and the light of the world is in darkness now, chapter 3, by chibiness87
Rating: T
Spoilers: Post 4.03
Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: TRIGGER WARNING for very, very brief suicidal thoughts. Sorry for the delay folks. Hope this chapter makes up for it.


Sherlock is standing on the rooftop of the hospital, looking out over the city away from the direction her flat once stood, unlit cigarette in his hand, when he hears the footsteps coming up behind him. Soft and unhurried, (a gentleman must never show he is in haste, Sherlock,) he knows who it is immediately.

"Hello, Mycroft."

His brother comes up to his side, before reaching in to his waistcoat and pulling something sleek and black from his inside pocket.

"Here."

His phone, he realises. The phone that he has left in the governor's office, the phone his sister had used to call…

Closing his mind to that train of thought, Sherlock takes it from his brother's hand.

Mycroft takes a step closer to the edge of the roof, peering over the ledge, and for a moment, a small, tiny moment, Sherlock wants nothing more than to take a flying leap from the parapet in full knowledge there is no crash mat to break his fall this time.

Except, that would betray a promise he had made to Molly years ago, and he's not going to be that person to turn to that, even if all he sees before him right now is a chasm. His mind is filling with long repressed memories, because despite what he tells John, Greg, the world, he does not delete things. It is impossible to delete memories. But he has pushed them so deep into his psyche that it will take a bulldozer to find them all.

Or, well, a long forgotten sister.

That thought brings him back to the present with a sickening jolt.

Eurus.

Molly.

He feels the aching well of despair trying to claw up his throat again, but wills it back down. He will not give Mycroft of all people the satisfaction of seeing him break apart again.

Once was one time too many.

As if seeing where his thoughts have led to, Mycroft sighs. Reaches in to his pocket again. Offers a light. But Sherlock shakes his head.

"I quit." It was another promise to Molly, given in the back of an ambulance as part of his mission to save John. A promise to give up all vices. Because she, quote, "cannot do this again. Do you hear me, Sherlock? I cannot watch you kill yourself again," unquote. He's not going to break this one either. Even if what he really wants right now is the oblivion the slide of a needle and a 7% solution in his veins will give him.

It's not like she's here to see.

But he cannot, will not betray her trust in him.

Mycroft gives a soft sigh. "Sherlock, you mustn't blame yourself."

Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother, shaking his head. His tone is firm, despite being very quiet. "I don't."

Mycroft turns to face him too, eyebrow raised, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "You don't?"

"No, Mycroft." And Sherlock turns his head back to look out over the city. Without looking at his brother, he tells him, "I blame you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mycroft raise his other eyebrow, eyes widening in apparent shock. Indeed, when he speaks, there is an undercurrent of surprise there. "Me?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, still taking in the sights of the city sprawling before him for a moment, before turning his head to look at his brother once more. Wanting him to see how serious he is in this matter. "You."

"I…"

It is rare to see Mycroft at a loss for words, but Sherlock is too worked up to gloat. Hs fist is flexing at his side, opening the cuts that cover his knuckles once more. But the pain in his chest outweighs any physical pain he is feeling. "You told me. All my life you told me not to get attached. That alone protects us. That, what was the phrase you used, oh yes, sentiment is a defect found on the losing side."

He realises suddenly that his voice is shaking. Unsteady. He feels like a lost child again.

Mycroft's voice, on the other hand, is the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. The older brother holding all the cards. "Isn't it?"

"What?"

"Well, I mean, look at you, Sherlock." He sees his brother eye him from head down to feet. "Look what sentiment has done to you."

He remembers Eurus' face in the camera lens. The pride. The glee. All those little emotions. I can see them all over your face. It's like Christmas.

Mycroft is speaking again, the words coming as if through a distant haze. "Remember brother, all I did was in aide to keep you safe."

Sherlock shakes his head. Voice strong again, he sneers, "No, brother. All you did was in aide to protect yourself."

Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock…"

But Sherlock does not want to hear it. Shaking his head, he turns back to the cityscape, unable to look at his brother again when he admits, "I loved her, Mycroft."

He hears Mycroft scoff. "Don't be stupid, brother dear. It really does not become you. We Holmes, we do not love."

Sherlock turns, facing his brother, an almost ugly look of anger on his face. Stepping right into his personal space and not giving a damn about it, he growls, "The hell we don't."

The sudden ringing of a phone interrupts them both, and Sherlock feels the slight vibration in his hand, letting him know that it is his. He ignores it. Ignores the way his brother looks at him while he does so. There is silence for a mere second before the phone rings again.

Still staring daggers at his brother, he answers with a terse, "What?!"

"Sherlock." John sighs in what he thinks might be relief. Before he can say anything, his friend continues. "Where are you? Are you still at Bart's?"

