TITLE: BROKEN PROMISES
SUMMARY: Mycroft is diagnosed with a terminal illness.
WARNINGS: Angst.
Terminal.
If we had found it a bit earlier, maybe...
It's too late, now.
I'm sorry.
Is there anyone you'd like to call?
I'm sorry.
You have weeks left.
I'm sorry.
A month and a half, at most.
I'm sorry.
He gave a curt nod to the doctor, her face full of sympathy. He suspected it never got easy for them, the doctors. Watching people wither away, their expertise amounting to no use as nature takes its savage course.
Sentiment.
Right.
He needed to settle his affairs.
He spared a brief thought to let his family know. No, not now. He can tell them later. There's still time. Not much, of course. But he'll make do.
He always does.
The first week, he informs the necessary officials, holding them to secrecy upon the threat of death. No one dares to argue after one glance into his ice-cold eyes. It doesn't stop their eyes from filling with regret, sorrowful respect, and pity. He puts into place multitudes of contingency plans, for every possible scenario.
The second week, he feels his time shortening. Again, his family comes to mind.
No. Not yet.
He successfully seals deals, brokers treaties between the hardest governments. He does his job, diligently, sincerely. Because he knows that he must.
There is no later for him.
Third week, he goes to the simple, elegant, comfortable cottage where his parents live.
He sits them down.
Mycroft? What's wrong?
He tells them to not panic, to keep calm, even though he knows, knows, they'll find the news to be the equivalent of an emotional atom bomb.
Mycroft, you're worrying us.
He tells them the diagnosis. His face is smooth, not a flicker of emotions seen. His eyes are stormy, roiling emotions under a tight leash. His voice doesn't waver, not one bit. He might as well be talking about the weather, if it weren't for the way his hands are clutching at his umbrella.
He's not daunted by his mortality. No. He has already gone through the stages of grief, settling on ruthless acceptance. No, he's daunted by the unshakable certainty that he has to witness his parents' pain, agony, knowing that it is because of him.
His mother, Mummy, tries to stay strong. By God, does she try. But then, the strength leaves her as she crumbles inward, silent tears streaking down her face, her body shaking with the force of her sobs.
His father, on the other hand, appears to be in shock. He keeps shaking his head, mumbling a litany of no no no nononono under his breath. Well, denial is the first stage.
It's late when he leaves, his parents informing him that they'll be coming over and staying with him for a few days. They don't say, till your last days. But it's understood, nonetheless.
His mother's question rings in his ears, echoing in his mind, filling him with dread and shame.
Have you told Sherlock yet?
No. He hasn't. Not yet.
He spends the next day unable to get out of bed. And when he does, he spends it vomiting his guts out. Anthea stays by him, her eyes perpetually red-rimmed, her usually manicured nails, now bitten to stubs, her faithful Blackberry near her but not always in her hands.
He takes another day to recover his strength. He knows he can't put it off any longer.
He calculates two weeks. Sixteen days at most.
He takes great care to appear as he always would. He knows that Sherlock, his amazingly brilliant brother, always shining like a star, would deduce that something is wrong anyway. But he couldn't help but try for one normal, well, normal for them, confrontation between them.
He climbs the staircase slowly, Anthea right beside him, diligently typing in her phone, not giving any acknowledgement about the way he has to stop for breath every three steps.
He dismisses all the useless observations that fill his senses as soon as he steps into the living room. Instead, he chooses to focus on the important ones.
John, faithful John, is at his laptop, probably blogging about their latest case.
Sherlock, his only equal, his brother, is lying on the sofa, bored out of his mind. As soon as he notices Mycroft, he snarks at him, lashing out with petty insults.
Mycroft, as is his character, snarks right back, sticking to their age-old script. But, despite his best efforts, Sherlock deduces that something's wrong. He sits up, eyebrows furrowing, his eyes darting every other way, missing nothing.
John looks between them, frowning. He appears a bit unnerved by the silence.
Mycroft waits, as he always has, for Sherlock to make the connection, to see and observe, to deduce. He knows the exact moment that Sherlock arrives at the correct conclusion.
His brother's already pale face blanches even more. The silvery, smoky blue eyes darken to a stormy grey in a blatant display of emotion.
How long? Sherlock's voice breaks. They both pretend it does not.
Two weeks. To an outsider, to anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft would have sounded uncaring, cold, stoic. But Sherlock could hear every nuance of the seemingly steady voice. The resignment, fear, weary acceptance, anger, everything.
Sherlock leaves in a fit of fury. Mycroft lets him go. He'll come back.
John's baffled expression turns into one of understanding and then into grim determination tinged with sorrow and grief, as Mycroft explains. Mycroft knows, then, John will look after his brother when he cannot.
When he leaves, Captain Watson salutes him.
It's a cold day when Mycroft Holmes passes. Mr and Mrs Holmes and John would rush in to find their younger son curled around his brother, keening wordlessly, the sound imploring his brother to wake up. John would coax Sherlock away, desperately trying to control his own emotions, knowing that he needed to be steady for the Holmes family. Anthea, after getting a fragile hold of herself, would make the arrangements, her last official duty to Mycroft Holmes, one of the greatest minds England had ever seen.
The day of the funeral, in contrast, would be a rare sunny day.
Standing in front of the grave, long after everyone had dispersed, Sherlock Holmes stares, unblinking, at the golden engraved letters.
'Myc? Will I always be alone?'
'No, Sherlock. I'll always be there for and with you.'
A trembling breath leaves his mouth.
"You promised, Myc," Sherlock whispers.
A/N: Reviews are welcome.