The earth was crunchy and cold under Mycroft's feet. He padded along through the cemetery slowly, half-heartedly kicking the dry leaves out of his path. Every few seconds he'd look around for John on Mrs. Hudson. After all that had happened, the last thing he wanted was a nasty run-in. He'd heard John could pack quite a punch when he was upset.
He walked past the familiar headstone of his mother, dropping his head slightly as he passed. He supposed it was better she'd passed six years before. He couldn't imagine what how devastated she would have been if she had been around to see what had happened to her baby boy.
And who had caused it.
Mycroft stopped in front of a shiny black headstone. It was new, too new, the soil still dark and turned up. He stared down at it unblinking for a moment, reading the name and the numbers over and over and over again. He couldn't even begin to think of what he could say to his...
"You turned thirty-one the Tuesday before you...well..." Mycroft blurted out awkwardly. He pointed to the dates on the stone, just in case anyone listening needed explanation. "I-I know you never could really remember your birthday...I just thought you might want to know."
It was true. Just a few months before, Sherlock had emailed him saying he needed to renew his passport, had he been born in late June? Try January 9th, he'd replied snidely.
How could that possibly matter, anymore?
"...Never mind." He looked up at the sky, trying to force the odd stinging in his eyes back down his throat. He took a deep, shuddering breath and continued. His eyes were squeezed shut.
"When you were a toddler you used to badger me into playing pirates with you every morning." He said. He spoke very fast, his voice high and strained. "You were so little and you didn't really know how to do the deduction madness yet." He smirked bitterly. "When I would play with you...you used to look at me like I was the most important person in the world." Mycroft's voice cracked as his eyes opened, bloodshot.
"You told me I was the best brother ever."
He paused for a moment, pulling out his handkerchief and dabbing his eyes.
"I wasn't." His voice was loud and harsh now, as if trying to drown out the sound of his misery. "We fought all the time and I made scenes and you embarrassed me." His voice rose as he spoke sharply, anger boiling inside him.
"You embarrassed me to no end."
He made a wild movement-To walk away or lunge at the grave, he didn't know. What he did know what that his foot got caught on a rock, and he fell to the ground.
He caught himself on his hands and quickly pulled himself onto his knees, his eyes still firey.
"You were selfish and conceited and you never stopped fidgeting-" The newly turned earth was soaking into the knees of his pants, but Mycroft didn't stand. "-You never ate and you alienated everyone and broke the law everytime I turned my back!"
The last word rang out over the cemetery. Mycroft seemed to remember who he was and took a breath, standing again.
"And you were my little brother." He finished, his voice suddenly getting small.
"And I-I know I said it wasn't an advantage, and believe me, I tried, but I NEVER stopped caring about you." He stated at the grave for a few minutes more, tears welling in his eyes but not falling over the edge.
Finally, he got enough of his bearings to step back, blinking hard.
"You were so clever. And I know how much John loves you and wishes this was all a trick...But I know you. And I don't know how you possibly could've gotten out of this."
He swallowed hard. He felt like a little part of him, the bit of faith he'd had in Sherlock since he was four years old, had finally died. Another piece buried in the earth forever.
"I'm sorry." He whispered. He turned on his heel and left, heading back to his car.
Heading back to his life of riches and power and absolute, crushing loneliness.
Mycroft used to worry about his brother constantly.
Now he sat down in the front seat of his car, forced his face back into an expression of composure, and shakily drove away.
His eyes were still blurry with tears.
If he hadn't been crying, he might had seen a tall, thin man watching him from behind a large tombstone.
Sherlock worries about his brother constantly, nowadays.