"It's quite simple really. You just have to cut his head off. Try not to make too much of a mess." La Neige nonchalantly handed Mycroft a Damascus Knife. He moved closer, pressing his body against Mycroft's. "Save me the blood, beautiful."
Mycroft looked at the knife in his hands. He felt sick. A level of nausea he didn't think it was possible to experience. Sherlock was refusing to drink the blood his body was craving. Screaming and lashing out at everyone and anyone. Every vein in that slender body stood out in painful relief, his eyes wild with hatred. But behind them. Inside. Running through the now empty rooms of his mind palace, Mycroft knew his little brother was lost and frightened. No longer able to control the urges of his body. He'd seen it before. The heroin detox. But this was different. This was worse.
This was Mycroft's fault.
Sherlock looked at his brother. Red eyes full of malice. Eyes that said "I hate you, but please help me." He struggled as Mycroft hoisted him to his feet and then held his brother tight against him. The feral creature taking over his body wanted to fight. But the small part of Sherlock still in control was very grateful. It understood. There was a reason Mycroft was bigger and stronger than Sherlock, even now. It was because he had to be.
Sherlock caught the scent of Chocolate. It was somehow comforting. Calming. He relaxed against his brother and waited. He felt the silver knife press against his throat. It was cold. The knife hesitated.
"Mycroft. Please. " Sherlock never said please. In all the situations he had ever been in when his life was hanging by a bootlace he had never begged. Never pleaded for his life. Now he was pleading for his death. The strong arm around his chest tightened. He knew Mycroft didn't want to let him go.
"Mycroft. Please. "He repeated. "I'm frightened. Please kill me."
Greg LeStrade watched the scene unfolding and became increasingly aware of the pain in his chest. He'd broken his ribs sometime in the 1800s. That had hurt. Victorian medicine left a lot to be desired. But this? Perhaps he was having a heart attack? Only he couldn't have a heart attack as technically his heart was no longer beating. The bone crushing agony was making his head swim. And then, he knew. This was the pain of a brother about to kill the only thing he had ever loved or cared for in his entire life. Mycroft's pain. And there was nothing Greg could do to help but stand there and suffer with him.
"Sherlock. I'm so very sorry."
"I love you too Mycroft." The knife pushed into Sherlock's pale throat. This was it. The final problem. Solved.
And then Greg's phone rang: Caller ID: Molly Hooper. He listened. Aware that all eyes were on him.
And in spite of everything that was to follow, Greg never stopped wondering if that day Molly was an angel sent from the heavens to save them all.
"What?" Mycroft still had the knife at Sherlock's throat.
"Someone's just tried to kill John Watson. One of Moriarty's people."
Sherlock twisted from his brother's grip. The knife had left an ugly red mark across his throat.
"Kill me later? Once he's safe. Once I've won the game?"