Hello, everyone! My good friend Loki's Cheesecake and I wanted to write a Sherlock fan-fiction! Now, we're both new to this, so we'd prefer if you kept any reviews to just a nice comment or constructive criticism, and no flames! This is our first go at co-authoring a story, so we'll have to see how it goes!

Now, this is also a first go at an angsty/tragedy story, so any tips for that would be nice. So, since it's angsty and tragic, there is character death. Let me repeat that: WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH(S). There will probably also be language, and perhaps detailed descriptions. So just a warning, here.

Hope you enjoy, leave a review! Have a good Thanksgiving!

-OneCutePug & Loki's Cheesecake


With his eyes closed, he could have been back in Afghanistan.

The warm, wet blood soaking into his jumper, the grip of a clenched hand in his own, the heavy weight of someone lying in his arms.

The worst one was the hollow rasping from the fallen man, trying to coax air into his lungs. That sound never changed, and it still haunts him in his dreams.

The grip on his hand tightens slightly, and Doctor John Hamish Watson looks down into the dying man's eyes.

Funny, he'd never really noticed that they were brown. Usually he'd been focused on how cold and devoid of emotion they were. They were ice, always empty, hollow.

They aren't cold anymore. His eyes, wide with terror and panic, are already beginning to glaze over.

John knows it won't be long now.

Mycroft coughs, and John can feel more of his blood trickle down onto his legs. He presses down harder on the wound with his other hand and tries not to cringe at the older man's cry of pain.

"Shhhh… Shhhh… Don't worry, Mycroft," John soothes, forcing his voice to hide all traces of panic he feels raging inside. He squeezes his hand again. "Everything is going to be okay…"

The elder Holmes' breath hitches, and a sudden realization shines in his eyes. I'm not going to survive this, am I, Doctor Watson? They scream, but John can't look away. The look of utter defeat on the once proud man's face would forever haunt the doctor.

By now, Mycroft's brown eyes are almost completely glazed over, and his grip on John's hand is loosening.

"W-will y-you wa-atch over-r h-him fo-or me-e, Jo-John?"

John has to swallow the sudden hysteria forcing its way up his throat, threatening to choke him. "Don't talk like that, Mycroft!" John chides gently, blinking a few tears from his eyes. He rips off another piece off the bottom of his jumper to press down on the wound. He tosses the soaked piece away, and it lands next to the umbrella.

The handle has bloody fingerprints smeared all over.

Mycroft somehow manages to give John the signature Holmes' I don't believe you now give me what I want face and chokes out a "P-please, J-John?" He struggles to bat John's hand away from the bullet hole, but only succeeds in smearing more crimson on the back of the doctor's hand. "P-promise me-e..."

John takes a shaky breath, but removes his hand from Mycroft's chest. "Always, Mycroft. I promise I will always watch over Sherlock," and Mycroft smiles, one last time.

John is still holding his hand as Mycroft slips away. One final gasp for air and it's all over. The end of a life of a brilliant man.

John sits back on his heels and tries to wipe the hair out of his eyes; it's sticking to his forehead from cold sweat. Out of his peripheral vision, the umbrella catches his eye.

Mycroft's umbrella. The one he was always twirling around, or leaning on. John could only think of him using it once, and he gives a small shudder as he thinks of the memories that followed. Reaching out, he grabs it, and places it in one of its owner's hands.

With trembly, bloodstained fingers, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials up Lestrade. Two rings pass before the detective inspector picks up.

Hello? He asks wearily.

G-Greg?

John?

P-please, will you come? And will you bring Sherlock?


The ambulances come first. They rush into the warehouse and lift Mycroft's body up onto a stretcher, stretching a pristine white sheet over his still form. The police cars follow soon behind, and Anderson and Donovan stalk out. He sees when they glance at him, and then look around for the 'Freak,' but otherwise leave him alone. Their qualm isn't with him, anyway.

When the paramedics finally notice he's shaking uncontrollably, they give John, as what he and Sherlock have playfully called, a 'shock blanket.' They wrap it around his shoulders and leave him sitting alone on the stairs, while they bustle about. Most ignore him, but a few give him sad, pitying looks.

He notices they leave the bloodied umbrella in its place.

He is unaware of his surroundings until Lestrade and Sherlock arrive in an unmarked police car, Lestrade barking orders into his cell phone, and Sherlock looking slightly bored as always. He's still in his navy blue robe, and Lestrade continues to cast exasperated looks at the younger man.

