I don't own anything, this just popped into my head when listening to this song. I think that John must have been in so much pain after Sherlock's suicide, but what about Mycroft? He could have watched Sherlock jump from the security cameras. His brother, gone. I just wanted to try and see how he might feel. The song is Why by Rascal Flatts. Warning, I cried writing it so it's very angsty.
Mycroft sat at his desk; paperwork lay scattered across the shiny woodwork. On the desk, an envelope lay face down. John had tucked it into his jacket at the funeral before slamming his fist into the side of Mycroft's face. The bruise was already forming and aching, but it was barely noticed compared to that pain that took all his energy to contain. He hadn't lied to Sherlock, caring wasn't an advantage. But when he talked of lives ending, he had never imagined Sherlock being the one to leave it.
It must've been in a place so dark you couldn't feel the light
Reachin' for you through that stormy cloud
The envelope contained a large amount of pictures, some obviously posed, others taken from a distance with none of the occupants of the pictures noticing. The first picture was of John and Sherlock, walking away from a crime scene, smiling and laughing. Another of them sitting on the couch reading quietly, Sherlock laying his legs over John's knees. John absently rubbing circles onto Sherlock's thigh, a photo of John sitting on the ground in the rain, Sherlock holding him tightly. Tears falling from his eyes as he held him, he remembers this crime scene. John had been hit hard; he had landed on the ground and narrowly missed being shot. He'd never seen Sherlock so scared.
Now here we are gathered in our little hometown
This can't be the way you meant to draw a crowd
He wasn't really surprised to realise he was crying, despite what he may have said, despite the way he acted, he really did love his brother. He protected him. That was his job. He watched over him, he saved him when he needed it, and even when he didn't.
Oh, why? That's what I keep askin'
Was there anything I could have said or done?
Oh, I had no clue you were masking
A troubled soul, God only knows what went wrong
And why you'd leave the stage in the middle of a song
The laptop in front of him played the same sickening video, again and again. Sherlock on the building, Sherlock on the phone to John, crying. And Sherlock flying towards the ground. There were no words, no words in any language, and Mycroft spoke many, for the feelings that were running rampant inside him.
Now in my mind I keep you frozen as a seventeen year old
Roundin' third to score the winning run
You always played with passion no matter what the game
When you took the stage, you shined just like the sun
Sherlock had played the violin with such passion, such beauty, the feelings he could evoke in people just by playing a simple note. After hearing him play, no one could say he didn't have a heart. People would turn their noses down at Sherlock, call him heartless, a freak. And for some reason their belief in that made them think that they could treat him that way, like him having no feelings made him deserve a beating, verbal or physical. Didn't they realise he was human? That he was like them, but different. Did they just think that he popped into existence with a hatred of people and a need to protect himself by destroying others first? Didn't they realise that the so called monster they were facing was created by them? Tormented day in and day out with cruel taunts and sharp jabs designed to make him feel alien, until he became exactly what they claimed. Didn't they realise that his little brother had so much love to give? No, only John noticed, only John realised, only John accepted and protected Sherlock.
Oh, why? That's what I keep askin'
And was there anything I could have said or done?
Oh, I had no clue you were masking
A troubled soul, oh, God only knows what went wrong
And why you'd leave the stage in the middle of a song
He wished he could have talked to him, just one last time. Apologised for giving Moriaty information, for putting his brother second, when he should have been his first priority.
Now the oak trees are swayin' in the early autumn breeze
The golden sun is shining on my face
The tangled thoughts I hear a mockingbird sing
This old world really ain't that bad a place
For the first time since the funeral Mycroft stood at the gravestone of his brother, and not for the first time since then he let the tears fall. His baby brother, gone. It didn't seem fair, that after all Sherlock gave, after all he did. This was the thanks he got, a hole in the ground. That was his reward for pushing himself to the very limit to solve a case, for chasing dangerous criminals regardless of his own safety. Even Mycroft could admit that Sherlock hadn't done it for the people, or for the police. He had done it because he identified with the victim. A dead body could tell no tales, they were just a silenced and misunderstood victim. The same as Sherlock only they were dead, and he wasn't. So he went after the wrongdoer with a passion, a hatred that he learnt the hard way he couldn't take out on his own destroyers.
Oh, why? There's no comprehending
And who am I to try to judge or explain?
Oh, but I do have one burning question
Who told you life wasn't worth the fight?
They were wrong, they lied, and now you're gone, and we cried
He didn't go to the grave very often, sometimes he would stand in the tree's and watch John come the grave, fall to his knees and cry. He would listen to John's confessions, to his pain. And he would wish that Sherlock was alive, not just for him, but for John. Because John didn't deserve the pain that he was going through.
'Cause it's not like you to walk away in the middle of a song
Your beautiful song, your absolutely beautiful song
Mycroft turned to walk away and almost missed the flash of curly black hair hidden a few tree's down, almost. And as he heard John beg for just one more miracle, Mycroft shook with the suppressed sobs that wracked his body. Mere metres away stood Sherlock, dressed in his coat and scarf. He was smiling sadly at John, and then looked up to see his older brother.
"Take care of him" Sherlock called out.
Mycroft nodded mutely, his mind shutting down. Sherlock grinned, that mischievous grin that he hadn't seen in so long.
"Tell him it's ok, I'll see him soon, tell him it's all fine"
Sherlock turned, with the same dramatic flare of his coat and walked towards the gate of the cemetery, fading away gently till there was no trace of him to be found. Mycroft sank down gently to the ground, the tears flowing faster and the sobs rocking his body as he heard John wail as though he had felt Sherlock leave him. No, caring wasn't an advantage at all.