"Sometimes we don't get second chances.

Sometimes things just end."

Confess | Colleen Hoover

Greg jolts awake. He finds himself lying face down on his desk. Slightly massaging his neck, he glances at his watch, almost 6 o'clock. Still quite early. Where has Mycroft gone to? He looks around but doesn't see him. Greg is completely alone, no one has yet come to the office. The cool air around him feels pleasant, the October sky is clear and cloudless, bringing him a peaceful sense.

Greg smiles softly. He recalls what happened last night, when he had Mycroft with him, who rested his head on his arm then they fell asleep together. The memory is still so clear in his mind, he almost can still feel Mycroft's skin on his. Mycroft has gone somewhere; he supposes he may have got up first and must have already gone back to the hospital. Greg straightens his back, thinking vaguely, not knowing if buying flowers is better, or if he should bring some takeaway breakfast to the hospital. The surgery must have succeeded, he'll be taking today off to visit Sherlock.

Actually, he knows that he longs to see Mycroft more.

Greg can't even hide the growing smile on his face. Mycroft. Just thinking of that name makes him happy.

Just thinking about a future where he can once again get closer to that person, oh how he hopes the future to just start as soon as possible.

Mycroft!

Stretching his arms, Greg yawns and then starts sorting through the papers on his desk. He wonders to himself; he does not see the sketch that Mycroft has left here last night. Where is it now? Greg looks for a while, but still can't find it, he feels a little strange, then decisively he stands up. Did Mycroft take it along with him, how weird! Maybe he'll tease Mycroft a little bit about this later.

Straightening his clothes, he takes out his phone, sends his boss a quick text, and walks out of the office. He feels like he can't wait any longer to see Mycroft again.

He means that he wants to hurry to the hospital to congratulate Sherlock on the successful surgery.

Greg doesn't bother to hide the big grin on his face.

Stops at a flower shop on the way, he feels glad, they open their shop really early. He buys a bunch of brilliant daffodils. Feeling so relieved, Greg quickens his pace.

The early morning atmosphere is pleasant. His mood is even better. Just thinking about meeting Mycroft in a little while, Greg feels so hopeful and delighted.

Walking to the door of the hospital room, Greg does not rush in immediately. It is not even 7 am yet, he wonders if it's a little too early for a visit. Thinking that Mycroft is probably still dozing off by Sherlock's bed, Greg feels a warm feeling in his heart again. After pondering for a while, he still decides to knock on the door.

A gentle knock. John's voice replies softly after a few moments. Please come in.

Greg enters. His smile slowly fades away when he sees John's face. John is sitting on a chair next to the hospital bed, he looks tired, so pale, with watery eyes, a stark contrast to this fine morning. The wind blows softly through the window. Sherlock lays there, his face towards the window, not even bother turning to see Greg even though he must have heard him come in. So strange. Greg hesitates for a moment, but still steps closer. He tries to force a smile, albeit a little strained, seizing the bouquet in his hand, he asks softly.

"Sherlock?"

As if knowing Sherlock will not answer his greeting, John raises his voice instead. Sherlock still looks away, still not turning to let Greg see his face.

"Greg…"

Greg feels anxiety creep into his heart. He gently pulls up another chair and sits on the other side of Sherlock's bed, facing John. John is smiling at him, if that could be called a smile, his smile looks as sad as crying.

"What's going on? John? How was the surgery?... Sherlock? What's up?" He wonders. "Where's Mycroft?"

As if just waiting for that, Sherlock turns around, staring at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he has been crying for a long time. Greg feels his heart tighten, he clutches the bouquet in his hand, the sound of cellophane scraping together. Sherlock still doesn't say anything, he just looks at Greg for a long moment and then turns away again, with his red eyes as if filled with unspeakable pain.

Greg feels his heart clench. He is shocked, seizing the flower bunch in his hand, he looks at John pleading for an explanation. John, what's wrong? John just looks at him with pained eyes, he sighs lightly, then quietly he stands up. John pats Sherlock's hand, which is shakingly clutching at the edge of the blanket, then directs Greg to walk outside with him. Sherlock still looks away; he doesn't seem to react to John's caring actions.

Greg feels worried, he hesitates for a moment, then gently places the bouquet on the nightstand and follows John to the door.

Tenderly closing the door, John smiles sadly at Greg and then leads him down the distant corridor. There is a waiting bench, completely deserted. It is only seven o'clock, the hospital corridor is still perfectly quiet. John sits down first, hunching over, hands tightly clasped in his lap. His voice sounds weak.

"Greg."

Greg's heart tightens with worry. What's going on? What makes John and Sherlock behave like this? He feels his voice tremble.

"John? What's going on?"

Still looking down, John speaks so low.

"Greg. Mycroft died last night."

