I'd like to thank everybody who views this, and the people who review even more. Spanning twenty-two countries between 214 people (at the time of writing this: 2:45 P.M, Central Standard Time, 9/26/12) we're all bonded by this twisted, weird love of Sherlock. And Benedict Cumberbatch. *fangirl squee*
Love all of you guys- can't figure out why you like me so much. Is it something in the pixels?
Not Quite Nothing
7
Sometime, during the night, thanks to Mycroft's reassurances, Sherlock fell asleep.
When he woke up, it took him a second to realize it was because the rising sun was in his face.
Maybe it was just his internal clock signaling dawn, and he was imagining the subtle glow. It took him a moment to gather the courage to open his eyes.
It was still slightly fuzzy, but blinking cleared it up. The sun's rays peering over the distant hills, the sky brilliant orange and pink.
Not quite in the dark, Sherlock grinned.
"Mycroft."
The other had his back turned, had been sleeping peacefully. "Hmm?"
"I can see."
As Sherlock stood and made for the door, Mycroft smiled to himself.
"Sherlock?"
His hand on the knob, Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"
"Remember. They can take your senses, but they can't take your mind."
Something sparkled in those eyes, currently light, unearthly green in the fledgling dawn.
"You're right," Sherlock murmured. "They can't take my mind. They can't truly make us nothing."
Something that couldn't quite be expressed in words passed between the two brothers.
"Good morning, Mycroft," Sherlock said softly, easing the door so it wouldn't creak.
"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft replied.
**
For the first time in weeks, it was a peaceful dream.
It was quiet simplicity.
Nested happily in his favorite armchair, the Union Jack pillow at just the right spot on his back, for just a precious few moments, John was back in Baker Street.
Before it.
Sherlock stood before the window, delicately playing a tune on his violin, watching the city go by.
That was all.
A quiet moment with Sherlock Holmes.
And for some reason, that dream was more powerful than the nightmares.
How much morphine does it take to kill a man?
Study of a small group of heavy addicts- several years, four times daily doses of 75 milligrams. High resistance. Mine is fairly low, but there.
Severe addicts can take 200mg a day, having only moderate effects.
300mg? Three hundred-milligram syringes?
John stared at the ceiling. His lips curved.
That sounds about right.
And now, just to steal them from work, put his affairs in order, and take care of it.
**
When Mycroft woke up again, he knew, instantly, by the lack of the soft sounds of his brother through the floor, that Sherlock was not in the room.
Sometimes, Sherlock would snore quietly. Almost always he'd wiggle slightly, making the bed creak.
Or the small microphone he'd placed in the room and wired to his own would pick up the sound of his breathing.
Gone out for a walk on the moor, brother?
Without any hesitation, Mycroft went downstairs, pulled on his boots, and followed.
Sherlock had his preferred paths, his favorite haunts, marked by subtle trails that were easily mistaken for a deer's.
Until you considered that at night, if you stared out the window the deer didn't come often enough out of the woods to make those paths.
Looking at Sherlock's tracks in the fairly-soft dirt (very clear: he was intentionally leaving Mycroft a trail), judging from his stride, it was easy to figure out his mood.
Even, fairly slow gait. Mood calm, relaxed- just seeking to contemplate? If you'd wanted to be alone, you'd have concealed your steps. So you don't want to be alone. Trying to say that you don't really need companionship, either, or you would have stayed with me until morning. You want to talk, don't want to be heard, and want to convey your intentions with a little postscript of "unless you've got better things to do". Interesting. Or do you just want someone to watch the sunrise with?
So he followed the trail, and smiled to himself when he noticed a small deformity in a stump on the edge of the woods.
He picked out the bit of paper wedged in a new hole.
Seventh Spire. Come only if convenient. -S
This time, Mycroft grinned.
Seventh Spire was their name for the seventh ancient stone pillar they'd found that thrust itself out of the earth like a jagged fang. It was covered in ancient calligraphy and hieroglyphics, giving the brothers something that could be analyzed for hours.
It also had a brilliant view of the horizon.
**
When he arrived, just in time for the show, Mycroft walked up the hill that led to the pillar.
Sherlock, on the other side, never flinched as Mycroft pulled even with him.
The elder raised an eyebrow.
Without looking at him, the younger shook his head.
"Do you ever feel… small?"
Mycroft considered, biting the corner of his mouth the way he did when he was thinking seriously, a habit Sherlock had picked up from him.
"How so?"
"Like…" Sherlock, who still hadn't so much as glanced at his brother, gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the rolling hills of the moor and the woods on the left. "This has been here longer than we have, and it'll be here after we leave. Are we really here, Mycroft? Does it matter what we do? Are we more than fleeting thoughts on the wind?"
"Yes."
Mycroft's answer, so utterly absolute, drew Sherlock's eyes to his face.
"Say a man kills a soldier in a war. That soldier, being dead, does not go on to kill another man- another man who, if the first had not been killed, would be dead in his place. If the second was dead, he would not meet a lover after the war, nor would she bear his children."
Mycroft met his brother's eyes. "Us, Sherlock."
"And say that the first dead man was a hunter," he continued. "Say that the stag he would have killed, but did not, being dead, chooses to rub the soft bark off of a tree with his antlers. The tree, however, is a specific type that a specific type of insect has to have to survive, and is the only one for miles. Without the soft bark, the insects die. And without the insects she was specialized to eat, a bird starves to death. But the death of the first man prevented the escalation of a major war, and a major war requires supplies. The lack of need for those supplies allowed several more forests to continue to exist."
His eyebrows furrowed slightly, Sherlock also bit the corner of his lip.
"Consequences are very far-reaching, Sherlock. You just can never know who you touch. Even the smallest can make a difference, and never is there anything that is nothing."
**
Well, Mycroft, aren't you a philosopher.
If somebody can come up with a war that Kerran could be a veteran of, they get a cookie. As I seriously can't quite put together what Sherlock's age is, or what my timeframes are, whoever points out a significant war deal in, ah…. The sixties, fifties maybe, and perhaps a basic time frame- maybe just a hey Sherlock is X age during the series filming in 2009/10 deal, then they would also get a snippet from a future chapter of their choice.
Perhaps if I dangle a teaser about Sherlock's drug-addict past/future? Or maybe when Sherlock sees the scar on John's shoulder for the first time, where he was shot?
Reader choice. Suggestions welcome, reviews strongly encourage- they inspire me.
