One hour
Sherlock's dead.
Mycroft read the text, but it didn't sink in for a good while. And when it finally did, he still felt the urge not to believe it. He wanted to believe this was John Watson's idea of getting him back, of showing what his carelessness could have caused.
But he knew the truth. That this was John's way of showing him what his carelessness had caused.
He set the phone down as a pit grew in his stomach. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They'd been a few harmless facts, a few meaningless stories. If he'd realized what those stories would do for James Moriarty, he never would have given them up. They wouldn't have been able to make him give them up.
But John wouldn't see that. He'd see a man that put his own ambitions over his family, and Mycroft couldn't blame him. Because maybe it was true. Maybe if Mycroft had stopped and thought, maybe if he wasn't so hell-bent on getting what he wanted, then maybe he would have realized. Maybe he wouldn't have helped Moriarty's insane game. Maybe his little brother wouldn't be dead.
He texted back the only response he could think of, even though he knew it wouldn't be nearly enough.
I'm so sorry, John.
A response never came.
Mycroft knew the conversation was over. And that it was probably the last conversation with John he'd ever have.
