A/N ALAS! THE END IS NIGH! Last chapter here guys, late as per usual, I've been swamped in a terrifying ocean of personal statementing, tests, revision, work and birthday twaddle (18 is rapidly approaching me and I am a wee bit terrified :D). It's a short-ish chapter but that's how I wanted it – just to wrap things up with the boys :) I've left goodbyes and thanks till later but I just wanted to thank the dearest people who reviewed and messaged last time, I appreciate it so much!
And so, onwards!
Disclaimer: I fear this cave has swallowed me whole, never to escape again. I feel that the end is nigh. Dark has – wait.. wait! That's a light! Oh my God, oh my God, he's here! Sherlock is here, in this cave! "Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm here! Save me!"
*Dark encloses all around* *Finally light spills in brightly and I squint up into the face of Saint Peter greets me at the gate to Fanfiction Hell*
Peter: Read your fanfiction sins Storystuff, from the top.
Someone get me out of here. I could be here forever.
With no Sherlock.
Mycroft grunted, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sense of unwanted helplessness that rose to his chest as he tried to stand. He was perched at the end of his hospital bed, legs over the side, making his second attempt to rise. The doctors had told him that it would be another day before he was strong enough, and that even then it was a quick recovery, but Mycroft had snorted, simply telling them that he was too busy to take the day off. Upon finding out that body wasn't about to play the same game as his mind – well, Mycroft wouldn't sulk. The great Mycroft Holmes never sulked.
He heard the door click open quietly behind him and, for a moment, he tensed, momentarily wondering if Sherlock's plan hadn't gone well and that the person in the room with him now was here to-
The person closed the door and Mycroft silently cursed. Of course it was Sherlock, of course it was. You're getting slow, he berated himself.
"I take it that your plan worked then?" Mycroft muttered, putting his efforts to stand on hold, refusing point blank to make a fool out of himself in front of Sherlock. The younger Holmes gave a hum of disinterested affirmation. Mycroft could hear the words bubbling up underneath it.
"Moran escaped. I imagine he's still in the country though, no doubt amassing his intelligence."
"And father?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock didn't answer that one. Didn't even come into Mycroft's line of sight, instead he lingered by the door, like Mycroft remembered him doing when he was a child and wanted Mycroft to stop studying and come and play pirates with him.
"I'm busy Sherlock," Mycroft would say. He could remember how many times he'd spun round in his chair to face his little brother – more times than he could count– and feel his resolve melt when he saw tear blotched eyes staring out from an unruly mane of curly brown locks.
Mycroft let the silence lengthen, wondering if time had changed more than just the ending of their story, if somehow it had changed Sherlock and he would say something, a snide remark or a witty rejoinder that would tell Mycroft that everything was back to the way it used to be. Nothing came. He'd half expected it. In fact, he almost chuckled at the thought of John Watson's face if he heard that Sherlock had been quite for so long without being in one of his sullen moods. There had been a lot less of those moods since John Watson had arrived.
Eventually the silence grew too much and Mycroft's legs itched to move, whether because he was tired of being unmoving for so long in the hospital bed or because the situation had simply become too uncomfortable to bear, he wasn't sure. He shuffled around in the blankets, awkwardly trying to readjust the scratchy hospital clothes to get a good look at his brother. He couldn't help but try and meet his eyes first, as if he thought that Sherlock would really meet his gaze or that they'd be just as tear stained as they had been all those years ago. They weren't.
He immediately scanned his brother for injuries, noting that Sherlock appeared to have taken the cab ride here alone, his jacket ruffled as if he'd been agitatedly searching for cigarettes, inferring an unsettling lack of Dr Watson at his side to swat his hands away from his inside pockets.
Sherlock seemed to note his brother's line of internal inquiry and muttered something quietly, something that resembled "He's at the flat" and left it at that. Mycroft raised a brow but didn't say anything more, the dangerous look in Sherlock's eyes telling him that it was a touchy subject.
Mycroft almost missed it, would have, since it blended in with Sherlock's black suit, had Sherlock not been staring directly down at it. A thin black umbrella towered upwards from the ground, instantly recognisable, both comforting and agonising at the same time, clasped in the hands of the brother who had given it to him.
Mycroft imagined that it would have been comical to anyone else, say John, that both Holmes would stand, transfixed, looking like they'd both seen ghosts of equal horror in such a mundane item.
"It wasn't in your belongings for the hospital," Sherlock said at last, coolly, as if he was simply returning a favour, "I imagine the government didn't imagine that you would need an umbrella" It was almost as if a bell tolled, the echo ringing "Awfully unsentimental of them". But a Holmes was a Holmes. Sentimentality, regardless of pirates and tears and aging umbrellas, wasn't a Holmes word. Mycroft never let his gaze drop from the umbrella. A Holmes doesn't feel sentimental, or nostalgic, or caring, not towards anyone or anything. Not towards an umbrella, not towards a flatmate, not towards a secretary whose name was still unknown – not towards a brother.
