Work Text:
Sherlock was sitting in the back of an ambulance, slightly disheveled and highly annoyed, along with a paramedic that was trying to at least put an oxygen mask on his face as D.I. Lestrade was berating him for doing something reckless. And stupid. Again.
How infuriating.
Sometimes I really expect one of my “minions” as he likes calling them, coming into my office telling me that finally my little brother managed to reach what he most desires: to end his long suffering existence. Of course, he would deny it. He would argue that he doesn’t want to die. But I know he doesn’t want to live either. It’s been like this for a long time now.
He doesn’t sleep, but it’s not because he doesn’t need to nor for the nightmares. The good dreams are the problem: they make reality too hard to bear.
He doesn’t eat. He keeps telling that it slows his brain down, but that’s not true.
He pursues dangerous criminal on his own, and it’s not for the chase or the adrenaline. Nor for justice. It’s because of the danger he unconsciously craves for.
This is all for him.
John.
Because Sherlock promised him to keep living and he doesn’t want to let him down even in death. I have mixed feelings when I think about Dr. Watson. I am grateful seeing the man Sherlock became during their time together, but I also hate him for he has left him.
Not anymore. I cannot think about anything else as I approach the ambulance as calm as ever.
Sherlock my only focus. My mission.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ten feet.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
This blasted umbrella it’s unnerving.
Five feet. Four. Tree. Two.
“Mycroft.”
God, he sounds so disappointed. And not because of my presence.
“Little brother. I was informed of your last stunt: chasing a criminal and ending in a building on fire? Hardly an appropriate way to spend your Friday night.” I can’t help it. It’s how we communicate.
“It’s hardly your business, Mycroft. I’m sure you have more important things to do. Like eating pastries, seeing how well your diet is going.”
Ouch. That stings every time. But I’m the “Ice Man”, nothing can move me. On the outside.
“Now, now, little brother. I am here merely to ensure that you are safe and unharmed. Now, can you please let the paramedic do his job and control your breathing functions? I need to know that you can breathe when I give you the news.”
The poor paramedic that was attempting to take Sherlock’s vitals without much success looked at me like I was his savior, and seeing as Sherlock was trying to escape his attentions and that awful orange shock blanket, I probably was.
“Brother?”
I have forgotten the D.I. was there. Only briefly. I do not forget things, I’m Mycroft Holmes.
“Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector. I hope that my little brother was not too much of a burden. I do worry constantly about him, but I will always be grateful for you letting him help with cases. It’s good for him.”
Sherlock glared at him as the paramedic checked his breathing. “Lestrade, meet my dear brother, the British Government.”
“Holmes? You’re his brother? Really? I didn’t know he had one. He never speaks about his family.”
No wonder, really. As he doesn’t consider me as such and the only one he considered his family was gone.
“Sherlock, you know that I only occupy a minor position in the British Government. And yes, Detective Inspector, he has one. I’m not surprised, though, that he has never mentioned me before. Now, if you excuse us for a moment, as the paramedic assessed that he can breathe without any problem, I have some news to deliver to my little brother.”
“Stay, Lestrade.” Sherlock told him, and than to me “What do you want, Mycroft? Leg work? I know how much you despise it, so it must be important. More so as you haven’t sent one of your minions. And you are torn. A bad news? No. But not a good one, I sensed your distress in the tap of your umbrella. Get on with it, so you can go starting another war and we can all go on with our lives.”
“I believe you will find my news most interesting. And please, remember to breathe.”
“Come on, brother. As boring as it is, I know I need to breathe for my transport to keep going. I’m not an idiot like this lot staring at us.” He retorted, waving his hand towards a bunch of officers taking photos of Sherlock with that awful blanket.
This is it. I take a deep mental breath. ‘No emotions, Mycroft. No emotions’ I keep telling myself. Mental breath in, mental breath out. Say it. Now.
“John is alive.”
Silence.
Shock.
More silence.
“Say that again?”
“John is alive.”
Sherlock stood up, the shock blanket falling from his shoulder.
Silence again.
My little brother was staring at me with a blank face, his brain deciding what to do with this new information. An information that he craved for but that he knew it will never come. That, slowly, his expression begins to change. And a lonely tear came down his cheek.
“W-what?”
If the officers weren’t so shocked seeing the self proclaimed sociopath crying, no one would have heard the soft broken whisper coming from the detective’s mouth.
“Who is John?”
Ah, Lestrade. The poor detective is so clueless. Not his fault, obviously, but his confused expression mixed with concern for my brother is a bit funny on some level. They are all so easy to fool. They all believe Sherlock to be a sociopath because of his bordering behavior. Ha! Idiots. The lot of them. How Sherlock can stand them I will never know.
“This is not funny, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice cracks.
“No, it is not. And I assure you that it is the truth. I checked myself.”
Silence.
“It’s not possible.”
And there it is. Hope is clearly visible in his eyes.
“It is.”
He stopped breathing. Staring right into my eyes. His were filling with more tears. Seeing his distress, I approached him.
“Little brother, breathe.”
And he did. He latched onto the front of my suit and crumpled to the ground, taking me with him.
That was the moment when all the Scotland Yard’s finest discovered the human side of my brother. All the eyes were on him.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Muffled sobs were mixing with laughs. He was crying. And laughing. And coughing. All at the same time.
Everyone was utterly shocked at this.
“Sherlock?” the D.I. was now really concerned. He hovered over us and asked “What’s the matter? Who are you talking about? Who is this John?”
But again his question remained unanswered. As minutes passed, Sherlock slowly regained the control of his body and his brain. And that was the moment that he realized what this meant. He looked at me with a horrified expression.
There it is. His brain went through all the possibilities and his answers for John being alive where the worst ones.
“Oh, God.”
I have to stop this right now. He deduced it, but it’s not the whole story.
“No, Sherlock, listen to me. We didn’t know. We did all we could, it’s not your fa-”
“Don’t you dare. Do not finish that sentence. How can it not be my fault? I should have never stopped. I knew it. He spent the last six years being presumably tortured or whatever in some godforsaken place and left alone because he was presumed dead and no one was looking for him anymore! I stopped looking for him…”
I could barely make out his words between the moaning and the sobs.
“Oh, God, Myc. I stopped. I give up. And he was out there. All this time. And I just stopped.”
More tears, more grief, more pain, more guilt. And for the first time in oh, so many years, I hug my brother. His face pressed against my chest, as he was still on the ground. Hot big tears wetting the front of my suit.
After Sherlock calmed down we disentangled ourselves. Silence was surrounding us, the shock was still in the air and everyone’s focus was on my brother.
Then Sherlock asked me with a hoarse voice “Please, Myc, where is he?”
“I’m here, Sherlock.”