An Epilogue
A cab stopped by the empty sidewalk of Baker Street in front of 221B with its passenger in a hurry to open the car door. Had it been under normal circumstances, it would be common to see this scene in front of 221B where people had been known to stumble, collapse, get shot, kidnapped, arrested and far worst die on the spot. But it was not since 221B, the famous address of one infamous detective, Sherlock Holmes, had been closed for more than a month. Neither a glimpse nor a shadow had been seen of the detective since the last news report of his brother's obituary.
One man called... well, people do forget.
But it was another familiar face that came out—John Watson paid the cab driver without even a second glance at the man as he swept his feet on the stone pavement of Baker Street in front of Speedy's. It was Sunday night and the road was empty with the street lamps already brightening corners and lightening shadows with their golden glow. It was one of those mysterious nights John clings on especially with the sudden messaged on his phone from his best friend's number saying:
221B.
It was by right to be vigilant so with an atypical glance over his shoulder and then up to the curtained windows, the doctor quickly jumped over the steps of 221B after seeing a faint light in the room he once occupied. He opened the door using the spare key the landlady had given him and strode up after securing the lock of the door— coming up to the landing and then straight to the already open door of his former rooms.
221B Baker Street was as he remembered it since he last went there a week ago with no trace of dust or cobwebs thanks to the wilful owner Mrs. Hudson except tonight— the empty room he remembered was no more as now there was a man covering the house from side to side as he gathered books, newspapers, even board games and stuff them inside his large dark duffle bag sitting on his favourite black chair.
"Sherlock." John breathed out next upon finding the tall, curly dark haired detective there in his usual dark suit and white collared shirt. Sherlock looked behind him as the doctor stepped in to meet his friend in a closer range.
"John." The detective replied quietly with a short nod but he didn't stop moving from one corner to the next. The doctor watched him hover around and found the bookshelves almost empty. Confusion and fear gripped the grey haired man.
"A-are you moving?" he asked, "For good?"
"What—no." Sherlock answered as if talking to himself with his back still at the doctor, "Well—maybe. I don't know when I'll be back next to London so I'm taking all these. It's handy to read details of old cases, you know... especially with a bored Mycroft in the same room. I have three sets of unsolved cases, mostly murders and missing people, he might find those interesting. He despises Cluedo so I'm not taking it." He added with one swift look at his friend, an inclination of his head towards the table in between the windows and then dashing towards his room and disappearing.
John looked at the Cluedo set on the table with half open mouth before turning and following Sherlock in his room. He found the man digging under his bed and reappearing with a suitcase. He opened it only to reveal more papers and newspaper clips.
"How's he?" John went on as he cleared his throat. "How's Mycroft?"
Sherlock froze while the doctor watched him silently. A second passed and with a pointed sigh, the detective shut the lid of the suitcase close and then stood up.
"He's fine." Sherlock gave him one glance and walked pass him to their waiting room. The doctor watched him go for a moment before distractedly following and then sitting on his old chair while the man rummaged on his bag.
Fine was the last word John would use to describe Mycroft Holmes. Not since the last time he saw the British Government Head barely breathing with oxygen mask on his face. Especially not too, after finding the man sprawled on the floor of his home at Pall Mall a month ago.
It was John who discovered Mycroft first.
It was as if it was yesterday when he contacted the British Government Head for a face-to-face meeting regarding his wife's well being. Mycroft had been avoiding him ever since the incident—Mycroft shot his wife— that John was forced to pave his way to Diogenes Club and his other small office at the Parliament but of little success. It was then where John had to remind himself that this was Mycroft, the man who could disappear whenever and wherever he wants to. There was no chance of him finding him when the man doesn't want to be found. So with a final shot, he texted the older Holmes and had received a reply instructing him to come to his house. John knew his address anyway given they were the only two people on Sherlock's address book.
With a go signal from the British government head, an assurance too that he would not be assaulted as he stood by the gate, John was somewhat welcomed to Mycroft's private quarters Sherlock only had access to. Strolling inside Mycroft's place was like going around a museum with no other visitors. The place was large but only so because of a number of armours and portraits hanging on the corridor. Wondering what pleasure the man might get from such a collection, John was lead by a secret service man in dark suit towards Mycroft's office. There seemed to be no one in there except them.
