Note: I said "character death" and here you are … Just be warned again, it's getting painful today.
###
"Oh my goodness, who's a smelly girl? Did her go poopy? Does her need a clean nappy? " Mycroft says, and no-one finds it strange. There is no better way of demonstrating how things have changed over the last four months.
We are at my parents' home, John and Emilia and me, invited to celebrate the first time she rolled from her back onto her belly. Quite unintentional, but still. My parents are the proudest nearly-grandparents in the world, and their enthusiastic overkill makes up for the lack of interest John's family displays.
We have already been invited to celebrate the first night she slept without waking up at three in the morning, the first time she smiled, the first time we needed nappies size 2... The list of special occasions is endless, and to my surprise I grew fond of those celebrations rather soon. To his even bigger surprise, so did uncle Mycroft. Looks like the days of "caring is not an advantage" are far behind him. Emilia has melted his heart the same way John once melted mine.
John enjoys the evenings at my parents just as he enjoys the walks in the park with the push chair, the tea we sometimes have at Yasmin's laundrette or feeding the early morning bottle when the rest of London is soundly asleep. He is not sure if it was Emilia or me who melted his heart and turned him into a family man, but I am sure that it was brilliant team work by both of us.
When Mycroft has changed Emmi's nappies and Daddy has finished making fun of it, the two of us sneak outside, absolutely not to smoke secretly. (John will smell it, but I will shamelessly say that it was just my brother smoking, not me, and John will pretend to believe me. That's the way we do it every time my parents invite us.)
For a while, Mycroft and I just enjoy the quiet of the garden and the forbidden pleasure of tobacco. Then he looks at me, deduces one thing or the other, and smiles. "You are happy," he states.
I want to deny it instantly (childish impulse to contradict him just because), but have to admit that he is right. "Surprisingly so," I say, and can't help but smile too. "Who would have thought that a long-term relationship and fatherhood could make me happy."
At that, Mycroft gives me a long (unguarded, extremely touching) look. "Me," he simply says, and adds, "and what a father you turned out to be."
For a (very short) moment I have to fight the impulse to hug him. He deduces that too, of course, grins (which makes him look young and reckless), and gracefully changes the topic.
"There is a really interesting thing MI6 is currently working on for me. You really should consider -" Suddenly he stops in mid-sentence. Looks at me in surprise and tumbles towards me. I don't understand what is happening, but my mind sends me into the mind palace for the fraction of a second, analysing.
There was a sound I didn't notice because I have been distracted by Mycroft's (loving) words. Three sounds, that is, or rather three times the same sound. Shots. (Sniper, rifle.) He started bleeding almost instantly. I had missed that because I was distracted by the surprise on his face. The blood tells me where he was hit (chest. Shot from the second storage of the empty house on the other side of the street. The bullets have flown by my shoulder. More difficult to miss me than to hit me from that angle. I was spared on purpose, so no need to duck for cover.) I watch the beginning of the bleeding again to judge the damage the bullets have caused. (Two bullets tearing up his heart and also hitting his lungs, the third one missing the heart but most likely shattering his spine. No need for first aid or an ambulance. Mycroft is dying already.)
It only takes me half a second to realise all this. I am back in the real world even before he sinks into my arms. His hands are frantically searching for something to hold on to, finding and clinging to my left shoulder and the upper part of my neck, getting a hold on my hair as well. We descend to the ground together.
His eyes are opened wide with panic. He knows that he is dying. His breath is forced. "Sherlock," he gasps, "I, I ..." Unable to talk further. There is a guttural, painful sound coming out of his throat. Blood filling his lungs. I wonder if he will drown before he will bleed to death. His head sags against my chest.
He never finishes the sentence, and I … I don't know what he wants to say. Can't deduce what he wants to tell me. I can't … I don't know. Why don't I know? I have to know, I have to ...
His mouth opens and closes again and again, and I still don't understand.
"All right," I tell him, "it's all right." Why do I tell him such lies?
Hear him breathe in. Painful, forced sound. Blood inside his lungs. Start stroking his head, and start repeating, "I'm with you."
