Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
For Sylvia.
He's not surprised to find Sherlock when he walks in.
If he's honest, he's been expecting this visit for quite sometime. Ever since Sherlock first went into his Work, he's been expecting this visit.
Sherlock is curled up in the sofa, staring aimlessly at the fireplace, mind a thousand miles away, going in a thousand different directions, and if given the chance, he's willing to do anything to know what dark, dangerous thoughts plague his younger brother tonight.
He studies his brother for a moment before turning away. He doesn't have to observe, to deduce Sherlock, because he knows him better than he knows himself and Sherlock's always been an open book to him, one of the easiest people to read if you know what to look for.
Sherlock's face tells him everything, more than words ever could.
He heads to the table and pours two glasses of Scotch, places ice cubes in each, pretending that his hands aren't trembling, that he isn't experiencing a loss of careful control. Control is everything.
He hands Sherlock a glass which his younger brother takes without so much as a glance before sitting down beside him.
He takes a sip, and the way the alcohol burns his throat is a pleasant enough distraction for the time being.
He doesn't want to have the coming conversation, even if he knows that it must be done. And if he can delay it as long as possible, well, that would be fine, yes.
He is by no means a coward- you can't survive as a Holmes if you're one- but he thinks that he might just do anything to get out of this, to not have to do this, not to have to say goodbye.
Sentiment, he thinks. Caring is not an advantage.
He takes another sip, this one not burning as much as the first one before eying Sherlock. A sharp pang in his chest. Yes, caring is not an advantage, he's learned that a long time ago but no matter what, no matter how bad things get between them, no matter how angry or worried he gets, he will always care for his brother.
They've always had a complex relationship, Sherlock and he, but at the end of the day, they know that they'll always have each other.
"How bad?" he asks, though he knows, knows the answer.
Sherlock raises his glass, takes a drink, grimaces, he's never been much of a drinker, he thinks, before letting out a sigh between clenched teeth. "Bad."
He nods. Of course.
He's been expecting this for a long time. Eventually, someone would get the upper hand on his brother. Someone would be just a little bit smarter, a little more cunning, just a little more.
He doesn't know how this will end, nobody is good enough to predict an outcome to this game, but he knows that however it goes, it will end in heartbreak. For who, he doesn't know, can't begin to suspect. But either way, it will happen.
"Moriarty?" he asks, yet another pointless question. Of course it's Moriarty. Of course. He knows because while he wasn't played with as intimately as Sherlock, he was still caught up in Moriarty's mad little game.
"Yes," he says, simple, short answer, not like himself, not at all. There is no sarcasm, no sass, no insult, no Sherlock, in that answer.
He doesn't know what to say, how to reply, and words have never failed him before, never failed him until now.
What do you say when you know that this is the last time you'll ever see the most important person in your world? What do you say to tell him that you're sorry for everything, that you've always been trying to protect him? What do you say when faced with the fact that when he walks out the door, you'll never see him again? What do you say?
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know.
That scares him, the not knowing part.
He takes a sip of his Scotch, takes another, tries to reign in his emotions. The Holmes family rule number one: do not let your emotions rule you. If Father had his way, we wouldn't have emotions to begin with, he thinks bitterly.
Sherlock has always been better at following that rule than he is, always trying to please their father, always trying to prove that he's worthy of the Holmes name, always trying to prove something. And maybe that's where their problem lies. Or at least part of it. Being part of the damnable Holmes family.
"Does John know?" he asks, and before the question even leaves his mouth, he knows the answer. Of course John doesn't know. Of course he doesn't. You're slipping, he thinks.
"No," Sherlock says, choking on the word. Pauses. "I assume you'll take care of them? Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson?" Pauses again. "John?" There is a vulnerability in his brother's voice that he hasn't heard since the time when Sherlock was telling the world he was going to be a pirate and was making cannons from socks, grapes and paper clips.
"Of course," he says. He's not sure how these three people seem to have wormed their ways into Sherlock's heart but they have and he's grateful because somehow, some way, they've made Sherlock just a little more...human.
Sherlock finishes his drink, stands, coat swirling around him."I have to go. John will be waking soon," he says, voice rough.
He wants to say something, ask him to stay, but he doesn't. He knows Sherlock wouldn't.
Sherlock turns to go, pauses before giving him one last look. "I...Mycroft..I..."
"I know," he says, nodding. "And..." He can't find the words.
"I know," Sherlock says, dipping his head. They meet each other's eyes, a thousand words passing between them in a matter of seconds, before Sherlock turns around and walks out.
He turns to the fireplace, sits there until the lump in his throat disappears.