Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything.
Summary: John turns up at Mycroft's workplace in a fit of grief and rage. Is Mycroft as emotionless as he makes out? This is a one-shot. In this post-Reichenbach one-shot Mycroft is unaware that Sherlock faked his death – he truly believes his brother is dead.
Warning: One use of bad language.
Extra: MP stands for Member of Parliament.
Mycroft sat in a meeting with the highest standing parliament members at the present moment. A large room with men and women in suits on and sitting in large chairs. His mind kept floating back to his brother, who had passed away a few days ago. They all knew this had happened, but Mycroft was British, he carried on, no matter how much it hurt to. Nobody mentioned it, or offered their condolences; Sherlock was a fraud, a shame upon Mycroft in their eyes.
There was noise outside and the room quietened and stilled. Everyone stiffened in their seats.
The door burst open and John Watson, with a look of pure anger and pain strode in, followed by some guards who looked ready to fight.
"Who are you and who let you in?" A pompous MP asked sternly.
"I'm Captain John Watson. Or Doctor, if you prefer, if it makes you feel safer. I served in the army for this country, so you will let me speak." John said, using a firm tone.
Everyone fell silent and John's eyes fixed on Mycroft.
"How can you live with yourself?" John asked quietly after a moment.
Mycroft looked up and into John's grieving eyes.
"John-"John cut Mycroft off sharply.
"He is your… w-was your brother." John said almost brokenly.
Mycroft remained silent.
John walked to Mycroft, pulled him by the lapels of his blazer to stand and punched him in the face.
Some of the people started to rise, and the guards walked forward but Mycroft held up a hand and said "No… no…" and wiped the spot of blood off of his cheek, he stood back up to his full height and looked down at John.
"How can you carry on? He's your little brother, and I-I know that you cared about him. But here you are, three days later, working, like nothing has changed. Your little brother is dead, because of your selfish actions. You are not all to blame, but you played your part. You told Moriarty his life story-"An MP stood up and spoke up.
"Doctor Watson, There is no Moriarty. Sherlock Holmes made him up."
"Shut up! He wasn't a fraud. Moriarty was real. He strapped a bomb to me. He plays games like these. I don't know what happened on that rooftop, what made Sherlock jump, but Moriarty played his part, as did you, Mycroft." John said steadily.
"John, I said I was sorry." Mycroft said.
"It isn't enough. Nothing will ever be enough anymore. Nothing can right this wrong. Sherlock is my best friend. He always will be. I love him. Do you know how that feels, Mycroft? Do you? I can't see how you do, because, you see, love fucking hurts. It really hurts. I feel like I want to die. I want to follow him, because I have nothing left here." John said, his voice shaking.
"I… I understand, John." Mycroft said.
"You can never understand. I am so alone now. Sherlock took me into his world, a world full of risk and excitement and beauty, and he was there for me. And then I had to watch him jump off of a building. My best friend. I watched him die." John whispered the last four words.
"He… He cried." John said, looking at the ground.
"What?" Mycroft asked.
"He cried. He called me. And he cried. You Holmes' aren't so emotionless." John said with a hint of fondness.
"John, I think you need to go home." Mycroft advised.
"He was my home. He… he told me one evening… he was chatting on a mile a minute, and he told me how when you were children he used to have nightmares. Horrific nightmares and they felt so real to him. And he would never go to your parents' room, they didn't really care. So he'd go to you. And you never turned him away. You'd always comfort him. You were there when he needed you. Where were you when he really needed you, Mycroft? You had cameras and people trailing our every move. Yet you could do nothing to prevent his death." John asked.
"I couldn't have stopped him." Mycroft said.
"You could have tried!" John shouted and he started hitting Mycroft all over, anywhere he could touch him.
Mycroft grabbed the soldier's hands and stared him straight in the eyes "I feel. I feel the pain, and the loss. And it hurts, good Doctor, but what else can I do? Should I wait around for him? I can't because he is never coming back! Blaming me won't bring him back. Believing in him won't bring him back, John! Believe me, I do both too. He's gone. And I… I used to hold him. He used to cry, telling me 'Mycroft, the monsters, don't let them take me away' and I promised him I'd never let anything hurt him. I used to hold him! And I can't anymore." Mycroft's voice was shaking.
John's chin trembled and the corners of his lips lowered.
"My-Mycroft I can't… I don't want to… go on anymore." John choked out and the tears finally fell.
Mycroft sighed shakily and pulled John into a hug.
John gripped onto Mycroft and cried.
"John… my brother would never forgive me if I let you give up." Mycroft spoke honestly.
"I won't… I won't give up. I'm just… broken." John said and pulled away.
"Would you like us to escort him out, sir?" A guard asked.
"No. I will accompany him out." Mycroft said.
"I'm sorry for the disturbance I have caused." Mycroft added to the room of people.
"It was him, not you." A woman said.
"With full respect, madam, the reason Doctor Watson came here was because of me." Mycroft said bluntly, put a hand on John's back and guided him to walk.
"I keep seeing him, Mycroft." John mumbled as they walked towards the door.
"You're not well, John. You need help." Mycroft pressed.
"I am beyond help. Just… take me to Baker Street." John requested with a sigh.
"As you wish." Mycroft said after a moment.
Author's note: Please review, Thank you.