He stared passively at the regal, black marble grave stone. It gleamed with an unearthly glow as the light from the cheerful sun beamed down from behind the fluffy white clouds. Freshly dug turf churned over for a good six feet in front of the stone, and an array of multi-coloured flower bouquets surrounded the grave. He squinted at the delicate script that seemed to dance across the black marble, betraying the identity of the person hidden from view.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES – 13/05/1984 – 18/09/2012 – NO LONGER WITH US BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN – AT REST
He smiled at the simple words, and turned his head as the crunch of shoes on gravel reached his ears. He peered down the path that wound its way through the cemetery to see who dared disturb the peace of the silent grave yard.
A group of four walked slowly up the path that wound its way through the final resting place of the dead.
He spun on his heel and walked over to the wrought iron bench a few metres away. He tugged the collar of his black jacket up so that it partially covered his face, and jammed a beanie hat down over his unruly black curls. Sometimes being in the obvious place was the best place to hide. He fingered the simple bouquet of white roses on his lap and counted the seconds as the group neared him, passed him, and stopped at the grave he had been standing at moments before.
He scrutinised them carefully, noting the drawn, pinched expressions on their faces. Mrs Hudson had burst into tears as soon as she placed the flowers on the grave while the other man – John Watson, stared solemnly at the cursive inscription, holding his sobbing landlady tightly against his chest. Another man with silver hair – Gregory Lestrade – had a single lily clasped tightly in his hand, and he too stared at the black stone in what could only be described as disbelief, as if he couldn't believe the person had actually passed over into the next great adventure. The final person in the group was a young woman – Molly Hooper – who had silent tears rolling down her cheeks, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. Guilt.
He could see that their friend's death had dealt a severe blow to the tight-knit group, but life was so easily taken, and many things in this world were supposed to happen for a reason. And this was one of those times.
"Oh Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson wailed, reaching a hand out towards the grave as if hoping for her surrogate son to grasp it and announce his return to the living.
And for a moment, one fleeting moment, he wished he could take it, if only to save her from the pain she was going through.
"Why'd you have to go?" She sobbed into John's coat. "It wasn't time for you to go."
"Come now, Mrs Hudson." John Watson whispered, causing him to strain to hear the ex-army doctors words. "We know it wasn't his time, but sometimes – sometimes…things happen for a reason…" He trailed off lamely, as if the words were spoken more for his benefit than for his landlady's.
He had heard enough. He stood up smoothly and strode away from the grieving family, towards the car park. Not noticing the sharp blue eyes aimed at his broad back as he walked away.
The cemetery car park was relatively empty of life. He snorted, of course it was.
Only two cars remained, and side by side he could see the contrast between an old life and a new life. An elderly Toyota – John Watson's car that he had managed to buy with his limited funds - faded blue and rusted, was parked next to a sparkling silver Range Rover. He didn't fail to notice the irony as he placed the white roses onto the bonnet of the Toyota.
His old life was far behind him now, and there was no returning to the life of comfort and safety. Alas, his safety blanket existence had been torn from him a long time ago, leaving him exposed to a world of murder, politics, and all manners of heinous crimes.
He supposed that in a way, laying the flowers on the car was his peace offering to his old life, an existence best forgotten. Well, forgotten until the moment he could return. Oh who was he kidding? He might not be with them but he certainly would watch them like a hawk.
"Come on Sherlock!" His head snapped towards the irritated blond leaning out of the Range Rover, and he rolled his eyes at her in amusement as her face flushed red in anger. "You've wasted enough time already, Sherly."
He climbed into the passenger seat and didn't even glance at her as he said, "Don't call me Sherly, Anastasia."
The ride out of London was smooth and silent.
Yes. Sherlock thought as he stared solemnly at the distant cemetery in the wing mirror. Some things happen for a reason.
Three years later…
Sherlock Holmes stood over the final member of Moriarty's minions. The sneaky little buggers had all fled the country as soon as they caught wind of him killing the first member of their clan. It had taken him three years – three long years – but he had finally done it.
"What did I ever do to you?!" The hysterical minion screamed as he was forced to his knees on the cold ware house floor.
Sherlock glanced at him in disdain. "You exist." He drawled, "Is that not enough reason?"
The minion whimpered in despair, he was well aware of his ultimate demise at the hands of the man above him.
Sherlock slipped down onto his haunches at stared intently at the sobbing man's face. "Sebastian. Poor Sebastian." His eyes gleamed as he deducted the man's trail of thought. "Oh! You think im going to kill you? Nope." He popped the p. "She's going to kill you."
Speak of the devil and she shall appear. He thought wryly as Anastasia strolled into the room.
Anastasia – despite his imminent dislike of her – had been a key instrument in his disposing spree. Some people say hell hath no fury as a woman scorned….they were soo right. She had been Sebastian's lover, a strong woman who has no qualms of killing. Her lover had made the mistake of attempting to kill her on Moriartys orders; she had escaped with a promise of revenge.
Sherlock had found her – or rather she had found him. And together they had tracked down each and every minion. Both had their own agendas – Sherlock's was destroying Moriartys network of idiots so that he could return. And Anastasia's was finding and killing her lover. In the end, both were fully aware that they had used each other, but neither cared.
Sherlock stood smoothly, nodded at Anastasia once, ignored the hysterical screams that had returned from the victim at the sight of her, and stalked towards the door with purpose. Completely aware that this would be the last time he ever saw the person who had been a constant in his life for the last three years, not that he cared.
He stuck his head back around the door as he exited the room, he winked at the victim. "Have fun."
