*The Other Side*

By: WhiteGloves

Chapter 3

The inevitable meeting! Fancy another chapter?

Enjoy Reading~

The Void

Mycroft was in a jet plane. The very same jet plane—one very distinct to his memory.

He was seated by the window overlooking such whiteness with a deep set look in his eyes. He was clad in his dark navy blue three piece coat this time, with his purple tie he wears for important occasions and dark gloves holding on to his umbrella firmly. His brow was furrowed, chin set down the back of his right hand leaning by the umbrella and thinking.

Thinking.

If there ever was anything vaster than the pureness outside his window it was his mind. Because even in the blankness of space, Mycroft Holmes could see everything.

Time was not of the essence and the only thing that could spoil the serenity was the man himself whose eyes would suddenly spark at a memory, would sit up straight as if remembering something very dire, and then would hunch back and grip his umbrella; continuing his silent vigil of eternal recline.

Mycroft would have sunk another level of thinking for that was how his mind was—a bottomless pit— had it not been for something that seemed to drop itself out of nowhere—a figure in the shape of a man had plopped himself on the opposite chair of Mycroft, surprising him. Mycroft raised his eyes up as well as his brows to survey the intruder—and then gave out a loud sigh of exasperation as he saw who it was.

"Good Lord. Tell me you're not really here."

Mycroft locked eyes with that of Sherlock Holmes who was smiling at him quite disturbingly with his eyes reduce to slits, his smile reaching his ears—the very smile he would give had he seen a criminal in the act of escaping red-handed and letting him because he was boring to follow.

And the detective put his fingers together in a familiar fashion.

"Hello, brother." He started not wiping the smile off his face, "miss me?"

Mycroft shifted on his chair uncomfortably and leaned back, eyes on the younger Holmes.

"No, Sherlock, I won't be returning." He then said quietly, as if understanding the very appearance of his brother there, knowing in fact that the universe was working its miracles and calling him back. But he was Mycroft Holmes and he could outwit anyone, be it the Universe or whatsis. "Get off." He looked outside the window wondering when his flight would move on.

"Escaping, are we?"

"No, no... just too tired... being around too many... goldfish."

"I think this is one of those moments when they say, 'Don't follow the light'."

"Oh yes, you would know, wouldn't you?" Mycroft shot his brother a look of complete interest this time, "Having seen so many in your lifetime at such a young age. But you've ever been the stubborn one, Sherlock. You never follow anything."

"I do, too."

"Who? Mummy? Oh yes, you're terrified of her."

"And you aren't?"

The two exchange challenging looks till the older brother narrowed his eyes and give out a sigh.

"Get off, Sherlock," he repeated, resuming his attention to the window of whiteness, "There's nothing you can say that can change my mind, now get along and be gone."

There was silence and for awhile Mycroft had begun drifting to his inner thoughts when Sherlock spoke again.

"Don't you find it odd that it should be this particular plane?" it was Sherlock's usual voice of inquiry mixed with disdain added with feigned ignorance, "Why this particular jet plane, brother? And of all times—that?"

Sherlock looked pointedly down the floor where Mycroft followed with his eyes and saw there on the floor—a piece of paper with scribbles of elements too familiar to the two. Sherlock gave him a smile when the older brother looked up sombrely.

"Of course," Mycroft turned his full attention to Sherlock again, "this is one of those moments... I regret the most."

"Regret." The Sherlock opposite him said with fingertips touching and eyebrows rose, "That's a big thing, isn't it?"

"It was all my fault..."

"You always think everything's your fault, Mycroft. Always the responsible one."

"Why shouldn't I be? I know everything."

"Knowing is not a crime. If you know your excuses." He smirked, then Sherlock's eyes dimmed as he continued, "You shouldn't always feel responsible for my actions, you know. You should just stick to being all-knowing without doing anything—"

"Oh yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" it was Mycroft's turn to raise an eyebrow.

