"Goodbye

Words that are said so casually

Until it lasts forever

Then it's so hard to say

Goodbye."

Mycroft looks at the umbrella handle shaped gun in his hand, his eyes cold. He has just shot John. At this very moment, John is slowly drooping down on the bench, his eyes wide with surprise slowly closing. Dropping the gun, Mycroft stands up, he walks over then looks down at John who is already unconscious, he whispers softly.

"Sorry, John. I can't let you do that. Without you, Sherlock would be as good as dead, I couldn't do that to him."

Yes, Mycroft always carries a gun with him. That's true. But there was one important thing that John got wrong. That gun can't kill people, because he only uses anesthetic bullets. Ever since that night when Sherlock and John broke into his house with that wacky prank, Mycroft has panicked thinking that if the gun was loaded with real bullets, he might have killed an innocent person by mistake. For Mycroft, the gun he carries around is only for self-defense, he never wants to purposely kill anyone. Mycroft has his own certain rules, and after all these years of tossing and turning in this field, there are two most important things that he has always avoided. First is, fieldwork, as he knows his worth does not lie in his limbs, but rather his brain, and despite still having undergone enough training courses as a real CIA agent, Mycroft has always chosen jobs that involve more paperwork and planning. The second thing he always avoids is killing people with his own hands. Come to think of it, Mycroft considers himself a hypocrite. How many lives have been lost from the orders he gave, and yet he still dares to say that he wants his hands not to be stained with fresh blood? At times, Mycroft feels disgusted, he laughs at himself, and gradually, he shrinks into his shell. Mycroft thinks someone like him doesn't deserve anyone's companionship.

Gently adjusting John to a more comfortable position on the bench, Mycroft slowly takes off his vest. He leans down and gently places it over the man's thin form. Goodbye, John. It's up to you to take care of him now. Smiling slightly, he looks up at the surveillance camera in the corner of the room. Only the red light of the camera responds to him. Its blinking dots seem to say: It's okay, I'll watch over John. Mycroft straightens, reattaches the umbrella handle to its body, and resolutely leaves the scene.

It's late at night, the hospital corridor is devoid of people. Just as the nurse told John, tonight is indeed a quiet night. Slowly approaching the operating room where Sherlock is still clinging to this life through the heart-lung bypass machine, Mycroft feels his heart tighten. He does not enter, just gently touches the white-painted iron door, and whispers to himself. Sherlock, just a little longer, please don't give up now, I won't let you die.

Picking a seat nearby, he looks up again to find the direction of the surveillance camera. What he is about to do next needs to be clearly recorded, in order to avoid unnecessary troubles that can happen to Dr. Wells, Bernet, and even John. Mycroft reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a brown leather notebook with a small pen. He stoops down to quickly write a few short lines on a blank page, then as if that is enough, he puts the pen back in the middle of the page, folds it, and puts the notebook down on the bench.

Mycroft sighs and looks at his watch. 1:33 am. Wells and Bernet will be there in about fifteen minutes, he has calculated. He doesn't have much time left. Clutching the phone in his hand, Mycroft closes his eyes, thinking about the people in his life. John and Sherlock… They have each other, they'll get through this. Anthea. Alicia. The remaining works. Will all be fine, he believes so… Moran. Mycroft unconsciously clenches his fist. He really wishes he could kill him, but he also knows that this is supposed to be the fate of the Holmes brother, one killed another will appear… Mycroft can only wish that Sherlock will be safe. Don't chase after Moran, Sherlock... Don't revenge… I only hope for your safety...

