Title: Lazarus, Brother Mine, Lazarus
Parings: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Mary Morstan; John Watson/Mary Morstan
Warnings: Drug use, potential overdose, spoilers for the Abominable Bride.
Disclaimer: All characters, situations and concepts borrowed belong to their respective owners. If you recognize it, it's not mine. I claim no rights. I make no profit.
Lazarus, Brother Mine, Lazarus.
It must say something about my upbringing or my occupation or both that it was second nature to me to project a calm, stoic demeanor while the plane taxied toward the runway; the plane that was taking my little brother into exile and almost certain death. Ah Sherlock, even with my vast resources this was the best I could do officially to spare your life. Unofficially however I will move heaven and earth in the attempt to keep you, if not safe, at least alive.
I had a list of contacts, unwritten of course. Contacts who owed me favors with no questions asked. They were the result of many years of diplomacy played in the shadows behind the politicians. Much as I hated trusting his continued existence to their vagaries, without assistance the assigned mission objective was unobtainable without sacrificing the agent. Unfortunately the risk of using my influence paled in comparison to the risk posed by Sherlock's reaction if he found out I was pulling strings on his behalf. No, somehow I was going to need to convince him to accept help. That was going to be a delicate undertaking similar to the time I needed to convince him when he was 5 that clothes were indeed a necessity.
My memory helpfully provided an image. Sherlock standing in the hall, naked except for a sheet tied at his neck. He said it was a cape and therefore not properly clothing at all. It had taken all my rudimentary at the time skills at diplomacy, a number of biscuits and organization of the manpower required to fish the contents of his wardrobe out of the pond to ensure that decorum was regained. A similar image followed the first. Sherlock in a sheet in one of the reception rooms at Buckingham Palace. My diplomatic skills had improved vastly by that point but they still left something to be desired when it came to Sherlock handling. In fact, I had wondered at the time if I had made any progress at all.
I watched as the plane reached the end of the runway. The jet engines whined increasing power to commence takeoff. It was too much. I turned to the car and entered noting that my PA, Acacia was the name she was using this week, was as usual diligently monitoring my official tasks on her blackberry. I seated myself and was just about to indicate to the driver that we should depart when Acacia gave a little gasp.
That was unprecedented. My staff, to a person, were trained to not show emotion unless directed to do so by me in advance. For Acacia to do so, even in the privacy of the sedan did not bode well.
"Sir, you need to see this," she said bringing up the BBC 1 feed on the screen in the car.
A face that I had hoped never ever to see again filled the screen while his voice asked "Did you miss me?" over and over.
"When?"
"It commenced a little under a minute ago," Acacia replied. "All broadcast media are affected."
"Get a team on this immediately," I ordered. "I want it gone over frame by frame!" My personal mobile vibrated, "and get that plane turned around."
I glanced at the number, Lady Smallwood's office. "Yes?"
"Are you aware of the broadcast?" Lady Smallwood asked without preamble.
"Yes."
"It's on all the channels, every last one of them. You assured me he was dead! He's not dead, he's alive!" Lady Smallwood sounded a bit panicked.
"But that's not possible," I assured her using my best calming tones.
"Moriarty is back and this shows he's more powerful than ever!" Lady Smallwood was getting more upset by the moment, "We need your brother back here immediately. He's the only person who has taken this monster on and won. Get him on the case now!"
"Yes madam," I continued to reassure her as I exited the car. "Of course I'll recall him immediately, however I assure you Moriarty is not among the living; that is simply not possible."
"I don't care if he's alive or dead this is a national emergency. Find out what happened and neutralize the threat. You'll have as much authority as I can get you."
Lady Smallwood was seriously rattled. She would have never condoned giving me a smidgeon more power or influence otherwise.
"I'll put my best team on it," I kept my voice calm and even. "I'll have an initial report for you later today."
"Do that," she snapped and rang off.
I looked over towards the other vehicle. The Watson's were no longer watching the plane. They were now staring at me. I must have frowned slightly. John's familiarity with Sherlock clearly had enabled him to partially read my expression or body language because he dropped his wife's hand and closed the distance.
"What's happened?" he asked.
Damn. I needed to say something. "Moriarty," I replied shortly. "He's high jacked every media outlet in the nation. He's grand standing, attempting to provoke a response. He wants to know if we've missed him."
