Disclaimer: A Single Man belongs to Christopher Isherwood and Tom Ford. Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
The body in front of him is emotionless, and all too familiar. The rain is unforgiving as it runs down his face, his clothing is drenched and yet, he cannot feel a thing. His legs manage to drag him closer to the scene in front of him. The lifeless figure lying in front of him stares blankly in a pool of blood. It's not a gruesome scene; the rain seems to wash it all away. This world ethereal, carrying an impossible silence with it. The man settles down beside the motionless body beside him. He brushes off the blood stain at the figure's temple and leans closer. There is no response, he doesn't expect one.
Eyes are glazed over and face is drained. He glances at the body's clothes, remembering the exact texture and warmth of them without even a touch.
It's not the first time he has visited this place. He has learned by now the figure in front of him is an imposter, a shell of something he used to hold dear. But he cannot help taking a moment to appreciate every little detail. His lips momentarily graze the other being's as if it were a compliment. There is almost beauty in this image his mind has conjured. Something you may always see and touch, but never truly have-
Mycroft gasped as he opened his eyes. His heart sank from the familiar falling sensation after waking up from a nightmare. The air is cool and the only sound in the room is the clock ticking and the heavy intake of breath. Staring at the ceiling, he tries to sort himself.
It happened again.
He glances at his side, and sighs at the morning sun peeking through the windows. The space beside him is empty, but he is accustomed to it by now. He touches lightly at his lips in remembrance of his dream, and feels nothing.
He sits up obediently and levers himself out of bed. The sickening feel of gravity is an all too painful reminder than he is still alive. He goes along with his daily routine; he washes, shaves, and brushes his hair before picking out his clothes and donning the role he's supposed to play.
The clothing is more constricting than he remembers and he feels as if he can't breathe. He sees that figure at the corner of his eye, but he won't turn because he knows there's only disappointment there waiting.
The man in the mirror is not quite him. He has aged and his face looks worn, blank. The day does not bring promise, but there's only so much you can expect being the British Government. He adjusts his tie and flattens out his dress shirt before giving himself one last glance.
"Get through the goddamn day."
The hum of his mobile catches his attention as he wanders into the living room. The flat is small, travelling as much as he does, there's no reason why he should torture himself with the fact of empty rooms gathering dust.
The size helps with the sense of loneliness he suffers from every so often, but one can never forget the cramped feeling of two people meeting at a threshold, short laughs exchanged among two men, and the affectionate gestures that followed them. There was always the accidental brush of hands as they both crowded by the stove preparing dinner and the small shoves in front of the bathroom mirror as they brushed their teeth and readied themselves for the day.
The humming of his phone increased and Mycroft reached unconsciously to answer it.
"Speaking." Mycroft picked up the phone. He just had begun to wonder when Greg would return... He smiled softly knowing how he could get the detective inspector home with a simple call, but Lestrade had expressed how he didn't like it when the older man played with the traffic lights. 'If we're together, we need to respect each other's boundaries. That means no controlling when I come home.' Greg started. 'I like knowing I'm not being followed around throughout the day...'
"Mycroft." John's voice rang on the other line and Mycroft tried to contain his surprise. He was rarely on the receiving end when trying to speak with his brother's flatmate.
"Ah, yes. Dr. Watson, what can I do for you? Sherlock isn't causing too much trouble is he?" Mycroft grinned and leaned back into his armchair. There was a strange silence before the doctor continued.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft." John's voice was suddenly pained. As if he was about to say something else but the three words were all he could manage.
"Pardon?"
"There-There's been an accident." The other man continued. Mycroft furrowed his brow in confusion. "There was a chase. Lestrade was trying to track down the criminal. Sherlock and I were right behind. It was raining, the car skidded off the road- we couldn't help him."
Mycroft sat motionless as the doctor explained. His breathing was strangely even as if John was saying an incredibly poor joke.
Greg was dead.
"Sherlock carried on ahead to catch the criminal. Believe me when I say I tried the best I could to help him-"
"I do not doubt your medical capabilities, Dr. Watson." Mycroft replied, the words spilling past his lips as he continued to try and register what he just heard. "Will there be...a service?"
Another pause.
"Some of his relatives came to see him." John seems more hesitant to speak than ever. "They thought it was best that you did not know, but I thought you deserved to know. They said the service should be family-only, but it's planned for later this week."
"Thank you, John." Mycroft had heard enough. His hands shook as he gripped his mobile while they said their goodbyes. His phone slipped from his fingers as the call ended and he sat in silence. His body was shaking and wasn't quite sure what to do.
' Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.' The word echoed in his mind. 'I did not see it. Why didn't I see it? I could have saved him. I could have- I could have.' His thoughts raced as his breathing heightened. 'I should have been watching. I could have stopped this. Greg. Greg. Greg...' He could feel tears beginning to run down his face, the aching at his chest growing until his breathing became choked sobs.
He crumbled onto the floor when he tried to stand up and get himself something to calm his nerves. The lamp on his stand fell and shattered onto the floor, the room suddenly grew dark. Outside, the rain had turned into a heavy shower which seemed to drown out his cries.
"Hello?" Mycroft said.
"Morning, sir. I just wanted to remind you that you have an appointment this afternoon at two with the Ministry of Defence." Anthea explained in her usual curt manner.
"Thank you." The man replied.
"No problem, sir." And the call ended. Mycroft pocketed his mobile after taking a moment to flip through his messages. It was a repetitive motion just like every other throughout the day. Everyday. He had learned to pass through daily events in a haze, no longer registering the world around him.
It was then he decided today would be different.