Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its beautiful characters; I do not own it so don't sue me! This is my first fan-fiction, so don't be rude, please. And thank you Loki's Cheesecake for getting me addicted to the beautiful British drug that is Benedict Cumberbatch; I don't own him either. OneCutePug is the one to thank for getting me addicted to Sherlock, too!
Crying Skies
"Sherlock," Mycroft yelled into the yard. Sherlock was wanted by his father and as reluctant as Mycroft was to adhere, he went to fetch the young boy. Among the stony backyard he could see the small form leaning under a small willow. "Sher…." He sighed; the boy was bent over fashioning a sword from one of the trees' branches.
"Croft... Look at my sword, I'd be the toughest pirate! I would Croft, don't you think so?" He turned and presented it with a flourish, nearly toppling over under its weight.
"I don't think a lot of pirates would have red eyes lock…" The little boy had red tear trails running down his face. "Look Croft," the child yelled. He was just out of the willow's shelter with his arms thrown wide into the air. The sword was discarded on the ground, long lost now that he'd found the sky's treasure. "The sky, Croft… I'm making it feel better. It's crying... crying like me Croft…"
It was dark outside, the sky open and bellowing. He was standing next to the casket. His casket. There were willow trees bustling around. He could feel the pain entering his veins, what a case this would be. People would dream of seeing such a myriad of emotions on his normally stark face. His brother, and his lover, buried right beneath him. He could feel the sun staring down at him. "Stop it! Stop It!" He yelled. Moments later, he was crashing through the groundskeeper's quarters, grabbing an axe to weigh down his insanity. He swung the axe into the willows, making his own casket, driven by an unseen force. "Everyone I ever loved... is gone,'' he was gasping between breaths, struggling to read the world its cruel conviction. He finally ended, slouched across a broken trunk, fearing the rising sun was ready to bare his insanity.
It was moments later, years, I suppose, when I could look back at that moment and not wish to smash every halfwit in London's face into the ground. My brother was taken, and my lover, John, were lost forever. I had nothing... nothing at all. But now it's all back, lovers, partners, and villains all joined together in their sin, or lack thereof. But I still revisit that moment, peer down at my morale and how I allowed humanity to commit such errors with my body. I could now reflect across this horror filled looking glass.
After all, what else does a dead man do?