Mycroft has taken the opportunity to step away from him, pulling his own cigarette from his pocket. Lighting it, he takes a long drag, seemingly ignoring his younger brother. But Sherlock knows better than to turn his back on him. Keeping his eyes fixed on his sibling, he answers John with a sharp "Yes."

"Oh, good." John sighs again. "I think, um, I think you better come back to the ward."

There is something in his voice than makes Sherlock blink, and turn from his brother. "What is it?" When he doesn't get an immediate answer, he falters. He cannot lose another friend tonight. More urgently, he asks, "John?"

"There's… there's something I think you're going to want to see."

The slight hesitance in his friend's voice has Sherlock moving towards the stairs before John has even finished his sentence.

"Are you ok?" When there is no immediate answer, Sherlock breaks into a loping jog, phone still clutched to his ear. "John. Are you ok?"

"Yeah, mate. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm really bloody good, actually."

There is a chocking note to his friend's voice that doesn't quite make sense. Like he is laughing and crying at the same time. Ah. John must be on some painkillers which are having an adverse effect on him. It does not slow his pace down any.

Understanding emotions may not be his strong suit, but that does not mean he doesn't recognise them in a voice.

It's just, mostly, he chooses to ignore what they might mean.

Especially when it is a hopeful note in Molly's voice when she is talking to him. Or the angry voice she uses when she is so furious she forgets the image of a meek person she portrays. Or how her voice breaks betraying the hurt she is feeling when he has opened his mouth against her in a pique of anger that he never actually means. Never. Never.

Holmes incapable of love? He snorts. Maybe Mycroft. Maybe Eurus. But surely what this complete clusterfuck of a day has proved is that he, Sherlock, can and does love.

Viscerally.

Didn't he prove that all those years ago when he jumped off a rooftop to save those his enemies thought were his closest allies?

Because while it is true that Sherlock Holmes knows how to love, he knows how to protect those that he loves more.

By hiding the truth from everyone.

Including her.

Especially her.

He stops, suddenly, there in the slightly open doorway to his friend's room, turning his back to face a slightly panting Mycroft who has followed him.

"How did she know?"

"What?" Mycroft pants. So much for gentlemen in haste.

"Eurus." When Sherlock still only gets a confused face in reply, he explains further (and he's supposed to be the thick one in this family.) "How did she know to come after Molly?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "I don't know."

Sherlock steps into his brother's personal space again, knowing how much he hates it when people, especially him, does that. Voice just above a whisper, he asks, "Did you pay her?"

True to form, Mycroft takes a step back. His eyebrow has risen in surprise again. Sherlock feels oddly pleased he can still get that reaction. Especially at the clear shock in his brother's tone when he asks, "What?"

Slowly, voice now dangerously quiet, he asks, "Did you pay Molly Hooper?" Unnoticed, his voice begins to rise. "Was she one of your, your spies? Was she reporting back to you my every move?"

Now it is Mycroft who scoffs. "Are you even listening to yourself, Sherlock?"

Behind them, the door to John's room has opened slightly, allowing their voices to carry. Neither Holmes brother pays it much attention.

Sherlock is shaking his head. "But no. No, Molly wouldn't do that. Because Molly Hooper is, was, a kind, selfless human being who only saw the good in everyone."

"Sherlock…"

He sees Mycroft eye something behind him, but this point is too important to interrupt, even for John. "Everyone, Mycroft."

Mycroft is still looking at John. "I really think…"

"I kept the world from seeing how much she meant to me because there are not enough people in the world like her and I was not about to paint a target on her back. And you and your scheming and your letting our murderous sister talk to Moriarty for five bloody minutes has destroyed that."

"If you would just…"

"She is dead because of you, Mycroft. And I will never forgive you for that. Never. Now leave."

He turns around, fully prepared to find out what John wanted to show him, when he stops.

Molly Hooper is standing in the doorway, tears brimming in her eyes. "Sherlock…"

But the last thing he can handle is her image reaching for him when he will never get to feel that again, and he tries to step around her. He knows he must look stupid to everyone, but there is no way he can walk through her, not even when he knows she is not real, but to his horror she steps into his pathway. Puts her hand on his arm.

It is so real he can almost feel the heat of her hand through his coat.

Can almost feel the weight it would have, resting as it is on his arm.

Can almost feel her breathing.

No. Not almost.

Can feel her breathing.

His eyes track from her hand to her chest to her eyes. They are red, he realises. Like she has been crying.

"Sherlock…"

Her other hand comes to rest on his cheek, and he freezes. Steps back.

"No."

"Mate…"

He eyes go from the vision before him to his friend in the bed, to his brother who, he belatedly realises, is still standing there. They are all looking at him.

At him.

Because of course, of course Molly is not there.

This, he thinks, is what going mad must feel like.

Unable, unwilling to fall apart with an audience, he does what he feels is his only option. Pushing past his brother, he turns and he runs.

He doesn't see the three very much real, very much alive people share a look before one of them turns and hurries after him.


TBC

Thoughts?