Chapter 21:

Death

Sherlock remembered the day his mother died. It was a Sunday. It was raining. They had gone to the manor to visit her as they always did religiously, or while work and family allowed them to. All of them were present. And it was just after lunch when his mother said she needed to lie down for a bit that she asked him to help her.

"Eli is lovely," Elizabeth said softly. "If your father was alive he would say she's an angel."

"She inherited most of Jane's features."

Something in his mother's eyes told him this was the last time they were talking.

And that she was dying.

"Six children, Sherlock."

"I know."

"Imagine how many grandchildren you and Jane will have," His mother smiled tenderly at him. "Christmas shopping will be the death of you."

The detective smiled just slightly. "It already is."

"My son," Elizabeth cupped Sherlock's cheek with her warm hand and smiled at him, tenderly, lovingly. "My dear baby. My last baby. I still remember the day you were born. You took your time."

Elizabeth spent more than fifteen hours waiting for Sherlock to come to the world and every contraction felt like a stab. It wasn't until late in the night when her son was finally born.

Sherlock merely leaned to her touch.

"I did my best. I tried very hard to give you all the love you needed," Elizabeth whispered, a tear rolling down her face. "I know it wasn't enough. But I'm thankful to Jane."

"You were a good mother."

She smiled. "I'm sorry for not caring. For not helping you when you most needed me."

"That was ages ago, mother."

"It is hard to be a parent. It is an every day fight between what you want and what we think it is the best for you."

"I know. I've got six children," Sherlock said softly.

She smiled. "I'm happy I got the chance to see you and Mycroft growing up, having each their families, their children."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I'm tired, son."

"I know, mother. Get some sleep before tea."

Both knew she was not going to wake up.

Sherlock helped his mother to get into bed and held her hand for the last time. "I love you son. Don't ever forget how much I love you."

"I love you, mother."

Sherlock had seen her mother suffering when his father died. As her mother was several years younger than his father, she knew she still had long years before she died and be with her husband again. He knew she didn't want to die because she wanted to see her last grandchild, Eleanor, growing up, becoming a little girl and then a woman. His mother wanted to see his grandchildren having their children, see the family growing and growing, but she had to die. She had to. It was life.

People die every day.

But it wasn't fair that one of his sons had to die.

No one ever tells you what is like to lose a son. No one. It is always natural to lose a father, a mother, parents. Not your own children. Your own children are meant to bury you.

Not the other way around.

David was taking wounded people, children and doctors to a hospital. He was flying an helicopter and he was considered the best pilot. He had earned lots of medals and honours. He was the youngest to ever train recruits. He knew the maps like the palms of his own hands.

David Watson Holmes was famous among his mates for having a sister who was an awarded and very much talented actress, for having a father who was a brilliant detective, for having a twin brother in Iraq who was a hero, almost a legend and, mostly important, to give his own life for the lives of civilians. David had flown in the middle of the night countless times and had always completed all the missions he was assigned to.

It was a risky mission but he didn't care. His mates told Sherlock and Jane that he looked confident and that he promised the doctors and wounded civilians he would take them to the nearest hospital.

He knew it was dangerous, but he didn't care. He dropped the people off and tried to escape, but it was too late.

And two days later his body was sent back to London.

It is also said twins are so close one can feel when the other is in pain.

Benedict, for no apparent reason, knew something was wrong. And when later that day he was notified about his twin brother being killed in action in Syria, he collapsed.

The day David was buried Benedict decided not to ever go back to the army.

Everyone cried. It hurt.

Benedict was angry. He almost punched Hamish when the older brother tried to hug him.

He's my brother. We were conceived together. We grew up in mother's womb together. We were born together. You don't understand.

Not only Benedict, but Hamish, Lock, Sophie, their respective partners and Eleanor were sad, broken, destroyed.

And Jane said she wanted to die.

David was merely twenty six years old. He didn't have a girlfriend back at home, but many of his friends from all his life attended the funeral. All of them cried with Benedict and some shared the nice moments they spent with him.

No one can understand the pain that comes when a son dies. David did not die. David was killed. And what hurt his parents was knowing he was indeed killed just because he was helping people... but after all, that was David. He knew the mission was dangerous but he insisted.

Both Jane and Sherlock pressed a last kiss to the closed coffin and watched it being buried.

"This is Benedict," Sherlock said, his eyes on the baby he was holding with his left arm. "And this is David."

David was little. Very little and he didn't cry when he was born. The first one coming to the world was Benedict and then David. According to the doctor David was on the right side of Jane's womb.

