Kind, That is what you all have been to me. Thank you for staying.
How the hell does he matter?
Chances are that when this question comes to your mind the person being referred to is the only thing important in your life at that moment. Chances are that either you don't know it yourself or are in denial.
John Watson was in denial. He sat in front of Greg in a very cosy little bakery having breakfast. He looked at Greg as he spoke on the phone and caressed John with his soft, amusing, contemplative eyes. John gave him a small affectionate smile. He couldn't image what it was costing Greg to be with him here now. He didn't mind the phone. He was thankful.
Why do I need to spoil the moment?
Why do I need Sherlock?
Why?
"I forgot how it felt, being looked at like that."
Greg's voice broke John's reverie and he realised he was staring at Greg for quite some time now. The phone call had ended.
I'm deceiving you Greg.
"What's wrong?" Greg asked with some concern.
John opened his mouth and looked down for a moment.
"I was wondering if you knew anything about Sherlock Holmes." John asked in a small voice.
Greg put his elbows on the table and leaned forward with a frown.
"What about him?"
"I met him once."
"Where?"
"He…he had an accident and I was there. I took him to the hospital."
"Oh!"
John looked at Greg fully noticing the surprise in his voice.
"It's a sad story." Said Greg thoughtfully.
Blood.
Lots of blood.
A pool of blood.
Sherlock lying in a pool of blood.
Sherlock Dying.
Sherlock.
Little Sherlock.
Dear brother Sherlock.
Only reason to live Sherlock.
Didn't have a reason to live anymore.
A fragile Sherlock.
A lonely Sherlock.
A hurt Sherlock.
Dying Sherlock.
For the last five years this has been a constant nightmare of Mycroft Holmes. Other people would have consulted psychiatrists and taken medicines to get rid of it. But he couldn't. Because the nightmare constantly kept coming true for the last five years.
He couldn't sleep at night fearing what he would wake up to in the morning. He couldn't take medicine to ease his pain because he always had to be on high alert to make sure Sherlock was not in the process of making the nightmare a reality again.
Mycroft Holmes was tired. He was broken. Beneath the strong wall of silence, behind the solid mask of nonchalance the man was decaying.
Sherlock was found in a pool of blood again. With very feeble pulse and slow heartbeat. In his own house. In his own room.
The heart monitor beeped in the room outside which he was standing. A glass wall separating two brothers. This wall was true, as true as it was in their relationship. They could see each other but couldn't reach, couldn't touch. They weren't enough for each other. Mycroft wasn't enough for Sherlock. He could never be. Quiet logically.
Sherlock had chosen Irene. Irene, Moriarty. What happened had to happen. It was inevitable. What happened to Sherlock was consequence. Co-lateral damage.
If it were possible Mycroft would bring Irene back from dead. If it was possible Mycroft would make Sherlock forget the episode. If it were possible Mycroft would bring Sherlock a new reason to live.
If it were possible…only if…
Mycroft turned his gaze abruptly to his own reflection on the glass wall.
He gracefully took the phone from his coat pocket and dialled.
"I need to know all there is to know about .Watson."
The reflection turned around and receded away.
"Can you believe it? The ambassador's wife. She was a great looker have to say that." Greg spoke as he sipped his coffee sitting in from of a dumb struck John who looked like he had forgotten to breathe.
"Hey? You okay?" Greg asked noticing John's expression. When John didn't reply he put his hand over John's which was holding his still untouched but now stale coffee.
John didn't move. He didn't feel. He didn't see Greg.
His mind, his eyes and all his senses were filled with the vision of two pale eyes, red rimmed, extremely hurt, staring into his soul, asking quietly
what would you be like if you were me?