brother. He had seen him a top the building. He had seen him fall. He had seen the look that John had given him.
John blamed him. So did he.
As the sirens began to sound in the distance, Mycroft knew one thing for certain: He would have Moriarty killed for this. At the first possible opportunity.
Reviews are much appreciated, I don't do one-shots often.