Based on Sister Maude by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Sister Maude
I wonder who took it upon themselves to go and ruin Sherlock's life. Who could have taken away everything we had worked towards? Who would decide to end a life like that because they were jealous?
Who would be so heartless, who would betray their own family so?
Mycroft, dear old Mycroft, with your icy cold exterior guarding an even colder centre. Mycroft, you were always getting into other people's business just because you could, it was you who ruined everything.
You always wanted to find out secrets, to hold all the power in a room. You couldn't stand not knowing, not having what Sherlock had.
Now Sherlock has nothing. He lies in that coffin cold and broken. His heart no longer beats for the thrill of the chase and he no longer yearns for the pull of mystery.
He looked strange. His stupid hair coated thick with blood. The crimson looks quite good against the dark brown curls.
Even as a corpse that man had style. He looked like he was running, that damn coat draped across the pavement. If it wasn't for the absence of a section of his skull he looked almost alive.
He was worthy of much more than he got. I was a filler, bridging the gap before he found what he really wanted, what he needed. He deserved so much love but you kept it from him.
You could have stopped it all. You could have changed things. Your actions brought him to the roof; his loyalty to you threw him off it. He said he never cared but he did.
You could have saved us all, we could have made amends. You could have saved yourself, your soul, you didn't.
You don't seem to understand so I must make it clearer. The two of you wouldn't be better brothers if I was not here. He would be even further from you than you could imagine.
Moriarty wasn't even that wrong. He took the gift you thrust in his face. Maybe I could forgive him for that. Even Lestrade, he shouldn't have believed it but h responded the way he had to. Mercy will be shown to them.
Even Sherlock and I might find forgiveness for our numerous sins if we searched far enough.
But you Mycroft, you who always put yourself first, you shall never find peace.
Now it is my personal mission, my purpose in life had been made clear. I shall blame you for it all. Sherlock trusted you, but you played him. You used him as a pawn in your chess game and sacrificed him for your own good.
Lestrade is a good person, not great, just good. No doubt he will come the closest to heaven out of all of us. When he dies people will be truly sad.
Moriarty does as he pleases. He saw Sherlock as a challenge but he fought fair. He was open, he was honest.
Sherlock and I made mistakes, people died at our hands. Yet still I pray that if we tried we could reach the pearly gates of heaven. Or maybe Sherlock would get bored so instead we would solve the crimes of the underworld.
That leaves you, Mycroft Holmes. You hide; you pretend to be the innocent caring brother. You cared not as a sibling but as an owner does for his possession. Sherlock was your secret weapon.
When you die no one will weep. 'Anthea' will continue to type away on her phone for the next man in the good suit with the black car. You are replaceable Mycroft. No one will miss you used anyone who came close.
Your time will come one day Mycroft. I doubt your soul even exists at all. Should it leave your body, it would sink own the lowest depths of Hell and scare of the Devil himself?
Mycroft, brother Mycroft, just you wait. If what goes around comes around then Fate has one hell of a surprise for you.