John turned back to look at Mary. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Acacia had already notified the pilot. The plane would circle around and land. It was time then to inform my brother of his miraculous reprieve. I punched the speed dial on my mobile. The call went through and Sherlock answered.
"Yes?"
"How's the exile going?"
"I've only been gone four minutes." It was clear from Sherlock's voice he knew something was up. I suppose it was rather obvious as I would not have called otherwise.
"Well I certainly hope you've learned your lesson," I couldn't help but let some of the relief that I was feeling color my tone.
Sherlock's response indicated that he understood he was being recalled but not the reason, "Who needs me this time?" Interesting that he didn't comment on my slip of sentiment; how could he not have noticed?
"England," I replied and continued before he could get a word in edgewise, "There's a broadcast, all media outlets, Moriarty's voice and image. He's taunting us in general and presumably you in specific. He's asking if you miss him."
"But I saw…" Sherlock trailed off mid-sentence.
"As did I little brother. Never the less he's co-opted the broadcast signals to show that he is back."
Sherlock gave a little grunt that indicated he was thinking and I rang off. There would be no getting anything out of him until he finished whatever train of reasoning this news had provoked.
I glanced at John and Mary. John had clearly relayed the latest news.
"But he's dead," Mary was exclaiming. "I mean you told me he was dead, Moriarty."
John replied "Absolutely. He blew his own brains out."
"So how can he be back?"
That indeed was the question. John, however, was looking thoughtful as he turned to watch the plane line up for landing.
"Well, if he is…" John said half to himself, "he'd better wrap up warm. There's an East Wind coming."
So Sherlock had told him about that. As far as I knew he had never shared that tidbit of his childhood with anyone. I was the one responsible for that little bit of trivia. I had told Sherlock the legend of the East Wind. It was something that Grand'Mere Vernet had used to correct my behavior when I was small and spent summers at her estate in France. She convinced me that there was a powerful, unstoppable force that that would remove the unrighteous leaving only the virtuous unscathed. She had a multitude of versions each one with a particular transgression that should be avoided. I, in my ignorance, passed them on to my little brother in a vain attempt to scare him into behaving properly. Of course it didn't work and most likely was the start of the rift between us. Of all our interactions growing up that was the one I regret the most.
I wrenched my mind back to the subject at hand. Moriarty was dead having gambled with his own life and lost. The body had been identified conclusively and cremated. If this was indeed Moriarty somehow I could only conclude that rationality had been superseded by a penchant for melodrama on his part. I also knew that if he was truly back he would again go after Sherlock.
The plane taxied to a stop and shut down its engines. A crew member popped the door and let down the folding stairs. When Sherlock didn't appear immediately like Lazarus at the door to his tomb I headed for the plane; something was amiss. I took the stairs at a good clip with both the Watsons on my heels.
As soon as I had cleared the doorway I addressed Sherlock, "Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined brother mine, although adequate given your levels of OCD," then I got a good look at him. Pale, sweating, increased respiration, lack of muscle tone, glassy eyes; I'd seen these symptoms before. He was high as a bloody kite.
"I have to go back!" He was emphatic.
"What?"
"I was…I was nearly there! I nearly had it!"
Oh dear. He must be hallucinating. He certainly wasn't in touch with reality at present. Maybe a question would give him something to ground himself with.
"What on earth are you talking about?" I asked.
"Go back where? You didn't get very far," John chimed in. It was clear he hadn't noticed Sherlock's condition just yet.
"Ricoletti and his abominable wife! Don't you understand?" Sherlock was becoming more agitated by the moment.
Mary gave it a shot before I could, "No, of course we don't. You're not making any sense Sherlock."
"It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago, lodged in my hard drive. She seemed to be dead but she came back."
John who was squeezing by me was still oblivious, "What? like Moriarty?"
Sherlock waived a hand at him, "Shot herself in the head, exactly like Moriarty."
Mary likewise squeezed by me and sat in the seat facing Sherlock. Standing for long periods when pregnant clearly was uncomfortable for her. "But you've only just been told. We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country."
Sherlock unclipped his seatbelt and shifted in his seat, "Yes? So? It's been five minutes since Mycroft called." He glanced up at me then, "What progress have you made? What have you been doing?" He clearly expected results of some sort?
John let out a laugh that was more than half relief. "More to the point, what have you been doing?" he asked.
