FAMOUS DETECTIVE SHERLOCK HOLMES TO HANG
One week ago, that headline was on the front page. Mycroft hadn't been surprised. Perhaps he should have been, but he wasn't. He'd known of his brother's crimes, known of them a long time ago. Although he tried, Holmes had not been as subtle as he liked to believe.
Mycroft had first realized when Sherlock and the doctor had come to see him for a case. His little brother had truly been lost in the subject. His composure had been completely calm, of course, save for the desperate look in his eyes. It was not very often that Sherlock Holmes could think of no plausible theory. At first, Mycroft had had refused. It would've been good for his little brother, in his own opinion, to have to push himself so hard. He might have stayed that way, had he not heard Sherlock's voice crack - just slightly, hardly noticeable - as he asked one final time, nearly begging.
He'd seen Watson's eyes widen, and one hand instinctively reached out to his friend. It was only one small brush of fingers against Holmes' shoulder. It would have meant nothing, if it were not for Sherlock's reaction. Mycroft watched with some amazement as his little brother's shoulders relaxed, and he seemed to regain his composure in that one instant. One touch from his doctor, and he was calm.
That was when Mycroft knew.
Many nights he had fretted over this discovery. It was not for several months that he confronted Sherlock about it. It did not go as well as he had hoped. Mycroft could count on one hand the number of times they have had such heated arguments. It was not that he necessarily disapproved of the fact that Watson was a man - although not even he could completely let go of the ideals society pushed on - but he knew what the consequence would be if his little brother was caught. He didn't want that. For nearly an hour they argued, growing more and more heated. Finally, he'd stood up from his seat and yelled, his words scathing, whirled up in emotions he'd thought himself above. The hurt look on his brother's face startled him, and suddenly Watson - whom Holmes had mandated stay in his room and not get involved - was between them. He glared at Mycroft with a fury he had never expected to see from the good doctor, standing protectively over the great detective. Mycroft was ordered out.
They did not speak again for nearly three weeks. Mycroft stopped by 221B Baker Street, and humbled himself. He'd spent much time considering the situation, and he knew. He knew that, no matter what he said, Holmes would not stop. He couldn't. He loved the doctor, and Watson loved him. So, he accepted it. He was not willing to lose his brother over this. In the back of his mind, though, he'd always worried. He'd always been afraid of that 'what if'.
With good reason, apparently.
He hadn't slept a wink after seeing that paper. He'd read and reread the article several times. Arrested for sodomy, along with his chronicler Dr. John Watson. Crimes against the church, carnal sin, all of that drabble he couldn't bring himself to care about. Watson and Holmes were sent to separate prisons to await their days of hanging. Separate because after being discovered, the people never would've been satisfied, locking them up together in their sins.
Three days ago, a new paper had arrived.
SHERLOCK HOLMES ESCAPES FROM PRISON
Mycroft wasn't surprised, not in the least. Sherlock had always been too quick for the police, in mind and body. He's not surprised when Scotland Yard comes knocking on his door, as most criminals were foolish enough to hide in places familiar to them. But Holmes is that foolish. Three hours after the police finally gave up idea that Holmes would come there, Mycroft heard a clatter upstairs. Going to investigate, he sees Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, pulling books and trinkets from shelves and throwing them to the ground like a tantruming child.
What does surprise him, is that when his little brother turns to face him, it's not anger or frustration on his face. It's not the cool, collected mask he wore when trying to hide whatever raged inside of him. It was open and raw, pain and anguish. He's pale as death, his gray eyes haunted.
"Sherlock..." Mycroft asks carefully.
One wavering second, and then he breaks. Mycroft rushes to the detective's side, kneeling as he crumbles to his knees. He draws him close, holding him like he hasn't since Sherlock was only a child. He does not know how else to react, as he has not seen such a reaction from him since that age. Sherlock grasps at his clothing, long fingers curling into his tie and waistcoat, clinging to him.
He talks, his voice shuddering and breaking every few seconds. Mycroft can only understand the occasional words, and even some of those are unclear. The words he hears most, though, are 'I love you', and he knows the words are not meant for him. They stay like that for hours. At some point, Mycroft rests back against the wall, and Sherlock continues to cling to him, gratefully accepting the strength that only an older brother could offer. It's well past midnight when Holmes has finally calmed down enough to speak to him.
"I saw him." He doesn't have to explain who 'him' is. Mycroft has read the paper, and knows that today was the day of John Watson's hanging. Suddenly, he understands, but he lets Sherlock continue anyway, knowing he needs to release it somehow. "I... I saw him, brother. And he saw me, and he smiled. He smiled, Mycroft, he was happy." His voice cracks again and he shakes his head, trying to grasp some understanding of his own words. "And... and they asked him if he had any last words..."
He begins to shake, and Mycroft senses another fit coming on. He pulls his little brother closer, waiting patiently as tears fall into his clothing. "What were his last words, Sherlock?" he presses softly.
"I love you... "
Mycroft's heart aches for him. His greif takes over again. The elder of the two lifts Sherlock into his arms and carries him to a bed, lying him down, and tucking him in like their parents used to. Sherlock clutches at a pillow, pulling it close to his chest desperately, as if hoping that, by some miracle, it would turn into his Watson. He doesn't sleep that night, and Mycroft stays up with him.
The next morning, Scotland yard comes again. Mycroft is curt, reminding them that they had already gone through this process. He's ready to defend his brother, but before he can, Sherlock walks down the stairs, holding himself with his usual calm demeanor. Mycroft knows better than to believe it, but he also doesn't stop him because he knows. For Sherlock Holmes, life has no more meaning.
He is lost without his Boswell.