A.N. I realize Sherlock is blathering. Most uncharacteristic of him, but he's far from sane at the moment, and he's convinced his brother is the only one who will read it. If you can't rant to your brother, who can you do it with?
And I realize he's obsessed with a few words – know and think– but that's just him, don't you think so too?
Everyone, heartily thank Ennui Enigma: as my beta, she has all the credit for pulling the whole story out of my mind in understandable shape. Without her, you would be wondering what the hell was happening. Obviously, any lasting errors are entirely mine!
Mycroft's point of view...just in case you didn't deduce it by the third line ;-)
Mistakes
I am not what you would call a socialite. Once I retire into the sanctity of my home, I am reasonably sure I won't be disturbed. Of course, there is the odd exception, such as when a crisis with the potential for fallout throughout the continent occurs.
Cross continental crises will happen - way more often than they should. What is not supposed to happen is being disturbed in the evening by a scrawny, scared, just-out-of boyhood constable. So frightened a constable, in fact, that he literally thrusts a letter into my hands with a mumbled "I'm sorry" and then flees like all hellhounds were chasing him. This before I have a chance to ask whatever is the matter.
Since I can't do anything else, I examine the envelope in my hands. I am not entirely surprised to recognise the handwriting as that of my younger brother, Sherlock. Still, something about it feels worryingly odd. There is no stamp. To my knowledge, Sherlock is currently in France, so there is no way he could have had it hand-delivered. I fervently pray he's still in France, at least. He has no reason to...no, this is a lie. Sherlock isn't aware of any reason which would require his return. He cannot be. If he had somehow been notified...my brother's temperament would have undoubtedly pushed him towards a dangerous course of action. Dangerous for others but, I fear, even more so for Sherlock himself.
I turn the envelope over and my stomach churns. Is that a bloodstain? It can't be. Perhaps this letter isn't really from him? It could be an admirable forgery, a trap, or someone's very ill concocted idea of a joke...not what I have already inferred. Not that, please.
The dread for what I might find almost stops me, but I open the envelope anyway. It is Sherlock's scrawling, if a bit dithering. An expert with a specimen could copy someone's handwriting but he wouldn't manage to retain all the details correctly if he wrote it in the quivering writing of someone deeply shaken. I force myself to read it, even though I have already deduced the terrible news it will bring. I can't dismiss this message:
Mycroft, I'm a complete and utter fool. And you – you had if only one moment of delusion, brother mine. At the very least, I expected to hear of this from you. Did you really think you could keep it hidden? You knew I was in France. They do have English newspapers there, as you are well aware. They sell even the Strand. And I had to read in its pages (I'm not asking Jupiter to leave his orbit, but was a wire really too much to ask for?) how their esteemed author, Dr. John Watson, had been killed.
I'm a fool. I thought he'd be safe, My. I thought I'd mistreated him, dismissed him enough to ensure he'd be safe. Safer than if he'd stayed with me, at the very least. I persuaded myself that my enemies would overlook him too. That Moran would forget him.
I had it all planned, you know? I let Watson go and escaped in the opposite direction. I trusted that the shikari would follow me. I was the one who killed Moriarty, after all, right? I planned to shake him off somewhere in Orient. He was a mighty hunter (and what a wild chase I would lead him in), but not a genius, and I do know how to disguise myself – and after that...well. After that, I'd wait until he made a mistake. Then I'd finally spring my trap.
The first part of it went so well. But I underestimated Colonel Moran's hunting experience. That, and my own weakness, I guess. If only I could have faced Moriarty alone, like I should have – even if it had brought a different end, it would have been a better one. Instead, I brought Watson along – for a long weekend holiday, or so I thought, but... Of course Moriarty escaped the Yard's clutches. I should have realized it – expected it, dammit! - and left my Watson home. Safe. I tried to send him back then, My. Really. I couldn't manage to – naturally. After all, my friend can could be as stubborn as his bulldog, and I, I'd gotten too used to him – enjoyed his presence too much – to try as hard as I should have. That was my mistake. That's what got him killed, My.
His death is my fault, as much as Moran's – you and I know it too well. That's why you didn't want to inform me, right, My? You've always been too kind to me. Of course Moran realized – he didn't read those blasted, lying little accounts Watson wrote, where he downplayed himself all the time. He was there. And I was too shaken, I think, to hide how cripplingly it hurt having to leave him behind, and in such pain. I yearned to return to his side, My. Perhaps it would have been best? Everything would have ended there, one way or another. Instead, I followed the plan – my botched plan!
Moran is a good hunter. That much I knew, My. I knew. And yet, I thought that once he lost his prey's trail, he'd just forget it all. Why should he, when he had such an ideal way to lure it - lure me - into the open, exactly where he wanted? That's why Watson's dead. It wasn't a frustrated, misdirected act of revenge. Most surely it wasn't a chance. I can't stay in hiding and bide my time anymore. The death of the best man in two continents (as I've not visited the others, I can't vouch for them) can't be allowed to remain inexpiate. Both of us must go...and it still won't be anywhere near enough. I've planned again – and this time it bloody hell will work!
I've enlisted Lestrade's aid. Don't be angry with him, My, ok? He doesn't know. He never once mentioned Watson. He had enough sense to avoid being the bearer of such news, in case I hadn't heard of it. I didn't mention my friend, either. For all he knows, I might still be unaware. And even if he suspected I know, I don't think he'd realize the natural outcome of it. Revenge, he'd understand that very well. How it is my fault – not so much. I'm not in the mood to waste time by explaining it.
