It was a hot august day in the early evening. The temperature in London was due to the cars and the asphalts at a rather uncomfortable 35°C and there was no wind. It was a rather miserable day.
It had been eight months since the fateful night Mr W. Sherlock S. Holmes had shot the seemingly innocent Danish media mogul Mr Charles A. Magnusson on his own veranda right in front of his brother, Captain John H. Watson and several MI6 operatives. It had been seven months since Sherlock Holmes had been discharged from a high security prison somewhere in Britain and been sent on a suicide mission into Eastern Europe, so that he would never cause trouble for the empire again and also quite elegantly solve a major problem while after wards being disposed of by the enemy. It had been exactly 13 days and 22 hours since last contact with Agent Holmes. The last contact should have been 2 days and 3 hours ago. Mycroft Holmes would never admit it in public or at all to anyone, but he was actually worried. He knew this point would come, he estimated it to be a month ago, so when his brother survived that date he had been unjustifiable positive and somewhat hopeful.
Only to have this small particle of a hope to be crushed by a single phone call on said august evening. He had just come out of a highly secret meeting with several representatives of the European Union, the foreign minister's constant threats to leave the Union if there were no new extras for Britain started to annoy the other 27 ministers and had led to a somewhat anti-British movement within the Union. He couldn't blame them, but he could blame said minister who just tried to get votes without even thinking of the consequences. The time for the country to be an individual competitor was over, the colonies lost, the political power not what it once was. And being a member of the Union brought power and influence within said organisation. Nothing you should easily dismiss. But back to the problem at hand... Mycroft had just sat down in the back of the Jaguar when his phone rang and his P.A. was on the line about to tell him some rather crushing news.
Sherlock was dead. And the small quantum of hope he had dared to have splintered in thousands of little pieces plunged into his chest. It hurt. "Your loss would break my heart". It did. It really did. He ordered his driver to bring him home and his secretary to cancel all remaining meetings; he couldn't look Lady Smallwood into the eyes today. Tomorrow maybe, but not today.
Sherlock Holmes had been pulled out of the Danube a few days before. He had been dead for at least 10 days with the body being so far mutilated and decayed that basic identification like finger prints were impossible, also all teeth had been missing as well as the hair. He had been identified with the passport found on the dead body. DNA check had confirmed that the DNA of the body matched the one of Sherlock Holmes as found on the database.
He was somewhat in shock. Rather pathetic for someone like him, but he couldn't help himself. The one thing he had worried for all his life since little Sherlock had fallen down the steps at the front door at the age of 2 and a half. And it was his fault. He had send Sherlock off on that mission, hoping that he would prove him wrong in his estimation. It was still better than prison. At least than that prison Sherlock would have ended up; the type that doesn't show up on the data bases. And so he had sent his little brother of to his almost certain death.
It had taken John Watson about two months to figure out what Sherlock's comment concerning the mission meant. Mrs Watson had gotten it the first time he'd told her. His parents still didn't have a clue. They had been devastated when they heard that their little one had ended up in prison on Christmas day and somewhat relieved when he was sent to Eastern Europe. They didn't know. How he treaded to tell them. He didn't want a repeat of last time when his mother had started throwing books at him for not protecting his little brother. She hadn't talked to him after that for two months. Not that he minded at first, but somehow it hurt. He wasn't so sure if she would ever admit to having three sons ever again after what he was about to tell her now.
The first thing he did when coming home was opening a very expensive bottle of some rather rare scotch he had been given by the prime minister for his birthday. He poured himself something that you probably could call a quadruple. Not that he minded and drank the entire glass in one go. It burnt, it hurt and it was good. He poured another glass. About five cigarettes and 82% of the bottle later he sat somewhere on the floor of his flat. The suit jacket as well as the tie and his shoes had long gone. He didn't know where and his shirt sleeves where rolled up, the question remaining where the cuff links were. Not that he minded at all anymore. He wasn't so sure why he had been drinking at all to begin with. Obviously you shouldn't mix alcohol with an empty stomach and already a rather low tolerance. He emptied the bottle and leaned back against the wall. The carpet was actually quite comfortable he concluded. His secretary found him the next day after he hadn't turned up for work. He was still sitting against the wall passed out and with the empty bottle right beside him.
Life went on. Of course it did. Life always went on for the living. He buried the remains of his brother, again. How he hated eulogies and as predicted his mother decided that Mycroft Holmes didn't exist. At least for the next half year, than she gave in crying, that she didn't want to lose her last son as well. The little Miss Watson now two years later was already walking around and talking, not that he met her so far. The Watsons weren't exactly on speaking terms with him either. His clothes were a bit darker these days, but not even his secretary dared to mention it. Actually no one ever dared to mention what had happened in 2014. And so the world turned and everything went on. Just this time there were no theories how he had survived and no annoying tabloids. In fact he had brought down the CAM media empire with just marginal research. Privacy violations, tapped phone calls, the usual technics of tabloids became finally their demise.
It was some when in August 2017 when his front door opened one evening and Mycroft jumped slightly. Only one person had these keys besides him nowadays and that was his PA and she always called before she came by. He walked into the entrance hall and found himself standing in front of a dead man. Sherlock Holmes had aged, no wonder considering that he was 40 now, but the contrast to three years ago was striking. The gaunt look on his face was somewhat enhanced by the scar running down his last check, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, and the left eye that even though not visible to the average person was clearly made out of glass. Mycroft swayed on his feet and then everything became black.
"Seriously, Mycroft? Fainting? I expected a bit more" was the first thing he heard when he woke up, still on the floor at the door and looking directly at his brothers face.
"I.. I.. I thought you were dead" was the only thing he could manage at that point. Not exactly his usual eloquence.
"So far, so obvious" said his brother and held out a hand to help him up. "I think I have some explaining to do"
"It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me"