Notes: Sorry for the delay. Many thanks to my wonderful betas for their quickness.
I only sleep for a short while. I am pressed against John, and Emmi's occasional stirring crawls into my subconsciousness every once in a while. Never realised how much the two of them ground me. How could I have slept without them for so long? (Poorly.)
Tonight, of course, I do not expect to find real rest. I doze off again and again, sleep for half an hour once or twice, but otherwise I am content just to feel John's body heat radiating, preventing my soul from under-cooling.
When Emmi demands feeding at 4 in the morning, I am out of bed before John even wakes up properly. Feeding her now is exactly what my battered mind needs. (Love the night feeding. Just her and me, the only people awake in the whole world. The most intimate part of parenthood.)
When she settles into my lap, eyes half closed, contently sucking her milk, I take the chance to study her minutely. She is more John than Mary, her nose already shaping in a way that leaves no doubt about his fatherhood. The colour of her eyes is still changing every couple of weeks, and her hair is slowly framing her funny little head with an aura of blonde. Wonder how much of Mary we will find in her as she grows up.
I also wonder why I still think of her mother as "Mary", even though I know her real name now. But to me, she will always be Mary.
I look down on Emilia again. She is so small and innocent. How are we supposed to protect her from her mother? How am I going to protect everyone? And who will protect me? And will John blame himself if he fails?
Apparently my thoughts are still a bit on the erratic side.
There is movement behind me, steps on the kitchen floor, the door opening. My father. Comes closer and places his (warm, soft) hand on my shoulder. "I always volunteered to do the night feeding," he says, his voice low and a bit rough, his mind years away in the past.
"Colleagues always made fun of me. Said with my wife at home why would I get up at night voluntarily?" he tells me, for the first time. Sits down in the chair next to mine. Smiles. "But I wouldn't hear it. During the day I always had to share you boys with your Mummy, but at night it was just the two of us."
There is so much love in his eyes that it breaks my heart just a little more. He is mourning his son, and Emilia's existence makes me empathise with him far more than I ever thought possible. I think I should say something, but can't find the words.
Instead I let him continue talking. "Mickey was such a content child when it was feeding time. A bottle of milk, a burp cloth, that was all we needed. But feeding you has always been some kind of challenge," he says, and I have to laugh a little.
"John would surely agree with you on that one." I admit, concentrating on getting a burp from Emmi for a while. My mind is still tumbling around, jumping from one thought to the next.
I really want to say something to comfort him. Tell him something about Mycroft he didn't know, for example, share one of our childhood secrets with him. But wouldn't that make him even sadder? Maybe I should tell him how loosing Mycroft makes me fear loosing Emmi. But that would only put his focus on me. Or would that be what he needs now? Worry about me so he can't worry about himself?
I wish John were here to tell me what to say. But he isn't, and so in the end I settle for bluntness. "I don't know what to say to comfort you," I concede, a bit surprised by the amount of sadness in my voice.
But Daddy gives me a teary little smile. Moves closer and presses a kiss on my head before sitting down again. "There is nothing anyone could say to cheer me up, Sherlock. I have lost one of my sons today." He draws in a deep breath, fights back the tears. "I am just glad that you are here right now."
I am not sure if he moves first or if it is me, but we end up in a strong embrace, little Emmi pressed against both of us, and finally Daddy cries. We remain standing like that for twenty-six minutes before Emmi finally loses her patience and demands to be taken back to her crib.
"We'll stay as long as you want us to," I promise, knowing that John would offer the same. Dad nods (gratefully) and pats my back again and again, tears still flowing down his face.
"Your Mummy will be very pleased with you," he sniffs, "she's been plaguing me to cry all night."
Again, I cannot help but giggle a little. "Making people cry used to be my speciality before John transformed me into a softie."
"Yeah," Dad says, also smiling a little now, "but you still have it in you." He gives me a teary wink before heading upstairs. I remain standing there, watching Emmi who has fallen asleep in my arm. For once I am content to just watch her sleep.
