Last chapter of this story, I admit my eyes moistened up a bit towards the end. Anyway, this is where Family Trial begins. Enjoy!
Mycroft hurried towards the exit of his office. Things with Germany had taken an ugly turn. While he had managed to peacefully resolve the situation, Mycroft had, in the process exposed some rather dishonourable activities of the German ambassador. The disgraced German ambassador had sworn revenge against Mycroft for his humiliation. Mycroft knew that the man would either try to harm Mycroft directly or would attempt to hurt his family, aka Sherlock and Rayleigh. Worry was eating him apart, he had already warned Sherlock and was now hurrying back home so that he could collect Rayleigh and leave.
The plan was simple. Mycroft would take his almost-two-year-old daughter and disappear for a few months while Anthea would lead the search for the German ambassador and have him terminated. The real catch was leaving London quickly. According to Intel, Ambassador Hans Gruber had already contacted a sniper.
Standing in front of the doors of his office, Mycroft knew that stepping out could mean his death, but the other option was staying in here safely while Rayleigh could be in danger at the townhouse. In Mycroft's mind there was no actual decision to be made; he would gladly walk to his death if that meant his daughter would remain safe.
Stepping out, he had barely taken two steps when he felt them. Three high velocity bullets piercing his chest at three strategic locations. As his blood stained his shirt and waistcoat, Mycroft fell to his knees. Around him he could hear people screaming and panicking. The pain hadn't set in yet, he was still in shock.
He had spoken too soon. Barely seconds after the thought had crossed his mind, the pain set in and it was unbearable. Seeing Anthea kneeling next to him trying to stop the bleeding with trembling hands, Mycroft muttered, "building 2, third floor." The location of the sniper, that Mycroft had managed to deduce by seeing the angle of entry of the bullets. Anthea nodded her comprehension and immediately called out orders. Now that he knew Sherlock and Rayleigh would be safe, Mycroft allowed himself to close his eyes.
Forgive me Sherlock. Take care little brother. Watch your back, because I won't be able to anymore.
I'm sorry Rayleigh. Never forget that I love you princess. Papa loves you, always has and always will. I'll watch over you Rayleigh, take care my darling girl. I'm so sorry Rayleigh.
Memories flashed through his mind, faster than he could comprehend them, but small pictures and sounds registered- fragments of his memories.
As he lost consciousness, his brilliant mind showed him one last fading memory.
A little girl, eight months old, was sitting on his lap. Her face was aglow with happiness, her wide toothy smile lit up the room, her cheeks were flushed with pride and her beautiful blue eyes shined with love for him. Mycroft felt his chest constrict under the weight of his emotions, his love for the child on his lap. A single word rang out in the silence,
"Papa!"
And the world went black.
"Mycroft Holmes, time of death, 9.30 am. C-cause of death, three gunshot wounds to the chest. Somebody call Scotland yard." Anthea choked out, tears pouring down her face, as she stared into the lifeless face of the wisest and most intelligent man she had ever known.