Molly wasn't looking forward to work.
Technically, that wasn't saying much because she worked in a morgue and talked to dead people, but it was going to be even worse today.
Because this time, one of the dead people was going to be her friend. And instead of him doing the talking, as he normally did, he would just be lying there on a cold slab as Molly...well, did her autopsy stuff.
As she unlocked the door to the morgue, she couldn't help but feel intimidated by what she was about to do. Yes, she had volunteered to do the examination, mainly because she needed to see him to believe the news, but also because Barts was essentially his home away from home. When he wasn't at Baker Street or out on a case, he was here, asking Molly to wheel out corpses. It never occurred to her that one day his would be the body that she would be wheeling out.
The gray lights flickered on above her, in a most ominous fashion, doing nothing to help her nerves. Molly strode over to the farthest stretcher, bracing herself for what was on the cart. She closed her eyes once, took a deep and opened them.
He looked like he could've been asleep. His suit was impeccably neat, his curls framing his face like they always did. In fact, it almost seemed like he was sleeping, except for the dried blood in his hair and the gaping hole in his chin.
"No, no, no." Molly whimpered, running back from Sherlock and falling down. The scalpel she was holding sliced into her wrist, but she only had one thought. She needed to get as far away as she could from him.
Staggering slightly, she picked herself off the ground and ran out the room. Molly hadn't called a cab, yet a black car pulled up beside her as she left the building. She didn't pay any attention to it until a man stepped out and grabbed her arm.
"Get off me!" She yelled, turning around to face her attacker, but quickly stopped, realizing it was Mycroft.
"Oh, hello Mycroft." Molly muttered, slightly embarrassed. "You gave me quite a scare."
"I do apologize." Mycroft replied. "What happened to your wrist?"
"I—" Molly looked down, noticing the cut for the first time. "I tripped and the scalpel was in my hand, I must've accidentally cut myself."
Mycroft nodded, his eyes still on the red line. "We'll need to get that cleaned up. Infection is a dangerous thing. You say you tripped?"
"I saw him." Molly said quietly. "He was laid out and there was blood everywhere and I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it."
Mycroft put a reassuring arm on her shoulder. "I know this is hard, Molly. It's hard for me as well. But I need to take you to Baker Street. We're having a meeting."
ooOoo
Lestrade sat at Sherlock's desk, grief etched in every crevice of his face. He ran his hand over the wood absentmindedly, staring around the flat sadly. Mrs. Hudson sniffled into a handkerchief on the couch, a crying Molly curled up in her lap. Mycroft sat at the other end of the sofa, his eyes glistening. Last but not least, John rested in his chair, one hand white gripping his cane, the other clenched into a fist, glaring at Sherlock's empty seat across him, almost as if he was daring him to reappear.
There were two other people in the room, but not everybody could see them. First, Mary stood, as she always did, by the door, but her eyes were red and a tear dripped from her face. Then there was Sherlock, sitting in his chair, looking down at his feet only to glance up at Mycroft every so often.
"Are you going to get this thing started or what?" Sherlock demanded, waving at Mycroft. He stood up and cleared his throat.
"Well, um, guys." Mycroft started. Every word seemed alien in his mouth. "We need to uh..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, finishing Mycroft's sentence for him. "Get all my shit sorted out."
"I'm not going to say that!" Mycroft cut back, earning him several concerned looks from his audience.
"Sorry?" John leaned forward.
"Uh, nothing." Mycroft tried for a tight grin but it came out more as a grimace. "First things first. We need to sort out my brother's estate. There's the matter of all his possessions, his money, or at least what little of it he had, and of course the flat itself. We also need to take care of the funeral, and what will happen to his..." He gave a meaningful look at Molly. "Body."
"Is that it?" Lestrade piped up, shifting in his chair to face Mycroft. "You summoned us all here to talk about funerals and estates?"
"Is there something else you were hoping to talk about?" Mycroft replied anxiously, sensing danger. He still couldn't quite understand what these goldfish were thinking. Emotions were so complicated.
