There was no smell. Sherlock didn't smell of anything anymore. Not the smell of overripe orchards, or that strange plastic tang. Not even the smell of Cinnamon that wafted from his pores whenever John Watson was standing next to him. Nothing. The blood dripped in. Drip. Drip. Tick. Tock. The clock slowly counting down. Mycroft felt sick. And angry. So very angry at Sherlock. And even more angry at himself.
It had been his duty. His job, to protect his little brother. And he had failed. He had protected Sherlock from the monsters, and the city, and everything that the world could throw at him. But in the end, he couldn't save Sherlock from himself. The only thing he could do. The last duty as elder brother, was to watch Sherlock die.
He stared at his little brother's broken body, scraped off the road outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital. There was nothing he could do. He had seen the moment coming. Had played it in his head so many times. This scene. A hospital bed. Sherlock. Broken. A machine keeping him and his wonderful brain alive whilst one by one his organs shut down.
Two floors down, John Watson had been sedated and restrained for his own safety. He had still managed to hurl a few choice phrases at Mycroft. Three floors up on the roof what was left of James Moriarty was being shovelled into boxes like the slim pickings of the slaughterhouse floor. Greg was seeing to that.
"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes. Its time." The clipboard was pressed softly into his hand. A Biro with a chewed end. Mycroft looked at it blankly. He'd signed death warrants before. But he 'd at least given the condemned the courtesy of using a proper pen. He reached into his pocket for the handmade fountain pen. It had been his father's. And his grandfather's. He signed his name, the elegant script faltering as his hands shook. It was done. Over.
They gently removed the tubes, the wires. Only the slow, painful beat of Sherlock's heart was left.
"Is he in any pain?"
"No. It's just like falling asleep." The nurse, her name badge said Amanda, recently married, father just died. Sad. She smelt of vanilla. She squeezed Mycroft's hand. His icy cold hand. A flicker of something across her eyes. Fear? Curiosity? She shook it away.
"You're cold."
"So they tell me."
"Can I get you some coffee?" The monitor had begun to beep erratically.
"That would be most kind."
"I'm very sorry Mr Holmes." She left him looking down at his brother's pale body. Broken, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to Michelangelo's David.
Mycroft checked the corridor. He knew it was all a matter of timing. Sherlock was almost dead. The sum of every one of Mycroft's fears, multiplied by infinites. Sherlock was almost dead. But he didn't have to end.