The Right Night.
Summary: The man he loved is dead. The man who killed him will be equally dead. Tonight is the night Sherlock Holmes will murder his only brother.
Author note: Basically, John dies, Sherlock breaks into the Holmes estate to get his revenge on Mycroft for the death of John Watson. First fanfiction so I have very large doubts about my writing and tensing and EVERYTHING. Wrote this as drabble that turned into more in hopes that someone somewhere might actually read it and give me some tips of my writing?
Enjoy what came out though. Also, it's unbetad. All mistakes and general terrible-ness is my own. If you're interested in betaing, let me know!
Chapter One
All was quiet. Not a sound to be heard, no footsteps, no snores from lazy security personnel sleeping nearby. Nothing. Just as planned. No, he corrected himself. Don't let a false sense of security trick you.
Plans can fall through, he wasn't about to have a lesson in learning from his mistakes tonight, not tonight with everything being so crucial. One wrong move, one cocky move, and all he'd been working for could be gone. He'd move silently, stay in the shadows, constantly be on the lookout.
In the night, all light extinguished, not even the light of the moon tonight, he couldn't be seen. He'd never been one for astronomy but he'd made sure there was no moon tonight, no moon equalled less light. It equalled more dark and darkness was his friend. His only friend after what they'd done to him and here he was tonight; finally getting his revenge. Correcting the mistake his brother made. The mistake of harming someone he loved.
He moved through the grounds carefully. Stopping and listening for any distant or faint sounds of life but luck was on his side. He was wrong, darkness wasn't his only friend. Tonight he had more comrades than he'd ever had before. It proved his point. Tonight was his night. Tonight was the right night. Tonight was the night he killed his older brother.
But it was wrong. Normally his comrade ran at his side, panting with excitement. He was alone. For the first time in so long and for the first time he cared. Now wasn't the time for thinking about him. It would only distract him from his mission.
It hadn't been easy breaking into the Holmes estate where his older brother still lived, even at his age. And his weight, Sherlock mentally added with contempt. He'd planned for all scenarios in his head. If he were caught, why he just needed his big brother. If he wasn't, why he hadn't been near the estate in years. How could he possibly be connected to the bloody and violent demise of Mycroft Holmes? And, oh, how he missed his brother and would wreak havoc on who did such a monstrous deed, etcetera, etcetera.
Sherlock found his way comfortably – and, more importantly, unnoticed – to his old bedroom window. In an estate this size, it was a wonder he managed to sneak out easily in his youth. But no, it wasn't a wonder, that's something John would have marvelled at. How cunning Sherlock was even then. John.
Sherlock needed to think about him. His name at least. Every thought of his name cemented his plans into his mind more and more. Tonight, Mycroft would be held responsible. First, he would lose the fingers that typed the command. Second, the mouth that gave the order. Third, the eyes that dared to look upon someone such as John. And twenty-seventh, the heart, the heart of the man that destroyed Sherlock's.
He was in the house now. He'd climbed effortlessly through his childhood bedroom window and down the hallway that lead the way to his older brothers room. No cameras, no bugging devices. How wonderful that Mummy never liked such things in her house. And how wonderfully pathetic that Mycroft slept in his childhood bedroom.
Sherlock paused at the door, this was it. Blood and agony danced before his eyes. A mere door opening between him and his retribution for his John. He paused. No mistakes. Listen, hear, know what you must. No mistakes. Inside, the snores of his older brother were very apparent. If the household could sleep through Mycroft's sinus problems, they could sleep through his death.
He braced himself, prepared for what was to come and opened the door.
No. Wrong. Stupid. Mistake. Darkness was his friend. Illumination against him, against John, and the bedroom light switched on. Revealing the tall, dark killer in the unnatural light come to commit deeds of what many would call an unspeakable nature against a man who sat in a chair, wide-awake. Mycroft wasn't asleep, not even in his bed. Stupid. Think.
"Come in, Sherlock," Mycroft met his eyes.
It wasn't an invitation and they both knew it. The door slamming behind Sherlock only stated the obvious.
"I wish I could ask you to have a seat but I have the only one in the room." Mycroft smiled. "I could have another brought in for you but I'm afraid it would ruin the furniture composition of the room, you understand."
"Of course," stated Sherlock evenly, as if he hadn't come here to do what they both knew he had.
"Dreadful business, what happened to your flatmate, most unfortunate. I was sorry to hear about John."
"Don't say his name. Not you."
Mycroft continued, ignoring the interruption. "I was more sorry, however, to hear that you think I responsible."
"I don't think you responsible at all." Mycroft's mouth formed a little oh? as Sherlock spoke. "I don't think, I know you are responsible."
"And you never get your facts wrong?"
Sherlock moved a few short steps forward to tower over his brother sitting comfortably in his chair, eyes dangerous and full of ice, steel and murder. "Don't be stupid, Mycroft. I've already told you, it, alike your suit choices, doesn't flatter you. I know of the order you gave. I know of your commands. I even know whom you had carry it out."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly, "Yes, and I know of how you've already done to my subordinate what you intend to do to me. Don't worry, I hid his file away, of course. It can't be traced back to you."
"Thank you," Sherlock sneered.
"No trouble, dear brother."
The door was locked, Sherlock knew full well. Stupid. How hadn't he noticed Mycroft's personnel in the house? How hadn't he noticed the notable absence of Mummy? Mistake. Stupid. It was guarded and not it was locked. He wouldn't be able to get out of here. Neither would Mycroft if Sherlock had a say in it. Which he would ensure he did.
"Oh, yes," Mycroft read his train of thought, "you're quite right. You won't be able to get out of here if I don't allow it."
"Well, it seems we have something in common," Sherlock said, reaching his hand inside the pocket of his long coat.
"Oh, always the flare for the dramatic. You won't be needing that knife. Particularly that knife."
Sherlock's hand gripped the handle.
"Perhaps I could tell you the story of how that knife came to be entrenched in your lovers' chest before you take some form of poetic justice out on me?"