Silence dominated the entire house as the doctor cleared his throat when he came in, his steps echoing in his ears. At first he thought the room was empty for the table was vacant—he thought he had to wait for the man to come back from whichever room he was in. That was when his saw the body.
It was the toppled glass on the floor and then the hand that got John to turn cold. And then the familiar golden ring.
It was his doctor's instinct to respond immediately too that kept his shock at bay as he knelt and checked Mycroft's pulse, then without a single beat, shouted for help and dialed for an ambulance as he found a weakening pulse—
Even without a pulse he would still call an ambulance for Sherlock's brother will not die on him! John thought desperately.
And then events went like flashes in his memory as he remembered Sherlock meeting him in the hospital's emergency room like a wild animal on the loose. The same emergency room Sherlock was confined in few days before. A week after that, Mycroft Holmes was declared dead.
This was of course, all Sherlock's plan even when his older brother had survived. Nobody could blame him, not Anthea and not John. Even the British Government had no inkling about it though Harry—Mycroft's illustrious acquaintance— needed to be informed for the older Holmes had suffered far greater injuries internally than physically. The poison identified on his glass was deadly on standard and after finding out the effects, Sherlock was adamant to pull his brother away this time.
"One of the world's deadliest poison, indeed." Mycroft's doctor had told them hours after the operation. "We should consider him lucky he survived. Ricin if you must know is a toxic that affects the cells which highly intends to destroy organs or do worst. Ingesting it is by far the least dangerous but will still have effects. Mind, a milligram of ricin injected or inhaled can already kill and that's only about the size of a few grains of table salt. It does look like a table salt so it is really understandable they are mistaken most of the times. If he had been injected with it or had he inhaled it, he would be beyond help even without the delays. It seems that your brother had the poison in his system several hours even before he was found—and that's already deadly. A couple more hours and would have died when it infects the cells of the vital gastrointestinal organs as they pass through the body, leading to the failure of the kidneys, liver, and pancreas. So an immediate use of gastric lavage was necessary to remove it and prevent the poison from reaching the rest of the gastrointestinal system at its full force."
"How will it affect him now that he survived?" Sherlock asked quickly without batting an eye at the doctor. John, who understood the reference to poisons methodically, glanced sideways at his friend before looking back at the surgeon.
"There will be some serious vomiting and dehydration."
"Is his life still in danger?"
"We have removed most of the poison fatal to his life—it was truly a good thing he was found immediately. But he is still under observation. I recommend a full rest for a couple of months."
"Is his life still in danger?" Sherlock repeated strongly this time that got the doctor to raise his eyebrows.
"Well... yes."
Mycroft vomited blood a couple of times after that and needed two more stomach pumps to the point of exhaustion and physical strain. John remembered Sherlock disappearing between those days and found him reappearing two hours later. John was waiting by the corridor chairs just outside Mycroft's private room where the doctors had been observing him again when Sherlock came back with blades in his eyes.
"I paid him a visit." The detective answered the doctor's silent question with a flex of his right fist that indicated action as he slump himself on the chair next.
"What for?" John sighed with a frown towards the opposite wall. "Punching him many times wouldn't help Mycroft at all."
"No. But I had a question that needed an answer."
"What's that?"
"I asked him why he poisoned Mycroft through wine when ingestion's the least fatal way of taking it. If he wanted to kill Mycroft he could have left an amount on Mycroft's favourite handkerchief or tie or even his ventilating system to inhale. Or even leave a contaminated needle on his pillow or inside his shoes... so why let him drink it."
John contemplated on the question and had to agree. Does that mean Sherrinford did not mean to kill Mycroft at all? That somehow, deep inside him—really deep—there was an attachment of some kind for his brothers?
"You know what he said?"
"What?"
Sherlock suddenly turned to the doctor with his dark eyes round and glinting.
"He didn't want Mycroft dead. He wanted Mycroft... incapacitated."
"What?"
"He wanted to tear down Mycroft, rob him of his talents—make him suffer slowly, lose all his capability to work his mind and then die of hopelessness. He said it with delight, John... like it was a last wish he wanted to take to the grave."
John had no answer to that. Something unfathomable... this Sherrinford's mind. Until that very moment at 221B, this puzzling relationship was still on the doctor's mind as he watched his friend pull the strings of his bag close before throwing himself on the chair too to face his friend. Sherlock looked thinner than usual but not unhealthy. The countryside seemed to be doing him good. Isn't that why the detective chose to bring his sick brother there?
