Mycroft sat back in his chair, watching the fire. He was deep in thought, and stared at the journal that was in his hands—the journal his rash younger brother had kept despite his advice. The note that had accompanied it read simply: "Please forward to John if you don't hear from me within a few days." Mycroft knew this meant that Sherlock had at least safely made it to Dharamshala. The fact that Moran had turned up in London in that time could only mean that Sherlock had been found out. It had taken his agents too long to confirm that it had been Moran.
Moran suspected that John had been in contact with Sherlock. It had been Mycroft's job, however, to make sure John did not find out about Sherlock until the project had been completed. It was very close to finished now, and the faking of Sherlock's death had been extremely successful. Moriarty's criminal ring was now a handful of rogue agents, and Moran was the leader of those few. Without Moran, it would hold next to no power. It was one of the most successful of Mycroft's secret projects, and Sherlock had been an expert and quick-witted tracker, as Mycroft knew he would be. Sherlock was indeed peerless, and had kept himself alive on his skill alone for a long while.
But Mycroft had held reservations about letting Sherlock go out on his own. His younger brother did not follow orders, and adhered only to his own methodologies. Which meant his backup could only be limited. He knew also that Sherlock would have to do things he was not accustomed to. He had worried what his brother would be like when he returned, if he ever did. He no longer needed to worry about that, Mycroft thought, disconsolately.
Sherlock was a strict moralist. His morals, his own code of ethics, were exactly that—Sherlock's own. Beginning from first principles, Sherlock had decided and defined his own morals, uninfluenced by religion, law, or society. Consequently, his morals did not always align with those of law, religion, or society, which made him both a versatile agent and a dangerous adversary. Mycroft imagined it was one of the things that drew John to Sherlock so severely. John saw this remarkable feat of intellectual honesty, and yes—humanity—in his brother, when so many others did not.
Mycroft had noticed it long ago, and he was keenly aware of how dangerous it was for his brother. Shunned by his peers, and scrutinized by the law—unacceptable to most of society. They found his skills convenient and remarkable, of course, but they did not associate with him. Mycroft had the same skills, but he could blend in. Sherlock found it impossible and unbearably frustrating to even try. He had never held any desire to fit in with everyone else. He had long ago let go of any thought that it might be possible. Sherlock was eccentric and his intensity was uncomfortable to most people. He was a different point of view, an outlier; however, he was a breath of fresh air for John Watson, and John had accepted him.
John was somebody that Mycroft trusted with his brother, to watch out for him. And so he felt like he had failed two people. He had left Sherlock to fend for himself, as he ever wanted, and he had left John to believe that his best friend had committed suicide, though for his own protection, and of course, for that of a great deal of the civilized world. He had not heard from Sherlock for two days since receiving the journal. One of his agents had made a mistake, and now Sherlock was missing. Sherlock, one of the greatest minds of his time, an innovator in scientific thought, and his own little brother, was gone because of a morbid game gone wrong.
Mycroft struggled with what to do with the journal. It would throw John's life cruelly back into chaos—how could it do otherwise, when its contents would show that John had been lied to, and that Sherlock, with Mycroft's help, had knowingly left him with unanswered questions and years of pain, that his best friend had been alive for the last three years, but made no contact with him; how could it do otherwise, when its contents would reveal that nothing was as it seemed, and that even though Sherlock had been alive just a few days ago, he was now gone.
Sherlock would hold no such qualms—he had always intended for John to know the truth, no matter how painful it would be, and no matter what John would think of him. The decision to fake his death had been an easy one. It would have required less effort to die, but he had seen an opportunity to destroy Moriarty's network. That is not to say that it had not been extremely difficult to do. Sherlock had been torn apart when he called John, and he had been haunted by the sound of John screaming his name in the horrible realization that he was about to witness his friend die. It had been emotionally painful, but the decision had been easy. No, Sherlock had not struggled with the decision, and he would not have struggled with this one. John would be hurt, but he would be better off knowing the real reason for his friend's last words, and the real reasons for his eventual demise. John deserved to know what his friend had done for him. Sherlock had sacrificed his reputation and likely his friendship with John as he had made that final call. He had accepted the danger and turmoil of the next three years for the sake of other human beings. Mycroft had no delusions that Sherlock had been interested in Queen and Country when he had jumped off that roof.
Still, Mycroft struggled with the crushing guilt. But it was his to deal with, and no one else's. He ran his hand over the cover of the journal, and searched his mind for any logical reason for why his brother might still be alive. The only hope lay in the fact that he had received no reports of his body being discovered, but it meant little. He should have heard something by now, and Sherlock had been left alone in India, without backup, and thoroughly burned. They had found out he was still alive, and now all that Sherlock had worked for was at risk. They had already come after John. Mycroft had sent people out to find Sebastian Moran, and he hoped that his agents could accomplish what Sherlock had failed to do thus far. He desperately wanted to protect John from Moran, but the best way to do that now was to ensure that he knew every sordid detail.
He stood up suddenly, and laid the journal on his empty chair. He grabbed his coat and umbrella. He buttoned it slowly, pacing a little. He walked back to the chair, picked up the discarded journal, and tucked it into his coat pocket. He began towards the door, but stopped in front of it, his arm in mid-reach for the handle. He closed his eyes against an unwelcome thought, and turned around, walking over to his desk. He opened a drawer, and rummaged around, removing a handgun. He checked the chamber quickly, and then tucked the weapon into his waistband, underneath his jacket.
It was raining before he reached John's flat, and Mycroft noted that it was nearly midnight, but he got out of his car anyway, and as the driver pulled away, he realized he had forgotten his umbrella. He walked to the door and knocked, disregarding the rain.
