Chapter 3
Hi! Sorry for the long wait, I've had a lot of crazy stuff happening in my life recently. This chapter starts where chapter one left off. It's the last chapter of this series…thing.
Just a warning: this is really intense emotion-wise and description-wise. Sherlock is panicking, and there's a lot of blood, so if you think this might trigger you, I'd advise you to not read it.
Okay! I hope you enjoy it! :D
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
Previously:
"Sherlock…I-I…I want to see…Sherlock…" Mycroft's voice was getting weaker, and he trailed off again.
"Mycroft…Mycroft, it's me, Sherlock. Come on, stay awake. Stay…stay awake for me, okay?" Sherlock whispered.
Mycroft didn't move.
In fact, Mycroft stopped breathing.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS S
"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, shaking Mycroft's shoulders. At first, he shook them lightly, as though trying to wake up someone who was merely sleeping. But after a few moments, he began to shake him harder and harder, with the force of a desperate man trying to stop the inevitable.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. No response.
Sherlock shook his head and began CPR, his palms pressing on Mycroft's chest once, twice, again and again.
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He had to wake up, he just had to! The British government couldn't run without him, Sherlock thought.
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Sherlock wouldn't let him die. Sod the British government, who cared about them? Sherlock needed him. Mycroft swore to protect Sherlock as a child. Sherlock swore the same, remembering the summer day of the promise. Sherlock had fallen and twisted his ankle, and Mycroft was the one who picked him up and carried him home.
"It was stupid of you to try and walk home on a twisted ankle, Sherlock!" Mycroft scolded him. He had just finished wrapping his ankle when the conversation began.
"I figured no one else would come for a long while. I wanted to go home, so I did." Sherlock replied simply.
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"I would have come." Mycroft said, his voice serious.
"Maybe. Maybe after a long while. But I didn't want to stay there alone." Sherlock explained.
"You weren't alone. Not really. I'll always be with you, Sherlock. Maybe not…not physically, but no matter what happens, I'll always be in your heart." Mycroft whispered, poking the younger boy's chest lightly to get a light giggle out of him.
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"I'll always protect you, Sherlock. I promise."
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"Always?" Sherlock asked wistfully, looking into his brother's eyes for truth. Mycroft's eyes gleamed, and his reply was spoken with complete honesty.
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"Always."
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Three-
Sherlock felt an arm tugging against his shoulder. He continued anyway, ignoring the touch. Mycroft protected him, always protected him, always would protect him-
"Sherlock, stop. He's dead." John spoke cautiously, yet his voice filled with determination.
Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, he's not-"
"Sherlock." Lestrade whispered, leaning down next to him. "Sherlock, please, you have to understand. He's dead. I- I'm sorry, but you have to-"
"No!" Sherlock shouted. Lestrade and John looked back at him, shocked at his outburst. "No, he's not…he wouldn't."
So he continued pumping his hands against Mycroft's chest; begging, pleading for his heart to beat.
Sherlock felt arms wrap around his own, but he didn't fully notice them until they began to pull him away from Mycroft.
"No…" he whimpered. "No, no no no no no…"
Lestrade and John jerked him into a standing position, each one of them holding one of his arms. Sherlock took a moment to look at Mycroft's body, his bloody body, his own hands covered in blood-
Red. All he could see was red. Red, streaming over Mycroft, his Mycroft. First the older one, the one he knew now, but then the child; his older brother, who took him home that day with a twisted ankle. His older brother who taught him to see the world in a whole new way, a way where everything was so perfectly clear to him, cause to effect. His older brother who protected him, always, always…
The good memories of his brother stopped. The dreams, the beauty of it, it all went away. Suddenly it was just the body. The dead, cold, lifeless body that could never come back. The body of the boy who always protect him, yet the one time Sherlock could protect him, he failed.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock screamed, trying to wrench himself out of Lestrade and John's grasp. They held him firmly, and he began to scream his brother's name over and over, kicking and screaming- he had to get away from them, he had to get to Mycroft!
He felt them almost lose their grip, and there were lights, bright, bright lights- an ambulance? Then voices, so many voices…
As he looked over to Mycroft once more, dead, cold eyes staring back at him, Sherlock lost his hold on the world and everything went black.
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Sherlock awoke the next morning in Baker Street knowing exactly what had happened. He remembered his loss of control, his panic, the blood-
No. Best not to think of the blood right now. He looked down at his hands and saw traces of left-over stains of blood on them from before. The morning he awoke, he saw the blood on his hands, and after a ferocious and unforgiving flashback, he spent the next half an hour furiously scrubbing his hands, trying to get rid of the blood, trying to get rid of the red. But no matter how hard he tried, the red on his hands, his memories of the night, refused to fade.
The collar of his dress shirt muffled in the wind. He stood in front of a gravestone that read "Mycroft Holmes". Simple and plain; no dates, no inspirational quote, nothing but his name. Mycroft would have wanted it that way. It was efficient.
Sherlock suddenly remembered John's presence. He stood beside him, also wearing a suit. The funeral had just ended, the rest of the people had cleared off, and it was just him and John in the cemetery.
John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'll leave you to…say your piece, I suppose." John murmured, squeezing his shoulder and then stepping away and out of the cemetery itself.
Sherlock looked precariously at the headstone, and then sighed. "Doesn't make much sense to talk to a lump of stone, now does it?" Sherlock mused. "Well, I suppose your body is right below it; your wounds were cleaned out, the ceremony was open casket-"
Sherlock seemed to choke off, his throat constricting lightly as he remembered that Mycroft was dead, he couldn't hear him, he could never hear him-
"Look," Sherlock said, cutting off the voices protesting in his head. "You…you were a good man. You didn't deserve this. Dying…dying in an alleyway, I mean. Ridiculous, honestly; I mean, how often do you hear of common stabbings in an alley-"
He choked off again. The memory was too fresh, too sharp. He had to say his piece and go.
"You…you protected me. You always protected me. You swore that, and you kept up your end of the bargain. So…now it's my turn."
"You told me about those men. About their…conspiracy. I'll find them. I swear, I will avenge you…no matter what it takes."
"It's my turn to protect you, brother. You've done well."
With that, Sherlock walked away from the gravestone, determined to stop those men and set things right once and for all.
For Mycroft.
For his brother.
So, considering the ending of this piece, I've decided that I might write a sequel. It might take a while, though, because I have many other multiple-chapter stories up at the moment. I'll try and start on it a bit, and I'll probably post the first chapter as soon as I finish up one or two of those multi-chapter stories I have going on. (I think I have about six of them. I have a habit of starting something and then moving on to something else. But I'm trying to break that habit. So :P)
Anyway…if you liked this story, feel free to favorite it or review (reviews are great, because you're helping me improve my writing. And compliments never hurt ;) But whatever you think about my story, feel free to write in the review box. I really appreciate your opinions.)
Okay! Thanks for sticking with me for this story