Name: Brother Dear
Disclaimer: Don't own anything. If I did, I would not be here, I would be making Sherlolly completely canon. XD
A little more info: Just an idea that popped into my head. I love Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship, so I thought I would write a little bit in that area. Hope I did alright! It probably is a little out of character cause there is a bit of brotherly fluff, but I hope it's enjoyable!
A few drops of crystal clear rain fell from the vast atmosphere above, and landed gently on Sherlock Holmes's nose. The dark haired man stood silently behind a tree, watching his friend visit his "grave" from afar. Through his piercing blue-green eyes, he could see John Watson pacing in short steps in front of the shiny, black gravestone, as Mrs. Hudson trudged back to the waiting cabby. After a few long moments, John drew in a short sigh, and began speaking in a low depressed tone.
"You told me once you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human," John started carefully. "But let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human, human being I have ever known, and on one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."
An emptiness pressed down on Sherlock's chest, threatening to suffocate the Consulting Detective. The emotion had just begun to seep through John's pained voice, and it was all Sherlock could do to jump out from behind the tree and reassure the grieving man.
"I was so alone and I owe you so much."
The doctor abruptly turned away, but sharply turned back, facing the gravestone. "Please… there's just one more thing." Desperation spilled over his breaking voice. "One more miracle." A deep heaviness settled in the air, as John held his finger up, pointing at an angle up at the blanketed sky. "Sherlock, for me."
Sherlock listened intently, waiting for the one request he would surely grant as soon as he could come back.
"Don't be… dead." The voice finally broke completely, as if his whole world was crashing down around him. Sherlock was sure his heart about shattered at the request, the heart he wasn't even sure he possessed.
"Would you do that for me? Just for me. Just stop it," John pleaded brokenly, the pain seeping through all aspects of the army doctor. Sherlock spotted the tears glistening like small stars stuck in his friend's ocean blue eyes. His entire face was swimming in grief, as he buried his face in his sweaty palms. "Stop this."
A prick of moisture broke through Sherlock's eyes, staying unshed. The light breeze whipped at his face, causing the little drops of rain to smack his cheek.
John, with clenched fists, sharply turned and stormed purposefully away, back to the waiting Mrs. Hudson.
The detective lingered back awhile, staring at the spot his best friend had been giving his final goodbye. Remorse stung at his conscience as though he shouldn't have betrayed his precious trust. After this, John Watson may never even want to see him again. But, it was definitely better than being the one hovering over John's grave with tears stinging his eyes, knowing his friend would never come back.
Minutes passed, as Sherlock stood completely still, wind brushing against his cheek. His eyes caught on to a tall figure taking graceful strides up to the place where John had just been standing. An umbrella covered the man from the rain, so Sherlock could not make out the face, but he knew. He knew who was about to visit his grave.
The tall figure stopped in front of the stone, his reflection bouncing off the polished black quartz. In golden letters was the famous name of Sherlock Holmes, staring him right in the face. How he wished this was just a night mare that he could awake from, and recognize that everything is as it always was. No, the sharp cheekbones resting under electric blue eyes with messy black curls atop were gone. The canny mind and the caring heart of Sherlock Holmes were no more. He wished he could have done better by him. Allow Sherlock to love him.
Rain now inundated the ground with splatters of crystal shards of water bouncing playfully off the fresh blades of grass, swaying gently in the breeze.
The man stepped forward, leaving a fresh imprint of a boot in the mud below. He drew in a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak. But the voice came out in a croak. The words he had prepared and mentally gone over and over were gone. It was only him and the heartfelt words he would speak now. Not then, now, when the man he had truly cared for is gone.
"Sherlock, Brother Dear, I'm sorry. You wouldn't be six feet under the ground if it wasn't for me. I-I told him everything, Sherlock. Everything. There wasn't one speck of information I held back. I'm sorry.." Mycroft Holmes shifted his weight onto one foot and tilted his head, willing tears to come, if they come.
"You always wanted to be a pirate when you were young. Always begging me to play with you. Of course, being the blind idiot that I was, I declined and waved to off like you were nothing.
"When you were older, I said I never had the time to play Deductions with you. It wasn't true. I simply never wanted to.
"And now, I wouldn't even help you on a single case. I was hardly ever there for you, instead I told you caring in not an advantage. As you can see, Brother Mine, I am the sociopath. I made you believe you were too. But you had the biggest heart, and I shut it down and stuffed your childhood into storage. "
Mycroft's smooth voice began to crack, as a tear gently cruised down his cheek. Slowly, he dropped to his knees and laid a gentle hand on the wet dirt in front of him. In came the black fabric of the umbrella, as Mycroft clutched it tightly in his left hand. Chapped lips opened to speak again, and the once controlled voice came out in a squeak, as ocean blue eyes spilled over with hot tears. "I only wanted to protect you."
"That's all I ever wanted, Sherlock." A series of mutters through controlled sobs resounded through the haunting graveyard, as Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in England, broke down in front of his little brother's grave.
From behind the darkened bark of the oak tree, the little brother released his tears from behind their guard. Never had he thought Mycroft Holmes would say such things, let alone visit his grave.
Desperately, Mycroft grabbed the dampened dirt in his wiry fingers, clutching it with such ferocity, as if it would bring his baby brother back. Through tear stained vision, he looked up at himself through the reflection on the black quartz. Minutes passed, as the elder brother waited until his tears subsided into heavy sniffs, before affectionately laying his umbrella up against the stone.
"I love you, Little Brother."