Do you hear the people sing?
I've long since accepted that life is an extension of this theater—overcrowded, hot, and involving far too much singing. The goldfish built their own aquarium, and unsurprisingly it's le miserable.
Sherlock has his own methods of coping. No doubt some of them are even legal.
Zzzzz. My phone vibrates against my leg.A call from Andrea. I ignore the glares of fellow theatergoers, and Mother's pointed nudge. Silencing your mobile is for people upon whom the security of the free world does not depend. With any luck, I can stretch this call to last an entire act.
I stand and excuse myself, edging out of the box. The phone gives a final buzz in my hand, like the flop of a dying fish. Never mind, I'll call back in a moment.
Another vibration, shorter and sharper. Words scroll across the screen as my insides turn to ice.
Some will fall and some will live
Predictably, the media went mad after Sherlock's death. To say nothing of his Twitter tag. Who'd have thought that London would be less sane without him?
I toss the latest Evening Standard. It lands next to him on the mattress, and after a moment he deigns to open his eyes and spare it a glance.
"Fresh off the press, little brother."
He shows no emotion at the hat photograph. I swallow my fear.
The beating of your heart
The line dips down and back up, down and up. A fitting metaphor for his life, I think. The sheets are soaked in blood. I shut my eyes, hard, open them again. The sheets are crisp white and unstained. The only splash of scarlet in the room comes from a single rose on the bedside table. Perhaps from Mary.
Sherlock opens his eyes before I can follow this train of thought further. He winces, either due to my presence or the bullet wound next to his heart. One hand snakes out to twist the knob on the machine next to him.
"Drugs don't make the nightmares go away, little brother."
A slight groan escapes him. I watch his face set with pain.
"I'll admit they've never worked on you, but there's a first time for everything."
"Apparently so."
He scoffs. "This is hardly the first time I've been injured on a case, Mycroft."
I refrain from the obvious riposte.
"This is unlike you, Sherlock. I would have thought your assailant's name would be the first word on your tongue."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Some private joke with himself, no doubt. It would be better concealed from me if he weren't in a haze of drugs and pain.
He drops his head back onto the pillows. "Trauma-induced memory loss. I can't recall the event."
Friends are a necessity for normal people. To a Holmes they are about as useful as plastic bits of colored gravel. I never thought Sherlock was the fishbowl type. I warned him not to let his head fall beneath water. Now he's a bloody martyr. In a good many senses of the phrase.
I run through the list of people whom Sherlock would bother protecting. It doesn't take long.
All that you can give
"Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!"
The words are a death sentence. Since time has frozen, I have leisure to appreciate the irony.
Sherlock has died before, but never killed. I suppose that in itself is a miracle. He rarely even carries a gun, leaving that to his well-armed goldfish. Today the balance begins to even out.
The political magnitude of Magnussen's death, at least an eight on the Richter scale, pales into insignificance. I watch my little brother fall to his knees. The Phantom, emerging from shadow at last.
I have no such glamorous role. Javert is the part I have been given to play.
When tomorrow comes.
.
.
.
Your loss would break me.
.
.
I'm sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There is nothing I can do.