"What shall we do if it snows?
What shall we do if spring returns again?
If I die while you live?
If you die while I live?
On days dazzlingly blue
let us long for the beloved ones."
Blue days | Seo Jeong-Ju
Mycroft's funeral is held a week later. It takes so long because Sherlock insists on attending, but it requires almost a week for him to recover enough to leave the hospital bed. During the time Mycroft's body is being kept in the morgue, there is not a day that his parents don't visit him. Although there are orders from their superiors that no one should hinder their family members in this special case, sometimes the nurses still feel sorry to see the young perish and the old linger, withering. Sometimes they also take the initiative to step forward and make small talk with these two poor old people. Most of the time they just stand outside the door, keeping an eye on them, to make sure they are okay.
Every time they go to see Mycroft, they never be able to hold back the tears. They keep crying from beginning to end as they talk about whatever they still remember of his childhood, each little memory being recalled. The two elders never dare to open the locker, they just stand there, lightly touching the cold metal surface. They are afraid to see their son's pale face, but they don't want him to be there all alone; so every day, no matter how painful, they still come. His parents never blame him. They understand the noble sacrifice of their son. Although the sacrifice is too painful, they have always known, for Sherlock, Mycroft would do anything.
Sherlock doesn't stop his parents from visiting Mycroft. He thinks he has no right to do so. It's because of him that things are like this. It should have been him who died. It mustn't have been Mycroft. Mycroft shouldn't have... Though it pains him to learn that his parents are going to Mycroft again and crying bitterly there, Sherlock never says a word about it.
Rather, Sherlock barely talks to anyone.
He just tells John: I'm sorry, I need more time. But please don't leave me.
And John is never half a step away from Sherlock.
Greg does not attend the funeral. On the day it occurs, Greg goes to work as usual.
He never tells anyone about the name Mycroft Holmes. But when the night comes, when everyone else has left, he will always stay in that empty, lonely office. He will drink, a lot, with a wish that he could dream of that figure again.
Sometimes dreams also oblige his will. A few lucky days, he also sees the back of Mycroft in his dreams. Mycroft usually doesn't say anything to him, he just looks at him with that sad look. At times, Greg dreams of the moment Mycroft thrust the blade into his stomach. Greg never forgets how his heart aches when he's forced to watch the man gradually collapse to the cold floor.
Greg will wake up, shaking, will bite his lip until it bleeds so he won't scream his name. He has sworn to himself that he would never mention that name again. So that no one should feel sorry for him, so that no one will see how pathetic he is to give his whole heart to someone who, until death, never spared him a thought.
Not a single message.
No missed calls.
Not even a word left.
No matter how much Greg looks, he can never find the sketch he remembers Mycroft has drawn that night. A house. Greg never finds that house again.
He watches those surveillance videos over and over again. Although the pain will become so breath-taking when he forces himself to see the man slowly falling down, then gradually becoming still, not moving anymore in his own pool of blood; even though his eyes will be blurred with tears, Greg still forces himself to watch. It's the truth, Mycroft never left the hospital even for a minute, until he died. So it is all Greg's imagination. Greg laughs at himself. How pitiful you are, Greg. You made it up all by yourself, he never thought of you, did he? Until he died, you never had the courage to express your feelings to him, why should he have thought of you?
Greg. Since you were such a coward, now you'll never have another chance. It's all your fault.
Greg, you deserve this loneliness.
Mycroft will never come back here again. Even if you still see him in your dreams, it's just your imagination.
He is no more.
He's dead, Greg.
Died in solitude. In pain. And it's because of you, your cowardice.
Why not tell him how you felt while he was still alive? While you still could?
How could you be so stupid? What were you waiting for? Now no matter how much more time you have, you will never wait for Mycroft again.
Mycroft has truly gone away...
One day, about two months after Mycroft's death, John is informed that Greg is hospitalized for alcohol poisoning. He has drunk so much he totally lost consciousness, had hypothermia, and convulsions. That night was also a quiet night, no one stayed late in the office but him. Not until the next morning when a colleague came early, he found Greg unconscious on the floor in his own vomit, then called an ambulance and took him to the hospital. Thankfully, since Greg has always been in good shape, his life is not in danger, but when John and Sherlock come to visit, they both see that at this rate, sooner or later Greg will find a way to kill himself.
Though maybe he won't do it on purpose.