As Sherlock steps out of the car, all Sherlock sees is John in the corner with a shock blanket around him and a body covered with a white sheet. John practically burrows into the blanket when Sherlock turns his gaze to him, and Sherlock mentally wonders what could have happened that his brave army doctor couldn't have handled.

John watches him with sad eyes as Sherlock continues to observe the area. His eyes fall onto the umbrella. His older brother's umbrella is surrounded by a pool of blood, and his eyes grow wide.

"Mycroft," he breathes.

John can barely stand to look at his flatmate. His eyes. John has never seen so much sadness and sorrow in them before. As quickly as the sadness enters, it leaves, and Sherlock's blank, cold expression returns. He strides over to the beloved umbrella.

FLASHBACK~

"Hello, Brother Dear."

"Hello, Mycroft. Happy birthday." Sherlock forces a smile onto his face and hands over a long, thin box to the elder.

A brief look of surprise flashes across Mycroft's face, and he gently takes off the lid. "An umbrella?"

The only reply Mycroft gets is silence.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft murmurs. "This is the first gift you've gotten me in years."

Sherlock 'hmms' at this, but says nothing more about it. "How's the diet?"

END OF FLASHBACK~

Sherlock bends over and picks it up. He glances at his brother. Cold and lifeless. John watches as Sherlock makes his way over to him. He could've sworn he saw a tear roll down his partner's face, but it could have been his own tears messing with his vision.

John wordlessly holds up the other end of the orange blanket, and Sherlock crawls in next to him. Sherlock registers the crimson stains splattered around, and then the dried blood peeling off his hands like old paint, and only one word is continuously echoing through his brain.

MYCROFT.


"John?" The doctor jerks awake when someone whispers in his ear. He lifts up his head from the shoulder which he had fallen asleep on. "John, wake up." He takes a deep breath and blinks to clear his vision. He looks up to see Lestrade standing over him, looking uncomfortable with a pad of paper and pen, and Sherlock to his right, two inches away from his own face. Neither one of them make any notion to move.

"John, you're going to have to be awake for this." Sherlock forces the fakest smile on John's ever seen on his face (and that's saying something) and nods his head towards Lestrade. His voice is even more emotionless than normal, and so are his eyes.

"John?" He tears his gaze back to Greg, who is beginning to look even more apologetic and uncomfortable than ever. Lestrade exchanges another silent look with Sherlock and sighs. "I need to know what happened tonight. And why I have Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, lying dead in the morgue with a bullet wound in his chest." John can feel Sherlock tense up slightly underneath the shock blanket.

John sighs, feeling a kind of heaviness in his gut as he realizes that it wasn't a dream, and that everything that had just happened was REAL.

He sighs. "It all started when I was walking home from the grocery store,"

FLASHBACK~

"Have a good day, sir!" The smiling brunette gave John a cheery grin as he grabbed his bag with the two cartons of milk and pushed open the door and walked out. He held it open for a little old lady who practically praised him to high heavens and then began walking down the road. He shoved his hands into his pockets and the bag settled into the crease in his elbow.

The street was quiet, but illuminated with the lampposts and houselights he was walking past. A low hum buzzed behind him, and he turned around to see a sleek black car drive up. He groaned and shook his head in irritation when it pulled up beside him.

The window rolled down, and John was looking at Mycroft's assistant Anthea. Or whatever her real name was.

"Would you get into the car, please, Doctor Watson?" She didn't even glance up from her Blackberry, and he wondered what she was always doing on it. John sighed, but walked around to the other side of the car and got in.

They started driving, and John shifted around in discomfort. "Can Mycroft make it quick this time?" He asked, gaining Anthea's attention. "I bought milk." He held up the bag awkwardly, and she gave him a half smile and turned back to her phone. He sighed. "That's what I thought."

They drove in relative silence for another few minutes, with a few awkward attempts from John to begin a conversation with Anthea. Finally, he gave up, and Anthea smiled to herself. The car slowed, and slowed, until it pulled to a stop, and Anthea gestured towards the door.

"Have a good day, Doctor Watson." She said coolly, glancing up once more at the blonde before he shut the door and shoved his hands into his pockets.

That didn't work, he thought, and shook his head. He strolled into the building, an abandoned warehouse. Mycroft's got excellent taste in arranged meeting places, John thought sarcastically as he walked inside.

He looked around and called out a, "Hello?" A very familiar man stepped out of the shadows.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft greeted coolly, a familiar smirk etched upon his face.

