The Heart Beneath the Ice
Moriarty was not a man easily interrogated. He never gave away anything. Except when I came in. And only when I spoke of Sherlock did I get any reaction out of him. So I told him all about Sherlock. And to this day I lean my head on my desk and ask myself "what was I thinking?
When we were little I'd promised Mummy I'd take care of Sherlock. And I'd failed.
"Moriarty wants to destroy Sherlock. And you have given him, the perfect ammunition to do it."
John's words echoed in my head. I'd killed my baby brother. I had no one to blame but myself. I didn't want to believe the security cameras monitoring Molly Hooper. So, doing the very thing I never thought I'd do, I walked steadily toward the mortuary. I was let in by a Sgt. Donovan, who seemed near tears. She raced out of the room when she heard my last name. It seems my little brother had left quite an impression here. When I was in the mortuary, I saw Molly about to push my brother's body into the slabs.
"Mr. Holmes." She choked up slightly but then swallowed. It seemed, based off her red rimmed eyes that she'd simply cried herself out. She was numb. I wished I could say the same.
"Can I please see my brother?" I asked quietly. Loud noises frightened people when they were grieving. I'd learned that when I'd tried looking in on John and Mrs. Hudson. She practically screamed when I asked her how she was doing, but I'd gotten a worse reaction from John. But, I'll get to that later.
"Of course ." Molly bit her lip hard, as if holding in more tears. She pulled the blanket covering Sherlock's face back, and then gave a small yelp as she dropped a pen.
"Would you give me a few minutes please Ms. Hooper?" I queried. This was as much for her sake as mine. My private grief, as well as hers. I stared at the cold face and ran a hand over the dark curly locks. Something didn't feel right. Molly's reaction seemed off as well. I'd think on it later. Cataloging ever feature on the man's below me, I sighed. There was a niggling feeling in the back of my head. Pushing it back, I swallowed back some guilt, and pulled the white cotton blanket back over the man's head. I couldn't think of him as Sherlock.
As I left the mortuary, totally straight faced and escorted by Molly I scanned her face slightly. She was hiding something. I would figure it out later. It was rude to question people when they were heart broken. Then again, I still think something wrong.
I contemplated going back to Baker Street to check up on John and the landlady again. But, I decided against it. Last time I'd managed to get into the house, John had heard Mrs. Hudson's increase in noise and pelted down the stairs. He had stared at me for a whole minute in total silence and then said something that made shivers go down my spine.
"If anyone but me knew, you'd have been murdered by now." I'd tried to pull off my usual casual front. My voice had been slightly unsteady, but I let it stay that way. It would show John he wasn't the only one who had lost someone close to them.
"Many have tried John. None of the attempts went well." His response had been a numerous amount of curses some in languages that even I didn't understand.
When John had closed the door, I heard him tell the sobbing Mrs. Hudson
"If he shows up here again, don't open the door."
"But Doctor Watson-"
"Please Mrs. Hudson. He needs to think about what he's done. I'm afraid that if he comes in here again, I might just shoot him."
"But what-what has he done?"
"Something very wrong Mrs. Hudson. Something very very wrong."
And those had been the last words I'd heard from John Watson. Trotting down the gloomy street, I realized it hadn't been nearly as bad as when I'd first visited John and Sherlock for a case I wanted my brother to crack. Those days, even when a giant explosion had ripped apart 221b Baker Street, my brother had been alright. I had found him sitting in a chair with some blast stains on it plucking idly at the strings on his violin. Now, the street seemed darker. That was just a feeling. Stop it. I told myself. Emotions are weaknesses. Remember that? You and Sherlock both learned the hard way.
Only one way to stop the constant voices buzzing in my head: Go to see his grave. The voices yelled at each other, one saying that it was my entire fault, but the other shouting that I had over looked something, a puzzle piece was missing.
As I stared at the large obsidian gravestone baring my little brother's name, I thought back to what had happened. I remembered seeing the tapes of Sherlock on the roof. And I remember him falling. After that, I'd paused it for a good 45 minutes trying to grasp what had happened. Then, I'd pressed play and continued the video. Even as I'd watched it something seemed wrong. All of a sudden, I was startled out of my reverie. John was coming. According to my sources he came at least twice a week. After all, Sherlock had been his best friend. I stepped into the shadows of the trees before he saw me. And, then with a sudden smile, I found the missing puzzle piece. I pulled out my cellphone and texted the number that I'd learned to love and hate in equal measure.
You're still alive aren't you?
-MH
I waited with anticipation and wonder. I always knew my brother was smart, but this outstripped anything he'd ever done. I would have to tell him Molly Hooper was a rather bad actress if you looked in her eyes properly.
Took you long enough. You're getting slow.
-SH
I felt a wave of giddiness wash over me and gripped my umbrella tightly to hold in my incredulous laughter. Glancing back at my brother's "grave" I saw John finishing up his speech to who he thought was my brother.
"But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." After staring at my brother's tombstone for a couple minutes, John Watson turned away, straightened his back, and walked stiffly back the way he came. He walked a soldier's walk. The way a military doctor walks when he's seen one of his patients die. John wanted to pretend Sherlock was another patient that eventually he would forget. Not on purpose, just habit. So Doctor John Watson marched away, leaving me in the shadows. I walked out of them and watched the army doctor go around the corner of the church before I gave a small snort of laughter. I pitied the doctor. But I was still high on the fact my guilt was gone, and I hadn't let down Sherlock, nor Mummy.
Was that a laugh I just heard dear brother?
-SH
With a faint grin on my face, I watched Sherlock trot out from behind some trees near his own grave. He'd been watching his best friend grieve. He ambled to my side and exhaled slightly.
"I rarely ask you a favor Mycroft."
"I know brother. And sometimes you believe I ask too many of you." It was a statement. I knew it was the truth. We both did.
"But you know what needs to be done, and who's left in the web. I'm going to need your sources."
"But of course Sherlock. Did you think I wasn't going to cut those threads anyway?"
"No, but I do know that it will go faster with my help. I'm going to the safe house you prepared for me a while ago. Text me the details."
"I will. Good to have you back in the land of the living brother." His face pinched for a second and I knew he was thinking of his friends. He was thinking of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg Lestrade.
"I don't know if you would call it living Mycroft." He turned away and began walking his signature swagger. "Later Mycroft." When my brother was about to leave the church yard, he turned suddenly.
"Did you grieve when you thought I was dead?" His question was so quiet that it reminded me of when we were kids and dad would drag him away to show off his "little genius" to his friends on business trips. He used to ask me when we got home 'Did you miss me big brother?' And so I responded in the same when that I had when we were young.
"Yes I did." My brother seemed to scan me for a second then nodded. He trotted off, a slight slouch giving away his private grief and guilt. He hated to see his friends, his real family in so much pain. I waited and stared at the grave that was supposed to belong to my brother. Then, I got another text. Pulling it out, I expected it to be Anthea telling me I was needed back at work. But it wasn't. It was from Sherlock.
Take care of John.
-SH
I replied quickly and with ease. I then took my leave of the graveyard and wandered back to work, swinging my umbrella casually. My text had been simple.
I will keep him safe. Take care brother.
-MH