Title: When Light Meets Lenses (or Five Photographs and One Which Was Incomplete)
Summary: If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can't I paint you? - David Gates, If. A series of 221Bs involving an entirely too large number of pairings.
I
Mycroft sits on a sofa, Greg beside him. Lights sparkle, the skull grins- Christmas at Baker Street. They wear coloured paper hats and Christmas jumpers, and are surrounded by gaudy wrapping paper. Normally Mycroft would insist John put the phone down, but he is looking at Greg and nothing else matters. In this tiny moment of a camera's flash the world is calm, but the universal tranquillity is slightly blurred by the poor picture quality of John Watson's mobile phone.
Weeks later at the bleak setting of a triple murder, with Sherlock paying no heed to how the raindrops soak his hair and seep into his coat, John shows Greg the photo and Greg's eyes light up.
The next day, when Sherlock is in bed with a cold, after a quick trip to Scotland Yard's ancient printer a tiny, grey square becomes Greg's most treasured possession.
But his first promise to Mycroft– no evidence of their relationship- compels him to hide it. So he does, behind a battered fridge magnet. It takes Mycroft less than a minute to find it. He holds it between thin fingers, this fragile token of sentiment, undeniable evidence of his weakness, symbol of the danger he is putting Greg into.
He hears Greg call him from the front room and he carefully puts the photo back.
II
A trip wire broken in an abandoned warehouse and his only thought- to save Jim- screaming inside his head, as Sebastian races towards the impending wall of flame. He crashes into Jim just as the spark catches and pulls him away, falling to the ground behind a wall of rusting iron, shielding Jim with his own body. His purpose in this organisation is to protect Jim at all costs and he doesn't think of his own safety. He just holds on and waits for the inferno to stop.
A hospital, a private room and memories of bitter smoke scalding the inside of his throat, Sebastian wakes up with his right leg in plaster and a splitting headache. Jim is there- later the nurse quietly tells Sebastian that he never left his side. Sebastian accepts his silent gratitude with an almost imperceptible smile. Jim leaves quickly.
Later Jim hacks into Mycroft's security system in a busy internet cafe. He finds a frame on the CCTV where a silhouette collides with another, their shadows dramatic in the blaze of light around them.
When Sebastian returns from hospital, the picture is framed in solid gold on the mantelpiece. Sebastian notices, but doesn't comment.
Jim sits on the sofa and catches his gaze. Hidden in his dark eyes, Sebastian sees a different kind of burning.
III
"We've called him Sherlock," his parents whispered. Mycroft remained silent, trying to hide his hatred for the reason why, for nine months, perfect reports had been ignored and piano concerts were unattended. He agreed to see it out of good manners.
Dark eyelashes curved over high cheekbones, and hidden behind pale pink eyelids were observant sea green eyes, dulled by innocence but they would sharpen with time. Copper curls the same colour as Mycroft's were already visible, just a downy covering on his tiny head. Sherlock Holmes slept soundly, held in Mycroft's steady arms.
When Sherlock's nanny asked to take him, Mycroft refused an adult's request harshly for the first time.
He never knew a photograph was taken until the picture was framed in the study. But the promise was visible, made silently by Mycroft in that instant, and echoed three years later by Sherlock.
As the tiny tongue eventually formed kind words and later harsh insults, and the clumsy crawl became a walk then a sprint, as indecipherable scribble became calligraphy and the mind became far too intricate and twisted for its own good, Mycroft kept his oath.
"I will always protect you."
When Sherlock dyed his hair pitch black aged twelve it hurt more than it should. Because it meant that Mycroft was alone, and Sherlock's promise was broken.
IV
The police find a boy in an empty house standing over a corpse, a gun beside him. He is arrested for murder.
Fingerprints dark on pristine white, then the blinding light of a mug shot. He blinks at the intensity, but remains silent when they ask his name.
In the interview he insists he was 'investigating'.
"Leave solving crime to the professionals." Greg Lestrade scoffs in response.
But then the boy explains. And Greg's tired eyes widen in shock. How old is this kid, ten? Retired police officers know less about crime!
"...Therefore the murderer was her brother. May I leave?"
Greg doesn't answer, but the door of the interview room opens anyway.
A blur of auburn curls, a glance from sea green eyes and he vanishes, his name a mystery. Greg searches records, now blank, CCTV shows empty corridors.
He steals and frames the mug shot; Mycroft finds it, lectures about 'becoming a criminal without telling Mummy.'
The only evidence that the boy existed is scribbled in permanent marker on his office door.
'Leave solving crime to the professionals.'
Lestrade finds the picture years later. John asks him to help clear out 221B's attic, and exorcise the ghosts.
A fingertip traces lines into the thick dust on the glass.
"I knew right then," he says quietly, "that you were brilliant."
V
"Freak deserved it," Anderson mutters.
Sally looks coldly at him, and sees shame in his eyes for his remark. She looks at John Watson, lost, alone, frightened, and replies, "No one deserves that."
The white chalk outline is splayed on the pavement; the blood staining the neat lines collected by the forensic team. The clear bags are stained with scarlet, the blue light from the squad cars reflecting from the plastic into the darkening sky.
All of this evidence- eye witness accounts, forensics, CCTV- combines to form the incomprehensible fact: Sherlock Holmes is dead.
Yes, Sally thinks, observing the broken, limping man before her, and John Watson is his ghost.
"Look at them," Anderson gestures in disgust.
The press are there, cameras flashing as they try to catch a glimpse of the crime scene.
She looked him in the eye. "Are we any better? We used him and then we turned on him like wolves."
"...fraudulent..."
She was damned if they were going to shun the intensely irritating, brilliant man who had saved so many lives but refused to believe he was a hero.
She spun and yelled at the reporter, as the flash of a camera burnt behind her eyelids, the future slogan of the movement which would spread through London like wildfire, scribbled in yellow spray paint.
'I believe!'
-1
Something is missing.
John sees the gap through bloodshot eyes, swaying slightly in the dark hallway, an empty bottle clutched in his hand.
He searches his memories, careful not go back too far. He remembers the glint of a golden ring, Mary's dress, their first dance. A bouquet of white roses flung, flying, falling through the air...
Too far.
It takes five minutes before he can look at the photograph again.
He sees Mary smiling, holding him close, holding him together in front of everyone. She never knew Sherlock but she tries to understand, and John loves her for that.
The groom stands alone at the altar, with the wedding rings safe in his pocket.
Mycroft had organised the wedding photographer. John didn't thank him. Confetti fragmented his vision, blurred the lens, and he tried to smile through the pink and the white and the tears.
Mary loves that photograph; she framed it in the hallway.
The best man is missing.
John hates that photograph.
The house fills with wails. 2a.m exactly. He rubs his eyes, yawning, and turns away to fill the bottle with baby milk.
John didn't observe that the wedding photographer was staring directly at him through the lens, his sea green eyes hidden by coloured contact lenses and his pained expression briefly illuminated by the flashing bulb.