Not on the surface, at least. Not where people could see it and use it and break it.
"I believe that we have some things to discuss," Sherlock said dryly. His steps towards the bed were just as dry, laying the umbrella down and sitting uncomfortably on the other side to where Mycroft was still sat, staring.
"I considered returning it to you," Mycroft said eventually, not answering the implication in Sherlock's words, "Perhaps after you'd had your first major case, maybe when you moved into 221B. I never got around to it." Never could bring myself to let it go.
"I didn't need it," Sherlock said quietly. Mycroft nodded gravely, the whole situation both giddy and desperately profound in the same breath.
"You were right, about Father. I didn't have all of the facts, I wasn't accounting for a more…comprehensive view-"
"You sound like you're reviewing a case."
"Isn't that what this is?" Sherlock retorted. Mycroft gave him a lofty look and restrained a sigh; let him have it.
"You will be attending the court case then?"
"As a consultant, yes, my capacity as an observer will be very influential to the outcome."
"May I suggest that I come with you?"
"No. I don't need my big brother sitting behind me Mycroft, I can handle myself," Sherlock spat. Mycroft immediately dropped the subject, the sharp edges of the topic were still letting off sparks when touched and Mycroft knew better than to prod the sleeping lion.
"Did you come just to return an umbrella?" Mycroft said. Sherlock glared at him, lips pressed tightly together in petulant fury before he seemed to remember something and his posture loosened a little.
"No. I realise – I realise that I may have been unfair." Mycroft's eyebrows shot up at the admission.
"I haven't forgiven you for a lot of things Mycroft, but on the other hand, I understand that…that's what normal people do isn't it? Despite the fact that you're my brother and that you raised me and – saved my life… you never answered my question."
"What question is that Sherlock?"
"I asked you once if you thought there was something wrong with us. And you never said yes or no."
"Sherlock-"
"I was missing for a long time Mycroft, I know the answer. You know, John hasn't forgiven Harry for her drinking but still every time she dates someone he talks to them when he meets them? It's rather fascinating. He doesn't talk to his sister but all the same he tells her lovers not to hurt her because she's his sister. It's remarkable, isn't it?"
"I don't think that we are much like the Watsons, Sherlock."
Sherlock chuckled at that.
"No, I don't suppose we are. But you should keep the umbrella Mycroft, I wouldn't imagine you'd look quite the same without it."
"Sherlock, I'm sorry-"
"Mycroft." Suddenly Sherlock was barely Sherlock anymore, barely the little boy in the doorway, barely the detective, the good man, he'd become. Almost ordinary. Almost the normal brother Mycroft had never craved.
"I'm glad that you're still here. Despite our differences, I do believe that the Holmes's might need each other."
Mycroft let that sink in, his brother returning to himself with a raised eyebrow and a curl of brown hair that was poking out peevishly from the rest of his locks.
"Now Mycroft, I hope the hospital has been feeding you. I know how you get when you don't have five or six square meals."
It was scary how easy it was in the end. The bickering progressed into a petty argument about Mycroft's eating habits and Mycroft would never understand what it was that normal people found so upsetting about a frown because when Sherlock scowled petulantly at one of Mycroft's particularly pithy jibes, it was as if the world suddenly clicked back into place, settling him back into where he was meant to be.
There was nothing normal about the Holmes brothers. And yet, there was nothing quite wrong with them either.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
A/N AND THAT'S A WRAP!
I like the idea of the umbrella as a symbol of protection. That even though they may have a history and don't get along, the brothers will always be there to protect one another in the end.
My mind always gets a little stuck when I try to imagine getting over a betrayal like Mycroft selling Sherlock's information out to Moriarty but then, that's me, a relatively normal emotional human being. And let's face it, normal Sherlock ain't. I think Sherlock would surpass it with nothing close to ease but he at least would understand it, he'd know why Mycroft had done it.
But anyways, for all of the late posts and the crazy cliffhangers, I apologise, I chose the utterly wrong time to write a fanfic. Frankly I've made myself a wee bit ill with how busy I've been so I think taking on a fanfic might have been a spot of stupid showing through :S But whatever, I love my Holmes boys and my lovely readers too much to give up :D
Anyhow, I really really hope you have enjoyed this chapter and, of course, If. I will be returning to fanfic (hopefully soonish, once I've got my life in order :D), whether for a different fandom or a Sherlock fic so keep an eye on me!
And thanks once again to every reviewer, favouriter and reader, you have made me the happiest girl alive so thank you so much, it has been an honour and a privilege.
Thank you, see you soon and I hope everyone enjoys the new season!
Storystuff.