"Course there bloody is!" John exploded. "Mycroft, he's your brother. He's my best friend. He's all our friend. We've been coping with this for two weeks. Two weeks, Mycroft! While Mrs. Hudson and I were trying to clean up the flat and Lestrade was solving the goddamn case, you were god-knows-where filing paperwork! And now you just waltz in here for the first time in weeks, and don't even bother to ask how we are? How we're holding up?"
"John, no." Mary warned, reaching his hand out towards him. John ignored her.
"Did you not even give a thought to how we would feel? Did you not even give a thought to your own brother? Molly had to—no, she volunteered to slice up his dead corpse for the autopsy! Do you have any idea how hard that must've been? But I suppose Mycroft Holmes has a heart of stone, and he won't let himself feel anything for anyone, even his own dead little brother!"
"Don't...don't bring me into this." Molly pleaded. John took a deep breath. He immediately knew he had gone too far. He looked up at Mycroft, expecting him to be angry, but instead saw something much worse. The Iceman slumped his shoulders, as if he was deflating. He caught John's eyes and the only thing John could see in them was just blankness. Blankness and defeat.
"Tell them." Sherlock stated simply. "Tell them why you did it."
Mycroft took a deep breath, struggling to get his thoughts in order. Finally he opened his mouth. "John, you are not mistaken. It was foolish, cowardly of me to hide from the harsh reality and leave you all to cope with the situation by yourself. I was wrong to expect a warm welcome from you. Emotions are not something I am familiar with, but to tell you I did not anticipate this reaction would be a lie. I knew what I should've done, and I chose not to, but not for the reasons you think."
"'All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.' I said these very words to my brother many years ago. I've repeated them so often in my head that I have almost come to believe them. Almost. John, you accuse me of not caring about Sherlock. But the fact is, I do care for him. Too much. And I chose to abandon you, his dearest friends, not because I was indifferent but because I was devastated and angry. Angry at my sister. Angry at him for taking his life. But mostly, angry at myself for letting it all happen. I needed to take the time to reflect on myself and my feelings before I could figure out what to do next. It was an unpleasant, yet crucial step and I do not regret it."
"I cried, John. I cried and sobbed and felt sadness and grief wash over me. You have experience dealing with feelings. I envy that. I didn't, for so many years, and now I seem to have lost the ability to handle it. I was afraid that if I spent too much time dwelling on his loss, it would destroy me. Do you know I still see him sometimes? He talks to me, too. It is destroying me, inside. So, when I called you all over here for this seemingly cold convocation, the reason was not because I didn't care, but for exactly the opposite. I was afraid I couldn't handle it. This is my way of mourning."
"It's okay, Mycroft." Mrs. Hudson got up slowly, gently sliding Molly off her lap. "We understand." She took his hands and he found himself clinging to her.
"Yeah, mate. We get it. It's hard. I loved him too." Lestrade walked over and patted Mycroft on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry." John shook his head. "I had no right to say that. Any of it."
Mycroft nodded. "It's not your fault. I don't blame you. If it's anyone's fault, it should be mine."
Molly shook her head. "No, Mycroft. It's not. He chose to save you and John. That was his choice, and his alone. I'm devastated, but I'm also so proud of him. He was so brave." She wiped her eyes. "We shouldn't feel ashamed of ourselves. If anything, Sherlock deserves to be remembered. We can't let his death stop our lives. He wouldn't have wanted that. We owe him that much."
"That's right." Sherlock sighed sadly. He walked over to Mycroft, reaching his hand out but unable to touch him. "Trust in others, Mycroft. Listen to them."
"I will, brother dear."
Author Note:
I'm sorry about the long wait! I really wanted to spend some time working on Mycroft's perspective, because I think there's a lot I can do with his character right now. This chapter was probably my favorite to write, as I had a lot of fun figuring out what exactly Mycroft's confessive speech was going to entail. There'll be more of this story later on, so stay tuned. Thanks for all the follows and support!
-Irene xx