Prompt 31: Umbrella
Mycroft sat with his head held in his hands at his desk. He couldn't say how long he'd been sat like that, after the initial burst of activity, identifying the body ("Who else could it possibly be?" he spat acidly at the bumbling pathologist Molly Hooper) and making arrangements for the funeral he had just collapsed into the chair and not gotten up. It was his fault of course, he'd fed Jim all of that information, hadn't managed to keep tabs on the man when he was released, not protected Sherlock at all. In fact if anything he was an accomplice in his death. That was a bitter pill to swallow. He'd spent his entire life looking out for Sherlock, from the time the younger boy could crawl he'd watched out for him, and yes, sometimes he failed, but never as grievously as he had this time. God he could still see a pudgy little three year old, sprinting in the endearing manner only children can, into his room from the garden with a stuffed parrot clasped in his little hands and a grin that would melt even the coldest of hearts on his face as he threw himself into Mycroft's arms squealing his gratitude for the treasure hunt he'd devised to keep the boy occupied. And he'd betrayed him, so flippantly, into the hands of a known psychopath and criminal mastermind. Way to go Mycroft, splendid job you did too he thought bitterly. Mummy was distraught, she had been since the whole debacle had started with the trial going south at the Old Bailey, yet another oversight on his part. Now the entire world believed that Sherlock had been a fraud, a manipulative liar who tried to lord his fake genius over everyone else and had gotten the comeupance he deserved. Well, all but a few. John, Mrs Hudson and the Hooper girl. He had... Hoped for better from Gregory Lestrade but he could not fault the man for being between two minds about it. In the mans own words "I know he was a genius, but why didn't he disprove all the damned evidence against himself then?"
That question was one that only John Watson could answer. If Mycroft had any room left to feel guilty about how this would affect others at all, John was the only person he had room for. He hadn't spoken to him since telling him that he was the leak to Jim. That conversation hadn't exactly ended well, although there was something to be said for the fact that John hadn't punched him in the face like he wanted to. His self control was admirable. Mycroft couldn't remember much of the funeral at all, except that John had been a pall bearer even though he was significantly shorter than the others, that he'd given a eulogy to the odd bunch of people that had arrived for the event - Sherlock's private clients who obviously knew he couldn't be a fraud, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, John and the gang of homeless people that had been watching them all for days. Mycroft hadn't gone to the cemetery, Anthea had simply guided him back into one of the cars and gotten him home.
He vaguely recalled her saying that she would handle work for a couple of weeks, and giving her condolences. That had been an interesting affair, try though she might the woman had grown rather fond of the madman they watched everyday, and she truly was sorry that he had died in disgrace. She sent him updates everyday, although they really didn't register with him at all, bar one, which had simply read "Turn on the news." He had, she never ordered him around except in exceptional circumstances, and by God this was an exceptional circumstance. He watched as Lestrade held a press conference with John Watson (tired, grief stricken, holding himself together just for this) at his side, recanting all they had said about Sherlock being a fraud. It seemed that John had worked day and night to prove that Sherlock was exactly what he said he was, a genius, a consulting detective who had saved countless lives and had been slated, insulted and hunted to death in return for his service. A chuckle actually escaped him when John cut Lestrade off as he was thanking everyone for listening. "Don't thank them, they could've listened in the first place but they didn't because once again, they see but they don't observe, so they can fuck right off. I hope you all feel really good about your role in the death of Sherlock Holmes. Now piss off so I can go home." The silence that had fallen among the press the moment John had stood up was nothing short of unheard of, and better yet it was all live streamed, because no one had expected an outburst from the placid Doctor Watson, but they no longer had Doctor Watson, they had Captain Watson and he was furious.
