Chapter Two

Satisfied his brother wasn't following him, Sherlock hurried across Mycroft's spacious sitting room, just as pompous and ostentatious as the foyer, towards one of two plush armchairs that were positioned either side of a cherub adorned fireplace. Sinking down into the soft expensive leather he gripped at the chair arms and closed his eyes.

He had managed to keep his emotions suppressed in his brother's presence but now he was alone he couldn't keep his hands from shaking. He gripped the chair arms tighter in an attempt to still them but it only redirected the tremors through his body instead.

He took a deep breath. Another. Eyes squeezing tighter as his heart pounded, like a fist, against his rib cage.

A gunshot exploded in his ears. Magnussen's face ricoched through his mind. Those eyes. Those dead eyes.

His whole body shook as he fought desperately for control, Mycroft's words echoing vehemently through his senses: you killed a man, executed a man.

"And I would do it all over again," Sherlock snarled beneath his breath, remembering what the smug bastard had done to John back at Appledore, and earlier, at the bonfire. What he had been doing to Mary, and no doubt, hundreds of others.

In cold blood.

Sherlock cried out angrily, hunching forward, head in hands, squeezing, trying to silence his brother's words, telling himself that the parasite got what he deserved.

In cold blood.

Telling himself that there had been no alternative. That there had been no vaults. No real accessible vaults. No way out for John and Mary.

In cold blood.

Sherlock leapt up from his chair as if stung. "Get out of my head, Mycroft!"

He stumbled across to the fireplace, leaning heavily against the mantelpiece for support, knocking over a brass candlestick in his panic. It fell to the hearth with a melodic clatter and he would have left it there except he didn't want Mycroft to become aware of his present state of mind. As he scrambled to retrieve it, the cherub carvings mocked him with their angelic faces, as if to say, you're definitely not one of us now.

Re-positioning the candlestick with unsteady hands, he finally met with his reflection in the large arched mirror that filled the chimney breast.

He barely recognised himself.

Eyes bloodshot. Face disturbingly ashen. Forehead slick with sweat.

Get a grip, Sherlock. Get a grip. His own voice now, as he quickly wiped his brow with the back of his hand, but like his face, it was almost unrecognisable, didn't sound like him at all.

He hadn't felt like this since Baskerville, back in the pub, after he thought he had seen that monstrous hound.

Only that hadn't been real.

This was very real.

When the door suddenly opened and his brother peered in, he promptly straightened, feigning calm.

"I thought I heard you call my name. Then there was a noise. I hope you haven't broken anything."

"Don't you have people to call?" he snapped, not wanting Mycroft to see him like this.

"It's Christmas Day, Sherlock. I can only do so much. People are indulging in festivities." The word rolled off his tongue like a bad taste. He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "Though Lady Smallwood was certainly pleased with the news. She couldn't say as much, of course, but I know a smile when I hear one. I'm sure she will do what she can."

Sherlock turned from the fireplace and headed back towards his chair. He could feel his brother's eyes boring into him.

"Sherlock?"

Damn it, Mycroft was coming over.

"Sherlock? Are you OK?"

The genuine concern in Mycroft's tone made it difficult for Sherlock to swallow. His throat felt dry and raw as he attempted to activate his vocal chords. "I'm fine," he dismissed curtly, sinking back into the chair.

"You don't look it."

"I said I'm fine!"

Mycroft huffed. "Have it your way."

"Go make more calls."

"You're shooing me out of my own sitting room?"

"Yes, piss off."

Mycroft angrily turned on his heels.

"No, wait..."

Mycroft stood with his back to Sherlock, ramrod straight, patience wearing thin. "What?" he demanded.

"John...where is John?"

Mycroft glanced back at Sherlock, a little perplexed. "Returned to check on Mary, don't you remember? You sent him away. The poor man was quite torn between you both, though I'm sure they will soon be on their way over. To check up on you." He smirked. "Ah, what a sweet trio you make." He gave Sherlock the once over again. "Actually, I think it will be a good idea if he casts his medical eye over you when he gets here. You really do look terrible."

Sherlock dragged a hand through his hair, the silky strands damp between his clammy fingers. "Well as you said, oh so eloquently, I have just killed a man, executed a man."

Mycroft's eyes locked onto Sherlocks, the concern returning. "Yes, you have. And directing your pent up emotions towards me will not alter the fact. You have to deal with it." He hesitated, and Sherlock was surprised to see a flash of uncertainty cross his face. "The first time is always the hardest."

He quickly lifted his hand, silencing Sherlock before he could respond. "Don't, Sherlock. I do not speak from experience."

"No, you just give the orders."

Mycroft ignored him, retracing his steps back across the room, but he lingered in the doorway, eventually glancing back towards Sherlock, his face tight. "But that doesn't mean to say that you don't..." he faltered, as if he had said too much. He took a deep breath. "We are only human, Sherlock. Caring isn't an advantage, but sometimes...you run out of excuses."

Sherlock stared blankly at the door after Mycroft had gone. There wasn't much that surprised him, but his brother's words had left him pretty taken aback. For him to make such a confession, to reveal such...sentiment... It was proof, worrying attestation, that he was afraid.

And that did not bode well for him.

He leaned back in his chair, hands slipping back into their earlier position, his long fingers clutching at the sides, though not quite so firmly now. He felt fractionally calmer but still needed to regain focus. He couldn't do that surrounded by Mycroft's oppressive antiquated world.

Redbeard. He needed Redbeard. Just a few minutes would do. A few moments of respite.

He closed his eyes again, quickly retreating inwards, eager to return to a world he was in control of. The staircase was always the first step down into his subconscious. The descent into the underworld of his mind.

Meeting only darkness, he frowned irritably. Summoning the staircase was as natural to him as breathing.

He focussed again, catching a teasing glimpse, a flash of white banister, before the darkness devoured it again.

His brow knotted uneasily.

What was happening?

Why couldn't he reach out to it?

He flinched back as a face began to materialised from the darkness. A face he seemed to have no control over. Was he slipping into sleep? Into dream?

He reached out, desperately, for the staircase, as the face moved closer.

Like the Cheshire cat slowly materialising in front of Alice, there was a hint of white...of teeth...the beginnings of a smile...a crazed smile...

And then it was gone, erupting into a blinding surge of searing light that scorched like fire as it tore through his consciousness, sucking the breath from him. His mind felt as if it were ripping, tearing apart like paper, and he clutched at his head again, crying out in pain as the light grew more and more intense until it was almost blinding, like he was staring into the sun and his irises were slowly burning.

He could smell the burning.

I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.

Moriarty's voice was the last thing he remembered before the light was gutted like a candle flame and his world turned dark once more.

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