Yesterday was Mycroft's funeral. Well, not really, but Sherlock had treated his departure as so. He had stood on the same train platform, only the younger boy was garbed in formal black as he tried his best not to cry. Everything would go downhill for him from here; as much as he sometimes hated Mycroft for saying he was more intelligent, or when he yelled at Sherlock for nicking all his action-men and Smurf figurines when they were much, much younger.
Sherlock considered universities to be the end of an era, which they were, really. But he didn't want Mycroft to go, even though he would be heading off to one of the most prominent universities in the world. When he had received the acceptance form, everyone had been so jovial. All except Sherlock Holmes. Phrases and quotes which took root deep in the very fabric of life rose to his mind, and not one of them was not about something falling down, protection failing, losing the war. Because that was what was happening. He was losing the war, and he had no shield, only a knife of intellect, and that was not enough alone to win a fight. Sherlock knew it. And he knew this year would be the hardest of all.
Sherlock Holmes stood on the train platform with his parents, his trunk at his feet. Though the boy would never admit it, he was scared. Usually, his brother would be beside him, all dressed up just like he was, with a similar case containing all of his belongings that he would need for the year. But this year, Mycroft Holmes' presence was but a ghost next to his brother, telling him to be strong this year. Sherlock wasn't facing Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, but rather the railway line. There came a whistling from the gendarmes as they waved everybody backwards over the yellow lines that marked the proximity boundaries of the railway on Platform Nine. Sherlock remained glued on his little spot, both his feet planted on the line, his blue eyes unblinking, back ramrod straight, features focused. One of the security men walked over to him. "Sorry," he said, bending down somewhat to look into the thirteen-year-old's extraordinary heterochromic eyes. "Would you mind stepping back a little?" He asked in a thick southern British accent. "Don't want the train to run you over. Not like last week."
"I'm sorry for the loss of your cat," Sherlock replied in a little solemn murmur.
"Oh-" he cleared his throat. "Thank you, I know. Just disappeared, like th-" He frowned. "Hang on, how did you know that?"
"I simply observed."
"Right, okay. Now, do you mind stepping back a little?" When the boy made no answer, Elaine Holmes stepped forwards and took her son in her arms before pulling him backwards. The man gave her a grateful smile as he picked up Sherlock's trunk and placed it next to the boy. "Thank you, sir." She said. "Sherlock, next time, you do as you're told, understand?" She chided her son.
"Yes, mother."
She pressed a firm kiss to the top of his curly head. A low whistle that could only come from a steam train filled the whole of the Victorian-styled red brick platform. Several new faces gave hushed whispers and turned to watch the black and gold train appear. Sherlock was beginning to wonder what he would do during the long train-ride, without Mycroft to keep him distracted or to talk to him, without Mycroft's money to buy them a packet of mint humbugs, without Mycroft there to tell Jim and his little band to "back off and find another compartment."
He stepped into the last train compartment, the final student on board, and seated himself next to the window, cramming himself up in the corner there, his elbow resting on the sill of the windows as he looked down upon the parents and older siblings, looking, searching for Mycroft amidst the crowd that waved handkerchiefs and wept. He murmured the word of begging against his knuckles with soft lips, like a prayer. There. There he was, all properly dressed with his beige suite and tie, just like when he tried it out the day he received the approval form. Mycroft. Mycroft! He wanted to yell it, wanted to wave at his brother, but he could not, not even as the train began to roll from the station. He couldn't wave goodbye to his parents. Not to his brother.
Sherlock raised but one hand in farewell as everyone disappeared, to be replaced by red brick walls, and only then did he feel the regret. What if he had just given Mycroft more reason to go? The fact that he had returned today made everything seem better. But soon, the regret dissipated as he realised Mycroft hadn't been there; his ghost had been a figment of Sherlock's imagination. He hadn't returned. He hadn't changed his mind. And he was never coming back.