Two years of mourning. Two years of contemplating whether it was even worth it to keep living. Two years of-
"Two years," John screams, at least he tries to. He's on his knees in front of Mycroft, not even sure how he got there, but he can see in the bleak darkness that a bruise is forming on Mycroft's cheek and his knuckles burn where they rest against his chest."Two-" He can feel the veins popping out of his forehead with the effort of trying to put the rage he feels into words, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper. He winces. Weak.
"John-"
"Where is he?" John growls, gripping hard at the grass beneath him in an attempt to stop himself from attacking Mycroft again.
"There were complications. He-" Mycroft sighs, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it firmly to his nose, eyes downcast. "He was retrieved only a week ago."
"Retrieved," John repeats because apparently, he can only speak in one or two-word sentences right now.
"Yes."
John studies Mycroft's face. He can see a brief pass of some emotion pass his face and it all he needs to know. "He's hurt."
"John-"
"Take me to him."
"You will be no good to him in this state. Tomorrow morning I will have a car collect you."
John rips both hands through his hair, gripping the edges and pulling. "I've just found out that I have been fucking lied to for two fucking years-"
"Tomorrow," Mycroft says firmly, carefully getting to his feet before striding away.
John wants to yell or scream at him, but his lungs are burning and he can't find the air, let alone strength, to do anything, but collapse.
He lays next to the empty grave until the sun comes up.