And they rarely felt the baby in that side kicking.

As a baby, David worried his parents constantly because of his behaviour. He barely cried and when he did, it was soft. Benedict cried far too much and had quite a pair of lungs, but David was always calm. Jane and Sherlock thought he might suffer from autism, but David was very clever and as the years passed, he became a very lively child. He and David loved football, chocolate milkshake, cookies, action films and Doctor Who.

Sherlock remembered David always running to Jane's arms every time he cried because Benedict had been mean to him or just because he was scared after a storm. Benedict would always run to his. It was clear that David was much more closer to Jane than to him.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Benedict?"

The three year old patted his leg to get his attention. "David."

"What is it, David?" The detective said, his eyes still on the experiment which was to help him to caught a criminal.

"Love you, daddy."

That was enough to forget an experiment, a criminal, anything.

Sherlock held his son in his arms and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I love you too, David."

"What's that?"

Sherlock showed his son a blood sample. "Experiment."

"Wanna go to the park?" David asked, holding a soccer ball and his keys. "Today's not so crowded."

"I'm busy."

Fifteen tear old David left the ball on the floor and turned the tv on. He watched old reruns of Doctor Who alone in the living room since Jane, Sophie and Eli went shopping, Benedict was at a friends' and Hamish and Lock had already moved out.

"Weren't you going to the park?"

"Remember when we were little?" David said, a bitter smile on his face. "You played with us."

"You said you wanted to be a footballer."

"I'm not that good at it."

"Have no one to play with?" The detective asked, sitting across his teenage son.

David shrugged. "I wish I could be like Ben. He's friends with everyone. He's popular and all the girls like him."

"Don't wish to be like your brother."

"Why? You know that approximately nine out of ten girls fancy him?" David said. "All of them find me ugly. I could wear his clothes and they'd still like him best."

Sherlock wanted to laugh. "At least you've got manners and you don't wank in the bathroom every damn morning."

David laughed. "He thinks you don't know."

"I know everything about all of you. You can't hide things from me."

"Really?"

"Try me."

David smiled. "Sophia."

"She auditioned for a play in the National Theatre but didn't get a part. She didn't tell us because she felt embarrassed."

"Mish."

"Hamish cheated on his girlfriend with a classmate."

"Lock."

"Your brother Sherlock called yesterday and said he was doing research but he's in Ibiza having fun with another young man."

David blushed. "By having fun -"

"He's having sex and surely walking around naked in one of those beaches -"

"Too much information, dad!"

"Come on, let's go to the park," Sherlock said, standing up and looking for his coat.

David remained on his place. "Can we just stay here? I'll pop in downstairs and buy something for tea."

"Gladstone needs to walk," the dog was already waiting at the door. "And you need to do exercise. Soldiers ought to be fit."

"You sure you wanna play? You could fall and break a leg."

"I'm forty-three!"

"Old man!"

"It's not the end of the world, mummy," David said, hugging his mother tightly. "It's just some training. We're not even going to use guns, you know."

"Yes we are!"

David glared at his twin brother. "Benedict!"

"Take care of yourselves," Jane said with tears in her eyes. "Promise me you'll be back safe."

"We promise." Both Benedict and David said in unison.

Sherlock hugged both of his sons. "Behave. Remember that for every swearing you'll be made to clean the floors with your toothbrush."

"I'll behave!"

The detective turned to David. "You don't do anything stupid."

"Such as?"

"Getting yourself killed."

David smiled. Tears were already clouding his eyes when he made the classic military gesture, already saying goodbye before going to Afghanistan for the first time. "I'll learn to fly helicopters and I promise you I'll do my best to make you feel proud of me, dad."

"I'm already very proud of you."

Both returned safely. Benedict earned a medal and David learnt to fly three different helicopters. He was awarded with a medal which he gave to his father Sherlock.

Something like eight years later, they were saying goodbye for the last time.

Benedict left earlier, saying he wanted to spend some time with his girlfriend before leaving. David, who was single, stayed at home during his last day in London. He ate breakfast with his parents and his little sister Eleanor, then helped Jane with the shopping, washed the dishes after lunch, played cards with his sister and finally got himself ready to go.

"Why you don't have a girlfriend, David?" Eli asked. "Oh, I bet you have one."

"I'm fine this way," David said, packing a picture of the family. "Besides... I don't want to have a lady waiting for me here when I'm abroad most of the time."

"And why Benny has one?"

"Because your brother is a womanizer," Sherlock replied.

"Got everything?" Jane asked.

