A reupload with some minor fixes :)
This story takes place during the second to last scene of His Last Vow. This is partly from Sherlock's POV, partly from Mycroft's.
Insert Disclaimer.
The east wind will take us all in the end.
That's all life ever really is, a wind- variations upon a single line; it is being high and being low, running up and down the stairs and windmills of my mind, it's the line on the heart monitor.
I can see you in that helicopter, brother mine, whispering with shock apparent on your face, "Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?" Idiot.
That feeling of slight shock at what I've just done, John's stare in the back of my head and the heavy feeling of my promise fulfilled on my chest. This isn't what promises feel like, is it, Mycroft?
I look down and keep my hands in the air, for I only stab in the front, but your containment team cannot trust my word for it. Yours either, dear brother. I look down because looking up burns my eyes and because I know that there is nothing you can do to tone down the hurt. My eyes are closed and I run up the stairs and down the stairs again, looking for consolation for doing the right thing, or at least it seems like it.
I'd fancy myself the east wind, you know; pretend that I was the one seeking out the unworthy, when I'd be a pirate- the story of a Prince Charming taking up such a role always seemed too unrealistic and gushingly romantic. Now, a pirate held its own appeal to my young mind- the same appeal that romanticising our lives holds for John, I suppose, in the blog. I'm still a pirate, you being my enemy, Mycroft, just as you insisted to be in childhood.
Your calmness in the face of adversity may be admirable to those around you, but I find it disgusting. Adversity drives one to do better, be better, to improve in spite of it and to spite it. The adrenaline rush is what replaces the drugs, the lows even more destructive because the high is easier to get and infinitely real. And then come you, brother, with your Pan Am plastic smile and extraordinarily sharp nose, poking into others' business and making deals with the devils.
You do not believe me to be smarter than you, Mycroft, but really I am. You play with people like a grandmaster plays chess; reluctant to lose pieces out of strategic thought, the endgame mattering most. Most importantly, you play with them from a distance, never getting your own hands dirty, and yet you can never fully wash the blood from your hands. Especially not mine, brother dear.
I hate you. And right now this bitterness is slowly corroding my insides and boiling up like bile because if it was not for your propriety, this could have been a lot less messy and a lot less destructive.
I hate you. You look upon me with fear on your face and the lights blind my eyes, while I am buried in Redbeard's sloppy embrace somewhere in the depths of my mind, Moriarty's desperate screams echoing from down below. Ironically, even though I so utterly despise you, I am my brother's keeper, though involuntarily.
This is just another way to be put down. And when you realise it is your fault, brother mine, you take off your microphone and stare in dismay at someone who is a rude awakening personified. Someone who is what you will never be- willing to lose everything.
Thus, brother mine, don't appall me when I'm high.
Mycroft knew that he made a mistake, but had no idea how to fix it with his philosophical pirate of a brother. So he sat with the whir of helicopter blades and John's cries echoing in his head, knowing exactly what needed to be done, where, when, and how, except what to do with all of the sentiment.
And so he sat, seeing a young boy with tears coming out of his eyes before him, surrounded by scary people and a storm from the west pummelling his small body. This is the irony of Sherlock, his brother. Sherlock the avenger, and Sherlock who swore to never be his brother's keeper. Sherlock the pirate and Sherlock the knight. Mycroft smirked as he thought more, smiling bitterly to see Sherlock's hate and pain written on his face, illuminated by the lights of the helicopter.
Sherlock the East Wind personified, no matter how he never accepted his own inherent benevolence.
He grimaced and kept looking down with the understanding of just how much he screwed up this time.
And the east wind doth soon blow.
Leaving a review would be nice.
I loved this episode with the exception of what has been done to Mary (a bit too Hollywood, over-the-top, and such for me), but that did help a bit with John's development. This is just a ramble I had regarding the episode.
Until next time.