-Disclaimer: Unfortunately, BBC Sherlock doesn't belong to me.

-Summary: Character Death warning. Mycroft is dead. How would Sherlock react to this piece of information?

-English is not my first language, so there would be some grammatical and spelling mistakes. Sorry about that.

Blind

Side A

It was raining cats and dogs. John was reading newspapers by the window, and Sherlock was splayed out on the couch, proclaiming loudly and vehemently of his boredom as usual.

221B was filled with silence now. Raindrops knocked on the window glass while the clock worked with tic tic sound, and rustling sound of turning pages would occasionally join their quiet melody. I'm bored, the man said for the hundredth time, penetrating serene atmosphere. I think I can hear my brain cells rotting black. John frowned as he stared at him for a moment. It's been two weeks already. All those clever criminals Sherlock loved to death seemed to have disappeared; perhaps it was because of this awful weather that seemed to be going on forever.

"It would be an insult to call those criminals 'clever' when they succumbed to such thing as awful weather," said Sherlock as if he could read John's mind. "Do they have no pride in their profession?" Sherlock shouted, then slumped down on the coach groaning miserably.

At that very moment Sherlock's mobile phone vibrated loudly. John was relieved. Listening to your flatmate's cry of boredom tended to test your nerves to the very end. If Sherlock had complained just one more time, next would have been John Watson's turn to scream out his misery. There were few more ringing sounds, and then Sherlock stretched his hand toward John, completely sure of John's compliance. I'm not going to move an inch from this coach, the detective's body languaged seemed to declare haughtily. John wondered for a second if it would be alright to punch your flatmate, but soon surrendered with a long-suffering sigh. At least he didn't force me to answer his phone for his sake, he tried to console himself with those words, but promptly realized how ridiculous that sounded and felt his mood plummeting even more.

"Hello," now phone triumphantly in his hand, Sherlock answered. Muffled voice from the person on the other line could be heard.

Sherlock stopped.

For that very short moment, he didn't even breathe. He just blinked his eyes slowly. Once, twice, then-

"Alright," said the voice with an air of finality.

"What is it?"

Feeling ominous sense prickling his skin, John hastily asked as soon as Sherlock put down his phone. A pair of eyes clear as marbles stared at him. Sherlock tilted his head, and John felt chill running down his spine at that oddly child-like behavior.

"Mycroft is dead."

Sherlock is six years old. He has an older brother. He hears a lot of things about him. How kind, gentle and brilliant he is, that boy is a genius! Every person who encounters his mother is busy heaping praise upon praise upon Mycroft. At those moments, Sherlock feels pride filling his chest, because that person is his brother. And he sometimes think that his late father must resemble his brother. Of course in reality, it's the other way around; Mycroft resembles father. However, it doesn't ring right. Mycroft is the best person Sherlock has ever known, and even his father must not have been as good as his brother. It's a bit mean thing to say about his father, but it's the truth.

Sherlock peaks through the door that leads to the living room. Mycroft is reading a book, curled around the coach. He seemed a bit depressed in past few days. Sherlock had wondered what he could possibly do to make his brother feel better, and remembered the flowers; Mycroft had said that those were beautiful. Now in Sherlock's hands are handful of white flowers.

"Mikey!"

Sherlock walks lightly to Mycroft with his hands behind his back. Thank you, Sherlock, he expects Mycroft to say those words while stroking his hair. He feels almost excited. His brother peels his eyes from the book he has been reading and stares at Sherlock. Sherlock holds out the flowers.

"I got these for you."

He smiles with anticipation. Upon seeing Mycroft's expression, however, his smile wilts. His brother's face is darkened with heavy frown. Feeling uneasy now, he holds out his flowers a little bit more, and that's when Mycroft slaps Sherlock's hands away.

"Why in the hell did you do something like that."

-Oh.

At this unexpected turn of events, Sherlock can't do anything. He is simply frozen. Mycroft glares at Sherlock's face, then stomps up to his room while messing his perfectly groomed hair, cleary annoyed.

Those white flowers, now fallen on the ground, are bruised. They aren't pretty anymore. Sherlock feels his eyes watering as he stares down at them. It's because those flowers aren't pretty anymore, he rubs his eyes. His face feels slippery no matter how much he tries. It's sick. Why aren't they pretty.

This was the first rejection he got.