Like a thunderclap overhead, Greg is completely stunned. The shock nearly puts him to the floor. What has John just said? Is he kidding him? Why does he say that? Greg is so shocked he becomes speechless. As if foreseeing his reaction, John continues.

"He died around two in the morning. Sherlock has only been awake for half an hour. He hasn't fully calmed down yet, so I think I'd better talk to you out here." Pausing for a moment, John speaks faintly. "Their parents are also on their way. Maybe they will soon reach here. We have not told anyone about this yet."

Greg can't believe his ears. Is John joking? Why he tells such an evil joke?

"John, are you kidding me? Why?" His voice cracks. "Mycroft even came to my office just a few hours ago, why say he's dead? What do you mean to make that joke, John?"

John looks up startled.

"Greg… Mycroft died… He… How… When did you meet him?"

Unable to function from shock, Greg feels the ground wobble around his feet. What is John saying? He hesitates, then looks at the ex-soldier straightly in the eyes.

"That's right, John. Last night he just came to see me… Just a few hours ago… We even talked… How can he possibly be dead already? John, if this is yet another attempt to deceive me, let me tell you firsthand, there's no need, John. I won't be fooled like five years ago… Why are you guys always making fun of death like that? What the hell is going on inside your minds? John?" Greg gets angry, he clutches his hands hard. "More than anyone, you should understand how cruel this lie is, shouldn't you?"

But John doesn't appear shameful of what Greg just accused him of, his eyes are still filled with so much misery, it spills out, Greg feels a chill when he looks into those eyes.

"Greg… no… I'm not lying. Mycroft is dead, I'm telling you the truth… Greg, last night… He killed himself, in this hospital lobby… to give his heart to Sherlock…" John tries so hard to hold himself together, but the hurt in his heart still burns, aching, overwhelming. "Greg, it's true, I'm not lying, I have no excuse to lie about this…"

Greg feels as if the whole world has just stopped spinning. His ears tinkle. What is John saying? Greg is numbed, he totally freezes on the cold hospital bench. He wants to get up, to run away, he wants to not believe a word John said, but… why are John's eyes filled with so much pain? Why does John look… completely honest, completely desperate like that? Greg finds himself motionless, he looks at John unblinkingly.

"You must be kidding me, John… You…"

A tear falls quickly down John's cheek.

"No, Greg… I'm not… Mycroft is really gone. Look, this is the notebook he left behind."

Then John reaches into his pocket and pulls out a brown notebook. This notebook Greg has seen many times, he never touched it before, but he knows it was always in the pocket of Mycroft's vest. That brown leather cover, with a silver pen clipped to the nape of the notebook, looks so familiar. Trembling, Greg takes it, and flips it open to the middle page where the marker is.

.

"I, Mycroft Lane Holmes, being of sound mind, willfully make this declaration to be followed.

- My death is completely self-voluntary, not related to any individual or organization. I do not wish to be saved, please respect my liberty to die.

- I would like to donate my heart to my brother Sherlock Holmes. In addition, any other organs that are still usable for the treatment of others, I am giving legal consent for transfer at will.

- Please contact Ms. Anthea at ... for other specific details that I have specified in the will that she currently holds.

Signed,

Mycroft Lane Holmes."

.

Greg feels like lightning just hits his ears. He is totally in shock, looking over and over at the words written hastily on the ivory-colored page. Although the handwriting is a little sloppier than usual, this is definitely Mycroft's. He knows it, he knows for sure. As he looks closer at the words, his tremor even gets worse, he clutches tighter the notebook in his hand.

"This…"

John bites his lip. His voice wavers.

"That's right, Greg... Mycroft's gone, Greg…"

Greg's mind quickly goes into a panic state. He just mutters incessantly.

"No, John… I don't believe… You lie to me, John… I just met him few hours ago, how could he be dead already? John?" His eyes fill with bitter, salty tears. "It's been such a long time since he last came to find me, a really long time, John… How could this be… I don't believe it, John…"

Then he stands up abruptly, takes out the phone, he trembly holds it with both hands.

"I have to find Mycroft… I have to find him…"

John lowers his head even more, his tears wet his clenched hands. His shoulders shiver painfully. He looks up at Greg, standing so trembly still, the phone in his ear just ringing incessantly with no one to pick up. How can there be anyone at the other end to pick up the line? The man is gone, Greg. John speaks softly.

"Greg… When did you meet Mycroft? Did he… leave any words?"

Still in shock, Greg doesn't answer John. He concentrates on listening intently to each ring, silently praying that Mycroft would just pick up the phone, still wishing that John was just tricking him. There is no answer, no voicemail, the phone simply hangs up on itself. Coldly. Paralyzed, he has never felt so broken inside his heart. He still tries to call Mycroft again. Still no answer. John is sitting with his head down, his shoulders shaking, he no longer minds holding back his cry.