"Storm in a teacup."
"What?"
"That's what Mycroft said I was doing." Sherlock explained with hands put together in a familiar fashion as he surveyed the friend he hadn't seen for awhile. "Storm in a teacup. He still thinks I'm making too much fuss about him getting poisoned. He's found out about his obituary five days after we left for Sussex and wanted to contact his secretary even though he was still vomiting blood."
John sat straight with an undivided attention to his friend.
"How's he been since?"
"He's lost weight as expected." Sherlock's eyes had that lost look in them, "Weak stomach. Everything he eats just goes... all back up. You wouldn't recognize him when you see him. He'll need new tailors I expect. Couldn't even stand up on his own for two weeks. He was like a slug." He pressed a smile that John knew all well to be blank.
"And he still tells you you worry too much about him?" John shook his head with a heavy sigh. "He'd be dying and he'll still be singing the same tune."
"The only constant thing about him." The detective replied with a narrowed look to the doctor. "I told him he could have died and then he went off like a bullet telling me his poison's different effects— he was all, 'Oh, Sherlock, do read your area of expertise, will you? Since ricin proteins aren't interacting with the same parts of the body it will have different effects. For ingestion it's gastrointestinal problems you'll develop a vicious, bloody cough—look at me. Then at worst my lungs will fill with fluid, and eventually I'll lose my ability to breathe, causing death.'"
"That's Mycroft all right."
"Yep."
"Who's with him now?"
"Another person he will never resist—he's incapable."
"Hm?"
"Our mother."
The prospect of Mycroft on the table with Mrs. Holmes was an occurrence John wanted to see again. The last time he saw Sherlock and Mycroft's parents were... well, it took about a punch to end all of it.
"But he's fine now?" John pressed on, "I mean if he could go as far as argue with you—"
"Why do you think I'm taking all these?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow testily with a pointed nod at his duffle bag. "He's been mentally active after taking in a sting from a bee. I've been going through a couple of research on bee venom... bee venom toxins have been used as a treatment in East Asia since the second century. Mycroft is still partly poisoned and aiming for his well being bee venoms had been very helpful."
"You sure it's safe?"
"I'm the best quack doctor." He grinned.
"But Mycroft trusts you."
"He does."
"Will he be returning to work—?"
Sherlock's eyes flashed sharply but then it disappeared as fast as it came too. With both his hands falling on his armchair, the detective shrugged and looked at his best friend straight in the eye.
"What work? He's dead."
"Sherlock, you're my brother and I love you—but for godsake—stop lying to my men about my condition!"
Sherlock had just returned from London a couple of hours later carrying with him his handy duffle bag only to find his older brother already waiting for him by the porch with a letter on his hand. The detective raised an eyebrow as he walked closer to the table his brother was seated in and recognized Anthea's writings.
"What, she forgot there's email now?" he asked as he tossed the paper down and headed to the front door when he heard a chair moving that made him quickly look back. He found Mycroft, who was wearing a dark robe over his white polo garment and trousers, on his feet and clinging on his wooden stick for support.
Sherlock was about to ask him if he was fine but found Mycroft glaring at him with an eyebrow up.
Sherlock asked anyway— "Do you need help?" he already stood sideways in case his brother falls over. It already happened a couple of times before so there was no point denying a helping hand.
"It's fine." The older Holmes stepped his weak legs but his eyes were entirely opposite. "And you forget—you never gave me back my phone so how could she contact me?" he walked pass his brother who allowed him to enter their house first.
"That's exactly the point—she's not supposed to." Sherlock followed him suit and the brothers found themselves in the comfort of the sitting room. "What in the term 'sick leave' don't they understand? Or is it 'death leave' I'm supposed to file? I thought I made it clear to them you're in no shape to govern anything, not even yourself."
"Oh, please." Mycroft rolled his eyes as he slowly sat down the sofa near the fireside. "Do you really think I needed mobility to head the government? All it takes are phone calls, brothermine—and that's not where I was pointing at—what is this bed ridden thing I'm reading from this letter? And why am I still coughing blood? The last time that happened I choked on tea because you told me the most ridiculous conclusion about Ms. Hooper—and it's not even blood. And why am I collapsing—Sherlock!"