Hear him breathe out. Feel my shirt get wet. (Blood. Warm.) He starts to tremble slightly, and I hold him even closer. Slowly start rocking him in my arms. "It's all right, I have you" my mouth keeps saying again and again.
He breathes in again. Ragged now. The trembling grows stronger. It will be over any second, but right now he is still here. He is still with me. I still have a brother. There is so much I should tell him, quickly. How much I will miss him. How grateful I am for all he did for me. How sorry I am for those petulant, wasted years when I was young. But my mouth is set on automatic, apparently, and all that comes out is "I love you."
He breathes out again. The sound his lungs make hurt me. His body is trembling so badly now that his teeth must be chattering. His head is growing heavier on my arm. I am still rocking him, babbling, "I love you, I love you."
He breathes in again. It takes him three attempts to finish his dying breath. Then suddenly his body is jerking with so much force that I nearly let go of him, and then, in one fluid, almost elegant movement, his body slacks. First his legs, then his torso. Then his hands lose their grip on me, slowly sliding down my body, almost softly. Then his head lolls down my arm.
I wait for him to breathe out again, but that never happens.
There is a cramp inside my throat. I want to talk to him, I want to tell him that everything will be all right and that I have him, but all of a sudden I cannot find the words. Instead, there is a horrible scream, coming from somewhere nearby. Sounds like a wounded animal. We are alone in the garden, so I guess it must be me.
Then suddenly, there is action around me. I hear Mummy's high pitched scream. Daddy shouting something. And there is John, suddenly by my side, talking to me rapidly. Can't understand what he says, but would be unable to answer anyway. He leans forward to check Mycroft's pulse. (Sees that it is too late, but has to do it anyway.)
I lower my brother's corpse a bit, so John can reach it easily. Stare at Mycroft's face. Slack with death. Eyes looking at nothing, his mouth hanging half-open. He looks strangely relaxed that way, years younger than normally. John's fingers leave a little blood stain on his throat.
John grabs me by my shoulders (one hand exactly where Mycroft's had been mere seconds ago) and shouts something at me. It seems to be very important, so I force myself to look at him and listen.
"Where are you hurt?"
Shake my head. Not hurt. Not my body, at least. Look down and see my shirt and trousers soaked in Mycroft's blood. No wonder John thought I was hit too. "I'm not hit," I try to tell him, but my speech is slurring badly. Start to tremble. Shock?
"Good," John says, "good." (Wants to say more but doesn't.) We both look down at Mycroft. With my arms trembling I can no longer hold him, so I lower him to the ground. With enormous effort I lean forward and close his eyes. (His face still warm. Lips blue.) My fingers leave another blood stain, matching the one John's fingers left at his throat. Something drips onto his forehead. Apparently I am crying.
I use the last bit of energy left inside my body to lean backwards, against John's (warm) (living) body. Feel his arms surround me. "I love him," I tell John, again and again, crying badly, and then finally my brain shuts down, and darkness covers me, softly and safe.
###
When I come back to my senses, I am cowering underneath the hot shower. John is kneeling in front of me, fully clothed and completely soaked, washing my hair. There is something red mixing with the white foam of my shampoo. Blood, of course.
I look up at him. "Hey, are you with me?", he asks. So much sadness in his voice.
I nod. Can't stop my mind from turning. Think of how Mycroft had always thought he would die alone one day. "I was with him," I tell John. He cups my wet face and presses a kiss on my forehead.
My eyes wander, stopping at the small window on the other side of the room. It is still light outside. But cold. It had already been cold when we went outside. "It is cold outside," I tell John. Realise how erratic my thoughts must appear to him.
But he understands. "I covered him with a blanket before the police arrived, remember?" he explains, and I am so grateful that I start crying again. But only a little.
I cannot remember the police. I cannot remember his body being taken away. (Probably better that way.) Did the police get all the facts right? It was one sniper, experienced. Very skilled. Three bullets through the heart means it was something personal.
"Why was I spared?" I wonder, instantly regretting it, because John nearly breaks into tears as well. We hold onto each other like we are drowning, me naked, him still fully clothed, underneath the running shower.
