John-
If you've found this, I've most likely been dead for quite a while. If it hasn't been very long, I applaud you for exceeding my expectations. Again. I'm writing this in a hurry, so let me be brief and to the point: Moriarty MUST be stopped, and I plan to be the one to do it. Obviously. Should the unlikely event that I fail occur, then I sincerely hope that you or Lestrade are able to pick up where I've left off. Since Lestrade should be coming to arrest me soon, I find it unlikely that he will go after him. But you, my dear blogger, you have everything right in front of you. You haven't given up on me thus far, and for that, I applaud you, I thank you, and I put my (perhaps foolish) faith in you that you can do this.
-SH
(By the way, I'll be making it very clear to Mycroft that everything is to go to you after my death. 221 B included. Should you want it, it's yours, along with all of my "junk," as you call it.)
(Don't throw away my skull.)
"That bastard knew!" John was incredulous. I'll be making it very clear to Mycroft that everything is to go to you after my death. He hadn't said "in the event of my death." No, he had said "after my death." Sherlock knew, he expected it, he planned on it, even. John rubbed his eyes and groaned. For the last few months, he had believed that Sherlock only jumped to escape the lies. Moriarty may have been dead, but Sherlock knew that in a sense, Moriarty had beaten him. He destroyed Sherlock, put him in a position that even he himself could never get out of.
But it wasn't desperation. It wasn't a last minute panicked decision.
He had planned it.
John backed into the wall, found himself slouching down it, landing on the floor rather roughly. He was so shocked that he couldn't even focus on Sherlock's unreasonable worry about his damned skull, or the insults, or the fact that there was actually a little bit of sentiment in the letter.
"Well, you beat each other, Sherlock. Moriarty's dead, so I suppose that lets me off the hook. At least I don't have to worry about disappointing you with my subpar brain once again."
Suddenly, unbidden, an obvious detail arose in his mind. I'll be making it very clear to Mycroft.
Mycroft.
Mycroft knew, too.
John felt his hand constrict as he crumpled the note up into a ball. He angrily threw it, but, being paper, it didn't get very far and therefor didn't give him the satisfaction he was hoping for. Angry, frustrated, he clenched his hand against the skull, brought his arm back, preparing to throw it against the wall.
Don't throw away my skull.
With a strangled yell, John resisted. He set the damned skull back where it belonged and dropped his head in his hands, fingers tugging at his hair. "Why, why, why?" He yelled, his voice reverberating through the lonely flat. "Bloody Holmes brothers," He seethed through gritted teeth.
He took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Mycroft.
Did you really think that I wouldn't figure it out? I want answers. If there isn't a car waiting for me within the next 10 minutes, I'll be hunting you down. Don't test me right now.
His index finger hovered over the "send" button for a moment. For a brief hesitation, he wondered if it was a good idea to send such a forward, bold text to a man as powerful as Mycroft. It only lasted a moment, though, before he bit the bullet and hit send.
The reply was almost instantaneous.
Don't threaten, Doctor Watson. It's unbecoming. A car will be there in less than five minutes. –MH
Less than five minutes. That meant that John was under the surveillance of Mycroft. It was expected and unexpected all at the same time. What purpose could he possibly have to keep tabs on John now, even after… Well. Even after.
He gathered his coat, put his shoes on. By the time John stepped outside, the car was there. He got inside, sat down with a heavy sigh. The whole drive there, he didn't even glance at Anthea; He chose to ignore her just as much as she had always ignored him. As the car slowed to a stop in front of yet another seemingly abandoned building, John hastily unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out of the car.
He didn't need to get very far into the building before he saw Mycroft as he nearly always saw him during these little meetings- standing there, waiting, leaning on that stupid umbrella of his.
"So, I'm here," John called to Mycroft before even reaching him. "Start explaining."
"My, my, pushy, are we? Tell me, Doctor. What is it that I am supposed to be explaining?"
"You know damn well what."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him, then looked down at his umbrella. "I really don't. Enlighten me."
John paused a moment, grimaced, then took a deep breath. "Did you sell him out? Your brother? We've already had the discussion about how the mess with Moriarty framing Sherlock was mostly your fault. So what about this?"
Mycroft's eyes flashed anger, but his voice remained dry. "I hope you aren't suggesting that I killed my own brother."
"Nope. But I know you knew what he was planning." John brought out the note and brandished it at the man before him. "It says it all right here. You knew he was going to die."
"I didn't know he was going to kill himself."
John was momentarily floored by the matter-of-fact way Mycroft had when speaking of his only brother taking his own life. The brilliant Holmes brothers, so cold and detached.
As soon as John got over his shock, he spoke. "Nope. Maybe you didn't know that much detail. But he talked to you about his death. He told you what he wanted you to do with all of his things, his money, everything. He told you, which means that you were either in on it, or you knew what could happen and didn't bother to stop it. You, one of the most powerful men out there; You, who bribed me to keep an eye on him because you were so concerned… you couldn't be bothered to so much as lift a finger."
"Ah, but Doctor Watson, how do you know that I really was involved, that I knew anything? You say it's because you've been informed I knew what he wanted to be done with his belongings. How do you know that he didn't tell me all about that long before even he knew what he would do?"
For just a moment, John wavered. For just a moment, he doubted. He finally shook his head. "No. Sherlock may have been brilliant, but he wasn't very good at thinking ahead. He also seemed to think he was untouchable. Unless he knew he was going to die, he wouldn't have bothered setting his affairs in order. And you know him well enough to have picked up on why, even if he didn't tell you."
Mycroft looked surprised for a moment that his attempt to sway John didn't work. "Very good. I'm impressed. My brother always did say you were smarter than you seemed." John frowned at that, but left it alone. "At any rate, you're right. I knew."
"And you didn't care enough to stop it?" Hearing him state it so bluntly brought on a new wave of rage. "He was your brother, for crying out loud! And I thought he was heartless. Sod this, I don't know why I bothered. I'm leaving." John turned and began to walk away. He could feel his limp coming on, but did his best to shake it off, knowing it was only a product of the stress.
"Doctor, wait." Mycroft's voice rang out through the empty building.
John turned, exasperated, infuriated. "For what?"
"Don't you want to know why he did it?"