"I've been in my Mind Palace, of course..."
"Of course," John echoed.
"Running an experiment," Sherlock continued. "How would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895?"
I knew then what this was. I hadn't seen it for quite a while; not since his last real run at the needle before he cleaned up due to Lestrade promising cases if he were sober. I had thought that, given the levels of substance Molly found, that his presence in that drug house was an aberration caused by his need to interest Magnussen as opposed to the start of a full-blown relapse. Obviously I had been wrong.
"Oh, Sherlock," was all I could get out before I had to turn away. It wouldn't do at all to let him see the anger and disappointment. That would just make matters worse.
"I had all the details perfect!"
I managed to take control of my face and sat down into a rear facing seat across the aisle. The handle of my umbrella made a good place to rest my hands and my chin. It also allowed me to camouflage the clenching of my jaw.
Sherlock was still running off at the mouth, gesturing widely. "I was there, all of it, everything! I was immersed."
I raised my head slightly, "Of course you were."
Sherlock's hallucinations had always been extremely vivid. The higher the dosage the less contact he had with reality. A sudden thought chilled me; Sherlock knew that the exile was meant to kill him. I knew he'd deduced it when he'd asked me early on when I visited him in the holding cells if I would take charge of his debts. It had been clear to me that he wasn't talking about finances; no he was talking about his vow at the Watson's wedding reception. I had seen the footage. It had been quite dramatic swearing to always be there for the three of them whatever may come. I had agreed to do so and he had seemed relieved; so much so that he'd let me see his relief clearly. Was that when he'd decided to return to the drugs? His obligation taken care of, his last tie severed but for me, who clearly couldn't save him. Using the drugs to give himself the illusion that he could reason his way out of the trap? Was his current state of inebriation at least partly my fault? Out of the corner of my eye I noted that Mary had picked up Sherlock's phone.
"You've been reading John's blog," she sounded amused. "The story of how you met."
Sherlock nodded, "Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer."
I attempted to redirect the conversation back to Sherlock's physical state. "You think anyone's believing you?" I asked pointedly.
Unsurprisingly John came to his defense. "No, he can do this. I've seen it – the Mind Palace. It's like a whole world in his head."
"Yes, and I need to get back there!" Sherlock sounded frustrated.
This was even worse than I had feared. "The Mind Palace is a memory technique. I know what it can do; and I know what it most certainly cannot." No the method of loci was just a means to organize and store all manner of information for easy retrieval. Hallucinating entire scenarios on ancient cases was not part of the system.
Of course my words provoked a typical response from my brother who suddenly seemed more aware and alert when he snapped, "Maybe there are one or two things that I know that you don't."
We stared at each other. "Oh there are," my emphasis was clear but I could see he was going to wait for me to ask. "Did you make a list?"
He broke eye contact at that, started to chew on his thumbnail then he looked up again. I could see he was going to attempt to deflect my question.
"You've put on weight. That waistcoat's clearly newer than the jacket…"
I lost my temper then. "Stop this," I snarled, "Just stop it," and then I asked again with more emphasis this time, "Did you make a list?"
"No, it's not that." John was starting to get a clue but he was still far behind. "He goes into a sort of trance. I've seen him do it."
I ignored him in favor of watching Sherlock. My brother reached into his breast pocket and fished out a piece of paper. He held it between two fingers extended it in my general direction then dropped it onto the floor. Dramatics brother dear…it's always the dramatics. I couldn't look just yet without him seeing my concern. John pounced on the paper, unfolded it and started to read. I could see the moment when his medical mind kicked in as he processed what was written. I heard him turn to look at Sherlock. I could almost feel the shock and concern radiating off him. Congratulations Dr. Watson you are now a full-fledged member of the Sherlock rescue society; welcome to the fraternity.
That had been one of the worst nights of my young life. Sherlock disappeared from University. I had been working my way up in the intelligence arm of certain diplomatic circles. It was the first time I co-opted my position and access to attempt to find my brother. Find him I did in a filthy flat, lying on an equally filthy mattress. There was no electricity, no heat, only candles haphazardly stuck in bottles. Sherlock had been writhing in pain in the throes of a bad trip. Presumably something he had taken had been either adulterated or was more potent than he'd expected. I had no idea what to do. I knew treatment was tricky, sometimes even fatal, if the substances and amounts were unknown. Then I saw the paper. It was next to the mattress. It was a list in Sherlock's scrawly script detailing his most recent experimentation. I supposed I needed to explain so that John would understand.
