[This is how it feels to be Athena right now.]
You've gone to a lot of strange places for your boss and his brother. And just like the majority of those times, you're going in blind. The old burned manor, barely visible in the moonlight, that comes closer with every second as your braced against the helicopter's frame. When the ground is approaching steadily, and the pilot nods, you jump and take off running towards the small crowd huddled by an old well on the manor's property. Your earpiece buzzes with people reporting in. They ask for your status.
"On my way to Big Brother now. Stand by." The helicopter is hovering above you, awaiting orders. You skid to a halt behind a familiar silhouette. "Sir!" He flinches, then smoothly pivots on his heel. A thread of worry enters the back of your head.
"Athena," he greets you, but there's something off in his voice.
"Recon and agents are standing by sir. Awaiting orders, sir."
Mycroft nods. "Good. We need a rope thrown down to Doctor Watson- he's currently trapped in the well. Contact the New Scotland Yard, and ask for Greg Lestrade." He pauses. "There is a terrorist lose on the premises. Adult female, white, brown hair and eyes."
You quickly relay the orders through the ear piece and listen to the chatter back. "Can I have a name, sir?"
Mycroft sighs heavily. "Eurus Holmes."
"Sir? ...My condolences, sir." The oldest Holmes sibling stares at you for a moment.
"Thank you Athena." You sprint back to the 'copter.
[This is how it feels to be Greg Lestrade right now.]
For once you are not on night shift, and Sherlock hasn't dragged you out for some case. It's been a rough night though, and tonight you've been drinking a little too much, and it stirs up memories.
"What's his name, sugar?" Greg pushes some dark blond curls out of his daughter's face. His daughter frowns and shifts her head, pulling at the oxygen line.
"Mr. Snuffles!" the four-year-old declares. Greg smiles.
"Mr. Snuffles, eh? Sounds like he has a cold."
She grinned. "Just like me! Mr. Snuffles can get better with me!" Greg swallows the bitter taste in the back of his throat.
"That's right, sugar. Just like you."
Someone is banging on your front door. You groan and stumble to open it. You're met with the stern face of Mycroft's PA. She's wearing an expression you've never seen before. All the drowsiness and buzz from the alcohol is gone in an instant.
"They're in trouble," she says, and that's all it takes for you to grab your gun and slam the door behind you.
[This is how it feels to be Mycroft Holmes right now.]
You're terrified. Pure animalistic terror is coursing through your veins, but you still stand there, back strait, motionless. You haven't felt this afraid since childhood, and for a moment the air smells smokey and there's the crackle of flames.
You've failed. All you've ever tried to do is to keep Sherlock safe. You watch your brother stand braced against the lip of the well, shouting down to his best friend (and the bones of his childhood one), and you're sorry. So, so, sorry.
Athena sees right through your facade, but for once you can't find the will to care. Your chest constricts as you have to say her name, and Athena's eyes filled with understanding.
"Thank you." Somehow it ends up sounding the same as always, and for a moment Athena looks like she wants to say something more- she doesn't.
[This is how it feels to be John Watson right now.]
Your soaked to the bone, and you cling to Sherlock like a lifeline. He's murmuring nonsense in your ear, and your face is pressed up against his neck. You feel his nose buried in your hair and you laugh- somehow it turns into sobs, your whole body shuddering.
"Damnit, Sherlock." you hiccup, and he presses you against him tighter.
"It is what it is won't work anymore, John." He says, and you can hear the tremor in his voice, can practically feel the walls of his Mind Palace crumbling. You sigh, and say again, softer-
"Damnit, Sherlock."
[This is how it feels to be Sherlock Holmes right now.]
Your in shock, you know you are, and John's voice in your Mind Palace is shouting at you. The real John normally would be to, if…
The last few hours are draped in a haze, they seem unreal. They look the same as his hallucination when he had cocaine. Mind Palace John is shouting again, and somewhere, you register that dissociation probably isn't a good thing. You bury your nose in John's hair and feel the wet, matty, texture. He doesn't smell like John anymore- he smells like damp stone and moss. You hear him laughing, then crying, then cursing, as your Mind Palace crumbles and falls. It feels too much like when Mary shot you, but he can survive, because he has John. John's here.
"It is what it is won't work anymore." You realise it never did.