David nodded. "Yes."

"Good bye, David!" Eleanor threw her arms around her brother's neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'll send you letters! Oh, and we'll skype, right?"

"Of course. You be a good girl to mum and dad."

"Good bye my baby," Jane said, with tears in her eyes. "You'll be back for Christmas, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Jane smiled. "Good. Because I'm cooking your favourite. Come back soon. I'll pray for you and your brother."

"Thanks, mum."

Then, the detective smiled to his son and hugged him. "Don't do stupid things. Remember -"

"Yes, dad. I'll run."

"Come back safe, David."

David smiled. "Remember the envelope inside my top drawer."

Ever since joining the Army, both twins had written their wills. Jane cried when they told her about it, but then, several years later, it was just a joke. David always wrote a new one before leaving. Benedict stopped writing them, saying nothing will ever happen to him.

In the last one, David asked, in case he died in action, to be sent to London and to be buried. He left his CD's to his siblings and asked for his clothes and other belongings to be given to the homeless.

"Run, David," Sherlock whispered to him. "Don't play the hero and run."

"I promise you I'll be back safe, dad. You promise me we'll play football."

"I promise."

That was the last time they saw him alive.

"I should've stopped him," Jane sobbed against Sherlock's chest the night they had buried their son. "I should have never let him join the army."

Sherlock cried silently. Heavy tears rolled down his face at the memory of that day when they said goodbye to their son for the last time. "There's nothing we could have done. It was what he wanted, Jane."

"My baby... he was so little when he was born... so little in my arms."

"I know."

"It's not fair, Sherlock."

"I know." The detective pressed a soft kiss to his wife's forehead. "I know, love."

Jane cried for long minutes until she was so tired that she fell asleep in her husband's arms. Being very careful, Sherlock slid out of their bed and walked upstairs to the twins room. Or to what used to be their room. Everything was clean, neat. Benedict was sleeping on his bed, with his back to the door. Sherlock walked towards David's desk and looked at the framed pictures hanging on the walls. There were lots of pictures of him with Benedict as children, pictures of their birthday parties, pictures with friends, with their girlfriends and one with their favourite footballer.

There was one picture taken the day they were born. Sherlock cried when he found it. He was sitting next to Jane at the hospital. Jane looked exhausted, tired. Both were looking at the camera, both were smiling. Sherlock was holding both twins, each on each of his arms. Jane was resting her head over his shoulder.

David was so little.

"Benedict," Sherlock said, holding the first baby in his arms.

Jane cried and looked at the second baby in her arms. "His name's David."

"They are beautiful."

"They look like you," Jane whispered while breastfeeding David. "I'm sure they are going to be very handsome men like their father."

Sherlock smiled.

He could still recall their smell, how they cried, how they looked like when they were born and every single moment of their childhoods. Benedict started talking and walking first while David could barely articulate a word and he only crawled all around the flat.

"I want to be a detective like you, daddy," David said one day when he was five years old.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"Yes. I'll be David Watson-Holmes, Consulting Detective," the boy said with a bright smile. "Like you."

But he was gone. David, his son, was dead.

"Can't sleep, old man?"

"I need a cigarette but your mother will kill me."

Benedict smiled bitterly. "You know, David fancied a girl back in Syria. Her name was Jade." Benedict sat on his bed and looked at David's, which was opposite his. "She was a nurse or something or the sort. She was helping at the hospital David always went to to take patients and doctors. He said she always covered her hair and her face. That he could only see her eyes. But he loved her. He once..." Benedict smiled.

"What?"

"He said he'd become a muslin and marry her once the war was over. They never talked, David said he was too shy," Benedict said. "He only knew her name and what colour her eyes were."

Sherlock chuckled. "So that's why never dated women."

"He never got to tell Jade he loved her."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I can't look at myself in a mirror and don't think of David. We were identical twins. The only thing different about us was our way to see things," Benedict said softly. "I don't think I can live without him, dad. David and I... we felt things, you know. He could tell when I was sad when a girl left me. And I could tell when he was desperate to come back home and be with you and mum. I felt when he died. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what it was."

The detective sat next to his son on his bed and cried with him. "It's OK, Ben. Go to sleep now."

"How could you tell us apart, dad?" Benedict asked once he stopped crying. "I looked at our pictures and we look the same. I can't even recognise myself on them."

Sherlock smiled. "I always could. Since you two were two little babies and your mother dressed you in matching clothes."

"God, mum made us wear those awful jumpers! But how could you tell us apart?"

"A father always knows."