"We have an agreement, my brother and I. Ever since that day; whenever I find him…whatever back alley or doss house…there will always be a list."
John dropped down into the chair across from me waiving the note, "He couldn't have taken all that in the last five minutes."
I sighed. John always wanted to see the best in my brother. I hated to disillusion him. "He was high before he got on the plane."
"He didn't seem high," Mary commented.
"Nobody deceives like an addict."
That got an immediate response from my brother, "I'm not an addict. I'm a user. I alleviate boredom and occasionally heighten my thought processes."
As I had suspected, he had turned to the drugs to keep his mind occupied during confinement and in an attempt to reconcile his impending exile and probable death.
"For God's sake!" John exploded at Sherlock waiving the paper, "This could kill you! You could die!"
For just an instant I could see my brother look remorseful at John's disappointment but he quickly responded, "Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality."
I sighed internally. The words may be different but the argument was always the same. He would insist that regardless of what it looked like he wasn't an addict. That flash of emotion however was new so I kept watching as Sherlock relaxed back into his seat. I saw it again; just a twitch. It was almost as if he didn't fully believe what he'd just said. Interesting.
I noticed in passing that Mary had switched phones and was now typing quickly on hers.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Emelia Ricoletti – I'm looking her up," was the immediate reply.
My response of, "Ah, I suppose we should," earned me an exasperated eye roll from Sherlock. I ignored it and continued, "I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive…"
"Yep, that's where I'm looking," Mary interrupted.
Oh. Now that was curious. I knew the archive wasn't as secure as it could be but getting into it from a mobile? What exactly did Mary keep on her phone that could allow her to hack in that quickly?
"What do you think of MI5's security?" I had to ask.
She shot me a look with a slight smile "I think it would be a good idea."
Ouch. I made a mental note to look into the matter. If the archive was that porous then what was the state of the rest of the system? I clearly needed to get someone top notch into the cyber security position. Maybe I could steal someone from technical services of MI6? No, even better, I'd call in one of my favors with the Quartermaster and have him find me someone with the appropriate disposition and skill set. That would be a lot less effort and hassle than attempting to hire one of his minions out from under him. It would also avoid any internecine tit for tat squabbles between departments.
"Emelia Ricoletti. Unsolved," Mary inclined her head in Sherlock's direction, "like he says."
Sherlock had his head in his hands at this point. He looked up without opening his eyes and snapped, "Could you all just shut up for five minutes? I was nearly there before you stepped on and started yapping away."
John lost it at that point, "Yapping?" His tone was sarcastic, "Sorry – did we interrupt your session?"
I needed to act quickly. Sherlock would clearly say something damaging to his and John's friendship if I didn't. His brain to mouth filter which was never good at the best of times was well-nigh nonexistent when he was high. I'd need to give him something else to focus on. Luckily I could kill two birds with one stone.
"Sherlock, listen to me."
Good, he refocused on me then closed his eyes before responding "No. It only encourages you."
"I'm not angry with you…"
"Oh, that's a relief. I was really worried." He opened his eyes and looked at me, "No, hold on. I really wasn't."
Sherlock needed to hear this. I could only hope it wouldn't get deleted this time.
"I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you." Dare I tell him the rest? Show him my regret? Expose my failure? "This was my fault," there I'd said it.
"It was nothing to do with you," Sherlock asserted a little too forcefully.
"A week in a prison cell. I should have realized."
"Realized what?"
I had to spell it out for him then, "that in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy."
Sherlock dropped his head back into his hands, "Oh, for God's sake…" Meer heartbeats later his head came up and he looked over at John, "What did you say?"
His eyes were dilated and he was sweating again.
"I didn't say anything." John had noticed his physical condition and was looking concerned.
Sherlock shook his head slightly, "No, you did. You said...'Which is it today – morphine or cocaine?'"
I winced inwardly. John still had the list. I hadn't had a chance to look at it but judging from his reactions he'd taken something near the dosage he'd imbibed when he was using regularly. That had been over four years ago. The levels Molly had recorded were nowhere near the readings at the worst of it. All of which meant I was again watching the initial stages of an overdose. Thank heavens there was not one but two medical professionals within arm's reach of Sherlock this time.