He spun around, slamming the door on the screams, and strode out of the abandoned ware house in France. His keen blue eyes sharpened with excitement and intensity as he muttered one man's name.
"Mycroft."
Doctor John Watson sighed as he slouched on Sherlock's settee in 221B Baker Street. It had been three long years since the detective had committed suicide, claiming himself as a fraud. John didn't believe him then, and his train of thought had certainly not faltered in the following years.
He had attempted to clean up Sherlock's belongings from the flat. He had attempted to move out of the flat. He had even attempted to start a new life with Mary…all had little success.
He hadn't the heart to move any of Sherlock Holmes' belongings, all were placed around the cosy flat exactly where the consulting detective had left them years ago. He had stayed at the flat, he hadn't the heart to move out and leave Mrs Hudson. He had broken up with Mary, sweet Mary, all because he hadn't the heart to leave.
After three long years he had accepted that the chances of Sherlock returning were slim to none. But he still held onto that teensy weensy thread of hope that the idiot had pulled off the most amazing prank ever.
If he ever returned he would have a lot of explaining to do. After John had killed the little bugger over and over, of course.
John sighed again and placed his face in his hands. His cane lay on the floor beside him, his limp having returned after his friends demise.
He had a job as a doctor in the hospital, but that bored him. He had even contemplated going back to Afghanistan just for a bit of excitement.
What was he going to do?
Mrs Hudson puttered about her kitchen, muttering to herself about the latest recipe she was attempting to produce.
The news blared in the back ground. The news reader speaking about a murder on the Thames, the victim could not be identified.
"Oh Sherlock." She sighed. "That would have been right up your alley."
Ex Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade sighed as he fiddled with a car that had an engine leak in his brother's garage. After being fired from his job for consulting with a fraudulent consulting detective he had moved back to his parents' house in Cornwall. Not that he believed that Sherlock was a fraud, quite the opposite actually.
He had a new job now in the garage. He had a new life now, yet he couldn't help but wish for his old one. He hadn't seen any of his friends in over two years. He texted them yes, but face to face or over the phone, no.
Hell he'd even settle for a conversation with Anderson!
What was he going to do?
Sherlock sighed as he stood stiffly outside the Holmes Manor. It had been his childhood home, now it was Mycroft's home. A place where Mummy Holmes had brutally abused both of her children. Mycroft had taken most of it, as his older brother the eldest Holmes son had protected the younger as best as he could.
Four year old Sherlock Holmes ran into Mycroft's bedroom and clambered onto his sleeping brother's stomach.
"Oomph!" Mycroft sat up swiftly, hand covering his face in defence of the blows that would begin raining down on him any second now-
"My?" A little high pitched voice spoke out from the darkness. "I'm scwared."
Twelve year old Mycroft immediately grabbed Sherlock in a hug, the four year old cuddling close to his chest with a satisfied sigh.
"Sherlock, you can't be here. If Mummy finds out-"
"If Mummy finds out what?" A voice like the snap of a whip cracked across the room from the doorway.
Mummy Holmes was a tall woman with long black hair and piercing blue eyes. In her hands she held a belt and a rolling pin.
"Sherlock." She cooed. "Come to Mummy."
Sherlock whimpered and pressed further into Mycroft in fear. In response Mummy stormed across the room, face twisting in anger.
Mycroft shoved Sherlock off the bed and in return the eldest took the brunt of her beatings, the younger watching in fear from the doorway, frozen in horror…
(A/N I am not sorry for the AU-ness that is about to ensue, Sherlock and Mycroft make up and become close, okay? This is fanfiction, and this is how I want the relationship between the two to go. So if you don't like it don't read it. All criticizing comments on their relationship or the OCness attitudes of the other characters will be deleted)
Sherlock Holmes had loved his brother. Yes, he knew most would be shocked with this revelation but it was true. He still did in fact. As he had gotten older, he had gotten angry at his brother for taking all the beatings for him. So he played up more, made her angry, so angry that even Mycroft couldn't protect him anymore. That was, until, his brother became eighteen.
Mummy had died from 'suicide'. Sherlock didn't want to know. Either way he knew that his feud with Mycroft was childish, unfounded and one sided. If three years with no contact with the people he loved the most in this world had taught him anything, it was to never let his past blind him.
So here he was, the great consulting detective, about to walk into the manor, wake Mycroft up, announce his return to the word, and…apologize.
Sherlock strode up to the window that lay open on the ground floor, and slipped in unnoticed. He had grown up here, and knew how to avoid the security cameras rigged everywhere. He walked silently up the grand staircase, and weaved through corridors until he came to the master bedroom. The door was wide open.
Sherlock's keen eyes swiftly took in his surroundings. The creak of the door suggested it was hardly ever used, most likely in years. The carpet was not pressed or flattened with feet, no one had been in here. The bed was made, made with her favourite duvet. Empty.
Where was Mycroft?
He strode down the hall to his brothers childhood bedroom. Empty.
He moved frusratedly across the corridor to his own childhood room. And there, standing at the small window, was his brother.
He had lost weight. His hair had grown slightly longer. No stubble remained. And he was dressed in his three piece suit. His umbrella lay up against the wall, and his mobile was solitary on the bed.
Sherlock stared hard at his brothers back. Something was different about him. He appeared more human-ish. And he had not yet noticed his presence.
"Mycroft."
So how was it? This is my first attempt at something like this, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. I want the brothers to make up but I stopped it here because I created a really sappy scene, and that is waay OC for me. I want them to stay in character, but be nice to each other…I might even throw a hug or two in if I get reviews?...hint hint =)
A/N sherlocks deducting skills are not really in this chapter as there was no need for them yet.