Contingency Plan

This was written after I saw this little gif picture on Tumblr about how Mycroft had a contingency plan to see his brother if an outbreak of zombies ever occurred. It was actually really sad, and as awesome as the gif was (which you can find on my Tumblr account, reblogged from #Hehangs, http:/ not- theright- bowie. tumblr. com/ ) I couldn't find anything written for it. So in my angst over The Fall, I wrote this. It is a dabble into my more serious, sad side, which is brought out in the aftermath of the last episode.

Spoilers if you haven't seen The Reichenbach Fall yet.

In this story, I take the liberty in making it so that Mycroft doesn't know Sherlock faked his death. I believe that he does, truly know he's alive out there, but let's pretend that for this lovely gem that he doesn't know. He and John would take comfort together, both out of misery for family and love lost.

Please enjoy and bring your tissues.

I own nothing from the Sherlock Universe. The property belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss, as well as the other writers for the show and the actors respectively. Mycroft Holmes portrayal is strictly the genius of Mark Gatiss, and John Watson is of course the brilliant Martin Freeman.

It was during the daytime, the late afternoon to be precise, that Mycroft had first off-handedly mentioned his bizarre set of internal thoughts regarding the subject. They'd begun meeting a few weeks after Sherlock's un-timely death, on accident at first, then slowly by their own need to have someone else to hold onto. John of course had been inconsolable for days following his best friend's jump off of St. Bart's roof, choosing to talk to no one for nearly two weeks before Mycroft had stumbled into his life once more, insisting he go back to his hack of a therapist. He hadn't used those words exactly, per say, but that's what John had heard out of all the things Mycroft had said in his short visit to the empty Baker Street flat.

At the time, John had been nothing short of furious with the elder Holmes brother, but if he hadn't been so blind in his fury, he would have noticed Mycroft's own drawn appearance and weight loss. How much his appearance seemed stressed and lacking in his usual flair, the three piece suit hanging off him instead of being one with him like it usually was. He hadn't seen it till much later, of course, because he wasn't as astute as Sherlock had been, or even as Mycroft now was. Though in his own way he did know, knew how much the elder brother was pained to see his younger sibling, so dearly loved, to be laid to rest before his time should have come.

To leave him out there in the cold, unfeeling ground against his wishes, because Mycroft couldn't bear to give his only family left to some student to hack apart. Even if it only was the flesh that was left. He couldn't bear it.

But that was only the beginning, that first real fight between the two of them slowly paving the way for something like a companion ship in their misery forming. Mycroft would even sometimes talk about Sherlock when he was younger, indulging in that rare little smile John only saw him shoot at Sherlock when he thought the man's back was turned. It seemed like so long ago now. Then shouting at one another across the flat, the phone, the intrusive little texts that were tells as to how much Mycroft really cared. Caring was a weakness, Sherlock had said once, before correcting that at the end.

John hadn't understood at the time...he did now.

Today had been one of those really rare times when he actually came out to meet John in person, and not just simply send for him like one sends out for a pizza. Dr. Watson was alright with that because sometimes it reminded him of before The Fall, the time when he was returned to 221 B Baker Street and to a one Sherlock Holmes. But as time went on, it only got worse, more hurtful, and on one of the more remarkable fights between the two of them, John had told Mycroft as much. Then he'd demanded to know if Mycroft was truly sorry for what he'd done, if he was truly sorry for telling James Moriarty all about the vulnerable, hurting, lonely Sherlock Holmes.

When Mycroft hadn't come calling in nearly a month's time after that incident, John Watson, strong, reliable John Watson had gone in search for him instead. He'd gone to The Diogenes Club demanding answers, offending and horrifying all the elderly patronage there before he'd called out someone with some answers, a young man by the name of Tobias, who directed him in the proper direction of Mycroft Holmes. From there they'd come to a sort of understood agreement that sometimes, on the Good Days, kidnapping John was fine. Oh the other days, those Dark Days, it was better to just agree with one another and meet up. Today was one of those days.

