Fading out
"Sherlock, help me."
Sherlock
He stared at the phone, a frown on his face; he just had the weirdest phone call with Mycroft in nearly all their lives. What the hell was that about? His brother has been acting so strange lately. No security, no stalking cars, no umbrella, a Trust without him in it, phone call from saying stuff like 'it will all be clear soon' and 'secrets don't stay secret' then the biggest part was practically a love confession, how he was Mycroft's biggest strength and all of that.
Lifting the phone he tried to all again, there was no answer; instead the phone was dead, not even a dialling tone or voicemail, nothing. An unsettling feeling started to form; he was missing something, something big. There is something wrong with Mycroft, ever since that night when he and John played that game in his house. He will not admit the pride when Mycroft called out to him for help. "Sherlock, help me." Those three words etched in his brain and even now, when he is in bed, he hears that. Mycroft thought he was in genuine danger; his life was on the line and the only thing he thought off, was that Sherlock would help. Thinking back he felt bad, he knew Mycroft hated clowns but he thought it would be funny, to get one over Mycroft, after all these years, now, not so much. The fear in his brother's eyes, the truth about their sister, the lengths that Mycroft went to, to ensure his wellbeing, his safety from that. His big brother has been looking out for him, since he was practically born. He and John, should've probably thought of another way to get Mycroft to talk, well it's all in the past now.
Putting the phone in his pocket he looked around. All of this was also thanks to Mycroft, he paid for the repairs, all of it, he should say thanks next time he sees him. His eyes caught the documents, he and John had signed the documents, and their future is secured, even Rosie's. He smiled thinking of the new adventures in front of them, he, John and Rosie, it is going to be great.
Speaking of which, he should go and check to make sure they paint her room the right colour. Running up the stairs, his mind pushed his brother aside for his other family.
He was so busy with the renovations and then John came home with Rosie and it was feeding her, putting her to sleep and then so many other things, that he completely forgot about Mycroft and trying to get in touch again. That all changed when the front doorbell ring. Not thinking much of it, he and John went on with their things until Mrs Hudson entered the room with Lady Smallwood. He stared at her, taking in her appearance but pushing it aside, the fact that she is here, knowing there is no case means only one thing. And he refuses to believe it. It is not true, no, no way.
"NO!" He yelled but didn't care; he could already feel the angst in his body, the adrenalin surging, his mind palace shaking as if it by an earthquake, the walls were shaking and his breath couldn't even out. He walked towards her, she didn't flinch away, he could hear John talking to him but he didn't hear a thing, it was all white noise in his head, in the room around him, consuming him whole. His eyes locked with hers.
"No." He needed to get away; he needed to get away, with a swift turn he nearly ran to his room, slamming the door loudly behind him. The earthquake intensified, shaking him off his feet so he fell to the floor.
No no no no his heart was screaming loudly in his ears, his mind screaming yes it's true. It was loud and noisy and he clasped his hands on his ears, he wanted to scream but not a sound came out, there was a few drops of water on the floor in front of his face, his face was wet, the tears running in silent waves off his face, crushing on the floor like waves crashes against a rock. He never heard the words as she told John and Mrs Hudson in the living room. "Mycroft Holmes died today." He didn't believe it, he won't. Not without a body, Mycroft is a Holmes; they are good with faking deaths in the Holmes family. He wants to see a body, he wants to see it for himself, see how his brother is faking it, and then yell at him for not telling him beforehand.
He didn't sleep or eat, his mind telling him it's true, Mycroft said it will all became clear soon, secrets don't stay secret. The Trust, the lack of government car, of the suit, of the umbrella, the signs were there, just like that night in Mycroft's home, Mycroft was asking Sherlock for help, yelling it loud and clear "Sherlock, help me" but he didn't see it, he didn't hear it. He was so busy fixing his relationship with John, with Euros, with his parents telling him, he was always the grown-up one that he didn't see it, didn't hear it. Now he has no choice but to hear it, he is the grown-up now, he is the older brother now, he is the eldest and that thought is shaking him to his core. He can't do it, its Mycroft's job, he is the mother hen, and he is the caretaker, the planner, the clever one!
Their parents…they still blame Mycroft, and now he is dead…how…what….
He couldn't think, his Mind Palace was shaken, the walls were cracking and he had no idea how to fix it. He was aware of Rosie crying during the night, John feeding her in the morning, John checking up on him. He ignored them all, just a body with no soul, staring ahead. Mrs Hudson tried to get them to eat breakfast but he didn't, he didn't even look at her, she called his brother a reptile without knowing the facts, without knowing the sacrifices he made and now Mycroft is dead.
He remember saying that he wants to see the body, he will not believe it until he sees it, and John must've told Lady Smallwood that, because the next day they were at the morgue, Sherlock still hasn't talked or eaten since he heard the news. He stood rigid in his suit and coat at the morgue, John was standing next to him, his support.
The attendee went to lift the sheet but Sherlock stopped him, he will do it. His fingers were pale and trembling as he lifted the sheet off the body. It was Mycroft, his heart and mind couldn't ignore it any longer, there was no denying that the man on the slab was his brother. The nose pale and strong, the lips thin and blue, the eyes, sunken and closed, his hair dark and auburn against the deathly pale skin, the curl his brother so desperately tried to hide hanging loose.
His chest was covered with cuts and bruises and holes, shrapnel; he was hit by shrapnel from an explosion. He stared. He stared for long time and Mycroft didn't wake up, he didn't open his eyes and went "Oh Sherlock, didn't you know, all lives end, all hearts are broken. Are yours breaking for me?"
He didn't know how long he stared, how long they were there; he remembered a few days later he went to his brother's house, alone.
One step in the doorway and he knew, he knew. Mycroft planned this, he planned on dying he planned on suicide but then somehow sacrifice was better. The house was empty, his footsteps echoed in the rooms, down the hallways, he stepped into his brother's room, everything was gone the wardrobes empty, no suits, not products, nothing. The bed was there, but it was stripped bare, even his brother's scent was gone, the house was clean. There were two objects on the bed, both with a sticker; his name was on both, in his brother's handwriting. The beautiful elegant scrip he will never see again, his name, one of the last things his brother had written down. "Your loss would break my heart." Sherlock waved his hand in the air, trying to wave the words away, somehow, more and more of his brother's words were echoing in his mind all loud in the room, in his ears.
A slight layer on dust was on both, his brother trusted umbrella and the family home video, he knew it was the one he and John cut up to frighten Mycroft. It was them at the beach, Mycroft was sitting on a blanket, eating cake and Sherlock tackled him to the ground laughing and smiling. Mycroft put the cake down and hugged Sherlock close. It was one of the only hugs he could ever remember giving his brother out of his own free will, and he remembered how Mycroft held him close, afraid to let go.
Sherlock choked on the memory and dropping the video he ran out, he ran down the stairs, his steps loud and harsh in the house, he ran down the hallway and tripped falling with a thud to the floor. He looked up and saw the painting, the red paint still tainting the family portraits. Sherlock let out a scream. The first one in days, the first loud sound in days, he couldn't stop. He yelled and screamed as loud as he could, till he couldn't scream anymore, his body crumbling on the ground, the tears running down his face. He lost his brother; he lost his brother, the one person who saved him many times over, who was always there even when Sherlock yelled at him. Through doss house to drug den. "I was there for you once; I'll be there for you again." The promise on the plane and he pushed him away, calling a useless brother. "Sherlock, help me." He didn't hear, he didn't hear, he didn't see, it was in front of him, all this time.
"I'm sorry." He uttered through his tears and screams, no one heard him. The house was empty and the portraits had nothing to say.