Greg lies there, hand still lock with infusion, he only turns slightly to see it's John and Sherlock walking in, then he turns his face away. Greg feels he has nothing to say. He also cannot forbid them from visiting, he just wants them to leave soon. Seeing the two of them reminds him of Mycroft...
He has sworn that he would never mention that name again.
John gently sits down on the chair next to the bed, while Sherlock is still standing next to him.
"Greg…"
Greg doesn't turn around. Closing his eyes, he sighs softly.
"Greg… What's wrong? Why are you doing this to yourself? … Greg, we're so worried about you…"
"I just accidentally drank too much; I didn't pay enough attention. It's okay, you two don't have to worry."
"Greg…" John's voice is still hesitant. "It's about Mycroft, isn't it?"
Hearing that name, both Greg and Sherlock can't help but forget to breathe. The atmosphere around them suddenly becomes silent. Greg still turns away, not daring to look back, afraid that he wouldn't be able to hide his surging emotions from the two of them if he turned around. Still, John continues to speak.
"I know I'm in no position to mention Mycroft … But these past two months, this suffocating silence has really… been too much to bear. Sherlock, Greg too, both of you, if you need to vent your rage, take it out on me. I will bear everything… You two can blame me, say whatever you want. Mycroft died because of me, that is an irrevocable fact. Hit me, scold me as you like. Just… don't torture yourself anymore. I can't stand to see you two like this. Don't avoid mentioning his name anymore... He didn't deserve to be avoided like that…"
John bursts into tears. Sherlock freezes, tears streaming down his pale face. He gently puts his hand on John's shoulder, comforting.
Greg laughs to himself, bitterly.
"Are you mistaken, John? What am I to Mycroft to suffer from his death? I am nothing, am not even his friend. What right do I have to blame you, John?"
John looks up at Greg, he sobs even harder. The air seems to stand still, so thick. Only John's cry resounds in the quiet hospital room.
Sherlock suddenly speaks up.
"That's not true, Greg. Mycroft took you very seriously. You told John that my brother came to see you that night, didn't you?"
Greg gives a dry laugh.
"Didn't you watch the recorded videos? When had Mycroft left the hospital that day? I was dreaming, I imagined it all. I was delusional, Sherlock. He never came… never left me any words… I am nothing to him."
Then he suddenly bursts into tears.
"I'm nothing to Mycroft, Sherlock… I appreciated him, but I never told him so… Now it's too late, Sherlock… I'm no one to cry for him… I regret it every day… Sherlock…"
Sherlock freezes in pain. He feels his heart clench. Gently bringing his hand to his left chest, as if to take a little more courage from his brother, he silently whispers.
"Greg, I'm sorry..."
Greg looks up at Sherlock.
"What do you have to apologize to me for?"
Sherlock closes his eyes, tears still streaming down his face.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you… Nor did I tell John… I thought it would be better… if you didn't know about Mycroft's true feelings… maybe it would be easier for you to get over his death… but I didn't expect you to actually suffer this much… Greg, Mycroft's visit to you that night was real… It was his soul. I know that because he also came to see me…"
John is shocked, he shakingly looks up at his partner with eyes still blurring with tears.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock forces himself to continue even though it hurts him so much to say.
"That's right, John. Remember when I told you I could still hear everything because the anesthesia had failed? That when I woke up I didn't need you to explain anything, I heard it all, John. I knew why you had to… I overheard you and that nurse… I heard it all, John… But that's not everything that happened… The moment I was ready to give up on life, I saw Mycroft. He was there, encouraging me, telling me I had to come back, for you and Rosie…"
John shivers and abruptly stands up. The chair falls to the floor with a shrill sound. Greg just stares at Sherlock.
"I thought I was imagining it too… That it was just an illusion that this mind played with me, showing me Mycroft… Until you told me Greg also had said that Mycroft came to see him. … I was shocked, John… It's when I believed that I did really saw Mycroft…" Sherlock breaks apart, he brings his hands to his face, shaking and crying.
Greg still says nothing. He just keeps staring at Sherlock. So all the pains and regrets, for the past two months, for those he has blamed all on Mycroft... Blaming that person for not thinking about him, not sparing him even a message, or a simple goodbye, even though they had known each other for more than a decade… was he all wrong? Did he wrongly accuse Mycroft?