Mom. Dad. Thinking of his parents, he feels his heart ache, not knowing how they will get over his death. A tear falls, he feels the bridge of his nose sting. All his life he has always tried to fulfill his duties, as a proper brother, a proper son. If he has known that in his last moments he would hurt his parents so much, he would have made up for them more when he still had the chance. It is too late now, clutching the phone in his hand, Mycroft thinks vaguely. He doesn't know if he should send their parents any texts. Will it be better to send them some last words, or will it be easier for them to overcome his death if he doesn't leave any? After all, the purpose of his death is so clear that he doesn't need to explain it anymore. Surely Sherlock will take care of his parents and Eurus, whether he tells him to or not. Does he have any last words that he wants to say to those who stay? Mycroft thinks blankly. If he only writes for one person, others may feel unappreciated. But he does not have enough time for all. So many thoughts fill his head at once, so many things he still wants to say, but having so many unsaid things turns out that nothing really matters anymore. He just wants to apologize to his parents, but even if they forgive him, his death will always be an indelible pain in the hearts of those two poor old people. Then why is he even saying sorry? If that apology can only make himself feel more at peace, but cannot take away the pain of those who stay, then what is the point of that apology?

Greg.

He suddenly thinks of Greg. Mycroft gets frightened. He doesn't expect that in these last moments, this turns out to be the name that brings him the most nostalgia.

Greg.

Mycroft has known him for over ten years now. Since Greg was just an ordinary detective of the crime team, he has now become the chief inspector. The lines of time have now clearly imprinted on his forehead, and his grey hair. Mycroft still remembers when he first met Greg, he was rushing to the hospital after hearing about Sherlock's drug overdose, fortunately a policeman had helped to call the emergency. That was Greg. Greg has always been such a caring and responsible person, instead of just calling an ambulance, he carefully stayed and waited for Sherlock's family to arrive before leaving. So they met. Greg was still very young then, and Mycroft still remembers how his heart skipped a beat when he first saw that kind face.

That's right, to Mycroft, he has always liked Greg since their first encounter.

That was what surprised Mycroft the most. He had always thought of himself as someone who already lost the ability to love. He always considered himself an emotionless monster, someone who didn't deserve anyone. Mycroft was afraid that people around him would suffer from his indifference, because he did not think he was capable of expressing his feelings, did not know how to show care, and did not know how to say love. And his job could also put those around him in danger, as he had to deal with cruel people every day, but not everyone he could capture.

Moriarty was a prime example.

So Mycroft had always tried to stay alone. Loneliness would protect him, and also those around him. Mycroft had always believed so.

Until the day he met those brown eyes.

At first, Mycroft told himself, it was all about Sherlock. He kept in touch with Greg, the texts, the phone calls he made, the times he went to Greg every night after he finished his work, the boxes of takeaways to make sure Greg didn't skip meals… all of it was for Sherlock. Mycroft told himself so. But then, even himself didn't believe in his own lies anymore. He found himself surreptitiously finding out about Greg's personal life, being sad when he learned that Greg had already married, then resentful when he realized how his wife betrayed Greg behind his back. Mycroft found himself secretly taking revenge on the two of them on Greg's behalf. Then the feeling of relief when Greg finally found out about her affair, and filed for divorce. Mycroft didn't want to appear mean when he took pleasure in other people's sorrows, but the truth was, at the time, Mycroft really thought that maybe, maybe then he'd have a chance.

Chances that, Greg might also be capable of reciprocating his feelings.

By then, John has already shown up in Sherlock's life. With John's presence, Mycroft had fewer reasons to see Greg. He was afraid that if he showed too much interest, maybe Greg would be disgusted with him. Or he would lose their friendship - if he was allowed to call it a friendship - which Mycroft had never had in his life. So for a moment he didn't know what to do. Mycroft wanted to keep in touch with Greg, but his shyness somehow held him back.

Mycroft did not take the initiative to call, nor did Greg contact him again.

He told himself Greg was just busy, but sometimes Mycroft still felt a twinge of sadness in his heart. It turned out that this relationship was like, as long as one stopped appearing, the other person would forget about his existence. As long as he didn't take the initiative to find him anymore, the other person would also cut off contact.

Mycroft was sad for a long time. Then his work gradually took him away. But he still thought about Greg, sometimes sneaking up on him to see how he'd been doing these days.