"It was me… It was my fault that Mycroft committed suicide… it was me who caused his death, Greg…"

What did John just say?Horrified, Greg drops his phone. It falls to the hard floor, making a dry sound. Greg grabs John hard by the shoulders, he looks straight into John's eyes, trembling he speaks.

"What did you say? John? What did you just say?"

"It was me… my fault…" John sobs even louder. "I… I can't explain it to you right now… I have to go back to Sherlock, have to be with him… I'm the one to blame, I know I don't deserve to be with Sherlock anymore, but Greg, I can't let him all alone at the moment… Greg, I'm sorry…"

Then John walks as if running towards the hospital room. Greg quickly follows, he grabs John's hand, keeping him still.

"John… Where is Mycroft now… John?… Tell me, I have to see him… I have to…"

John turns away, avoiding Greg's gaze.

"Mycroft's been taken to the mortuary… But… you better not come, don't look at him, he was operated on to harvest organs… Don't look, Greg…"

Then bursting into tears, John gets rid of Greg's tight grasp and hurriedly runs into Sherlock's room, leaving Greg standing in the middle of the sunny hospital lobby all alone. The weather is still beautiful, but Greg feels like the world is collapsing around him.

Greg finds himself in the mortuary lobby. How he gets to this place, he doesn't know. He only knows that when he looks up, he sees the sign "Farewell Room" solemnly hanging on the wall above his head. Greg feels his body tremble, he grits his teeth, forcing himself to enter. This cannot be the truth. John is lying. Surely the two of them are plotting something, there must be a reason why they use this trick on him. Greg won't be fooled this time. Definitely, they can't have Mycroft in here. Certainly so.

Gathering courage, Greg's about to step in. He is held back by a nurse at the door.

"Sorry, you can't come in."

"I…"

"This is the hospital morgue. Only authorized personnel is allowed, please understand."

Greg is speechless. He doesn't want to be here either. But…

"I… I am family… I…"

The nurse looks at him with a sympathetic expression.

"Which body are you the relative of?"

Hearing the word body, Greg shivers. He just wants to turn back, to run away. But Greg still forces himself to say the two words that make him feel like a throbbing pain up in his throat. Bitter. Painfully.

"… Mycroft Holmes."

The nurse looks at him, bewildered. She remembers that name. Last night, this hospital had a race against time, a race that half the nurses participated in and everyone heard of, to urgently perform an operation on a dead man for harvesting donated organs. She still remembers how she felt when she first looked at the corpse, with its long wounds. A respectable man, even after death he still chose to save the lives of others who are waiting days and nights for organs transplant. She has seen so many bodies in her career, but even so, when she looked at the corpse, she couldn't help but felt a surge of commiseration. She heard he did it to give his brother a chance to live. This man indeed chose a painful way to die, but his death was noble. Quietly, she says to Greg.

"Sorry sir… It is true that Mr. Holmes is in here, we just brought the body in, but here we require a hospital permit to allow family members to enter. So…"

Greg feels the world stop spinning. The nurse is around middle-age, with a kind face, she doesn't look like she is lying. She says a Mr. Holmes is inside. What does this mean, Greg needs to confirm. Although he is really afraid that, just taking a few more steps, he might have to face a terrible truth, but…

Shakingly, he pulls out his police badge from his breast pocket.

"I'm a policeman. Please lead the way."

Greg stands across from the row of lockers where the bodies are kept. Cold air surrounds him, he feels his heart freeze. His hands are shaking, he forces himself to clench his fists, but he cannot stop the trembling in his heart. The nurse sneaks a glance at him, her eyes filling with sympathy. She gently pulls open one closet door.

And Greg sees Mycroft lying there. His eyes closed. His face pale. So pale. Cold. Exactly those eyes, that face. That brown hair. The same cheek, the cheek that rested on his hand to sleep last night. Those same lips, but there remains no sign of life left… Those freckles… This is Mycroft. John doesn't lie to him. This really is Mycroft… Greg feels like he is standing in a deep black hole, all around him suddenly silences from all noises. He can no longer hear anything, see no one, he only sees Mycroft. The nurse's voice seems to come from somewhere far away.

"Sir… Do you need any more information? … Sir?"

Greg is still in daze, he doesn't answer. The nurse understands, she decides to walk away to give Greg some private moments, leaving him all alone in the cold room with Mycroft.

Mycroft!

"So I'm out, if you need any help please ask."

