There was a long silence after the morgue's doors were shut. Molly and Mycroft stood there in uncomfortable silence for a moment before Mycroft cleared his throat.
"It's okay now, Sherlock, to open your eyes and sit up whenever you'd like. I am sure the paralytic has worn off by now."
With a noise much resembling a cross between a sigh and a groan, Sherlock struggled to a sitting position on the gurney. He stretched out, flexing his hands, and stiffly swung his legs over to the side, his feet touching the floor. He may have fallen onto padding, but it was a long fall, a dangerous fall nonetheless, and every inch of him ached. Briefly looking himself over, he assessed the damage. He could feel blooming bruises on his face and shoulder as well as various cuts and scrapes and what could possibly be a sprained wrist.
All in all, he came out unscathed, considering the alternative.
After he evaluated all of his wounds, he turned to look at Molly and Mycroft. The glare he gave them very obviously frightened Molly, but exasperated Mycroft.
"You two," He began to sneer.
Mycroft cut him off. "Oh, don't start with me, Sherlock. There's no need to be dramatic over nothing."
"Nothing?" His eyes flashed ire. Contempt. "What was the one thing I asked of you- of both of you?" His voice was quickly increasing in volume. Mycroft rolled his eyes.
Molly shifted uncomfortably, eyes wide, darting around, looking anywhere but directly at Sherlock. "You told us not to-"
"I told you not to let him see me!" Sherlock yelled over her much-too quiet voice. In his signature frustrated move, he bowed his head, shaking hands rubbing vigorously through his shaggy hair. Doing this, he realized his whole head was caked in fake, overly sticky blood. He sat up straight again, looked at his soiled hands with disgust.
Another sigh. "Do you have any idea," He said, voice clipped, eyes closed, head tipped up at the ceiling, "what could have transpired? Do you have any idea how easily this whole thing could have been compromised had I not been able to keep as perfectly still as I did?"
"I-I'm sorry, Sherlock," Molly stuttered. "There was no stopping him. I tried."
He pounded a fist on the stand next to him. "Well, you didn't try hard enough!"
Molly let out a squeak, tucked tail, and bolted from the room. However, Mycroft, ever the infuriatingly composed Holmes sibling, just stared at Sherlock and waited. There were a few moments of silence –seething, incensed moments on Sherlock's part- before Mycroft spoke.
"You're not worried at all about the threat of being compromised." It wasn't a question- it was an assessment of Sherlock's behavior.
"Of course I am. Don't be an idiot."
"No," Mycroft said softly, contemplative. "No, you're worried about Dr. Watson. You are upset about the effect seeing your body may have had on him."
Sherlock scoffed. "Whether he's upset or not is no concern of mine. The only priority is disassembling any of Moriarty's remaining cells and getting rid of all of his accomplices. If John so chooses to let the "death" of one person affect him negatively, that's his problem, not mine."
With raised eyebrows, Mycroft continued staring at Sherlock, entirely unconvinced. He knew his brother better than anyone else in the world did, and he could see the difference in his behavior without even trying to. Sherlock was an open book- one that read "I care a lot more than I am letting on," and "I have made the mistake of allowing myself to feel emotions."
Sherlock sighed in vexation. He was not about to sit there and argue with his brother about his priorities and whether or not he was being weak. He plastered a disgusted look on his face at the thought of his priority being John. Deep down, though, he felt something stir. There was a knot in his stomach; Guilt. Anxiety. His best friend- his only friend- was in danger. He had tried to save him, but had hurt him deeply in the process.
He was keeping secrets from him, harming him, causing him grief when all John had ever given him was the truth, his trust, his unwavering loyalty and friendship despite all the times Sherlock had thrown him under the bus.
It was necessary, all of this. For the protection of Lestrade, for the protection of Mrs. Hudson, for the protection of John. He had to wound John, make sure he knew Sherlock was dead so that he could be at his safest. John was a terrible liar. Sherlock wasn't the only one to have picked up on that. If John had been informed of the plan… who knows how long it would have taken for it to all become undone.
John was already suspicious in the first place.
If anyone could fake this, it's him.
Yes, it was necessary. With John already being suspicious- or in denial- even with all of the facts surrounding him, he simply couldn't risk informing him of everything. Not yet, at least.
There is nothing wrong with what you are doing, Sherlock chastised himself for the guilt. Don't go soft, don't blame yourself for the co-dependency of others.
And yet, Sherlock felt regret. He felt more, even. Possibly despair, he thought. But considering he had never dealt with any of these feelings before, he didn't quite know how to pinpoint them correctly or what to do with them.
A disapproving noise came from Mycroft, breaking Sherlock's concentration. Whether Mycroft had known what he was thinking, or simply thought he was still seething and pouting, Sherlock didn't know.
"Will you at least try to collect yourself?" Condescending tone, as always. "We have too many affairs to put in order. We simply don't have time for any of your tantrums." When Sherlock didn't bother to respond, Mycroft took it as agreement; he thought his brother was finally being "reasonable." Of course, Sherlock was too busy digging through his mind again, tempted but wary about hashing out his last conversation with John: his last words to him, the last things he heard John say to him both on the phone and on the slab.
"Fine, fine," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand at Mycroft. "I don't care what you do with the grave, or whether you have a funeral, or any of that trivial nonsense. Have me buried, have me cremated. It makes no difference to me." He knew that's what Mycroft had been wondering after.
Mycroft sighed once again. "Alright, so be it. I'll make the arrangements." He began to walk out of the room, but stopped and half turned for just a moment. "And what of your money, your belongings?"
Sherlock's eyes finally met his brother's.
"Everything's to go to John."