Goodbye, Sherlock... I failed you one last time, he thinks. And there is just darkness.
And then there is something more. Small streaks of orange and yellow spill their light on the edge of Mycroft´s vision. Well, he thinks. At least it is good to know the vicar was right about hell.
But when he turns his head a little, he finds out it is not, in fact, a hell. It is a small bonfire in the middle of nothingness, wood cracking pleasantly and ambers lighting a smallish portion of whatever this place is.
"Mycroft? Mycroft!" It can´t be. This is impossible. But Sherlock calls again: "Come on. Over here!"
So he gets up stiffly and follows the spark of light. He soon notices that he is naked. Great, he thinks. No dignity at all.
But then he is given a sheet by a small long-fingered hand. "Here. Make yourself decent." And he does, putting the sheet round him toga-like.
"You are not dead," states Mycroft, not knowing what else to say. He is also aware that Sherlock is decidely no longer a fourteen-year old boy with these long curls and limbs flailing to all directions.
"Exactly," says the not-so-much Sherlock. Is he reading my mind? wonders Mycroft.
"Not as much as inhabit it," announces the teenager and sits near the fire, tugging the elder Holmes by his arm to join him. "Oh come on." He sounds annoyed.
Mycroft doesn´t understand much here, and frankly has no energy to spare. "Am I dead?" he asks instead.
"Not yet."
"Oh. But I was - I am dying, right?"
"Not necessarily."
A pause. Mycroft is starting to get very cold, so he shifts nearer to the flames and stretches his arms above them.
"I am hallucinating."
"You could say that, yes. I must say, I would have thought you could pick up a better venue than this."
"I will give it a thought next time. If there will be a next time," he adds.
"Well, I guess it is up to you."
"How so?"
"See that?" the teenager stretches his arm and points it across the fire to a point on a horizon. Wait, Mycroft startles. There wasn´t any horizon a minute ago. But now there it is, a few rays of shallow light are illuminating some sort of moulds and not very high hills. It looks rather like Moroccan desert, Mycroft thinks.
"What is that?"
"How am I supposed to know? I know only as much as you do, remember?"
"It looks like a sunrise."
"Yes, of course it does. You never had much of an imagination as far as spiritual is concerned. But I guess you could say there is the end there. Like, you can go there and finish everything. Just - be dead and do whatever dead people do. If there is anything. And if you could be forgiven for your sins and whatnot."
"I see."
"Do you want to go?"
"Are there any alternatives?"
"You can try going away from it?"
"And return? Live?"
"Maybe."
"You are not helping much, you know?"
"I am not the one with unresolved philosophical beliefs."
He has a point, Mycroft has to admit. But he has no desire to choose right now. Why can´t he just stay here? There is fire and Sherlock and for once they´re not bickering and this Sherlock seems to have forgiven him.
"It is not very healthy to hide in a dream world, Mycroft," the fourteen year old remarks. "Nor very brave."
"I thought you already knew I am a coward."
"If you stay here, you are going to die. If you go towards there, you are going to die. It will probably stop the pain. You are given a chance to run from your problems. If you turn, you might die. But you also might live and make things better."
"Or worse."
"Yes, even that. Either way, you don´t need me anymore here. Goodbye."
"Wait! I need you. Please, brother..."
"You have a real brother waiting for you there," the not-real-Sherlock motioned to the pitch black nothingness and disappeared.
Yes, Mycroft thought, but he hates me. Rightfully so. But he stared into the darkness and thought that maybe he should take a chance. Because you can always make yourself dead, but making yourself alive again didn´t seem as much of an option, he reasoned.
He took a log from the fire and started to make his way towards the unknown. I´ve been always best keeping in the shadow, he chuckled mirthlessly and walked steadily away from the light.
He wasn´t entirely sure how much time passed or what happened after that. But suddenly, there was light again, but it was red and painful and utterly human.
My eyes, he thought. The light must be right above me, to hurt my eyes like this, even if they´re closed. And they were.
He sniffed. Not nice. Bleach and cheap washing powder and sweat (must be his). He was cocooned in some rough textile – hospital, then. He was in a hospital. It made sense, after all.
Ok, Mycroft. You seem to be alive. Well, you can certainly feel your chest going up and down, though it probably shouldn´t be this unpleasant. And there is a steady heartbeat to be heard in your ears and your mouth feels like something that shouldn´t be there was there and then got taken away, thank God.
Feet. Judging by the gentle feel and sounds of a sheet moving, the toes are really obeying your brain and moving. Arms, then. Something unpleasant attached to the left hand. IV tube. Yes, must be.