Then Reichenbach happened. For two years, Mycroft almost had to clone himself, during the day he still took care of the government works, at night he stayed up late to track Sherlock's every move, to promptly support him, because he was in a different time zone. He still had to keep Sherlock's existence a secret, still had to play the role of a grieving brother over the death of his only sibling during the daytime; while at night, he had to do everything to keep that lie from actually happening. Sherlock was facing a very powerful criminal force all alone, just thinking about it Mycroft felt the anxiety draining all his strength from him. Sometimes, thinking about Greg, Mycroft still wondered how he was doing these days, whether he was okay or not. Sent a few stalkers, all of them useless. Greg noticed them all, he didn't seem comfortable with being secretly followed around, which was no doubt, as no one would be comfortable with being watched; so Mycroft didn't continue. Greg must have known that they were all sent by him, but since Greg just kept quiet and didn't even bother to text or call to complain, Mycroft thought that maybe Greg didn't even care, and didn't want to get back in touch with him.

Finally, those two difficult years passed. When things could finally get back to normal, Mycroft received news that Greg and Molly were dating.

Things were not going anywhere for them. In the end, Molly still found herself a more suitable man, and Greg remained single. Nothing serious happened between them. But for Mycroft, it was a big blow to his hopes. Another woman! The hope that Greg might also be bisexual, like how Sherlock had found John, that Greg might not be so disgusted by Mycroft's feelings for him - was fading quick. Mycroft still thought of Greg secretly, but he stopped himself from thinking about contacting him again. Mycroft didn't want to disturb Greg's slowly improving life, much less to want Greg to be afraid of his feelings – the feelings Mycroft cherished so much.

This affection of him did not need to be reciprocated. For Mycroft, having these feelings once in his life was already enough, he dared not to hope that he could be lucky enough to actually be with that person. He was never the lucky one. Just like that, the years gradually passed, until today. Thinking of Greg, Mycroft suddenly thought of their first days, when they first met, when Mycroft could still easily come to find Greg in his office every night when he returned from work. What a pleasant time it was.

Mycroft wishes he could go back there, just once, maybe he would feel more at ease. It turns out that, for him, it is his last wish before leaving this world; how he wants to bring his suppressed feelings for many years back to the place where it all started, then it would be a beautiful enough ending for him. Mycroft would ask for nothing more, just to see those brown eyes one more time.

Maybe it's already too late. Mycroft looks at his watch, there are only about ten minutes left, the doctors he has called are probably almost there. Mycroft must hurry up, can't let them stop his plan. He has to make sure that when they get there, he is already beyond help. He also has to calculate the timing, so that they can get there just in time, not too late, and this heart can be in its best condition for Sherlock.

That will be the last gift Mycroft can give his brother. Mycroft doesn't give him his life, he just gives him John's life back. The two of them have to exist together, and then Mycroft can close his eyes in peace. In exchange for the death of a pathetic loner like him, it can bring happiness to a small family of three, what a bargain!

Perhaps there is no time for him to say goodbye to Greg. Perhaps, there will not be enough time for him to express this love anymore. If for more than ten years, he still hasn't been able to tell him, these last ten minutes are more like a mockery to Mycroft's fate. Perhaps, this affection should forever exist as a secret that he will carry to the afterlife. Maybe… that will be better. Don't leave him any words, Mycroft tells himself. If he can't continue to be with that person, it's better to appear indifferent than to make them be in torment feeling guilty with a little unrequited love from him.

Clutching the phone in his hand, Mycroft flips through the contacts list, he finds Greg's name, and keeps staring at it.

Greg, goodbye. I have to go first. Thank you for appearing in my boring life, letting me know that I still am capable of love.

Thank you for always taking care of Sherlock. When I'm gone, I really hope that you will continue to keep an eye on him, in place of me.

I really hope that life will treat you well.

Greg, if there is an afterlife, can you return my feelings?

I wish in my next life I can be born in a form that you can love.

Greg, goodbye, please take care. Don't skip meals, don't stay up too late.

Greg, time's up, I really have to go now. It will be a relief if knowing that my death won't affect you too much. But actually, if you will cry for me, then this selfish part of mine will be happy too.

