Mycroft sat down gracefully.
"I have a case for you."
"Not interested." Sherlock replied, not missing a beat. He was sitting across from his older sibling, violin in hand, quietly plucking it's strings.
Mycroft clicked his tongue. "You're always so stubborn." he tapped his umbrella on the floor. "One of my staff, Charlie Cornwell, has gone missing. I would find him myself, but I'm just so busy."
Sherlock stood abruptly. "I said 'not interested', Mycroft." He threw his instrument onto the couch. "I just happen to be busy, too. But you knew that already, didn't you?" his voice dripped with contempt.
Sherlock slowly moved over to the window, dramatically swiping the curtains away from it.
Mycroft eyed him. "Well, I do know that already, don't I?" He smirked as his brothers jaw muscle flexed. That had gotten under his skin.
"Give up another diet, brother?" Sherlock retorted, still looking out at the street.
The glass of the window shattered.
. . .
Sherlock stumbled backwards a few steps then collapsed, his eyes wide and mouth open.
Mycroft leapt from his seat, umbrella thumping onto the rug. The sound of shouting could be heard from outside. Of course Mycroft didn't come without some…"friends".
The fact that a sniper was on the roof of another building forgotten, he dropped to the floor next to Sherlock. The older brothers eyes widened as deep crimson soaked through Sherlock's white shirt.
Mycroft pressed his bare hands on his little brothers chest. The door flew open and two men in suits holding guns rushed into the room.
"Call an ambulance!" Cried Mycroft, not caring that Sherlock could hear the desperation in his voice. He looked back down to his brother. "Sherlock. You'll be okay. My people are calling an-"
"I - heard." Sherlock gasped out. "Who-" he chocked on the words, his eyes rolling back as blood rose in his throat, flowing out of his mouth.
Mycroft was shaking. "It's okay. It's okay." he was trying to assure himself. "Come on, Sherlock, you'll upset mummy if you…" he couldn't say 'die.'
Sherlock turned his head sideways, coughing and spitting. "Well, you - know it was al- always me who - upset - her." he let out a weak chuckle.
Mycroft's stomach dropped. No. Sherlock was agreeing with him. His stubborn, rival brother, was agreeing with him. Mycroft pressed harder on the bullet wound. "Where is the ambulance?" he yelled.
Sherlock's gasping breaths were slowing, his efforts becoming less and less.
"No, no, no! Come on, Sherlock, don't give up! Please!"
Sherlock was puzzled. His brother was begging him? He felt himself start to relax back onto the floor.
"Please!"
Sherlock called on the last strength he could find. "Sorry for - everything - Mycroft." And he faded into blackness.
"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Mycroft pulled his bloody hands from the unmoving chest of his brother and shook him by the shoulders. No response. He did again. Still nothing. He put his fingers to Sherlock's throat. No pulse.
"Sh- Sherlock. No, please, no." Mycroft was crying, sobbing loudly, holding his brother, his fingers curing around clumps of dark curls. No one touched them.
. . .
John had returned sometime during the ordeal. He had been at the store. When he had been told he cried like Mycroft had, the only difference being Sherlock was now in a body bag.
When Lastrade got the news his eyes had filled with tears. It was obvious that her had cared for the consulting detective.
Mummy cried more than any of them.
At the funeral Mycroft didn't make a speech like he did at any other funerals. He couldn't bear to speak in front of the crowd. Not that many people were there. Miss Hudson, John, Mummy, Lastrade and some people from the yard. Mycroft knew that the DI had asked the yard to come.
Mycroft and John stood at the grave long after everyone had gone.