A/N: Okay, so some folks have messaged and begged for a quick update. Yay! Glad y'all are enjoying it so much, and here it is. However, I doubt that you're going to like where this chapter leaves you. Especially since I probably won't have any time tomorrow to do the next one as quickly. Warning: Much pain and angst ahead…seriously. It hurt to write even when I know what's going on.
Mycroft couldn't believe what his agents were reporting to him. Dr. Watson could not, could not, be so insufferably stupid… He fumed, and one of the agents at his door could just picture the wafts of smoke setting adrift from the man's aristocratic posture. Mycroft's eyes went still and unfocused as he began to internally examine the evidence presented before him. He shifted through it all, and then decided to further examine the subject of his troubles. Perhaps inspiration could be found there? John H. Watson. Military doctor. Self-proclaimed "broken man" who was supposedly "fixed" by Sherlock's influencing presence in his life. Take away that influence, and what is left? A man who has been rebroken, with the pieces much smaller this time. A man now emotionally unstable who would resort to texting a dead man in order to seek comfort. And who would further text that same dead personage whilst entertaining suicidal ideations. Damn him! Him and his human need for closure. He had forced Mycroft's hand in this.
Outwardly, Mycroft still appeared to be staring at the contents displayed on his desk in the myriad folders, files, and open desktop icons on his computer. Inwardly, he seethed at his impossible situation. Watch over Dr. Watson? Yes, Sherlock. But I had never thought it would come to this. Be sure he would never come to any harm? Yes, Sherlock. I will watch over him as you would yourself. Then he blinked, hard. But you were never supposed to die! That wasn't part of the plan, and Mycroft would never forgive his brother for it. Not that any of that mattered a whit to the consulting detective. Although, he had to admit, it had never mattered to him while alive, so why would it now "posthumously?" He could almost laugh at that. Almost. One quarter of his left eyelid twitched, the only outward sign that anything was wrong.
Damn it! He had never wanted to get more involved than simply observing the other man. But now…but now…he himself had crossed a line. Made yet another mistake where it concerned his baby brother. He never should have interfered in the first place, then it wouldn't have progressed this far. Forbidding John to text had only made it worse. And then, when the agent monitoring the internal workings of 221B Baker Street had reported that, at 30 minutes after midnight seven days ago, John Watson had been drinking…and had been cleaning his gun…Mycroft knew he had to act fast. And so he made a decision that was based more on instinct than logic in that moment. And now he needed to correct that mistake before it got John killed.
He didn't actually like being the bad guy, despite what his cold exterior may exude, he simply chose not to dabble in, or open himself to, experiences that could potentially leave him vulnerable. Like this. Oh, why couldn't the stubborn man just let my brother go? he bemoaned. People died all the time. Their friends and relatives mourned. They all moved on. Well, he thought as a side bar, perhaps it is more correct to state that the majority of the population moves on after the dead have been dealt with. After all, there were those numerous cases of such attachment, love, and sickening devotion wherein the remaining lover wastes away slowly, eventually following the predecessor into the unknown…
Mycroft's head snapped up, his eyes gone wide. The movement startled one of the agents, who began to move forward until a quick upward flick of a hand halted him. Mycroft's widened eyes became narrowed to slits with a new line of thought, and he leaned forward, placing his chin on the backs of his overlapped hands. So little brother, you did not simply "fix" the good doctor. No. You did something else entirely to him. And the elder Holmes' eyes slowly slid shut as he realized, And I have just compounded a bad situation into a terrible one with my actions. But if I didn't act, who knows what John might have done?
There was nothing else for it, though. John had been easily noted as being clinically depressed for the five days following Mycroft's visit. And then, suddenly, yesterday morning, he had emerged from the flat as though the world was perfect. Nothing wrong. Not a care in the world. Practically…peachy. And because he had noticed it, he knew that any other kinds of agents monitoring 221B would notice it as well. He pushed back from the desk, sitting up straight in his chair as he reached into his pocket for something. This will be the breaking of him, he thought unhappily as he pulled it forth. But if it will keep the doctor from becoming a late victim of Moriarty, then Mycroft would personally see that John was institutionalized until his mental state regained its balance. He looked down at the phone in his hand. And then he set it before him on the desk…right next to his own… Oh Sherlock…what have you done to us all?
