Epilogue
It was a bit like dying, Mycroft reflected, as he walked beside Sherlock to the small puddle jumper. The plane would take his little brother as far as Heathrow, where he would board a passenger jet to Bulgaria under an assumed name.
Sherlock played his part most willingly, of course. He had shaved his head yesterday to divert attention from himself. He wore jeans, runners, and a light button-up tee shirt – the perfect tourist. Mycroft thought he looked the same as ever, but Sherlock was a tried and tested actor. The goldfish saw only what they wanted, and if this tall, skinny bald man bore some striking resemblances to that crazy old detective who had taken a swan dive from the fifth floor last week, well, it was a funny old world, wasn't it?
All the same, Mycroft cast another worried glance at his brother. Sherlock looked straight ahead.
It was like losing a limb.
"You remember the number to call when you land safely?" Of course Sherlock remembered the number. He had an eidetic memory. Still, Mycroft felt that he ought to say something. This was the last time he might see Sherlock.
Sherlock did not face his brother. Obviously, he might have said, on another occasion. Instead, he assured his brother with a surprisingly gentle, "Of course."
"Excellent. I'll see you in twelve months' time."
"Don't start any wars while I'm gone. I know how utterly boring England can be without me to distract you."
Mycroft grinned.
"On the contrary, brother dear, this might be the first year that Parliament actually accomplishes something meaningful."
Sherlock sighed, and turned to face his older brother. For a fleeting moment, he looked unsure of himself.
"I'll miss you," he murmured.
Mycroft's heart tore in two. His mask of cordial indifference slipped, betraying his fear, his grief.
"And… and I you, brother."
Sherlock's eyes softened, and he took Mycroft into his arms for a fierce hug before his brother had a chance to argue. Mycroft returned the gesture.
"If I don't return…" Sherlock began, then stopped himself.
Mycroft nodded, breathing in Sherlock's soft scent. "I'll tell John."
"Thank you," the younger man returned.
Mycroft gave him one last squeeze, trying futilely to impart his love for his brother in one small act. Sherlock squeezed back. They broke apart, as suddenly as they had come together.
Mycroft's mask was back in place. If he had seen Sherlock surreptitiously wipe his eye with his outside hand, he made no comment.
"Safe travels, brother mine."
Sherlock nodded.
Without another word, he turned and climbed up the steps onto the plane. Mycroft watched from a few yards off the runway as the little machine trundled forward and into the sky, carrying his baby brother away from him.