And this was Sherlock's first memory about Mycroft.

Heading toward the hospital, the taxi was filled with prevailing silence. John was uncomfortable to the point of thinking he might drown from this forced quietness, but still couldn't say a word. Mycroft is dead, hit and run, I heard, Sherlock had said with a casuality one spoke of weather. What? John was the more surprised one between the two of them, his eyes widening at that nonchalant tone speaking of death. Mycroft must be up to something, said Sherlock, he is not the man to die so easily, especially with something like car accident. We should have to identify his 'body' nonetheless. So, let's go John.

Thus the situation they were currently in. Sherlock was deep in thought, hands held together in their usual place.

It looks like his praying, John thought for a moment then shook his head. Raindrops clinging to the car window were sliding behind.

Sherlock identified his brother's body at the morgue with John right beside him. Mycroft's face was not mutilated badly, and John could see, for the first time, the expression that man had never wore while he was alive; peacefulness. He glanced at his friend in turn. Sherlock's face was cold and analytical, just like many other times he had seen unfortunately dead people.

"It's him."

He said quietly, and then went out with a swirl of his coat. John hurriedly caught up to him. His friend was striding in a fast pace while rubbing his hands.

"No signs of mask in his face. How did he do it? Plastic surgery? Oh, this is interesting."

John's face began to stiffen as he heard his flatmate's muttering. He wanted to stop that man and shake his shoulder. Sherlock, your brother is DEAD! Do you think it's some kind of game you can deduce and play with? However, he couldn't do that. Maybe it was wishful thinking of a person who wanted to believe in Sherlock's humanity, but he saw Sherlock's hands shaking slightly. He couldn't point how 'a bit not good' his earlier statement was. John pressed his lips.

They walked.

After that day, young Sherlock tries with all his might to turn Mycroft's mind. However, no matter what he does, his brothers simply ignores him and has even started to avoid him. After Mycroft went to boarding school, it became even harder to see his face. He comes back home during vacation, but he just stays in his room and doesn't get out. Sherlock is getting anxious. He knows that wanting Mycroft to play with him would be too big a wish. He just want to see his brother smile. What have I done wrong? He ponders and ponders, but cannot find an answer. He tries to be a good boy; he doesn't complain about school even though it is utterly boring, he does as what his parents say and even cleans his room to the best of his ability.

Tomorrow, his brother will come home. Sherlock has to be prepared for that, but he doesn't know what else he should do. He goes to his father's library. Mycroft spent lots of time in here, so there must be some hint in this place. It was a ridiculous thought, but Sherlock was desperate. He randomly picks a thick book and skims through it. Bookmark made with dried white flower is in it, but he ignores it. And this one sentence catches his attention.

'Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.'

It's something Einstein said. Sherlock stares at that sentence for a long time. He looks back at his action. Didn't he always try to please Mycroft, over and over again? And didn't Mycroft always refuse him, over and over again? Did anything change over two years? He thinks about a bit more.

Oh-

Oh.

He realizes.

Mycroft hates me.

That fact doesn't change no matter what. Hating is hating. Doesn't Sherlock terrible hate broccoli? No matter how many different ways his mother would cook it, he still hates broccoli. Mycroft hates Sherlock like Sherlock hates broccoli. And this fact cannot change.

Sherlock curls himself into a small ball.

Sherlock is not insane. Therefore, he shouldn't repeat same thing over and over and expect different result. So there is no need to be heart broken. He nodes. This fact doesn't change. He hates Mycroft.

Sherlock was eight that day.

He was over thirty now and still felt the same way about Mycroft.

Sherlock caught the man who had hit Mycroft in no time. It was of no surprise. However, Sherlock didn't seem cheerful nor smug as he usually did when he apprehended the culprit. It was because that guy was frustratingly normal no matter how deeply he digged. The possibility of Mycroft plotting some secret mission with the man who had terrible reflex, heart disease, and low IQ was immensely unlikely. There had been many assassins who tried to kill Mycroft, but this man was not that kind of person either. In short, he was just a poor little guy who had been drunk and scared. In another word, Mycroft's death was an unfortunate accident.

It was a boring conclusion.

Sherlock didn't like it, but it was the truth. So he said it out loud.

"Mycroft is dead."

It was the fourth day after they had been to the morgue. John silently listened to the simple conclusion his genius friend had made.

