Another Chapter and really where our story begins.
Mycroft's entrance was difficult to miss. He flung the door open in typical Holmes fashion. After glancing at the man on the bed, he gasped and promptly passed out. John smirked and considered taking a picture but decided to give the older Holmes sibling a break. He could see Mycroft was breathing from where he sat so opted to completely ignore his entrance.
A moment or two later, Mycroft stirred, stood up, brushed himself off and picked up his umbrella. He cleared his throat and John turned to look at him. His hair was dishevelled, which John found disturbing on so many levels. His clothes were, as usual, immaculate but his eyes were bloodshot and his face was puffy. John felt his own face softening at the sight.
"You really had no idea?" John asked quietly, his hand moving from Sherlock's hair to rest on his chest, where he could feel the comforting heartbeat under his palm.
In the silence that followed John couldn't help but remember the last time he saw Mycroft and catalogue the differences in his appearance.
It had been a week or so after John began his job at St Bart's. He had come home from work to find Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's chair; no-one sat in that chair – it was the unspoken rule of 221B Baker Street. Mycroft had been sitting, back straight despite the fact that he was leaning back enough for his shoulders to rest on the back of the chair; his arms were resting on the armrest, left leg crossed over his right and he had been twirling his umbrella in his right hand, the end of it resting on the floor. There had been a smug little look etched onto Mycroft's face, looking back now John could recognise it for the defensive mask that it was, but at the time it had only served to anger him further.
"John," Mycroft had drawled in that slimy upper class tone that he had used from time to time. The one which gave John the feeling that he was being snubbed; that Mycroft felt he was the superior being in the room. It had made the rage boil inside him.
"What the fuck are you doing here Mycroft?" He had glared angrily, forcing the words out from behind clenched teeth. His fists clenched at his sides so hard that they were shaking.
"I wanted to see how you're doing." Mycroft continued in the same smarmy tone. "I worry."
"You worry," John had growled before grabbing Mycroft by the lapels and dragging him out of his seat. "Shame you didn't worry enough to remember careless talk kills," John's voice had increased in volume as he had slammed Mycroft into the wall. "It's your fault he's dead! You couldn't keep your fucking mouth shut!" John had slammed his left fist into Mycroft's nose so hard the older man had seen stars. He had then thrown Mycroft out of the door, chucking his umbrella at him, with the warning, "if you ever come back here, I'll break your nose again before I stick a bullet in you."
Mycroft had staggered into the waiting black car without a reply. John had expected retribution; none had come.
The Mycroft standing near him was so different to the one he had seen all that time ago. He had put on at least 2 stone, his shoulders were slumped, his face looked more haggard and the smug superior expression which had been constantly upon his face was no more. He looked at least 10 years older than John knew him to be and for the first time since Sherlock... since that day, John felt bad about how he had treated his best friend's brother.
"He's using again," Mycroft whispered as he stepped closer to John and Sherlock. "Not cocaine this time." He ran his fingers down his brother's arm, looking at the needle marks. "Heroin and Phenazepam," he concluded, "not something he would normally have chosen."
"Why?" John asked as he looked at Mycroft horror and shock written all over his face.
"He preferred stimulants: he thought they made his mind work faster." Mycroft turned to John, suddenly looking like the thousands of other relatives he'd seen in his time as a doctor: looking to a doctor for answers, for reassurance.
"His vitals aren't critical and they're getting better. I don't think this was overdose; I think he just hasn't been looking after himself at all and his body ran out of the energy needed to keep him conscious." Mycroft nodded and John was surprised how clearly the relief was written on his face. "If you want to stay, there's a spare bed in the cupboard, I can pull it out for you.
"May I just..." Mycroft paused and glanced at the chair he had sat in last time he was in the flat. John nodded and Mycroft collapsed into the chair, not once did he take his eyes off his younger brother.
They stayed like that for a while, Mycroft in Sherlock's chair, just watching his brother and John sitting on the sofa, his hand resting over his friend's heart. When John's alarm sounded for John to check Sherlock's vitals again, Mycroft was asleep in the armchair. The effects of the alcohol combined with the emotional stress and lack of sleep to knock him out cold. The thought struck John that he was one of a very small number of people who could say that he had had the opportunity to see both Holmes brothers showing their humanity and at the same time. Then he looked at the tubes going into Sherlock and the pain etched on Mycroft's face and wished the opportunity had never arisen.
When the Holmes brothers awake, they did so at almost the same moment, though Sherlock was the first. John heard the sharp inhalation of breath and looked up to see Sherlock lying wide eyed staring at the ceiling and trembling. John then glanced at Mycroft and saw he was sitting bolt upright in his chair, holding his breath. If John didn't know Mycroft better he would say that he looked almost afraid to move.
John moved back to Sherlock's side, Sherlock wasn't trying to remove the tubes so John opted to leave them in. He took Sherlock's vitals once more. Sherlock just watched John silently, moving nothing but his eyes. When John was done, he sat next to Sherlock and wiped away the tears that were running down Sherlock's cheeks.
"Hey," John spoke softly, "what's wrong?"
"I..." Sherlock sniffed, "I failed. He got you." Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and tears continued to stream down his face. John frowned in confusion.
"Who got me?"
"Moriarty," Sherlock choked out. "He killed you."
"Hmm... Sherlock, I um... I'm not dead." Sherlock moved his head on the pillow but John couldn't tell if it was a nod or a shake.
"You must be; you're here," Sherlock whispered.
"Uh... what?"
"I'm here; I'm home. Conclusion: I'm dead and this is heaven. You're here too," Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and tried to stop himself from sobbing enough to get the words out, "so you must be dead too."
"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, unsure of what to say, "you... you're not..." John coughed, trying to clear the lump in his throat, "You're not dead."
"I am. It's the only explanation of all the facts."
"The only explanation of all the facts," John couldn't help but repeat dumbfounded, "What facts are they Sherlock?"
"I'm home," Sherlock whispered, "You're here and I can feel it when you touch me – so not a hallucination then. I didn't believe in heaven but when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." With that declaration, Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his hand to grasp John's, which was once again resting over Sherlock's heart. John turned to Mycroft, looking for help.
"Really Sherlock," Mycroft spoke softly, but once again in that tone of voice that had so irritated John in the past, "the only explanation of all the facts?" Sherlock's eyes flew open and he turned his head to look at Mycroft. His hand, rather than letting go of John's, tightened its grip.
"Myc," he whispered, his voice filled with pain, "not you too." John could feel the tremors in Sherlock's body intensify.
"No Sherlock, I'm not dead." Mycroft continued, seeing in his brother the little boy who had vanished that fateful month decades ago. The sight made his chest constrict and he closed his eyes briefly to drive back the emotions that were surfacing at the memory.