This is my first Sherlock fic ever, I've got no idea what I'm doing. But this idea has been nagging at me for quite a while, so here it is. Hopefully it's not that terrible.

Be warned, English isn't my first language, so I apologize in advance for any errors.

Enjoy~

Miracles don't happen overnight. Angels cannot call forth a gift from God and expect it to arrive by morning light. Maybe in a perfect world, where everything flows seamlessly, a masterful plan only takes seconds to conduct. But everything takes time, in reality. No grand scheme can be performed in a single day; two, maybe. For Mycroft Holmes, a man built on patience and perfectionism, that's a bit more reasonable.

The night before his brother would unknowingly (perhaps unwillingly) commence phase one of the plan that in artful hands could be called a masterpiece, Mycroft paced and paced and paced until he was sure he'd worn a track in the elaborate carpeting of his study. He'd spent months planning; calculating every factor that might intrude or otherwise jeopardize his little puppet show and preparing for every disaster that might come his way.

Everything had to be perfect.

Had he been granted more time, there wouldn't be a wrinkle in sight. It was a tricky thing, trying to fool the world's most brilliant and extraordinary man, and attempting so required tact and meticulous attention to detail. Only three people could play cat and mouse with his little brother and have a chance at winning: one was dead; one was everyone's most feared opponent, the classic arch nemesis, the force with which only a madman would dare tamper (and there always existed someone who couldn't resist the temptations); the third was an invisible variable, overlooked by both players and spectators alike. That could prove advantageous, in the right situation.

Now one major flaw remained in his way, impeding on the near perfect conditions required to begin. When wasn't there something that rose to stop him? Someone feeble minded person always opposed the forces in command, choosing to let havoc loose on the innocents he strived to protect.

It was unfair.

She was likely to spoil the whole operation, even if by mistake, as the mouth she had been blessed with lent towards spitting out secrets at the most inopportune moments. Or so he had observed in countless hours of footage detailing her actions from the day she had entered his brothers life. Thankfully, mindless idiots were easy to manage, and even easier to distract from what was happening right before their eyes.

All it took was a little bit of magic.

A long two days later, after the whole ordeal had gone into play and most were sold on a false idea, he stood in the rain. Exhausted. Surrounded by weeping angels and stone crosses, beneath a tall tree that shed its leaves like the clouds poured rain and the people beside him cried. They huddled under black umbrellas not unlike his own, clutching each other for a shred of heat or a comforting touch. They all mourned one man whom many never thought could have had such a powerful impact on their lives. Not until he had entered storming and left as rapidly and deflated as an afternoon drizzle.

Sherlock Holmes.

Now among the the most infamous names of the decade, known in every household as a con, a fake. The few who attended his funeral were the ones who held onto the tiny shred of hope that this man had not shamed them into believing his grandiose speeches and spectacular tricks; wasn't a liar, a hoax, as the media painted him.

"Those are all just stories, aren't they? They have to be . . ."

"But he was so real!"

Real or not, greatness cannot stand strong forever. Sometimes it just has to fall for the sake of the greater good. If not gradually, by force. Or, on rare occasions, of its own will. Amongst those who stood on the muddy grass and courted loss only two understood what that meant. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her, shivering. Alone in the cold.

It was almost impossible to believe that she, the tiny morgue mouse who made a living by writing the final chapters for the strangers who passed through her hands, had provided the spark required to involve the right parties simply by begging for help. Crocodile tears had rolled down her cheeks into an untouched cup of coffee. Here there were none.

People were beginning to part, saying their last farewells. As the thin rain retreated into the porous earth, he turned and walked away from his brothers newly erect grave. He was the only one who hadn't cried (or so very strongly wanted to), aside from the mouse. Not that it mattered. The heavens had, those who barely knew him had. He could save his for another day, when they actually held weight.

With a heavy scowl and a deep set brow, Mycroft pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and made a call. He left behind the final man to pay his dues; the loyal soldier, alone, at the empty grave. But he didn't need to know that, now did he?

Every step was scripted. Every action predated.

As he entered a trademark black town-car he huffed. Rest would be unattainable. The next few months would compose of endless days and long nights spent controlling what his brother saw fit to disturb. The king never sleeps, even in times of peace.

Reviews would be greatly appreciated, and the second chapter will be on its way soon. Thank you!