A/N: Short one-shot about Mycroft and Sherlock, inspired by Kate Bush's 'Running Up That Hill'. Please review!
"If I only could, I'd be running up that hill..."
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked as they ran together through the dark streets of London. Not even five minutes ago, they'd been sat relaxing in 221B Baker Street when Sherlock had received a text and had taken off into the night. Naturally, John had followed with his gun in hand.
"Stupid Mycroft. He's decided to do some leg work, without any back-up. Anthea text me for help." Sherlock explained as they ran, dodging taxis as they went.
They ran into a building and up a long flight of stairs that never seemed to end. Sherlock burst through the door onto the roof of a building only to see his brother be shot only a few metres away. Mycroft's body hit the floor at the same time that Sherlock fell to his knees. John rushed to the elder Holmes brother, desperately searching for a pulse.
"And if I only could... I'd make a deal with God... And I'd get him to swap our places..."
"It can't be him. I won't believe it." Sherlock said quietly as he and John sat in 221B just two hours after the incident on the roof. John had called Lestrade and sorted out statements, with Sherlock being unable to do anything but stare at his brother's dead body.
"It is him, Sherlock. I'm so sorry, but Mycroft is dead." John said with a sad sigh, reaching out and running his hand through the grief-stricken detective's hair.
"But why him? He's the British Government! Why didn't he have back-up?!" Sherlock hissed, his hands forming into fists.
"He made a mistake, Sherlock." John soothed gently.
"If I only could, be running up that hill, with no problems..."
In his dreams that night, Sherlock imagined different situations in which he ran quicker and got there in time to save Mycroft from a sudden death on a rooftop in London. He imagined apologizing to his brother for the years of bitterness and resentment between them. He woke suddenly, pulled from his dreams, and for a moment he saw Mycroft sat at the end of his bed. He blinked and his older brother was gone, leaving him alone and the last Holmes in existence.