A/N:Post Reichenbach, written after a conversation with j_mercuryuk, and 221b style drabble I think.
Not Divine
To err is human; to forgive divine
The room has the look and feel of being stuck in time, it always has, but the table still bears yesterday's paper and an untouched glass, the figure in the chair both tense and resigned, glancing on occasion at the clock as if he has a meeting he does not wish to be late for. But there are no meetings today; all cancelled in lieu of the news, an obligatory indulgence which, honestly, he could have done without.
Every time he hears footsteps he does not jump, but he does look to the door, expecting the tirade of a tired solider - a broken soldier - somehow hoping for it because with it will come an end to the waiting. But he never comes. Not today, or tomorrow, or any day thereafter, not since the untimely death of Sherlock Holmes.
Mycroft knows why as he turns once more back to his work, footsteps fading away down the hall. He knows John Watson will not come because John Watson will never forgive him for it, for giving Moriarty not one, but two ways to kill Sherlock.
He turns the page of the paper, the exclamations declaring his brother a fraud, the picture with the deerstalker and coat.
John Watson will not forgive Mycroft Holmes because Mycroft has let his brother's memory burn.