PALL MALL: 1893
"I am going to die."
Sherlock stated for the armchair across from me. The words slammed into me like bullets. I prayed he did not mean what I thought.
"Don't we all, in the end?" I asked, or rather I hoped.
He eyed me carefully.
"You know exactly what I mean, Mycroft. Moriarty will murder me. Although I have every intention of returning the favor."
He spoke so calmly, so peacefully, it broke my heart. My own little brother would sacrifice his life to save countless others, who would never know the little boy behind the mask. Yet there was nothing I could do, I was powerless to stop him. I did not even attempt it. I understood what he was doing. He was suffering so that others didn't have to.
Logically, objectively it made sense. One life against many more.
I stared at the fire, dying in the hearth, and I wanted to scream.
"Myc?"
Sherlock had walked over and placed his hand on my forearm. My anger dissolved, making way for sadness. The last time he had called me Myc… I could not even remember. I could not have been more than fourteen.
Myc, come play with me!
Myc! Look what I found!
Myc? What's a Freak?
A Freak. To think that my wonderful brother's legacy might be reduced to one word, Freak, was more than I could bear. But he had made his choice. I could not interfere.
I stood up and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. Tears streamed freely down my face. I could only choke out a few words:
"I am so proud of you, brother."