Mycroft knew then that he couldn't just sit around feeling sorry for himself, he had to get back to work. But first, he owes his baby brother an apology. It was dark and raining heavily as he walked to the cemetery alone, his umbrella finally being used for its true purpose. He had called Anthea that evening to let her know that he would be returning to work and he could hear the relief in her voice. It took a certain kind of person to do the job that he did, and while Anthea was probably the closest you could get, it wasn't him. England needed Mycroft Holmes. Strolling down the winding path of the cemetery, he knew what he was looking for, obsidian marble engraved with only his name, a stipulation Sherlock had made years earlier when he had been certain he would die before getting the chance to make a will, Mycroft had scoffed at the twelve year old but went to the family lawyers none the less and had one written up. Sherlock had been right, and it seemed like the man had done it all on purpose just to have the last laugh from the smirked at the thought of that final "Fuck you" from Sherlock.
Then Mycroft saw it, the headstrong he had been looking for, but surprisingly he wasn't the only person there. John was sitting with his back against it, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two blue orchids in the other. He looked up as he heard Mycroft approach and even though Mycroft was prepared for some form of violence none came. John was done. All the fight had gone out of him because with Sherlock exonerated he had no purpose left.
"Want to sit down Mycroft?" he asked, bringing Mycroft back to reality. John was soaked already and so was the grass but Mycroft surprised even himself by sitting next to John against the stone. Carefully he balanced his umbrella so the three of them were under it's protection. "John I am truly sorry for everything. This was my fault, and mine alone." Mycroft said into the night, hearing rather than seeing the bottle tilt into John's mouth. "Yeah, it is. You had the chance to stop Moriarty but you didn't, you gave him everything he needed instead. But, Sherlock fell of his own volition and as much as I wish I could just blame you, there's enough to share between the three of us don't you think?" John asked seriously, shivering at the burn of the whiskey in his throat. Mycroft raised an eyebrow "Three of us?" he frowned, he could see his own responsibility, Sherlock's too, but John? What had he done that had lead to this? "He thought no one cared about him Mycroft. I called him a machine, one of the last things I said to him before he died reaffirmed a life time of conditioning to hate himself, and I, I was supposed to be his friend but I let him down. That's on me." John shook his head slowly and closed his eyes "It seems mad that he could see just about everything except how I felt about him."
Mycroft turned to face him. "How did you feel about him?" he asked, puzzled slightly, he'd made jokes about a happy announcement but he had no idea why, it was just to rile Sherlock up, he never actually thought John was anything more than a friend to Sherlock. "Seriously? The two of you are so... so ignorant of some things it's unbelievable. How can you not see it? I loved him! I loved him through it all and I couldn't tell him even when he was standing on that bloody roof. Does that make me a coward Mycroft, the fact that I was happier to love him in secret and keep him than tell him and risk him leaving? He died without knowing that someone loved him, that someone could know all about him and his mad plans and experiments and still love him all the more for it, without knowing any of it! I could have said it on the phone that day, I wanted to, it was just waiting to spill out." Mycroft patted John on the back gently. "No. No it doesn't. And I think, if what you say is true, he would have known, in the end, he would have heard it. He knew John. He knew." Mycroft whispered. He could only hope that Sherlock did know.
An idea seemed to come to John suddenly as he surged forward in a split second of movement. "What are you here for actually Mycroft? I know why I'm here, feel a bit entitled to pine a little for him but why are you here in the middle of the bloody night?" Mycroft chuckled at the pining bit and then he sighed. "I came to apologise to him, to you too." John nodded briefly and stood up, holding out a hand for Mycroft to grasp as he pulled him up too, rain melting them both. "Come on, I'll make us some tea back at baker street. I think you could use someone to talk to about him, someone who cared as much as you do. I'm not saying that I'll forget, but I forgive you Mycroft. For both of us." Mycroft felt a weight lift from his chest when John said that and allowed his grief to flood him properly for the first time when John embraces him. "I'm so sorry Mycroft." he muttered into the shoulder of his suit. "I'm sorry too John." They left together, and Mycroft, in a fit of sentimentality that he had not prepared for, left his umbrella sheltering Sherlock's grave, protecting him one last time.