"Mycroft," John nodded in return, and Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground in front of him. "So why did you kidnap me this time?" John asked somewhat sarcastically, and Mycroft's face screamed This is why I love cake more then I love people.

"I'm here to talk to you about Sherlock," he stated, with an expression on his face that screamed isn't it obvious? And John tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That's what the majority of our conversations revolve around, isn't it?" John suppressed a sigh.

"It seems like it is," John forced a smile on his face. "Now, what's wrong with Sherlock? Is there a danger night or something that's coming up?"

Mycroft chuckled and shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Doctor Watson. This is about what my brother was doing during his absence," and John's smile dropped.

"The three years?"
"Yes; it seems Sherlock was doing his best to take down the remaining webs in Jim Moriarty's empire, so to speak. And he succeeded with most of them…"

"Most of them?"

"You see, Moriarty had a right hand man: his sniper, Sebastian Moran, an ex-military man, much like yourself. However, when Moriarty killed himself, Sebastian swore revenge on Sherlock, and everyone he's close too, including yourself, the detective, Gregory Lestrade, your landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and the pathologist. Molly Hooper, was her name?"

John waited for another moment, but it seemed like he was finished with his lecture."A-And? You want all of us to go into protection?" Mycroft opened his mouth as to reply but john cut him off, and Mycroft had another irritated look on his face. "What about YOU? Wouldn't you have to go into hiding as well?"

Mycroft had a sad smile on his face. "I'm not important to Sherlock. I'm just-"

A gunshot rang out, and John whirled around, looking out the window towards the buildings across the street. A single bullet hole cut the center of the glass, and John whipped back around.

If it hadn't hit him then it had hit….

"Mycroft!" John shouted. The elder Holmes brother stood in the exact same position John had left him in, swaying slightly. His mouth was hanging open, and a single hole was dripping blood in his chest. "NO!"

END OF FLASHBACK~

Lestrade has a horrified expression on his face when John finishes telling the events, and Sherlock sits quiet next to him.

"I- I don't know what to say," Lestrade stammers out, folding the notepad back up and slipping it into his pocket. "Just… Just…" He releases a deep breath, and Sherlock stands up, slipping the shock blanket off of his shoulders.

"I think John's been through enough tonight, Detective Inspector," Sherlock says coldly, blue eyes flashing, facing the grey-haired man. Lestrade gives a small nod and turns towards John.

"Go home, John. Go and get some sleep." John nods, mumbles his thanks, and Lestrade turns and walks off towards Sergeant Donovan, who's talking to one of the paramedics. "Wait!" He calls out. "Did you see the tiger mark on the wall?" John shook his head, and Lestrade looks a tad disappointed. "Go home, John."

Sherlock mutters something to himself about looking into it later and then turns back towards his friend and holds out a long, slender hand. "Come on, John. We need to leave." John holds his own out, and tries not to wince at the thought of Sherlock touching his bloodstained hands, covered in the blood of his older brother. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, and he gently pulls John to the road, where he hails a cab immediately.

The ride back to 221B is silent, with Sherlock lost in his thoughts the entire time. John tries to wrap the shock blanket tighter around his shoulders, and Sherlock finally jerks out of his mind palace.

"Are you cold?" He asks, preparing to take off his coat and give it to John, and John shakes his head.

"Just a bit shaken up. I'll be fine." When Sherlock casts an unbelieving look at him, he protests, "I'm fine!"

The cab pulls up to a stop, and Sherlock actually pays and waits for John to shuffle out. He tries to help John up into their apartment, but John bats his attempts away. When they walk in, John immediately turns to go to his room, and Sherlock stops him.

"John, do you want some tea?" He asks, and John can feel the anger at being treated like a child bubbling up.

"I'm FINE!" He throws off the shock blanket and stomps to his room. "I just want to go to bed, Sherlock! Is that too much to ask?!" He rests a hand on the door handle and pauses, turning his head slightly to look at the genius. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He slips inside. "We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

That night, John lies awake. And in one brief moment of realization, he realizes that he didn't only lose a friend, Sherlock lost a big brother.

And that night, when he thinks he hears someone crying, he wants nothing more for it all to be a nightmare.


How did we do?! Good, we hope. Let us know in a review! Hope you enjoyed it so far, because we'll be back with more chapters at later dates! Also, Loki's Cheesecake says to review and that she's sorry for an pain or feels we caused! Have a good day!