Chapter IX | Giving in and Opting Out

Jan. 6th

Dear Diary,

Today's Sherlock's 37th birthday.

Happy birthday.

I haven't seen Mycroft in days now. When Greg died, at first he was angry at me. Gave me a black eye. I was a little surprised he could hit that hard. But after a little while he told me it wasn't my fault. I'm still blaming myself for it.

I got Sherlock killed.

Then I got Greg killed.

I think Mycroft hates me. I don't blame him for it. I hate me. I hate this life. It's just… lonely.

I've tried checking on him, but every time I knock he doesn't answer. The door's locked so I can't get in. I don't know what's going to happen. I have to try to talk to him. I have to.

-John

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John sat in the kitchen and listened to the wind howl outside. The walkers had been quiet. More of them dropped every day from the cold and lack of food. Their food was holding out well, but that could be because neither one felt like eating. John sighed and pushed his food around on the plate as he stared at it. He knew he needed to eat it. There was no way he would have enough energy to get up the stairs again if he didn't eat it and he couldn't waste it. No way. So he forced it down, drinking some of his water with it. He looked over at the window when he heard a soft patter. Rain and snow mix.

Sleet.

Got he was glad that they didn't have to drive in this shit. He looked over and laid his head down against the table. The windows were boarded up, but he could still hear the walkers every now and then tapping against them. Never fail it made his body shudder.

A slight tremble of fear.

You would think after almost three years it would go away. But the blond wasn't sure if that was something that would ever go away. Not until the walkers were gone. But would they ever be gone? They all carried this… virus or whatever it was. Unless they could come up with a vaccine or something, they would never be able to fight it. The human race would die out, and everything would go back to nature.

John sighed and stood up from the table, taking his plate with him. He used some of his water and washed it off before letting out a sigh. The former doctor frowned and dug in his pocket for his wallet. Pulling it out, he opened it and looked over the photo there. He ran his calloused fingers over the image of Sherlock. His eyes started to sting again as he stared at it more. He covered his eyes with the back of his eyes and rubbed them a little, trying hard to hold back a sob.

CRRAASSSH!

SHHHAATTTEERRR!

John jerked at the loud noises from upstairs. He turned and pushed the photo back in to his wallet and moved out of the kitchen as he shoved it back into his pocket. He started to run, stopping at the corner of the stairs and looking up. "Mycroft?!" He called, standing still for a moment before walking a little farther. He stood in front of the bottom of the long stair case. "Mycroft are you okay?! Please talk to me!" He yelled up the stairs and waited for a response. John fidgeted in his spot when no noise came again from the room at the top of the stair. "My?" He asked in a soft voice as he gripped the banister and started to walk up towards the landing. His knuckles were white he was holding it so tightly. Heart beating out of his chest.

What's going on?

Why isn't he answering me?

God.

Don't let him be hurting himself.

"Mycroft! Answer me you prick! I don't care how much you hate me! Answer me now!" He yelled as he started to walk up the stairs a little faster.

Shit, shit, shit.

Click.

John stopped dead in his tracks when the door unlocked. Blue eye stayed locked on the top of the stairs as he listened to the soft, sock muffled footfalls. Mycroft appeared at the top of the stairs. His face was fuzzy and there were dark bags under his eyes. He stared down at John with a cold look that made the blond shiver. "Are you okay?" He asked looking up at him, letting go of the banner and standing there tensely. "I heard crashes, and something breaking." The brunette lifted his hand to show John. "I was angry. Broke one of the windows." He said examining the blood nonchalantly. As if it was nothing.

As if he literally felt nothing.

"W-Why were you angry My?" He questioned in a shrink tone.

"Stop! Calling me… My. Only Greg and Sherlock were allowed to call me that damn it!" He yelled, making John want to flinch, but the soldier in him made him just stare. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I didn't think it was a big dea-…"

"Well it is! You got them both killed John! Both of them! I trusted you, to watch my little brother, to keep him safe. And instead you got him turned into one of those… things, and had to put him down like a lame dog!" He yelled again, John could hear his voice cracking. Even in the dim light, John could see tears starting to rise in his eyes. "That's what he told me to do." The blond tried to keep his voice steady as he was confronted. He had no idea how badly it hurt to pull that trigger. To know, the person he loved more than anything was dead by his hands. He was a soldier. He was supposed to be trained to be good in these situations. But so far all he was good at was getting people he loved killed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about everything that happened with him. With Greg. I hate having to live with that guilt on me, but I accept it and I keep going because that's what they fucking wanted!" He yelled back at him but soon recoiled from himself and took a deep breath. John closed his eyes and sighed. A clicking noise made him open them and slowly lift his head. Mycroft stood at the edge of the step and shook his head as he stared down at John. "Oh shut up. Just shut the hell up! I'm glad you have to live with it. Personally I hope you live a long fucking time with it." He cock back the hammer and tilted his head to the side a little. "On the other hand."

This is crazy.

This is fucking crazy!

This isn't Mycroft!

It isn't…

John lifted his hands and shook his head a little. "No, Mycroft, stop and think for a second. Please. Would Greg want you to do this? To kill me? Would Sherlock want that?" He asked in the steady tone. "I don't give a fuck what they would have wanted! They're dead! Because of you. So I'm doing, what I want." He said in an unfeeling tone and pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through John's thigh and he screamed, leaning down to hold it. His hand was already soaking with blood. He looked up and Mycroft pulled back the hammer again with a another click. "Mycroft…" John whispered his name. All the memories flashed through his mind. All of Sherlock and all of Greg. Every Christmas, crime scene, abduction. As funny as it sounded in his head. He remember being comforted by both when Sherlock faked his death.

And now.

BANG!

The bullet ripped through his chest this time, making him scream and take a step back. It sent the blond toppling down the stairs. Rolling foot over head as he fell until landing at the bottom with a groan. John looked up at the figure at the top of the stairs. His vision was blurring in and out so much he could hardly tell who he was. Mycroft raised the gun and cocked back the hammer. He looked down at John who was trying to sit up. "No, no, Mycroft don't!"

Bang.

The blond let out a cry and laid back in the dust as he bled from the gunshot wounds. Mumbling over and over. "I'm sorry. God I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Fuck…" He turned on his side the best he could, sobbing for a while before he passed out.

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The world we live in now…

It changes even the most sane of people.

Maybe it's better to be dead then try to live when everyone else around you is dead.

Dying.

Killing themselves.

Maybe it's better.

Just maybe.