Both of them were moving as Sherlock's eyes rolled up and he slumped in his seat. John went for the carotid artery for a pulse. Mary tilted the seat back then grabbed his hand and looked at it. She was most likely checking for peripheral blood flow and oxygenation as best she could without monitoring equipment. I looked around and caught the attention of the flight attendant who was hovering in the door of the cockpit. I gestured in the general direction where the medical supplies were usually stored. Luckily the attendant caught my intent and fished out the bag without my having to speak.
Meanwhile John apparently satisfied with Sherlock's pulse rate was now calling to him, "Sherlock. Sherlock!" His face took on a more concerned look as he took a breath then barked in what I realized was his Captain Watson voice, "Holmes! Answer me damnit!"
"Cocaine," Sherlock mumbled.
John sighed and remarked to no one in particular, "I'd like to find every bit of that stuff and pour it out!"
"Stop you."
That was hopeful. Sherlock was at least partly aware of what was going on around him.
"I doubt it," John now had captured Sherlock's wrist and was monitoring his pulse with one hand the other resting lightly on his chest keeping track of respiration, "Soldier remember?"
"Doctor," Sherlock's voice was clearer.
"Army doctor," John corrected. He looked at me with a tight smile, "just means I know all the names of all the bones in the body as well as the best way to break them!"
I don't think I'll ever really understand John Watson's sense of humor.
"Danger," Sherlock was back to mumbling again. "Suicide, grave, can't be killed."
Sherlock's eyes were still closed but I could see they were moving as if he were in the REM stage of sleep; dreaming. Suddenly he subsided and went completely limp. John looked around and spotted the first aid kit that the attendant had placed on the chair opposite me. He nodded at Mary who sat forward on the edge of her chair and grabbed Sherlock's hand again, keeping track of his pulse. John dug around in the bag and came up with a penlight. He moved back to Sherlock and clicked it on in preparation for checking his eyes.
John touched my brother's face and Sherlock roused again saying "No. No, not you. It can't be you!"
"What the hell is going on?" John was trying to get Sherlock to respond.
"Mad enough?" Sherlock mumbled again then added, "None of it!"
"What's he talking about?" John paused for a moment. "Sherlock?" then using the Captain Watson voice again he barked, "Holmes!"
My brother started and sucked in a deep breath just as Mary asked "Is he dreaming?"
Hmm. My brother seemed to be responding best to orders from John and annoyance at me. Well I'd give him something to be annoyed at then.
"And there he is. Thought we'd lost you for a moment. May I just check: is this what you mean by controlled usage?"
Sherlock's eyes half opened, just enough so that John could get a look at his pupils with the penlight. He steepled his hands together in his lap then. It was a version of his I'm thinking pose.
John noticed and asked "You're not seriously gonna do that?"
"I need to…"
"Spoken like an addict," John was clearly getting annoyed by Sherlock's responses.
"Important to me!"
"No – this is you needing a fix."
John had it right my brother was an addict. If it wasn't drugs it was the high of solving his cases.
"John…" Sherlock pleaded.
"Moriarty's back. We have a case! We have a real-life problem right now."
"Getting to that! It's next on the list! Just let me do this!"
The look on John's face was stern, "No, everyone always lets you do whatever you want. That's how you got in this state."
Sherlock still hadn't opened his eyes. I wasn't sure if he was truly in the present or not. He shifted in his seat straightening out a bit.
"John please…" he muttered. His voice was trailing off again.
"I'm not playing this time, Sherlock, not anymore." John straightened up and stretched a bit. "When you're ready to go to work, give me a call."
Well now wasn't that an interesting dynamic? John had appearently been enforcing Lestrade's no consulting with the MET while high policy on all Sherlock's cases.
I stood up to get a better look at Sherlock. I didn't like what I saw. He was sweating had lax muscle tone and his respiration was depressed. It was enough to concern both the Watson's too. John leaned over arm on the head rest. Mary had leaned forward and grabbed his wrist again and a look of concern crossed her face. She glanced up at John who wasn't paying attention to her with the same level of anxiety.