Sherlock flashed a smile. "You're right."

The two gazed each other for a second, before both felt the engine getting to life, making the older Holmes sit upright and gaze outside the window. For some reason there was too much light outside. He knew it was time.

"You should hurry up and get off. It's not your ride, brothermine. Not this time."

He stared at Sherlock who remained immobile on his chair.

"Get off." It was demand as he frowned furiously at his younger brother who blinked at him and inclined his head on one side with a tone full of wonder in his voice as he said—

"If you let me get out I would. You're the one clinging on me, like usual. Brother dear."

A dawning comprehension stuck Mycroft's expression as he gazed at the man before him. And as if understanding what he needed to do, Mycroft shut his eyes close and leaned back on his chair. With a deep sigh, he opened them.

Sherlock was gone.

The jet plane started moving with its steady engine too silent. The bright light outside was blinding; it was seen by how it engulfed the whiteness outside. If Mycroft wasn't looking properly, he was sure it was ready to absorb even the plane he was on. But then again he knew it was meant to happen.

Staring blankly at the window, the older Holmes awaited his journey to begin.

When something in his chest pocket vibrated vigorously.

Frowning at the disruption, Mycroft fished the object from his pocket and found his phone and on it Sherlock Holmes' name was flashing for an incoming call. He opted to throw the phone down the floor but like instinct, his fingers dotted on the answer button and his hand automatically slammed it on his ear at the same time he felt the plane go on full speed on the roadway.

"What do—?"

"Get off that plane, Mycroft!" the voice of Sherlock Holmes was much different than the other one he was talking to just now. The voice sounded angry, violent—demanding. "Get off!"

Mycroft's answer was silence. He knew the plane had left its course a second ago. Knew it was too late. He took some air and let it out in the heaviest manner. Something in his chest was aching painfully.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock's voice had gotten softer and quieter for some reason. And then he breathed, "I need you."

Mycroft closed his eyes and traced the outline of his creased forehead with his free hand. It had been a long time since he heard those words, like a long forgotten, lost memory. It made him uncomfortable. But like the usual, he has his ready answer like a habitual response whenever Sherlock needs it.

"Where are you?"

The jet plane was no longer in sight.

The heaviest of sensation struck Mycroft Holmes in the dark.

Severe pain. Dull aches. Breathing. Living.

It was the call of life.

Yet at the moment he wished it wouldn't hit him so agonizingly.

He opened his eyes with so much muster of strength. He couldn't make heads or tails of everything for a moment, not in a million years did he feel his head so empty. He closed his eyes again, wanting the beat in his heart to stop being erratic. There was that terrible sound of beeping so close to him. He wished somebody would shut it down or he would do so.

Again, he tried to open his eyes as the understanding of being in a hospital came clear and chunks of memories started returning. Bless him with his brain functioning on its own without his interference and so he focused his strength in opening his eyes. God, his eyelids were as stubborn as him. He would have give up doing so had it not been for his senses alerting him of a person's presence.

Mycroft came fully awake as he recognized that man staring at him from a nearby chair at the right foot of his bed. There was no mistaking those dark unruly locks or that sharp edged mouth or uniquely outlined face—it was the first face that flashed in his memory bank.

The Holmes brothers stared at each other.

Mycroft swallowed hard, his frown coming with all the exerted efforts as he perceived something was wrong with his brother. Sherlock had sat up erect at Mycroft's first movement and had stared struck at his brother for a second.

A very slow reaction that Mycroft would remind him later.

Then Sherlock stood up and walked towards the bed—stopped and then swayed toward the door as if uncertain of what to do next—then turned his head here and there in a sort of confusion with expression of mild lost and absence of mind with no full control of his faculties.

And Mycroft closed his eyes with a deep sigh of relief to himself.

For god's sake, Sherlock.

-TBC-

A/N: Both are just happy to see the other! ;)

Last chapter to wrap up!

Thanks for reading!