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
John was lying sideways across his chair with a crossword laid over his abdomen as he pictured, once again, what he believed must have happened during the night, that glorious night, when he found that his best friend still lived. He played it over and over again in his head. The sorrow etched into Sherlock's features, evident only for those who knew him closely. The slight tremor of his hand as he took the risk and sent a message to John from beyond the grave. And the special smile John loved, the one that held a dark, inner mirth. Half-smile, half-smirk. There and gone, flitting across his lips like a remembered dream. That was how he pictured the detective as he had sent that last message; the one John held against his heart as proof that the world isn't so bad a place after all. Could be dangerous. –SH
And it was within this happy realm of thought, in the late afternoon, when he heard a cough from behind and to the side of him. Neither of the Holmes brothers had ever learned to knock or announce themselves it seemed. But John was suddenly excited to see Mycroft. Finally! Someone he could share this wonderful secret with! And then the light that had begun to brighten his features dimmed a bit as he thought, Wait a bit…if Sherlock's alive… Oh bloody hell, he probably was in on the whole damn thing. That's why he was so adamant about my stopping the texts! It hit him like a sack of concrete. And upon reaching this conclusion, John's eyes came back into the sweep of Mycroft's penetrating gaze.
"Mycroft, I have to ask you something, and it's..." "Stop, John," the other man interrupted brusquely, "Just stop." He swept into the room and came to stand in front of where John had now clambered to his feet beside the chair. "Sit back down, John. You won't like what I'm going to say." But John needed to get it out, all of it, "But I know, Mycroft. I know! Don't you see? I've figured it out. I've even had proof. Sherlock..." "Is dead," finished the elder Holmes, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and growing more so by the second. John made an exasperated noise in his throat, "No, Mycroft. I know he's alive. You don't need to pretend anymore, as I'm sure you're in on the whole bloody damn thing. It's probably you that's keeping him a secret from me, isn't it? Your idea. And while I don't appreciate any of this, I can understand…the reasons…behind…it…" John trailed off as he saw, really saw, Mycroft's expression.
Somewhere between sorrow and pity, the eyes that could give foreign monarchs episodes of irritable bowel held a single word within their depths. And John could read the word clearly. Sorry. He swallowed an uncomfortable feeling. "Mycroft…?" John said as he started to reach for his phone to bring out the aforementioned proof. And the other man held up his hand, meaning for John to not go through with it, but it only slowed the doctor's hand instead of stopping it. John scrolled down through his messages, noting as he did that Mycroft had pulled out his own phone, too, and was typing something into it. Odd. And then John found it. His three precious links back to life. He smiled as he turned the screen around to exhibit them.
Mycroft didn't look up at first; he just finished his fiddling with the phone. Then he looked up at John, not John's phone, with a soul burning ache evident all over his expression as he hit the screen in his hand one last time. Send. The elder Holmes' eyes slid closed. John felt a cold begin to work its way up his spine. Bleep! His eyes blinked at the sudden interruption of a message alert issuing from the device in his hand. And he felt…time…slow...as he turned the screen back to face him. His pupils focused in on the new words that appeared just under the last message received. A repeat. And the world fell out from under him.
10/8 Could be dangerous. –SH
He felt the air thicken, his heart began to pound, and his vision tunneled into one focal point. The words on the screen mocked him. And he felt an unreality settle around himself. He felt…undone. His eyes regained their function slowly, and he looked back up in horror at Mycroft…who was holding two phones. His own…and…Sherlock's… And his brain flatlined. No…no…no…No…No…No…NO…NO…NO! And then he realized he really was screaming. At Mycroft. At Sherlock. At anyone in his mind. What betrayal was worse than this?! How could there ever be anything worse than having your soul torn apart, pieced back together and returned, only to then be frozen and broken into a million shards of glass, each one tearing new wounds as it passed through him? Oh, he hurt. And this pain was a living thing inside of him. It began in his bones and seeped out into his organs, his skin, his eyes, his heart… It was a sickness of the body and spirit. With no cure, and no way to ease it.
John wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to be left with his pain. Wounded animal that he was. Dying in spirit. He sent out a thought into the ether, You were right, Sherlock. Alone is what protects people. Mycroft attempted several times to calm him. To reassure him. To proffer him any kind of assistance that the world had to offer. But he wanted none of it. He only wanted the other man to leave. And he did, eventually, after obtaining the gun and placing one agent at the entry door and another monitoring per video and audio placed within the flat's interior. Mycroft made a quick stop off a few streets over before heading back to his office, where he fully intended on focusing all of his remaining efforts to finding the last of Moriarty's damned associates, one Sebastian Moran. Once that man was out of the picture, things would be much easier for John. Oh, John. I'm so sorry. I often thought my brother was the world's biggest fool, but it seems you and I are in the running as well.