When I am dry again and wrapped up in Daddy's dressing gown, and John is covered in Daddy's way too big track suit that I was supposed to be wearing instead, he leads me downstairs. Wish I could just stop on the stairs, and keep standing there forever, just to avoid meeting my parents. Seeing their grief will make our loss even more real, and that is the last thing I want right now.
I cannot help but think of all the times I have been snippy to some victim's loved ones. There is no place in my heart for self-loathing now, but I am very sure I will come back to that thought later.
Mummy is clutching to Emilia like to a lifeline. Another lump forming inside my throat: Emilia has lost her uncle. All the jokes we made about Mycroft spying on her future boyfriends and scaring away those that are unworthy of her love. But he will never see her growing up.
Put that thought aside for a while. (Feel the room I have in my mind palace for put-aside thoughts growing and growing.) Take in the scene instead. Mummy holding Emilia, Daddy holding Mummy. They are mourning their son, and I cannot comfort them. Can only just remain standing because John is close to my side.
Don't know what to say to them when my eyes lock with Daddy's. See tears spring into his eyes, and before I can further think about it, John gently lets go of me and I end up in Daddy's arms. See John embracing Mummy and Emilia instead. John. It's always John who tries to keep things right for me.
###
Don't know how I made it through the rest of the day. Memories of it surface every now and then, but the better part of it is hidden somewhere I cannot reach it. Don't want to reach it, not now. Now all I want is for that horrible day to end. I want to stay in my old bed, John pressed close to my side, Emmi sleeping soundly in a travel crib next to us.
With John's hand on my back and his other hand underneath my cheek I feel brave enough to think things through. Mycroft was shot by someone who knew where our parents live, and who knew that Mycroft would be here today. Someone from his inner circle?
But someone from his inner circle would have no reason to let me survive. Missing me while hitting him was such a complicated shot. Someone wanted me to survive. But why?
Was the whole thing aimed at hurting me? But if yes (ignore the bitter pain in my stomach) why shooting Mycroft and not (the pain is getting worse) John or Emmi? So it was someone who hated Mycroft enough to kill him, who wanted to hurt me as well but wanted to spare John and …
Lord, no!
I snap out of my trail of thoughts. "Get my mobile," I whisper (out of habit, in order not to wake up Emilia). John reaches for it and hands it to me, but (for no apparent reason) my fingers are shaking too badly to dial.
"Call Holloway Prison," I order him, and he nods. (Have expected him to pale, but apparently the thought has already occurred to him.)
I don't have to listen to the call. Everything is so obvious that it hurts. In my mind I see Mary provoking an incident that leaves her in solitary confinement. See the bribed (or intimidated or blackmailed) prison officer helping her escape while everyone believes her to be still confined. See them searching for her right now frantically, and in vain.
Something in John's eyes has changed after the call, but I cannot concentrate on that right now. Need to think of Janine and Yasmin, both involved in Mary's imprisonment. Have John text them warnings. Trust Janine to take care of Yasmin. Who else needs to be protected? My parents have been spared. Mary missed the opportunity to kill them (pain in my stomach is back at that thought) when they entered the garden.
Will she go after Mrs Hudson? Molly or Lestrade? Unlikely. Need to warn them anyway, but what good will it do? You cannot hide from a good sniper, no matter what you do.
I need to know what Mary is up to. Need to think, but can't. Need to...
"Breathe," I hear John whispering into my ear, "Sherlock, breathe, nice and slow, all right?"
Close my eyes so tight that they hurt. "She is dangerous," I say, and John nods.
"I know," he answers, and pets my curls, gently and steadily.
I try to concentrate on the movement of his hand, but the thoughts inside my mind start whirling around again. Too exhausted to move them into a productive direction. Too exhausted to control them at all. I am sick and sad and lost, and only John keeps me sane at the moment. So much I need to tell him. So much I should have told Mycroft when I still had the time.
"He was not alone in the end," I tell John again, and then allow myself to slip into a restless, dreamless sleep.