Sherlock sits on the stairs, palms pressed against each other, rested on his chin. The whole house is silent, and he is all alone. Lestrade called five times in the last half hour but he has let the calls go to voicemail, until the inspector finally gave up. More calls followed suit but he could not be bothered to check who their senders were. Finally, the calls stop at once and he stays still, leaning against the wall. The stairs are not wide enough for him to sit comfortably, but his body has been in this position for so long, he can't even feel it. It's cold; not the flat, not the stairs, inside. His chest. His heart. He always thought he knew what it was like to have a heart of stone and everybody assumes it is the same as having a cold one. It is not. Cold burns, and this kind of burning cold does not numb the pain.
The door opens and John walks in, a grocery bag in hand. He stops as he turns around and sees Sherlock, still holding the door. He senses immediately that something is very wrong. Silent tears fall down Sherlock face and John doubts he can feel them, assimilate them. He has never seen Sherlock cry before. It could have been an experiment, but the expression on Sherlock's face shows right away it isn't. Sherlock looks up and their eyes meet.
John closes the door and places the bag on the floor, and he kneels down next to Sherlock.
"What's wrong?"
Sherlock swallows and it takes him a long time to answer. When he does, the words are more a hoarse whisper than anything else.
"It's Mycroft."
John doesn't understand.
"What is it?"
Sherlock's mouth bends in an unhappy arch and he tries to control himself.
"He's dead."
The words come out bluntly, harsh. As if he is spiting them like venom. John doubts he heard it well.
"Sorry, what? Mycroft is…"
"Dead, yes."
Sherlock gets up suddenly, fast, and turns his back before John can stop him. But he cannot move further than that. He places an arm on the wall to support his own weight and he cries silently, suffocated sobs, fat, unashamed tears.
John turns him around and holds him. It isn't easy and Sherlock is too tall, so he pulls him down to sit again and embraces him. Sherlock pulls tight and trembles against John. He makes no noise, and it makes it all worse. He cries for a very long time, until his face is numb and John's shirt is soaked. He can't move. Not now nor ever.
John makes him let go and the man he sees is not the man he knows. It scares him, but he can't show that now. He just can't.
He helps him up and he makes Sherlock lay down on the couch, and then he makes tea because he doesn't know what else to do. And Sherlock talks. The sentences are disconnected but they speak of a happy childhood, of shared stories and laughter. He talks of not one, but two men John can't recognise, John has difficulty to imagine. He speaks of two brothers he has never seen before. But then he remembers the picture on Sherlock's room. Not his parents, but him and Mycroft. Together. And John realises the hate had been a cover up all along. A way to keep each other safe.
Sherlock gets up and stands tall in front of John. The tears have dried and the composure returns. As if the mourning time had been counted all along, and is ending here.
"Arrangements need to be made." He says.
And before John can do anything to stop him, he leaves, as if none of it had happened.
A few days later a newspaper tells the story of how Mycroft died, a small homage. Sherlock keeps it between the pages of an old book that he never opens again. He and John leave for the burial, black suits, side by side. But, if anyone was to follow their steps this time, they would be different than they had been before: Sherlock's pair of shoes is accompanied by another trace. The point of an umbrella, the legacy that stays. The true story behind the cover and two hearts of stone that are, in truth, able to love.