Greg, I'm sorry that I cannot say goodbye. I think that will be better… for you… It's not that I don't value you, but if I make you think that way, you'll only be angry at me… maybe, for a while… then you will soon forget about me… that will be even better…

Dad, mom, I'm sorry… Your son must go first, I don't mean to upset you… it's just, I really have no choice…

Sherlock, brother mine… don't be mad at me…

I don't mean to hurt you… But for me this is the only option… I can't let you die…

Even though I know you'll surely be mad at me when you wake up… but… let me be selfish one last time, okay?

John, I'm sorry to have put all of this on your shoulders… I hope you understand that this is entirely my choice… John, don't blame yourself. You didn't do anything wrong… You saved little Rosamund and Molly, now give me a chance too, okay?

Please take care of Sherlock. No matter what he might say, please don't give up on him...

Sherlock… I'm sorry…

Good bye…

.

.

.

.

.

Taking off his waistcoat and tie, Mycroft folds them neatly and places on the bench next to the leather notebook. He pulls out the umbrella handle, revealing a long, sharp blade. Everyone has to die eventually, but how many people have the right to choose their own deaths like he does? Self-deprecating, Mycroft smiles slightly. He can be considered to have had a successful life, now that when his death can still save others, he totally has nothing to regret. Clutching the blade in his hand, he once again looks up at the surveillance camera, then, decisively, he stabs himself in the stomach. The force of the thrust is so strong, Mycroft slightly bends over. The blade sinks in to the hilt, piercing through his body, sticking out of his back. Clenching his teeth, Mycroft tries not to let out a groan, the sound of his blade stabbing through flesh is the only noise breaking the silence of the hospital corridor.

The pain doesn't come right away. Just when his body still has some strength left, Mycroft quickly pulls out the blade, allowing the blood to flow more easily. He has to make sure that this death will be guaranteed. When the blade once again passes through the flesh, Mycroft then feels the pain. Unable to hold back a groan anymore, he grits his teeth and trembles. Mycroft feels a warm area slowly appears in the front of his stomach, it's getting hotter every seconds, and he feels his surroundings wobble. The sound of the blade falling to the stone floor tinkles. Mycroft breaks out in cold sweats, as he begins to catastrophize the pain. His vision is getting darker, the pain is getting sharper, it's less burning, it is now throbbing, aching, with each erratic breaths his blood freely flows out, quickly dyeing his whole hands red.

Mycroft looks down, his hands totally covered in blood. Blood soaks his shirt, spreading in concentric circles. Suddenly Mycroft feels a sense of relief. So he has made it. He will save Sherlock. He is not a completely useless brother. Mycroft finds himself slowly collapsing, following the momentum he falls to the floor, head slamming to the hard surface, stunned. This position is really uncomfortable, but Mycroft finds himself unable to move. He is completely motionless, the intense pain swirling in his mind, making it impossible for him to breathe. Just like the breath has already escaped from him, as well as the life gradually leaving his body. More and more blood flows out, but Mycroft finds his mind still completely awake, he wonders how much more pain the human body must endure to be finally pardoned and can fall into the kind land of unconsciousness.

Exhaling small, quick and short breaths, Mycroft feels his body slowly grow cold. Blood pours out more and more, as if carrying the last remaining warmth. The floor is also cold. So cold. It feels like he is shaking uncontrollably. He is not so sure if he is actually shaking or it's just his imagination. It's really painful. He is somehow surprised at this intense pain. Mycroft doesn't know if he is shivering from the searing pain or the immense cold. His mind gradually blurs. Mycroft abruptly feels nauseous. Suddenly he vomits a large mouthful of blood, which even splashes into his eyes, making him unable to see anything clearly. All around him is now painted in a painful red. The hospital hall is still quiet, no one nearby, no one has approached him yet. Mycroft feels so lonely. Never has loneliness been so intense, so profound, it seems to be laughing at him. Towards the end of his life, all Mycroft feels is a sense of extreme loneliness. Exhausted, Mycroft slowly closes his eyes. He doesn't even have the strength to shiver anymore.

Before he loses consciousness completely, he hears the sound of people running towards him. They are screaming something, but Mycroft can't make out any more. Quietly hiccoughing twice, Mycroft breathes his last on the cold hard ground.

He just smiles.

They're just in time.

How good.