They'd decided to meet at Speedy's downstairs from the flat -the flat- due to the pouring rain outside, just like that day all those months ago now, and though Mycroft always seemed to carry around that same black umbrella, it was hardly anything against the amount of water pouring down upon them. John had been soaked before he'd been able to arrive on time, his green jacket soaked through to the bone, and he cursed not wearing a jumper on today of all days. He'd taken to wearing them almost daily now, ever since then, because Sherlock had once mentioned that he couldn't seen John wearing anything else and still being Doctor John Watson. So he was wet and cold now, soaked and aching, hurting in more ways than just physical ones.

But it looked like Mycroft had it worse than him.

Today was definitely one of those Bad Days.

Mycroft was standing in front of the sandwich shop, his umbrella deployed in its actual job, trying its best to keep up with the torrential downpour, waiting on him. John couldn't help but smile just a little bit, because he couldn't deny that the only person who truly understood his misery in it all was Mycroft Holmes. In fact, he'd even go as far to say that as much as they were companions in sadness, they were actually starting to go towards friends of sorts, the kind with lots of emotional issues and needs, but friends non-the-less. But then that only seemed to make things worse when they'd once mentioned it. They hadn't since then.

All that train of thought did was cause more pain because Watson remembered when Sherlock had said he didn't have friends, that people like him and his brother, couldn't truly have friends. That the great Sherlock Holmes himself had just the one, and then he'd left him without any further notice, leaving behind his shattered body on the concrete and the dead body of James Moriarty at the top of St. Bart's Hospital. He'd left him to deal with the after-math and the clean up and oh god, all that blood.

Mycroft's hand at his good shoulder was enough to snap him out of his black retreat, the warn up-turning of his top lift as close to a comforting smile as John had ever seen him get. It was nice to have Mycroft to lean on sometimes, but sometimes it was just more fuel to the ever darkened fire that fed John Watson's grief and guilt. He hadn't been there for Sherlock when he should have, but then again, neither had his brother. It ate at their souls. Like it should, John thought.

And that was why they were here in the first place, discussing aimless little trivia. Mycroft retelling some political joke he'd heard in one of his vast expanses into other government's interiors, the humor lost on John, but comforting regardless. The comfort was in having someone to talk to, to listen to speak about their day. It didn't matter that Mycroft knew he didn't know what he was talking about at the moment, just like it didn't matter to John that Mycroft rarely cared about ordinary life in a lonely flat upstairs. It had its purpose. And it was a finer purpose, finer than either of them combined.

Sherlock Holmes...

John wasn't even sure how they'd gotten on the topic of contingency plans for potential zombie apocalypses and world-wide infection outbreaks. (Secretly he suspected that Mycroft had gotten the idea from the joke John had tried to crack about a movie he'd seen the week before, something dreadful and having to do with the living dead.) Hell, he wasn't even sure what exactly it was that Mycroft was talking about until he realized that the man was slowly slipping into a serious tone he took on when discussing his future plans. And it hit him just how serious Mycroft was about all this, about his plans, and about the reason he had such plans to begin with.

"Everyone should have a contingency plan, John." He said soberly not five minutes into their conversation taking such a drastic turn. "Even for something as silly as when the dead rise. My brother had a plan. He always had a plan, it seems."

The sentence hung in the air heavily around them.

John had no hope of replying to something like that, and neither did Mycroft expect it.

"What are your plans, Mycroft?" John had attempted to joke back then, lighten the mood some, try to replace the ghosts casting shadows on both of them with poor humor. To get away from the topic of Sherlock, if only for a few minutes. "For when the dead come back, I mean. Not...not that."

Even after so long, he had trouble saying the word suicide or any of its derivatives. He only hoped that Mycroft would understand what he meant, and knowing that intellect that was so famous to the Holmes' Family, he would. And John wouldn't have to explain it and then they could go back to the sub-standard lunch and pretend like that whole conversation topic had never been brought up. To desperately try to be happy for even a few grisly seconds of their every-running day.

He knew that Mycroft understood.

"It seems fairly simple, Doctor Watson. It is the same as yours is, no doubt." Mycroft had replied sullenly, his eyes starring off into a fixed space somewhere beyond Speedy's and Baker Street, and probably far beyond London itself. On a plane that only he could exist, wrapped in his guilt and misplaced love and affection for his dead younger brother. "Mine is to see my brother again."

John knew that Mycroft Understood.