Pulling The Strings - File: Watson
During his lifetime, Sherlock Holmes would be described as many things. A childish petulant genius. Brilliant and mad and aloof. Wise. Frightening. All of those words suited him well. But few would ever describe him as human, someone wrought with emotions.
Mycroft didn't think he had ever seen him look so human. So frail. When did his hair get so gray? Surely not since he had last seen him. He seemed to have shrunk as well, as if he was diminishing in his grief.
He was so still as he sat there listening. The only thing that moved were his eyes as they watched the rain beating against the window. He never even looked at her.
"I really do need your help." she continued. "I've asked Mum but she said she wouldn't have anything nice to say. There isn't anyone else. Mr. Holmes, are you listening?"
He wasn't, Mycroft saw, not anymore. He spoke for him. "I'll make sure he takes care of it."
"Thank you so much. It's tommorrow at two, down on Whibley Street."
Mycroft took in a few more details as he showed her out. Sherlock had not moved from his chair when he came back, but he was again letting his eyes do all the work. He glowered magnificently at him.
"You shouldn't have agreed to it for me. I won't do it."
"Oh, and why not?"
"I wouldn't know what to say."
Mycroft gave him a stern look that said exactly what he thought of that statement. Sherlock went back to watching the rain. When he spoke again, Mycroft sensed that he was merely thinking aloud and he tried to blend in to the background as much as possible.
"What could I say? That I loved him? They wouldn't understand. If I loved him, why weren't we lovers? They would need to label it, wouldn't accept that it was enough for me to know he was there. They couldn't comprehend someone completing your life so well if they can't make it sexual, and I won't...I refuse to turn his memory in to that."
He paused to take a sip of cold tea. Mycroft still said nothing, and he pretended not to notice his tears. "Should I say that since I was a child I was told that I was lacking parts of myself, and that I met John and suddenly there were all my missing pieces? That he made it alright for me to be myself? That no one will feel his loss more acutely than me? Yes, they would love to hear that, with his ex wife and daughter in the front pew." He snorted at the thought.
"Maybe they need to hear it though. It would not to the worst thing in the world to let them try and understand."
Sherlock nodded reluctantly. When he was preparing to leave, Mycroft reminded him that he would pick him up the following day at noon (he agreed), he asked if he wanted his violin (he shook his head), and he urged him again to try and put together a eulogy. He would, Mycroft knew. This time and for this man. He was fairly certain that when he himself died, the most Sherlock would do was see to it that he was buried with the good umbrella.
It was strange, he thought as he made his way down the stairs. It wasn't just Sherlock but Baker Street itself that seemed to have gotten smaller. The kitchen still smelled of John's pasta sauce. His coat was still hanging by the door and his glasses were on the coffee table. But the building seemed to know he was never coming home again and it had wrapped itself in gloom and shadows like mourning clothes. Was the entire world greiving?
The next day, after dressing carefully, he directed the driver back to Baker Street. As if to spite yesterday's perfect atmostphere, the weather had cleared and it seemed like it was going to be a beautiful day. There was irony in that.
Mycroft rapped on the door several times. He didn't expect Sherlock to actually answer but he had hoped. After perhaps five minutes, he let himself in.
"Sherlock?"
He wasn't in the living room or the kitchen. He checked his bedroom and called out to him again.
"Sherlock?"
This time, he faintly heard a groan of reply. Of course. He was upstairs.
He had very few occasions to visit John's room but it was much as he expected it. Comfortable and homey. Currently, there was an elderly consulting detective sprawled across the tan bed spread that somewhat clashed with the decor. Also out of place were wads of paper scattered across the floor. Sherlock's aborted attempts, he supposed. He picked them up carefully as he made his way over to his brother.
He was just reaching out to shake him when Sherlock shifted in his sleep and revealed the rest of the bed's contents. A notepad, a pen, a belt and a syringe.
"Oh Sherlock..." he sighed in disappointment.
He stirred again at the sound of his name and opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings and Mycroft's disapproval. "I tried." he muttered. "I tried to put it down in words. How lonely I am now. How now, until the day I die, I am always going to be looking for someone next to me and no one will be there. It was all too much. I just," he nodded to the syringe, "I just wanted to remember the good times again, being young together, running through the streets of London."
He tried to sit up and Mycroft took his arm to help him, but the younger man wrenched out of his grip. "Is this what it is like to get old? Is this God's plan? To kill us with goodbyes until we simply give up? They're all gone Mycroft. How many funerals have I been to in the last five years? Lestrade, Ainsley, even Anderson who I never thought I would miss... . ... ...and I just can't do it anymore. Not this time. Not to John. I can't say goodbye to him. I will not put on my nice suit and sing the hymns and watch them throw dirt on the coffin."
With his eyes, he pleaded for Mycroft to understand. He pleaded with things unsaid, things he never could say. In an act of spontaneity, he hugged his younger brother fiercely to let him know that he did understand, that he would take care of it and as usual, Sherlock wouldn't even have to ask.
He left him curled up on the bed, covered up and feigning sleep. Syringe deposited somewhere safe. As Mycroft stood in Sherlock's place at the front of the church, he hoped desperately to not let down the memory of a friendship so remarkable that although no one understood it, everyone envied it. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.
"We are here today to pay our respects to John H. Watson..."
