Warnings: Dead character in this one.
"You can't do this to me"
The mug, his blue mug was broken over the floor. Tea and milk were spread over the blue carpet. Definetly the maids were going to be mad at that but the blue carpet was the last thing he could think of in what he knew it was going to be hard. Not like no one had warn him beforehand.
His brother looked at him with a look he never felt on him before. There was anger, rage... pain. He felt his brother Sherlock suffering for his choice. But there's nothing he could do to stop him. John was going to Afghanistan and no one could stop him.
"Sherlock, look-"
"Don't, John"
He kept his position, but his gaze was on the floor. Sherlock's dark and massive hair fell over his eyes. John didn't need to look at him to know there were tears falling. He felt the pain raising over his chest. His heart was beating quickly and he felt like if it was trying to jump from his ribcage through his throat.
It had been the most difficult desicion of his life, but he had no regrets. John was leaving the next day. And he knew it was better if Sherlock was the last one to know.
Sherlock Holmes had his own thoughts and ideas about the war. Let's separate his eccentricities of his speech, because he had a strong idea of what was going on the world. 'thousands of men fighting for something that is not worth it'. It may had been his opinion, but it hurt John. His father, his biological father had been a soldier, and his mother a nurse.
Certainly he became a doctor recieving the best marks and the best honours at Saint Batholomew's Medical School. Now he wanted to know his father was going to be proud of him, whenever he were in that moment.
His brother knew that. Sherlock knew he was the last one knowing John was leaving to fight for 'Queen and for the Country' giving his medical services in exchange of nothing. He began to connect the dots. Mother died a few weeks ago.
Mother knew it.
And she died of grief.
A bad healed flu had ended in a pneumonia. And in the middle of the winter, it was impossible to take care of her. She had been so stubborn. Even when there was plenty of maids and a good gardener, she wanted to take care of her roses and her green grass by herself and now it was covered with white snow.
John promised her he was going to be her doctor once he finished his course. And he did. After the obligatory pictures, he was holding his diploma when Elizabeth stroked his hand and with a warm smile kissed his cheek.
After his two little boys left home to live in London by themselves her health had been deteriorating. Her dark hair was now all grey and his soft skin was marked with deep wrinkles near her grey eyes, Sherlock's eyes.
John convinced Sherlock to move back to the Holmes's manor. He was a doctor and he didn't need another doctor to say to him what he already knew. The dark haired young man never asked him why they needed to be back at their home and spend every minute of the day near their mother. No one told Elizabeth why they were back again. Even Mycroft was back with a good excuse he had holidays. Something no one could believe since the situation of the country.
Richard Holmes never asked questions. He believed with his whole life that his son was doing the right thing. But it was good for him and his wife to have the house full again with their sons.
It was so good to have breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner all together. Like the old times. And like the old times, Sherlock and John still had their little fights under the table, kicking the other's legs. His son, the one who was the spitting image of his mother was still making comments about his older brother, and John, the peaceful one was still making him stop it.
Not even the weakness of her illness stopped Elizabeth from knitting something for every member of the family. Mycroft, John and Richard got a jumper almost the same model, but in different colours. Mycroft's was black, Richard's was blue and John's was oatmeal colour. But Sherlock got a blue scarf.
Sherlock smiled at her mother, and smelled the scarf. It smelled like her. It smelled like Mother.
For some reason, Mycroft and Sherlock went back to London to keep an eye on their business. The older Holmes needed to look for paperwork and to keep an eye in his new assistant. The latter needed to pay the rent to his landlord and to search for things to take with him back home. John stayed, saying he needed to be with Mother.
He told her one morning he was leaving.
"I can't do anything to stop you, my son. I always wanted you to be free"
John was sitting next to her in his parent's bed. Tears were falling over his cheeks and he felt like a five year old boy again. He felt the pain on his chest, the same pain he felt when he woke up one morning in an orphanage after his parents death. Elizabeth smiled at him, and hugged him. It wasn't the same hugs she used to give to him, the ones he felt like she was going to break his ribs. It was a weak hug. She was dying.
