During the next week, John Watson observed his flat mate. He couldn't see any drastic change in him, but his eyes became less red and less tired, and he started eating again. It seemed that he had stopped using drugs.
After the week had passed, the detective and the doctor sat next to each other in a cab, on their way to the prison where Mycroft Holmes is being imprisoned. The two of them were silent, so Sherlock began deducing the cabbie. As expected, he discovered nothing interesting.
"Why did you bring a sandwich?" Sherlock asked.
"It's for Mycroft."
Sherlock chuckled. Even when imprisoned, his brother was hungry.
John decided not to tell him the reason his brother was so hungry. Soon enough he'll understand.
After ten minutes that felt like forever, the two of them opened the door and walked to Mycroft's cell. They found him lying on his bed, with his eyes closed.
"Mycroft." Sherlock said, shocked.
The last time he saw his brother, he was thinner than usual, but Sherlock assumed it was because of the innutritious food the prison provides. This time, he knew something is wrong. Mycroft was even thinner, paler than he remembered. He seemed to be covered in sweat, as if he's in the middle of a nightmare.
The prisoner opened his eyes and got up to a sitting position, and a faint smile spread on his face.
"Sherlock. You came."
"What's going on? Are you alright?"
Mycroft's smile grew slightly bigger. Even thought he'll never admit it, he had missed his brother.
"Thank you, John."
"Told you so." he said and nodded.
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, now slightly irritated.
"They're starving him, Sherlock. They're trying to get him to admit he worked with Moriarty."
"Then why don't you admit?" he asked, startled. He could have survived with little food – but his brother wasn't like him.
"Because it's a lie. Besides, it helps my diet, don't you think?"
"Was that a joke?"
"Clearly not a good one."
Sherlock was bewildered. Hours ago, he was certain that his brother was guilty, that he wanted to apologize. But now, he believed John – Mycroft seemed innocent. No one would choose to be imprisoned rather than to admit the truth, or even a lie.
Sherlock could cope with being wrong. What disturb him more was that Mycroft tried to make him laugh. Ever since they were children, Mycroft had tried to make him laugh only when he had bad news, or when he was sick.
"What is it?" he asked coldly, trying to conceal his nervousness.
Mycroft sighed. Of course he understood.
"I'm sick, Sherlock. I've been sick for days, and he won't help me unless I admit. I just thought it's time to say goodbye. Mother would be upset to find out I died without saying goodbye."
"Mycroft, you're not going to die. We'll get you help. We'll prove you're innocent, and you'll be free." his younger brother, not concealing his feelings anymore. He could feel the tears in his eyes. It made him feel so childish and helpless, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't control it.
"There's no point, don't you see? He's one step ahead of us. He is always one step ahead of us."
"Who is?" the doctor asked.
"Always cleverer, always more cunning. I should have seen it coming a long time ago."
"Who is, Mycroft?"
He made eyes contact with John.
"Moriarty."
John was confused. What was he talking about?
Unlike his flat mate, Sherlock got his brother's intentions.
"That's impossible. He's dead. I saw him kill himself."
"And your friend here watched you fall to your death. He touched your dead body. You tell me – are you dead?"
"You don't mean to say that…" John started, finally understanding.
"Moriarty is alive, and he's responsible for everything that's happening." Sherlock said, and allowed a single tear slide down his cheek. It all makes sense. Only Moriarty knew what would make him not trust his brother. Only Moriarty could threaten Lestrade in a way that'll make him torture his brother. Only Moriarty could make such a detailed plan, and stay above it.
And if it really is him, then there's nothing they could do. They had no idea where he was, what's the next stage in his plan, or how they can stop him.
"Don't be sad, brother. He has won the match, but not the tournament. You've still got time to win the next one."
John looked at Sherlock. He was genuinely crying, in a way John had never seen before. He suddenly looked like a little boy, that's desperate to be with his older brother.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe you."
"Don't be. It was very believable. I can't blame you for falling for it."
Mycroft got up from his bed and walked to John.
"Did you bring a gun, John?"
"Why would I bring a gun?"
"It's in his coat."
John rolled his eyes. Was he really that transparent?
He pulled it out of his coat.
"I need one last favour, Dr. Watson."
"Go ahead."
"I need you to shoot me."
The flat mates' expressions changed immediately.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm tired, John. And more importantly, I'm bored. You've killed people before. You can do it again."
"Mycroft, this isn't the solution."
John cocked the gun.
"John, don't!" Sherlock begged.
The doctor wasn't sure why he's following Mycroft's orders. He knew Sherlock would never forgive him. But at that moment, he wanted to help that man. He remembered the day when The Woman said Moriarty calls him 'The Iceman'. He used to think that nickname suits him, but when he looked at him now, he was just a regular man, who cares about his brother.
He aimed the gun at the man.
"John, I'm begging you. Put down the gun."
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Mycroft half smiled. He liked this man.
"Take care of him, John. No matter what he says, he can't live without you."
"I will. I promise." he answered, and his voice broke.
"John, please." Sherlock asked again, even though he knew it was worthless.
A shot was fired.
Mycroft Holmes fell down on the floor, dead.