"They needed to know what's happening." He eyed the man across him as he laid the content of his bag on the table.
"And so do you. The reason they had to mail this letter is because they needed an advice about an upcoming summit to Switzerland two months from now. The Prime Minister has been invited and so was some of our delegates but Harry needed me there too so think I shall need to go there."
"But you're dead."
"I can't be any deader. What are you doing?"
The younger brother had dropped himself on the opposite chair calmly and had put the Operation—a battery-operated game—on the table in between them with a smile plastered on his face.
"Stop concerning yourself over them, Mycroft and relax. Let's play."
"Says the person who would always bother me just to invite me to weddings and baptisms because he can't afford talking to the nonsensical guests." Mycroft took the tweezers from the open board game anyway. He took one good look at the operation table before he began operating but it hadn't been a second long before the first buzzing sound came.
Both the brothers looked at the tweezers and saw it shook—Mycroft's hand was shaking.
"PTSD, don't you think?" the older Holmes muttered as Sherlock hastened to remove the operating table and gave his older brother an apologetic look. "Or do you think I miss my umbrella?"
"That's enough receiving of letters for you." Sherlock snatched the paper on the table too and crumpled it before throwing it away. Then he looked pointedly at his brother's shaking hand but Mycroft only raised it to eyes' length to observe it. The younger Holmes gritted his teeth.
"Instead of worrying about them—why not worry about yourself?"
"Why should I? You are already there aren't you?"
Sherlock stared as Mycroft chuckled and placed his hand on his side again.
"Apparently, you're as bad as me when you worry, brother dear. Actually—far worst. Anyway, I won't be of use to anyone for another three days, I imagine. After that I will need all my contact information, Sherlock and nothing you will say can stop me—"
"Because you're usually correct with estimations—"
"Correct— plus the fact that it's my last calculated guess of the British Government standing on its own without me. A few more days after that and the whole city will crumble. That's why I have to return even if I have to crawl there."
"You don't crawl."
"No. I fly." Mycroft leaned back at the chair with a smirk on his face Sherlock somehow enjoyed seeing. This was the Mycroft he was customary off. Not that pale, sickly brother he had been fretting for his dear life weeks ago; back then, Sherlock really thought he would lose his brother for good. But Mycroft was not meant to succumb to death yet... and Sherlock will always see it won't be so.
"You can't return in flesh there though. Again, you're supposed to play dead." He pointed out but his older brother waved the argument away an eyebrow up in heaven.
"But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? They don't need to know of my existence. No one has to, that has always been the code of my job. In reality, I knew there will be some benefit of my name getting buried under the pile of obituaries. I am not meant to be known, my dear brother. This whole fiasco of my name getting publicity... I knew somehow I needed to kill it. Who knew it could have end this way?" he smirked again that made the detective suspicious.
"You knew! You've been planning to kill your name all along didn't you?"
"What gave you that idea?" the meaningful smile Mycroft gave him was enough for Sherlock to believe if he hadn't decided to take his brother's name to the grave, then Mycroft himself would have done it. And it was his brother's death on him over and over again because—as he reminded himself—a lot of people do want his brother dead. And it's not only because of his position. It was because of what he knows. What they know as the Holmes brothers.
If Mycroft were to pursue his career even after everything, Sherlock was sure this won't be the last time he will be seeing his brother in the brink of death. Damn, his brother was asking for it like how he—Sherlock—would actually try and look for his fix. Mycroft also needed his at the expense of his life.
What kind of silly brothers they both were.
Sherlock contemplated this silently as he too, leaned back on his chair to survey his brother as a whole.
From the beginning that has been his brother's role: to worm his way into the shadow and blend in naturally in the dark while the innocents bathed in the sunlight—such bliss! The darkness which is the British Government Head shouldered by one man. If given the chance to come out of the lights Mycroft would—only to snatch people from it and dragged them right into the shadow where they disappear forever, if necessary.
"You're an idiot brother." Sherlock told Mycroft who arched an eyebrow to a dangerous limit.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I got your back, Mycroft. Always."
Mycroft, the Lord of Secrecy. And him Sherlock, his sentry.
That sounded just about right.
-Sentry-
To all readers- guests- :3 couldn't thank you enough again!
A/N: Might be moving to another project concerning the summit but that should be a one shot or something ;)
Thank you once again for reading even until the wrap! :)
