No Flowers

"No flowers…my request."

Sherlock could feel every molecule in the gun he had pointed at his brother. He could feel the warm metal where his hand gripped it. He felt the weight, he'd already measured it out in his mind. He knew the single bullet in this gun was meant to pierce the heart of the British Government.

Even as Moriarty taunted them from beyond the grave, Mycroft had his eyes on Sherlock, keeping a stiff upper lip and a calm serenity that many did not have when facing their immediate death. The acceptance of a guilty man. Sherlock's big brother awaited his fate, knowing that the last thing he would see would be the face of the person he loved most. Sherlock was always meant to be the death of him.

Sherlock's finger squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed in the small stone walled room.

Mycroft Holmes fell. The bullet pushed through flesh, bone, and muscle. Into the heart that he had claimed not to have. Blood spattered over his white shirt and light blue tie, already making a deep stain when his body crumpled to the floor. His blue eyes were dilated, fixed open in the glassy stare of death. Sherlock's aim had been perfect. The bullet instantly stopped Mycroft's heart.

Everything spun in slow motion, every second lasted an eternity. Sherlock could not even see John's pained and broken expression through his tunnel vision. Sherlock did not hear Eurus' voice over the video chat. Long strides closed the distance between him and his brother. Sherlock crumpled to the floor and pulled Mycroft into his arms. He draped him over his lap and held his body close to his chest. Warm and limp as it was, it wouldn't be for long. The Ice Man would cool and freeze in death.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. There were no tears. Not yet. Just hollowness. Sherlock gently closed Mycroft's eyes.

They'd never open again…

Sherlock woke up with a start, sweaty and shaking, tangled in his sheets of his own bed in his newly restored flat. He fought with them, struggling to get out. He succeeded eventually. Pulling himself out of bed, he slipped out into the kitchen. Nightmares haunted him every so often, despite the time and distance, reminding him of his own mortality and what had been lost. He was still, and would always be, human.

Like a little boy who'd woken up in the middle of the night, Sherlock needed to not be alone. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't do this time, he had to go out. He didn't bother changing out of his t-shirt and sweats. He slipped into a pair of shoes, pulled his Belstaff over his shoulders, snagged a set of keys from a drawer, and made for the door.

He fiddled with the keys the entire cab ride across town. There were four different individual keys, and a single keychain featuring a souvenir from a holiday decades past. Something their parents had given to his brother and he, in turn, had stolen.

Those keys were to his brother's place. He knew Mycroft was alive, what had happened in his nightmare had not been the truth. He knew he'd beaten Eurus at that game they'd been forced to live through only months previous. But he was still human. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mycroft was too, is only shown through the hell they'd been put through together. The cold heart was anything but.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and walked the drive up to Mycroft's home. Disabling his security was simple enough, though he set it back up once he was through. He let himself into the house.

He moved through the darkness with the grace of a predator. He knew the house by heart. One, because he'd been there a fair amount of times over the years Mycroft had lived there. And two, because Mycroft's OCD was specifically predictable and nothing ever changed about where things were placed. Sherlock ran his fingers over the wood banister, breathing in the specific smells he could pick out. The faint whiff of cigarette let him know Mycroft had been indulging a bit more than usual as of late.

All was silent and dark in the house. Mycroft had to have been sleeping.

Except Sherlock climbed the last of the stairs and found himself face to face with a thin blade. Standing on the other end of it was a slightly disheveled Mycroft Holmes in his pajamas and dressing gown, holding the secret sword from his umbrella. Ready to skewer the intruder.

"I'm not here to torture you this time," Sherlock said, carefully putting a finger on the blade to push it away. "You can put this down."

Mycroft relaxed, if only just. He lowered the blade and let his shoulders sag. "You could have called."

"I prefer to text, and I thought you'd be sleeping at this hour."

Mycroft scoffed lightly. "Shouldn't you be? You haven't had a case and you've no reason to break into my house. Unless you're lying about coming to torture me, ruining my film collection, reorganizing my library, or whatever you'd planned on this time."

"Nothing of the kind," Sherlock said, now less on the defensive and more the little brother who'd had a bad dream.

Mycroft fidgeted with the handle of the umbrella sword. Silence stretched the seconds until he worked it out. "Pajamas, late hour, lack of care getting ready to leave your dingy little flat….you had a nightmare."

"You did too," Sherlock deduced. "I was quiet enough and there was no other way you would have been awake, considering how much work you've put yourself through during the day."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Guilty as charged, I suppose, as the saying goes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not at all. Do you?"

"No."

Mycroft waited a moment for the next, more ideal, suggestion. "Cigarette?"

"Yes, please."

A couple minutes later they were standing near the window in Mycroft's otherwise comfortable sitting room. Close, but not touching. Mycroft held the lighter while Sherlock lit his cigarette, and then lit his own. They waited in silence several long minutes, taking each cigarette to their liking. The waning moon shadowed the gardens around the house in a ghostly white light.

Sherlock was the first to speak, echoing words from a Christmas long gone. "Your loss would have broken my heart."

Mycroft didn't spit out smoke or demand an answer to why. He just accepted it with a slight sag of his shoulders and a deep intake of breath. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. The last thing I wanted was to cause you pain. I'd…always striven to keep you safe. To always be there for you." He huffed a mirthless laugh. "It never seemed to work out as well as I'd planned."

"You did your best," Sherlock said softly.

Mycroft didn't smile, but he did shift closer to his brother. "I'll do better."

"Just so long as one or both of us doesn't die in the process, I think we'll be fine."

"I'll see to it."

Sherlock glanced over at him. The dim light cast Mycroft's features into shadow. It made him look older, but Sherlock could nearly see the big brother he knew as a child. The one he'd curled up with after a nightmare. The one he'd tackled into the sand on a summer holiday. The one he'd stolen food from and pointed little toy swords at. Without warning, he stuck his cigarette butt into the ashtray and yanked Mycroft over in a fierce hug. He flexed his fingers into the dark fabric of Mycroft's silk dressing gown and tucked his head down to breathe deeply. He needed to confirm Mycroft was alive, that he wasn't just a product of a mind that could make up new memories and tell different stories. Sherlock had already lost too much.

Mycroft responded similarly, after only a moment's surprise. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him close. They chased the fog of the nightmares away together. His voice was low and soft when he spoke, gentle in ways he rarely allowed himself. "I'll always be there for you, Sherlock. I mean that. Always."

"I know." Sherlock's voice was also soft, safe in their little bubble of familial sentiment. Protected in his brother's arms. "I know, brother mine."