"I don't believe it, Sherlock… You don't have to feel sorry for me… Don't feel sorry for me, if you're seeing me so pathetic, so miserable with this love for a dead man, that you came up with such a lie in hope that I'll believe it… Sherlock, I don't… You're just lying… You're too good at it… I wouldn't believe…"
Sherlock is still sobbing profusely. John is shocked and shaken to the core, he keeps looking at Sherlock and then back to Greg. Then, as if determined, he reaches out and grabs Sherlock's hand, pulling him away.
"Don't stay here, Sherlock… You don't have to suffer this much… You can't cry, you haven't totally healed yet, you still have to avoid getting emotional…"
Then turning to Greg, John growls.
"It's your decision to believe it or not, Greg. You can believe whatever you want to believe, Greg, if it makes you feel better, but you have no right to say that about Sherlock… He didn't do anything wrong to you."
About to drag Sherlock out of the hospital room, John is startled when Sherlock yanks his hand away. He wants to remain.
Sherlock, with tears still streaming down his face, walks over to Greg's bed, then reaches into his pocket. He takes out the notebook Mycroft had left behind and places it gently on the nightstand.
"It's the truth, Greg… It's the truth… I think so, I believe so… It wouldn't be such a coincidence, if you and I had both seen Mycroft that night… Mycroft had always told me so… when he was alive… The universe is never so lazy. It must really be him, Greg… Definitely…" His eyes blur with tears. "I want you to keep this notebook… Though it may only bring you painful memories, but… it's something that Mycroft always carried with him when he was alive… Greg, I hope you will soon get over this… Don't treat yourself so badly, Greg… Mycroft wouldn't expect it…"
Rubbing his tears away with his trembling fist, Sherlock then leaves the room with John, leaving only a thick, painful atmosphere. Greg slowly stands up, staring at the brown leather notebook. Then, taking a deep breath, as if gathering courage, he reaches out and takes it in his hand.
He squeezes it tightly in his hold, like it was Mycroft. His Mycroft. Tears fall softly on the hospital blanket. Gently stroking the leather cover, he flips open the pages with numbing fingers. Mycroft's simple words, some even look like codes, are not to be easily understood by others. Some pages only contain numbers. But at least, this is his autograph… The more pages Greg opens, the more tears fall from his eyes. Here it is, the last page that he wrote… "Please respect my liberty to die." Running his fingers through the hastily written words, Greg feels a bitter taste in his throat. Shakingly, he cries without a sound. Mycroft… Greg feels like he can no longer breathe, like the surrounding air has suddenly been drained dry, and the pain suddenly comes back, angrily. He drops the notebook on the bed, like it was a burning object, and feels his hands burn with pain. Tears flow out uncontrollably, blurring everything. Greg just quietly cries. How does he know what to believe in now? Until the day of his death, had Mycroft ever thought of him? Can Greg believe in Sherlock's words? Will Greg feel worse, or better, if he chooses to believe that in those last moments of existence, Mycroft did really came to see him?
Greg doesn't know how he should feel anymore. He doesn't know what he should choose to believe.
Whatever he chooses to believe in, it can't change the fact that Mycroft is gone. Nothing will ever change that.
Greg is still shaking and crying. Gathering more courage, he picks up the notebook once again.
The notebook has just been dropped on the hospital bed, it opens to a page near the end. On the ivory-white page, there lie only simple lines.
It seems that Mycroft had drawn it at some point in his spare time.
A sketch of a house. With the windows, with the little flowers on the porch, with the tiled roof.
A house!
…
Greg is shocked. He couldn't believe his eyes. He has never seen this drawing before.
For more than ten years, he has never seen Mycroft draw anything.
Never once.
Until that night was the only time.
This cannot be something he could have imagined on his own.
This cannot be something his mind could come up with to play with himself.
This is the truth.
This habit of Mycroft he has never known about. He couldn't have imagined it himself.
This must be the truth…
...
This notebook…
Maybe this notebook left behind is Mycroft's way of telling him that the night was real. That Mycroft did came to him, that was the truth...
In any form, even after death…
But Mycroft came to him…
Greg didn't come up with it himself…
Greg has not become crazy…
...
He is breathless.
Tears are still falling from his eyes, but something inside him is changing.
A feeling…
A sense of security…
A guarantee…
Greg smiles softly. Raising his hand to wipe his tears away.
...
Mycroft, thank you for this final proof.
I believe it, Mycroft.
I believe it now.
Mycroft, thank you.