I'm afraid.
I don't want her to unzip that body bag—I already know what is inside. The "truth." The news that I still can't bring myself to accept, not even now. The headline I read hours ago—Suicide of the Fake Genius—is in that bloody thing. My biggest mistake. My lifelong regret.
For a brief moment, I think I am ready. All current evidence points to the contrary—my trembling hands, my locked jaw…
"I'll… I'll do it quickly," Molly stammers. I don't move. I wish she would get it over with.
The smooth handle of my umbrella rests in my hand, and I gently tap the end of it against my shoe. I need something to hold onto, and this will have to suffice. I have nothing else. I have no one else to talk to. No one else to blame.
"… Are you sure about this?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Molly," I snap. I don't sound as furious or nervous as I feel. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Regardless, my tone makes her bristle. In response, she reaches for the zipper and gently pulls on it—my eyes are already glued to the bag.
It takes everything in me to keep calm when I see him, there on that icy, steel slab.
I tap my umbrella against the floor now. Molly mistakes this for some other emotion, and she is going to close it up unless I stop her. "Not yet," I mutter. "Give me a moment, Ms Hooper."
Immediately, I start deducing his pale, lifeless body for something—anything—that could point me in the right direction. This isn't like him, I tell myself. He never gives up that easily. He must have left something behind. Perhaps he is still alive… But who am I joking?
What can I trust if I can't trust my own eyes? And in front of me is the cold, dead body of my younger brother, the famous Sherlock Holmes. There is no hope for his return.
Now I see no point in deducing. I have once more donned the role I was born into, and I become a brother once more. The dead man on the slab becomes a boy again. I want to smooth his bloodied hair. I want to retie his scarf, like I used to do before walking him to school. I want to hold his icy hand.
I feel my lips tighten into a line. I can't afford to let my thoughts show. Molly is quite emotional as it is.
"Yes, that's enough," I begin. I finally find it in myself to look away. "That's quite enough, Molly." I'm grateful when Molly rushes to zip up the bag. She sounds like she is going to cry. I let the umbrella's handle rest in the crick of my elbow and I gently pat my breast pocket in search for my cigarette box. I already know it's empty.
"I'm so sorry, Mycroft," Molly barely breathes. Her voice is just above a murmur. She isn't looking at me, but at Sherlock's corpse.
"Nothing to be sorry for, is there? There's nothing to be done," I reply, forcing a smile—the hollow smile that I've perfected. There is nothing she could have done differently. I want to tell her that, but I assume she already knows it. Meanwhile, my guilt is slowly eating me from the inside out. It has been for days, and I know it won't ever stop. If there was something that anyone could have done… It's hardly any use dwelling on mistakes.
"Do take care, won't you, Molly?" I mention as I walk through the door.
I stop after only a few steps. I thought I heard his familiar gait from down the hall, but I'm imagining it. And suddenly, the weight of the terrible mistake I made dawns on me at last. The responsibilities I thought I had shed years ago tug at my conscience, and I realize I was never truly free of them. Whether or not I acted the part, I was—am—Sherlock's brother. His caretaker, when we were children. His enemy, in the way that brothers can be enemies.
Since his birth, I have done nothing but worry about him. He always hated that.
My shoulders feel heavy underneath my coat. My feet can barely lift from the ground now… I'm not sure why I elected to see the body—for my own comfort, perhaps, to know that he was truly dead, and not trying to fool us all.
"What have I done, Sherlock," I mutter, not really to anyone. No one else is here.
It isn't until now that I finally realize what I've lost—what we've all lost. I know I'm not the only one. I recall my brother's dead body on the slab, his forehead crusted over with his own blood. I'm certain it will trouble me forever. Even now, I know I deserve it. For a moment, I close my eyes in hopes that I won't see him anymore. But there's no use now, is there?
Is there a more fitting punishment? To be forever tormented by the one person I was bound to look after?
Somehow, I have known for a long time that it would end this way. And yet, simultaneously, I never imagined that it would end like this.