###
In the end we stay with my parents for nearly a week.
The day after Mycroft's death his boss shows up, a lovely elderly man who appears to be the most harmless old man in England but really holds more power than the Queen (or the King? Lost track again.) and the Prime Minister combined. He never tells us his name but gives us his super secret mobile number that only consists of five digits.
What he does tells us is that there is a manhunt for Mary going on, and informs us that we all are under his personal protection from now on until further notice. (His body language furthermore tells me that he is not completely convinced that he will be able to protect us. When he has left I tell John, but not my parents.)
###
Two days after his death, Mycroft's body is autopsied. It has always been understood between us that we would attend the other's autopsy if possible, and there are orders left to allow it.
The night before I fear I will not dare to go, but in the end I am standing in the local morgue, looking at the destruction Mary's bullets have caused. Every single one of them would have killed him, but she has made sure that his heart would be completely destroyed.
The coroner is an elderly woman, and if she thinks it is weird to have the victim's brother hanging around, she keeps that thought to herself. She patiently shows me his accessory spleen, which I have always wanted to see since it was discovered in 1987.
When the autopsy is done, she leaves me alone with him. (Can't bring myself to think of him as "the body".) I stare at him, completely unsure of what I am feeling and what I am supposed to be feeling. In a childish impulse I reach out and touch his (left) temple, the way I did to wake him up when I was still a little pirate that needed comfort at night. He does not wake up, of course. I let my hand linger there, feeling the cold skin.
"Now, what can we deduce about my corpse?" inner Mycroft says suddenly, and I nearly jump.
"I wasn't sure if I'd see you again," I admit, but inner Mycroft just waves it off.
"I am a part of you," he explains a bit impatient, "of course I will be around. I don't stop being useful just because I'm dead."
Of course not. I follow his gaze and try to see, really see his body on the stretcher. What can I deduce? I start with the obvious, touching his belly, "Looks like you ate a lot less cake than I gave you credit for during the last five years," I state and see inner him grin a little. I continue to muster his body, let my hand slide down his (left) leg.
"You worked out a lot on that ridiculous treadmill, but never went outside for proper running," I tell him, "The medial head of your gastronemicus would be shaped in a different way if you did." He nods in approval, but remains silent, so I go on, moving back to the upper part of his body.
Feel the muscles on his neck to confirm something I have suspected long ago. Yes, there it is. A series of very telling little knots. "The chair in your office was a bit to high. You had to tilt your head a bit to work at your PC. It must have been uncomfortable, but you never adjusted it."
"Why?" he asks me, and I give it some thought.
"Being slightly uncomfortable was important for you. Probably to keep your senses alert. Maybe just to prevent yourself from relaxing too much when the world as we know it had to be ruled."
Now he snorts a bit. "Please, Sherlock, I never ruled the world." He pauses, and the added, "Only the better part of Europe as well as Asia, Australia and Canada."
Fair enough.
"Go on, you haven't said a word about my face." he prompts then. I take a closer look. His forehead, his eyes, his lips. Then I see what he is leading me to.
"There are barely any wrinkles," I exclaim, not able to keep the surprise out of my voice. I know that he carried heavy responsibilities on his shoulders, but still his skin is almost smooth.
"How can that be?" he asks again, and I start examining his face closer. No trace of face lifting or botox injections. Skin soft but not unnaturally so, so no heavy usage of anti ageing creams. The gastric contents had shown a normal, not overly healthy nutrition. So how can he still look that way?
Then it dawns to me. "You were happy," I concede, and suddenly an immense relief floods my body and soul. "You were content with your life and had enough ways to compensate your stress. Most likely due to … to family matters."
Inner Mycroft smiles at me. "That was the one deduction you had still to make, right?" Of course he is right. He is Mycroft, even if only his mind palace version.
I snap out of my mind palace and find myself alone in the morgue, looking down at my brother's corpse, my hand lingering at his temple again. In my head there is an echo of a conversation we once had. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"
Turns out that in the end there was nothing wrong with us at all. I am only glad that Mycroft lived long enough to realise that, too.
