I wrote an angsty as fuck Sherlock/Torchwood/James Bond crossover. Are you all proud?
-Snake
All Good Things Come To An End
He looked down to the book in his hand, a single tear streaming down his cheek. In the book was a picture, a picture of a perfect family, one that ended in tragedy, as everything perfect normally does.
Two parents, a blonde and a brunet, smiling at the camera. A group of brothers, all brunets, in a line from youngest to oldest. All with big grins on their faces.
Was that the last time we had all smiled? he thought to himself. Was that the last time we were all happy?
A list of names could be found on the back, as the man pulled the picture out of its page.
In age order:
Siger Olivier Laurent Holmes
Lilian Felicia Dolores Holmes (nee Encantador)
Quentin Ladaric Theodore Holmes
Ianto Sebastian Leander Holmes
William Sherlock Scott Holmes
Mycroft Tarquin Tobias Holmes
Sherringford Siger Reginald Holmes
Taken: July 22nd, 1994, by Victor Trevor
He cringed. How many of those people were even alive right now? More tears fell in rivers from his eyes as he picked up a pen from on his bedside table and put next to the first and second names.
-Died: July 23rd, 1994, of a gun wound.
-Died on the same day, thrown against a wall.
Those were the deaths that had caused everything, the reasons they were like they were. He and the others had been out with friends- none of them knew what happened. Until they got home.
He almost stopped-Why was he even doing this?- but he didn't.
-Went missing in 2002 (still alive?)
He scoffed. Yeah, right. He crossed the last bit out. And continued.
-Died: 2009, specific date unknown, unknown cause of death.
He had left years before. Nobody knew what had happened. They wouldn't tell them anyway.
-?
Was he even alive right now? He wasn't sure. Not anymore.
-Died: January 16th, 2015, MI6 bombing.
The most recent. But not the worst. The one that hurt the most at that moment; not the worst.
-Died: 31st October 1994, grief (cocaine overdose)
He had regretted doing a lot of things in his life. Introducing his brother to cocaine was high on that list.
The name that came after was one he hoped to never see or hear ever again. He almost smiled- he was always taking pictures. Loving and losing your family was one thing; loving and losing your better half was another, horrifying, thing.
-Went missing from 1995-1996, body found on the 3rd April 1996, died of stab wounds and a Glasgow smile.
After everything, he was the one to make him snap. He left, he went, disappeared off the face of the earth, into the throngs of addiction. With the two members of his family left working or going to school, what was he to do, but lose himself, with no one to hold him back? With no anchor? Without a thing in the world?
It took years for him to come to his senses. Years that shouldn't have been used up. Of course, he had figured out he had to stop (it was common sense) but doing it was the hardest. He almost slipped again when his little brother left-but Mycroft and Lestrade helped. Then John came along and everything was good.
As always, good things always come to an end, he thought, tears falling to the sheets on the bed. He picked up the box next to him, opening it up, unscared of what he was going to do. Really what did he have left? John gone, Mycroft gone, EVERYONE! He was the only one left!
Sobbing uncontrollably, he pulled out the syringe and rolled up his shirt sleeve, trying not to stare at the scars on his arm.
He put it up against his arm, scrunching his eyes shut and pushed it down.
Everything went black.