Mary was concerned about John? Sherlock was the one in medical distress. Looking at the three of them I had a sudden epiphany. Mary considers Sherlock a full ally in keeping John safe and sane. If she loses Sherlock she loses part of John therefore she will do everything in her considerable power to keep Sherlock alive and happy. John, now John loves both Mary and Sherlock. Having to choose between the two or losing one or the other would break him. Now Sherlock relies on John to be his moral compass but knows he doesn't have the ability all on his own to make John happy which makes Mary not his enemy but his partner. It was a three way co-dependent relationship not unlike a three legged stool. Mary's history and skill set; Sherlock's logic and genius; John's morals and heart; any part on its own would fall but together they could bear a considerable load. I carefully logged the concept as a stool in my mental representation of 221B where I stored all things Sherlock related. This would bear thinking on later.
Sherlock jerked awake opening his eyes. He looked up at John leaning over him and said with a little smile, "Miss me?"
"You all right?"
Sherlock sat up, "Yes of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
Mary gave him a look, "'Cause you probably just OD'd. You should be in hospital."
Sherlock pushed on the arms of the seat getting up. "No time. I have to go to Baker Street now Moriarty's back."
He stumbled a bit as he got into the aisle, paused and shook his head a little. It was clear he was having trouble with balance. The immediate crisis seemed to be over but would the mystery be enough to get him sober? Would there be enough complex puzzles in the future to enable him to stay that way?
"I almost hope he is, if it'll save you from this." I muttered.
Oh, I didn't mean to say that out loud. To cover my lapse I held up the list of substances Sherlock had taken and pretended that I had intended to speak. Sherlock grabbed the paper and tore it into pieces.
"No need for that now," he said as he dropped the pieces on the floor. "Got the real thing. I have work to do."
"Sherlock," I said softly to catch his attention as he attempted to start to squeeze past me. He looked me straight in the face at that. "Promise me?"
We had been here before, usually after he had detoxed. I made him promise that he'd try and remain sober or absent that remember to make a list. This time I glanced briefly at the Watsons.
Use them brother I thought. Let them help you, support you, and maybe just maybe you won't need to get high anymore.
Sherlock caught my glance and read at least some of the emotions behind it. I suspect he missed my message that he had backup if only he would deign to use it. He looked around then back at me.
"What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something, like a proper big brother?"
He shoved past me; bumping me in the chest with his shoulder. Yes, I would be doing quite a lot of paperwork to give Sherlock the freedom he needed to pursue this. Lady Smallwood's extra authority would come in quite handy that way. Get him his liberty first, a pardon upon the solution of the mystery; that was how I was going to need to play it. The quicker we could do both the better. It was going to be a lot easier when the shock of the broadcast was still fresh in everyone's minds. The more time without an incident would lull the politicians into complacency and they wouldn't need Sherlock. There was no way I was going to bank on Moriarty, or whomever was using his image, creating a fresh upset as time wore on. No, Sherlock was going to need to solve this one quickly.
I closed my eyes. He wouldn't accept my help in this. I opened them again and watched as Mary and John made their way toward the aircraft door. But maybe...I thought briefly of the three legged stool.
"Doctor Watson?"
John stopped and turned to face me.
"Look after him…" A small sad smile escaped my control, "please?" I didn't have to say because he won't let me do so.
From his face I could see that John understood. He gave me a miniscule nod and left the plane.
I glanced down and spotted the torn up note on the floor. I picked it up and added it to my collection. My own notations of promises and failed promises starting with the very first one when I was 7 and Mummy brought him home from the hospital after a harrowing two weeks when it was unsure whether he'd even survive. I mentally vowed to do better. Even if I couldn't act directly I could aid and abet John and Mary's attempts to help. It would need to be subtle but I most certainly would be able to do so.
I placed the small notebook back into the pocket of my suit coat. Now was not the time to be maudlin. There was work to do and I needed to be about doing it.
Author's Note: This little bit was spawned when a fiction that I'd read recently (It's a Cape! by EventHorizon on AO3 see work #1424827 ) went crashing into The Abominable Bride. The result was this piece of angst from Mycroft's POV. Much thanks needs to be given to the incomparable Ariane DeVere (arianedevere on live journal) who has painstakingly transcribed the Sherlock episodes for all of us fans. This fiction would not have been possible without those transcripts.
As always I'll close with apologies to the Bard:
If this writer has offended,
Think but this and all is mended,
That you have but tarried here,
While each chapter did appear,
And these words upon this theme,
Are of no import, only my dream.
It has been an honor to share my dream with you
K2N2