Hello everyone! It's Ritsuka here! I'm back with a new BBC Sherlock story. Hope you enjoy it!
Dedicated to my lovely friend Naraya-Marjana!
Disclaimer: No, I do not own BBC Sherlock, it all belongs to Moffat and Gatiss. If I did own though, there would be Mystrade all over the place.
Inspired by: "Quand Angèle fut seule..." by Pascal Mérigeau and the quote from one of Sherlock's deduction, "If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no he wanted rid of it- he left her..."
Oh and please note that all characters are in their sixties except Anthea who is in her forties; John was Sherlock's husband but Sherlock died from cancer a year before this story; Mycroft has retired and Anthea had replaced him.
Quand Mycroft fut seul...
Of course, not everything worked as planned like he wished it did all these years; but still, it felt funny to find himself alone, sat at the great wooden table.
They had often said to him that this was the most bitter part, the return of the cemetery.
Everything went well, in fact, everything went well all the time. The church was full. At the cemetery, he had to receive a hug from everyone he knew. All the way till good old John Watson, he whom no one had seen since Sherlock Holmes's burial a year ago. Yet again, was he even there, at Sherlock Holmes's burial? He couldn't remember. On the other hand, he could've recited all the names of those who were present today. Mark, for example, he who made his head turn during parties, forty years ago. That was before Gregory Lestrade arrived. Gregory and his deep chocolate brown eyes, Gregory and his silver hair, Gregory and his cigarette... Actually, what had displeased him today was running into Angie Graves at the exit of the cemetery. That one, at sixty years passed, still looked like a whore. Which was what she was by the way.
Mycroft got up. All that was over now. The dead had to leave the house. The candles first. Then, the chairs, squeezed around the bed. Then, the broom. A glance at the garden whilst passing. No, he wasn't there anymore, bent over the small pot to see if the roses were growing. And no, he was not over there either, under the oak tree. And not over there, under the apple tree, filling a small basket. Really, everything went by very fast, ever since the day he said his ulcer was teasing him again. He was used it. He still made a doctor come. But that one knew him too well to worry. Greg already felt a tad better... Three weeks later, he made Mycroft swear that no one would take him to the hospital. The doctor came back. He did not understand. Nothing to do, Gregory, bent over in pain, said he felt better already and that, tomorrow, everything would be forgotten. But when he was alone with Mycroft, he said to him he didn't want to die at a hospital. He knew it was the end, it was his time. He wanted to stay until their wedding anniversary. But that, he didn't say. Mycroft knew it and that was enough. The anniversary, he didn't see it this year. The priest came by at night. Gregory was dead at sunrise. The agony that was slicing him in half had won. It was normal.
Mycroft didn't hear her enter, Anthea, after having changed, had come to see if he didn't need anything. What did he need? Mycroft made her sit. They talked. Well, Anthea talked. About the burial of course, a few tears of some, the grieving of all. Mycroft barely heard her.
He loved his Gregory, since the start, or almost.
During the first years of their marriage, he accompanied Gregory to his job to hold his hand. But for a long time now, he didn't have the strength. So he waited for him, ensuring that the coffee was warm enough without being boiling. He learned to observe him from the corner of the eye, without raising his nose from his book. And he didn't need a watch. He knew when to ask him to prepare dinner. He knew when Gregory came home. Most of the time, Anthea kept him company. She brung news of London. That was how, one day, on the tone of conversation, she said that it seemed she had seen Gregory talk with Angie Graves in a coffee shop near the Swiss Re Tower. A few more times, during the months, Anthea made a few other "discreet" allusions. Then, she never spoke of it again. But Mycroft knew. He said nothing. Gradually, he got used to it. Without even thinking about it, he chose not to talk about it to Gregory, or to anybody. It was his dignity. That had lasted until Gregory got sick to never be able to get up again. That had lasted nearly twenty years. His only regret was not having children. He wasn't lying. Another reason to hate the Angie Graves, because she had a child, born little after the father's death; Edmond Graves, a colossus with dark hair and eyes, had been taken away by a great sickness that no one knew about. The son Graves, no one in London knew him. He was raised by an aunt in Cardiff. One day though, just before Gregory fell sick, he came to see his mother. Anthea was there of course, because Anthea was always there when something happened. She found that he had a simpleton air with his great brown eyes. Mycroft seemed baffled/shocked.
Anthea was gone now. Night had fallen. Mycroft washed some dishes. He washed a few mugs, then the old white coffee maker, now useless, since Mycroft never drank coffee. He put it in the back of the buffet. Under the sink, he took a few empty jars of jam. Why make jam, he had a buffet full it. He also took a few rags, a pack of rat poison with three quarters of it empty and went to put it all in the trash.
It has been twenty years since he last saw a rat in the house.
And that's the end folks!
Now please take note that this isn't a simple Mycroft-is-mourning-his-loss kind of fic. This goes a lot deeper than that.
Let me know if you understand! Reviews are welcome!
Ritsui out!