John opened the door, apparently still awake. He peered at Mycroft, confused, "Mycroft?"
Mycroft looked at John, his eyebrows furrowed with worry. He blinked, and rain ran down his face.
When John let him inside, Mycroft unbuttoned his coat, but kept it on. John offered him a seat, but he shook his head, waving John off, but still not speaking. John was puzzled, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Do you need something?" He eventually asked, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another.
Mycroft inhaled sharply, and lifted his head, having been looking at his feet before. "I—," he started, then stopped, and cleared his throat. "I have something for you."
John squinted at Mycroft, unable to read what was on his face. He looked uncomfortable, and it was making John nervous. "Ok," John replied, still confused. "What is it?"
Mycroft slowly and painfully pulled the journal from his coat, and his breathing hitched as he ran his hands over it. He then offered it to John, his face paling. John reached for it, searching Mycroft's eyes. John studied it for a brief moment, and then looked back at Mycroft.
"Forgive me, John," he choked out, and whirled around, and was gone.
Mycroft closed the door to the flat, and leaned against the outside wall, his eyes moist with unshed tears. He blinked rapidly, and then closed his eyes. He covered his face with trembling hands.
John gazed at the spot where Mycroft had been, then back at the journal, his mouth open in disbelief. He flipped open the front cover. On the inside it read: "Sherlock Homes, post-mortem". John froze. It was written in Sherlock's handwriting. He looked at the door again, and then moved to the sofa, sitting down. He flipped the page. It was dated the day of Sherlock's funeral. John blinked once. He raised his eyes from the page, not comprehending what he was reading. He took a shaky breath, and then read it again. The date was the same. He continued reading: "The day of my funeral." He stopped, and re-read the line. And again. He slumped back into the sofa, as the full force of the realization hit him.
Sherlock had been alive.
He felt numb and confused. Breathing heavily, he lowered his eyes again to the journal, and continued reading: "I can't believe Mycroft ordered that bloody stupid headstone! He did it just to anger me. How mature. I'm sure John would agree with me. Why do people even have headstones? As if the placement of your dead body actually matters or holds any significance whatsoever." John looked up again, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth hanging open in utter shock.
He blinked rapidly, and flipped through the pages, stopping on a random entry. It read: "For a fake genius, I certainly am making good progress with Moriarty's web of agents. At any rate, it was obviously the assistant. He was underpaid for his qualifications, and his IQ was at least thirty points higher than the lab supervisor's. He really should have been careful not to carry around his extra-curricular research notes. Breaking into lockers really is child's play, John, as you know. Did he honestly think that in a lab full of chemists, no one would notice materials missing that could be used in the synthesis of explosives? Well, I suppose I was the only one who did notice. Even after neutralizing the Marseilles agent, I do want to finish that research I started a month ago. It should only take another week to complete the synthesis of that new tar derivative."
John inhaled sharply, and then snapped the journal closed. He leaned into the back of the sofa, trying to control his breathing. Sherlock had been alive. John blinked back tears. He had not died when he plummeted from the roof of St. Bart's. John felt himself falling into shock. The edges of his vision seemed to blur, and his blood rushed in his ears. He tried to breathe deeply, but his heart was racing. How? Why?
With shaking hands, he managed to open the journal once more, and flipped through the pages to see how many entries had been made. It was nearly full, and he stopped at the last one, running his hands over the letters, not comprehending them, in wonder. It was definitely the scratchy handwriting of his friend. John swallowed the lump in his throat. These were words written by Sherlock, who was long-ago deceased. Supposedly. He felt the smallest flicker of hope spring up in his chest, just as a crushing disappointment and feeling of betrayal arose also. His eyes watered again, as the hope became completely overshadowed by the fact that his friend must have been alive, but had never contacted him. John held a hand over his mouth, dropping the journal into his lap.
After marginally regaining his composure, he forced himself to read the last entry, and a nagging corner of his mind reminded him that Sherlock always had reasons for his actions. He wanted so desperately to believe there had been a reason for this. If this could even be real.
Frozen to the spot, he read the entire journal. By the time he had finished, he had been crying steadily for the past hour, and the morning light had begun to filter through his curtains. He closed the journal, buried his face in his hands, and wept.
An hour after reading the last words of the journal, John found himself at Mycroft's office. He strolled in, and Mycroft looked up from his desk. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before, and he had obviously been awake all night. He slowly put the pen he had been holding down. He pushed himself up from his seat and warily walked around the giant desk to greet John. Mycroft observed John's body, which was entirely tense. He was pale, and his eyes were red, and he sniffed, walking across the room towards Mycroft, not pausing or slowing until he stood right in front of him, looking directly into his grey eyes.
Mycroft started to open his mouth to speak, but was immediately cut off by a punch to the face so forceful that he fell against his desk, scattering the various objects that had laid on top of it. Mycroft blinked, massaging his jaw, and sat up slowly, gazing at John. John glared at him for a moment, then grabbed his collar and forced him up.
"Is he dead?" John demanded, his face inches from Mycroft's. His eyes bored into Mycroft's.
He winced, and then replied, "We think so."
John scoffed, and nodded, choking back a sob. He abruptly released the taller man, and pushed him away. He then turned on his heel, and marched out of the office. The journal remained tucked securely underneath his arm.
Mycroft sat on his desk for a moment, rubbing his jaw. He then quickly got up and ran out the door, after John. He burst into the street, and he caught sight of John disappearing around a corner. He spied a man get up from a bench, discard a newspaper, and follow him. His eyes widened, and he felt for his gun, hesitating for an instant. Ignoring his reservations, he began to run after John's retreating figure and the man following him.