Greg just stands there. He keeps staring at Mycroft, for a long moment. Then, just like he's just waken up from a nightmare, he hesitates a bit, then slowly raises his hand and gently touches Mycroft's cheek. Mycroft wouldn't blame him that he dares doing this to him, would he? He has always secretly wished he could do this, for years, every time he saw that man sitting alone, Greg couldn't help wanting to get close to him, to touch him, to give him a hug. But Greg was always too hesitant. He never dared. Now that he can finally touch Mycroft… Mycroft has already laid down here, already been this cold. These eyes will not open again, he will never see those deep blue irises again. These lips… he has never kissed before. He never even told Mycroft that he… loved him. Why, Mycroft? Why not give me a chance?Now that he knows, those feelings contained inside him for so long, turn out to be love. How can he know what to do with the feelings now? Mycroft, why did you leave without saying anything? How can I know how to feel now? Mycroft!

Trembling, Greg gently lifts the cloth covering his body. Terrified, he unintentionally takes a few steps back. His tears flow freely now. During his life in the force, he has seen numerous deaths, but… he doesn't know how to feel, when he sees the hurried stitches on Mycroft's chest. His skin is so cold, so pale. The chest hair was carelessly shaved, there still remains some small scratches in which blood has dried long ago. A long straight cut in the middle of the chest. Two cuts diagonally across the abdomen, forming a Y shape. A deep stab wound in the lower abdomen, which was not sutured, but the surface has become dark and dry, contrasting even more with his pale skin. How disturbing to look at. Running his hand gently over the wounds, so gently, as if afraid that he may still hurt Mycroft, Greg feels every tremor come. Tear doesn't stop welling in his eyes, he grits his teeth, but can't hold back the sobs in his throat. Greg feels like he can't even breathe, like the air around him has been drained out completely. He grips Mycroft's cold, stiff hand tightly, cannot utter any other word but his name…

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft still lies there, his face serene, seemingly still lingers one last smile. He won't hear Greg calling him, but it probably doesn't matter anymore. Mycroft is dead, gone, no longer here; no matter how loud Greg may call, he will never wake up again. Mycroft, in where you are now, does it still hurt? In the last moments, how did you feel? Mycroft, I know it's for Sherlock, but why… why would you do that? Why didn't you call me?… Even though, calling me wouldn't solve anything, but Mycroft, why didn't you?… Even if it's only for a few minutes… Let me at least say goodbye to you… Let me tell you how I've been feeling all these times… Mycroft, why didn't I say it, when I still could… when I still had the chance… when you were still alive… Why did I wait…? What had I been waiting for, Mycroft? What did I get after all this waiting?… I can't tell you anything now… I regret it so much, Mycroft…

Mycroft!

With heavy steps, Greg gets out of the cold room. The nurse is still waiting outside, she says something but he doesn't understand any words. His mind is racing, each step feels like lead; clutching the police badge in his hand, he forces himself to walk to the hospital's security room.

He needs to review last night's surveillance camera history.

From the bottom of his heart, Greg still secretly wishes all of this was just a nightmare. If he watches the surveillance video, he might find something wrong. They are just fooling him. That corpse just looks a lot like Mycroft. Surely the surveillance video would have clipping. Surely…

Greg freezes on the chair, he looks over and over at the videos playing on the large screen of the security room. He has kicked them all out, under the pretext of keeping the investigation secret, now only he and three monitoring screens remain. And there he sees him. That was Mycroft. That upright sitting posture is unmistakable. Watching each video over and over, Greg is shocked to realize Mycroft didn't leave the hospital last night. No video trimming at all. Greg feels like the world is collapsing at his feet, he just sits there blankly. There is one last video that he has not dared to open yet. Around one o'clock last night…

Trembling, Greg forces himself to play the video. He must face the truth. Greg bites his lip. Tears stream down his face. There he was. On the screen there showed Mycroft. He stood up, and he laid John down on a bench in the hospital lobby. Then Mycroft walked away. Another camera captured him walking over. Mycroft looked straight into the camera. That face, it's really him. Greg feels his whole body shaking uncontrollably. He clenches his teeth. Mycroft left the notebook on the seat, took off his waistcoat and tie, folded them, and then… and then Mycroft stabbed the blade straight into himself. Greg stops breathing. Tears blur his eyes. He forces himself to watch Mycroft gradually collapsed to the floor, blood stained red a whole corner of the frame. Mycroft curled up there, then he stopped moving, only the blood kept spreading more and more. It was much longer before two men and a few nurses came running toward. They stooped down, checked on him, then quickly lifted Mycroft off the screen with a stretcher. Leaving only a pool of blood, and bloody footprints everywhere. Greg looks at the timing on the corner of the screen, 1:48 am. He is completely speechless. Mycroft died at 1:48 am. So, what about what he remembers? Why does he remember that Mycroft came to see him? He still memorizes the scene when he looked down at his watch, he saw that it was almost three in the morning. He and Mycroft even talked, didn't they? Mycroft even fell asleep in his arms… Was it all his imagination? Did he go crazy?

Mycroft, have I gone crazy?

Why do I remember that you came to see me? That you slept on my arm?

Tell me, Mycroft? Am I crazy? Tell me what should I believe in now?

Mycroft…