Satisfied that his limbs were indeed capable of functioning, he rested for a while. Those little movements weren´t supposed to be so draining. He felt rather like a broken marionette.
All right, Mycroft, the light is starting to really sting, and there is headache growing somewhere near the base of your nose. If you open them, you can find a switch and stop this damned torture.
Whoever superglued his eyelids had a really crooked sense of humour. It was probably Sherlock.
He was indeed in a hospital room. Something machine like and emanating a certainly unpleasant beeping was stationed to his left, and to his right there was a small table with a jug of water, a cup and a switched on lamp.
The one who probably inadvertently caused Mycroft´s awakening by the means of burning rays of white light was Lestrade. The cop was sitting on a plastic chair close to the bed, a paperback threatening to leave his weak grip at any moment, as he was asleep.
He looked positively savage. He certainly didn´t shave in at least the last four days, and various details pointed to a fact that he didn´t, indeed, left this spot for most of that time. There were dark bruises from lack of sleep forming under his eyes. His shirt was rumpled and the collar was dirty from sweat.
But Mycroft decided that he will mull over the fact that Lestrade didn´t leave his bedpost while Mycroft was incapacitated and the possible implications of that for later - now he has to find the damned switch.
But as he was fumbling to find it, Greg startled like a wild animal. Various expressions crossed his tired face, starting with fear, confusion, surprise, happiness and ending with something Mycroft didn´t have a label for - but it felt rather warm.
"Mycroft." Greg said and smiled slightly. "You´re awake." And as he saw the direction of Mycroft´s previous movements, he switched off the lamp and chuckled: "Oh, sorry for that. You weren´t the best company, so I had to take a book to this party."
"Sherlock?" When did I start to sound this hoarse and exhausted? Mycroft wondered. Neither Sherlock, nor John were here. Of course they wouldn´t.
"They´re next door, in the waiting room. He refused to rest, so after some three days he just fainted. John is there with him, though I suppose I should wake them up or Sherlock´ll kill me."
"Three days?"
There is something in Greg´s brown eyes. "You were out for more than a week. We were scared, you know. That you wouldn´t..." Lestrade definitely averted his sight right then. "But it doesn´t matter now. I´m gonna get a doctor and tell Sherlock." And he moved towards the door.
"Wait. Please, just a little while." Mycroft wasn´t ready. He was tired and scared to be left alone, scared that he would fall asleep and be sucked again by the darkness, afraid that he was not ready to confront his brother. Because there would inevitably be a confrontation about just how many problems he caused and that this one pseudoheroic crusade isn´t gonna earn him anyone´s forgiveness and anyway if his performance while fighting the men in the empty house was the best he had in stock than God protect Britain´s secret services.
And he knew that this time he would break. Because being though of badly is one thing, but being thought of rightfully was another.
Lestrade must have noticed something about this, because he made his way towards the bed and sat on a free space on it without further questions.
"I was telling the truth, you know. We were scared. Me, Sherlock and John. You should have seen your brother - or rather not, it was not a sight I would want anyone to see- if it weren´t for John, I suppose he would have already burnt the hospital to the ground." He started stroking soothing circles on Mycroft´s back. It felt nice.
But still... "He has every right to hate me," Mycroft whispered.
"No, he hasn´t. Period. It´s not like he didn´t make his fair share of stupidities. And wherever you took the idiotic idea that you are evil, I can assure you it´s complete bollocks. Listen to me, Mycroft," and he took his faces into his hands and forced the blue eyes to meet his, "you are a decent person. Objectively. So just stop being scared all the time."
"There is a long way from decency to morality."
"Oh fuck off." And he kissed him.
Strictly speaking, it shouldn´t have been pleasant. They were two unshaved, sweaty and exhausted man, who didn´t brush their teeth in a few days. But it was, somehow. It is nice, Mycroft thought. Gentle. He felt... safe, he supposed.
Then they stopped and started to simultaneously search for something in their eyes. Mycroft wasn´t sure if there was something to be found in his, but Greg´s chocolate ones emanated warmth and protection. He has feelings for me, Mycroft suddenly realised. But why?
"He will forgive you. Hell, he has already forgiven you," said Greg and he was so sure. How can he be so sure about thing like this? How come that he was slapped so many times and yet he has the cheek to wear his heart in the palm of his hand?
"It will be just an intermezzo. As always, we will dance around each other until I do something stupid. It will be just an intermezzo between two storms."
"I never liked opera." And Lestrade kissed him on a temple before leaving the room.