###
On the third day after Mycroft's death I completely ignore the fact that there was a fatality and spend it completely focused on Emilia and John instead. Which means that John and I completely focus on Emmi, to be honest. But isn't she the most interesting baby that has ever lived?
She has developed a liking for everything yellow only yesterday, John says, so we spend hours inside and outside the house, showing her everything yellow we can find.
Then we take her under the shower with us and afterwards watch her squeak in delight when my parents blow-dry her extensively.
At night John and I sit by the fireplace together, taking turns to cuddle her. John falls asleep mere minutes after claiming not to be tired at all, and I take both of them to bed.
This is the most peaceful days of my entire life. How strange is it to have the most peaceful day of your life only three days after watching your brother's brutal death?
When I ask John about it later that night (after the most silent sleepy orgasm we have ever shared) he kisses me and says, "This is our way of celebrating we are still alive, don't you think?"
He is a genius when it comes to us.
###
On the fourth day after Mycroft's death there is his funeral. It is attended by only a handful of people, most of them neighbours and long-term friends of my parents. Some distant relatives. Anthea.
The ceremony in the little chapel is short and touching. John is comforting Mummy while I cling to Dad and Emmi.
When we step outside, John and Daddy change places, and I end up in John's steady embrace. Lean into it when the coffin is lowered and it feels like a part of me is buried as well.
The five of us end up in the local pub, four of us telling each other stories of Mycroft, drinking way too much beer in the process.
When John talks about his first encounter with him, my parents are laughing tears. "That was my boy," Daddy says, "always knew how to make a lasting first impression."
"You should have taken the money, John," Mummy advises, "You and Sherlock could have shared."
###
On the fifth day after Mycroft's death John and I discuss how to go on. Should we go back to London with Emmi, presume life as usual and wait for Mary to make her next move (my idea) or should we leave her in my parents' care, and my parents in Mr Supersecret's care to hunt Mary down (John's idea)?
There are arguments for and against both options, and we end up shouting at each other so badly that my parents take Emmi for a walk so she doesn't have to listen to us.
I hate fighting with John, but the idea of splitting the family up drives me insane. John hates fighting with me less than I hate fighting with him. He would not normally do so while I am still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that Mycroft is gone for good but the idea of waiting for Mary to move drives him insane.
The compromise would be taking Emmi with us while hunting down Mary which is so stupid that we both have to shout at each other a little bit louder just because.
When we are done fighting we are both so exhausted that instead of having make-up sex we merely have a make-up cuddle. And we still don't know what to do.
The painful truth is that normally I would turn to Mycroft in a situation like that. I guess that only now do I begin to estimate the unbelievable extent of my loss.
When John gives Emilia her late-night bottle I do one of the things I loudly rejected while we were fighting: I call Mr. Supersecret and ask for advice.
###
And so, on the sixth day after Mycroft's death we help my parents pack their stuff and try to be brave when a black limousine takes them away from us, together with Emmi. When they are gone John goes to the bathroom, absolutely not to cry. Which is fine, because meanwhile I can hide in the kitchen where I also don't cry at all.
Then we drive back to London where we try to find Mary before she finds us.
###
Three weeks after Mycroft's death our patience is running low. Still no sign of where Mary is hiding, still no word from my parents and Emmi, still no idea what Mary is planning to do. John's nightmares about his evil ex-wife finding Emmi are so terrifying that he refuses to tell me the details. I don't have nightmares because I only sleep when my body forces me to.
John starts to get snappy, I get desperate, and no matter what we do, we seem to go back two steps every time we went one forward.
Three weeks and two days after Mycroft's death we are on our way to the Yard, following a less than convincing lead when John suddenly collapses next to me. Immediately afterwards I feel a sting on my throat, and manage to get a hold on the tranquillizer dart that has hit me.
We have been waiting for something to happen for so long that I have to laugh in relief while going down.