In his brother's funeral, Sherlock didn't shed a tear. John expected Sherlock to be obstinate, insisting he wouldn't attend it, but he barely put up any resistance. That was more worrying. Sherlock didn't write eulogy for Mycroft, but he didn't get out in the middle of the funeral either. He just stood there and stared at Mycroft's name carved in the black tombstone. When his name was called, he silently put white flowers in front of the tomb with a blank expression. He turned away and started walk as soon as the funeral was over.

"Sherlock," John opened his mouth, but was struggling to think of what to say next. "Are you okay?" It was such a lame thing to say that he wanted to punch himself in the head. However, he didn't bother to take back what he had said.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" said Sherlock. His expression was so casual and normal that John was unable to say anything anymore. "You know how our relationship was. And we both had dangerous career. It was obvious from the start that we would die early. Well, Mycroft died regardless of his work because he was more unlucky. Only unexpected thing in this whole affair was that Mycroft kicked the bucket first, instead of me who lives more hazardously."

It was all true. However, it was not something to be said with such blatant and nonchalant way. Especially right after your family's funeral.

"Sherlock, but-"

John stopped in the middle of the sentence. His your brother, those words were stuck in his throat without escaping. It was because John realized that Sherlock knew that fact already. There was no need for him to point that out unnecessarily. Sherlock's hands were in his coat pockets.

Sherlock is a curious child. So it is not rare for him to be scratched and hurt a bit after roaming around the forest.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

"It, it hurts-"

Mycroft is currently applying disinfectant, and his voice is full of concern. It is a pleasant thing to have that warm brown eyes solely looking at him, so Sherlock pretends to be more hurt than he actually is. His genius brother must have looked through this light deception. Mycroft, however, continues to put bandages to not so serious wound with a concentrated expression.

"Ok, done."

Mycroft strokes Sherlock's hair, and then brushes clean his brother's dirtied clothing to the best of his ability. He picks up his med kit. It seems that he has decided to be a mobile hospital himself, after many days of Sherlock sporting wounds after his expedition.

"Can you stand up?" asks Microft.

It's an odd question. The place Sherlock has been hurt is his elbow. However, Sherlock knows that it is only a roundabout way to ask him, do you want to ride on my back? He smirks then stretches his arm toward Mycroft. True to his word, Mycroft lowers himself. Sherlock springs to him, clutching his brother tightly. It is apparent that Sherlock is no worse for wear. Mycroft doesn't care, though. Neither does Sherlock.

"Oh, look at those flowers, aren't they pretty, Sherlock?"

Sometimes Mycroft says meaningless things to distract Sherlock from his wounds, and this is one of them. Leaning on his brother, Sherlock turns his head and look at those white flowers anyway. He doesn't like flower that much, but it kind of looks pretty now.

"I guess so," He smiles.

Everything is fine.

Sherlock waked up. It was dark. Sherlock's first memory of Mycroft was of his brother rejecting him. He didn't remember what happened beforehand. Some of those memories were deleted by himself. It was harder to deal with Mycroft giving him the cold shoulder while he remembered his brother being warm and kind. Now the dream made the memory of that devoted brother resurface. Sherlock knew that his gone, both the kind one and the cold one. Today was his funeral. Mycroft Holmes was dead. Sherlock Holmes hated him. Therefore there was no need to mourn his death. This conclusion was logical. Sherlock tried to erase the hollow feeling in his heart.

It was less than a week since Mycroft died and Sherlock was having fun at the crime scene already. Lestrade, who had met Mycroft most frequently among all of Scotland Yards and had come to his funeral, tried to give Sherlock some time to deal with his brother's death. All he got for his effort, however, was a sneering face of Sherlock. He gave up at last with a sigh and moved aside. Sherlock solved the case in no time and disappeared insulting IQ level's of the Yards(especially Anderson).

Sherlock's life seemed to have gone through no change. He solved cases, bickered with John and was demanding as ever. When he saw black umbrellas, gold pocket watches, unusually moving CCTV or something like that, he would suddenly stop and turn his body, but it was all explainable; Sherlock Holmes was an eccentric detective after all, and he had many quirks. It was just one of them. The fact that those habits were newely developed after Mycroft's death was entirely coincidental.

"Sherlock, are you trying to suffocate yourself?"