As for my plan, it's simplicity itself: Lestrade thinks I have devised – or found, or a bit of both – a protection against bullets. That's the only reason he is letting me play bait. I've let my coming back home be known. It'll reach Moran. Of that I have no doubt. He can come whenever he wants to do his job. Death is now my greatest longing. How I look forward to it, My! No more fighting, no more acting, the end of the great game. Can you even imagine the sheer relief of it? It will probably be Moran's very first mercy killing, even if he won't realize it. How ironic that such an act will be his downfall. Lestrade will catch him. Such an ambush simply can't fail. Moran will end up on the gallows, which is less, far less than he deserves – but they don't draw and quarter people anymore, do they?
Pass to Mrs. Hudson my apologies. I would tell her myself, since she's now just a ring away, but her day has been shocking enough, and is bound to get worse. Worrying her by acting oddly would be unwarranted cruelty. Tell her I'm deeply sorry. I've been a terrible tenant, and now – this. I don't know if it'll be my blood only or my brains too, but it's going to leave an ugly stain. It's just – I didn't know where else to go. And 221B is home. I didn't want to stay somewhere more public, since it would only cause a ruckus and possibly put other people at risk. I know better than to do that. A public place, however, was my only other option. I considered coming to your home for this. It would spare me the need to write all these useless explanations, and I would have seen you a last time. I would have liked it. I know you enough, though, to understand you would never had condoned such a project as mine. You would have done your very best (and how much that is!) to stop me – and that's unacceptable. I don't have a precise idea of the state of my finances but if it's enough – and even if it isn't (wouldn't you help me out on that?) - I'd like the rooms to be brought back to original condition. God knows I've left my mark on these poor walls – literally – and it'd be best if every last trace of me could be effaced. No reason others should be inconvenienced by the aftermaths of the failure that I am.
And no, My, you can't object to that – what do call a man who has caused the death of the only person on Earth he ever cared for? Not that I don't care for you, but – it's different. We had no choice in the matter. After all, we are brothers...and foremost, we share the same kind of weird. Couldn't reasonably hate each other now, could we?
I miss him. I miss him fiercely. Even when I say to myself I have no right to miss him at all. I was, after all, the one who chose to leave him behind. Worse, my hide-and-seek with Moran ultimately brought on his demise. I still have the gall to yearn in vain for him. To the point that I'd give anything to see him again. Pity that if any monotheism holds a trace of truth I won't be allowed to reach him anymore. Not even a moment; if but to apologize. He's was a saint (and I need to stop these errors, but apparently I can't). After all, he lived with me – something that proved too much even for you. As for me ...I have no need to write down all the sins that'll drag me to hell. We both know. The only useful bit of information that came from my wanderings was learning Tibetan beliefs. Reincarnation sounds deeply appealing right now. Perhaps I could have another chance at finding my Watson and behaving properly – like he deserves – then? If their beliefs are correct, though, I won't be a man next time – a pet of some sort or worse. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind. Not as long as we could be close again. And now I really need to stop raving, don't I?
Your foolish brother,
Sherlock
Half way through the damnable thing, I wanted to dash to Baker Street and bodily shake the plan out of Sherlock; but, I stopped myself. It's hopeless. Everything has come to an end already. The signs are unmistakable.I've never yearned to be wrong so deeply.
The letter slips from my limp hands. Good. If it's not in my sight, I can deny its is all a nightmare, or perhaps I've got a fever and am hallucinating. I will just remain still until this reality disappears...I can't though, can I? Leaving Sherlock's body to Lestrade's care is quite inadmissible.
I'm honestly amazed that my brother did not include me in his extermination of the culprits. He expressly asked me to keep an eye out for the doctor after all. In truth, I was far more concerned about Watson's sanity than his safety - and with good reason, I believed. Sherlock's plan looked infallible to me. I guess that makes us both fools.
I still haven't moved. I refuse to believe it. Sherlock can't be gone. He wasn't supposed to - leave me alone. He's supposed to be in France, playing with tar and waiting for news. Instead, I've lost him because...because I underestimated the doctor.
Moran has been more farseeing than me in this respect. He acted swiftly and anonymously. The trick had worked once, after all... So, when his goon called for Watson's professional help, Moran must have felt sure of the outcome of his ambush. A kindly medic helping someone in the slums, getting a stray bullet for his troubles. That's all the Yard saw. They didn't think for a moment about who was the victim. I didn't even need evidence to know what came to pass. The only thing that could ensure Sherlock's return - or cloud his judgement - happened, and I had to believe it was all an unlucky chance? Still, the affair was too simple. It lacked distinguishing features that would allow me to pin it unquestionably on Moran. Naively, I believed I could keep my brother oblivious to the doctor's death. It would be enough to thwart the crime's purpose. I intended to wait until the hunter committed something that made him easier to apprehend and convict. Then...if I could offer Sherlock the knowledge that the doctor was already avenged, together with such mournful news, perhaps...My plan obviously failed. Not that Sherlock's plans since the start of the Moriarty affair went smooth. My intellect is my only redeeming feature, and yet my preparations failed.
The only reason for my blunder - when Sherlock's life was at stake - is having sorely underrated the writing prowess of Dr. Watson, as well as the magnitude and loving concern of his public. I never considered the Strand, not for a moment. That oversight cost me my brother. My Sherlock. My reckless, mad, clever, beloved little brother. Now I share the very same sin that he has so wildly sought to cleanse. Our similarities, beyond appearance, have always been striking. I shall not take the same way out though. That would be much too easy.