"Promise me you'll back and you'll have a lovely family. Take care of Richard, he's becoming a very stubborn man, you know"
John laughed a bit, and Elizabeth stroked his hand. He was wearing the jumper she knitted for him. Under her touch it felt soft and warm. She could feel the warmness of his son through it.
"Take care of Sherlock, dear. I know he loves Mycroft, no matter how much he keeps denying it. But we both know how much he loves you. You two are brothers. Always remember that, son of mine"
"Yes, Mummy"
They stayed there, drinking tea and watching telly at times when the rest of the family arrived. John and Elizabeth didn't need to say it. They didn't need to use words to say what was coming. They both knew she was leaving soon.
Sherlock took very seriously his mother's condition. Despite John never told him about it, he knew she was in her last moments. And remembering how John and he had cut the roses for her one afternoon many years ago, he ran to the garden that day.
He cut twelve roses, and cleaned them. He put them on a vase beside his mother's bed and the room was filled with their smell. For John, it was a smell he could remember very well from his childhood days. From that afternoon with Sherlock.
And that night just before dinner, she died and all of them cried, even Sherlock.
"You're my brother, Sherlock. I'll back, I promise. I promised to Mummy-"
"We are different! You were just a replacement. You're not John Holmes. You're not my brother!"
He tried very hard not to fall to the floor. His knees were strong, but not his eyes. Heavy and painful tears fell over his cheeks. The man in front of him saw the damage he had caused. He was speechless.
"You're not John Holmes. you were just a replacement. A new piece of forniture Father bought to Mother because John, the real John Holmes died!"
"Wha-?"
Mycroft appeared in the scene. He was pale and he tried to calm Sherlock who was still standing in front of John, shouting at him. He tried to put himself between them feeling the tension on his brother's voice. And his biggest fear was watching Sherlock beating John, something that never happend. But he was so close to the blonde man that it was a possible thing to happen.
"John, Sherlock is not-"
"Shut up, Mycroft! He needs to know! Mother lost a baby and he was going to be John Holmes, the real and the only one. But one day in those political events she saw you at that orphanage alone and when she knew your name and your date of birth she kicked the floor like a spoilt brat and Father bought you!
"You're not my brother! We're different, we're not brothers, John! You're nothing!"
The older Holmes was ready to slap or even punch Sherlock on the face but John stopped his hand. He moved Mycroft from his place between them, until they were just inches away from each other.
Sherlock's fury disappeared when he noticed John's blue eyes. Those eyes he used to look and know everything just looking at them were red and full of tears. He was probably crying even more than when Mummy died.
His anger caused something he hadn't want it to happen. Suddenly his face changed, and he tried to touch John, to touch his brother, but he couldn't.
"I'm sorry, John."
A long silence filled the room, John's old room. It still had the blue curtains, his library full of books and over his desk was his Biology book they used to use on their afternoons making experiments. On a frame hanging on the wall was the needlework Mummy made for John. For the John Holmes who died many years ago.
Mycroft felt the pain that John was feeling.
"We are brothers, John."
Silence fell over them again. The other man couldn't help but try to get close to him. But the recent graduate. Doctor stepped back.
"You said it. Don't you remember, Sherlock? You said the truth. We are not brothers."
"John, I didn't mean it."
"You said it Sherlock. We are different."
"Please, don't go-"
"I'm a doctor, and my country needs me."
"Please John, don't go"
The other man took the rest of his belongings and placed them in his bag and turned around to see the other man, maybe for the last time. He also looked at his room. The blue carpet had some old stains as a result of many experiments made years ago, and his old books 'Alice in the Wonderland' and 'Biology' were placed on his desk. The dark haired man looked like he was almost going to fall to the floor and beg him to stay.
But it was late.
Words spoken hurted him.
Those words killed him.
Sherlock's words killed John Holmes forever.
PLEASE, DON'T FORGET TO TELL ME WHAT DO YOU THINK. ANY MISTAKE IS MINE AND SORRY FOR THEM :)