Mycroft face is pale. Maybe it's because of smoke that hasn't entirely gone out of the room. His look practically screams reproach.

"It's impossible to suffocate with cigarette smoke, Mycroft."

"Oh, I would have to beg to differ, Sherlock, because if my eyes are not deceiving me, you have been smoking whole pack of cigarettes non-stop in a small, sealed place! I believe it's enough to suffocate one man."

"I'm fine, my good old brother would save the day anyway. He is always watching me with his wonderful CCTV, you know?"

Sherlock pronounces each word slowly, savouring the way his words are crumbling Mycroft's face.

Next day, all the hidden cameras in Sherlock's room disappear. Instead, Mycroft, who only visited his brother twice a year, begins to make more frequent visits. Sherlock's face hardens every time his brother shows his face, but he doesn't repeat that particular experiment ever again.

John Watson was a light sleeper. In his youth, he slept so deeply that he wouldn't have known even if he were abducted during his sleep, but Afghanistan changed him. Now he woke up to the slightest sound. And woken up in the middle of the night, John wondered what made him return to consciousness. His mattress was sagged a bit because of the other person's weight.

Who is it, John asked himself drowsily then made a strangled groan. Oh, of course, who else, Sherlock Holmes- he opened his eyes. Bitter smell of cigarette engulfed him as soon as Sherlock approached him. God knows what he had been thinking, but Sherlock had chain smoked with all the doors and windows shut tight while John left home for a short time. Just entering the house had made John's eyes sting and water, and he had hurriedly reached the window and opened it. After breathing –more like gulping- fresh air, John had immediately turned to Sherlock. Are you insane, what were you trying to achieve, catch a raccoon? You were the only breathing one in this house, for god's sake, the skull not counting! His flatmate hadn't answer. He had shown initial spark of interest when he had seen a person coming from the door, but even that interest died as soon as he realized it was only John. He had just sprawled on the couch, mouth sewn shut, not even attempting to give feeble excuse like 'it was experiment'. John was still upset about that incident.

It wouldn't do, though, to shoo out the man without giving him the chance to say his piece. He raised himself from the bed and fumbled around his night table to find the desk lamp. Dry and thin hand grasped his wrist.

"Don't turn the light on."

The voice was low and husky. It wasn't arrogant and demanding as usual. Now filled with worry, he complied and changed his position so that Sherlock could sit more easily on the edge of his bed.

"Sherlock, what-"

The man's head lightly touched his back. John's eyes widened in the darkness. Sherlock wasn't the man who craved human touch. He always preferred to be alone. John felt discomfort, but didn't fidget. If he moved, Sherlock might run away. It was a ridiculous thought, Sherlock was not an wild animal, but that's what John felt at that moment.

Sherlock didn't do anything. Even his breathing was even. It was only that John's back, against which Sherlock's eyes were pressing, was getting warm and wet. Enduring that feeling quietly, John closed his eyes. He thought it would have been easier if Sherlock had been weeping loudly. The man kept the room dark and positioned himself out of John's line of sight, so he wouldn't be seen. He was even silencing himself, refusing to be consoled. But it was the man himself who came to John. Hold me, but don't acknowledge me. Two paradoxical demands. What was John supposed to do.

Would Mycroft know, John thought about it unconsciously then smiled bitterly. After meeting Sherlock, the name Mycroft began to mean something like a magic key. No problem could be stayed unsolved in front of that man with neat suits and umbrella. Now, however, he wasn't here, and John had to piece together broken Sherlock all alone for the first time.

John closed his eyes and slowly turned his body. If that was what Sherlock wanted, John wouldn't see his face. He purposefully made space in which the man could hide. John raised his arms and wrapped them around his friend, positioning that curly black head on his shoulder. Nothing changed. John still couldn't see Sherlock's face, and Sherlock still didn't say anything. The only difference was that now John's shoulder was getting wet instead of his back. But John could hold Sherlock more tightly now. Both literally and figuratively.

"I hate him."

Muffled by John's shoulder, the voice murmured lowly, sinking into silent night. What answer could he give, John wondered. Without a word, he looked up to the ceiling.

"I know."

AN: Hope you guys enjoyed my story. It seems like I can't figure out how to put more space between each paragraphes. No matter how much how I try, it goes back to its tight form... any idea how to fix this problem?

Next chapter would be Side B: Mycroft Holmes.