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Sherlock knew as soon as Mycroft turned up that something was different about him.
His older brother didn't move with as much urgency as he did when he needed help or wanted to talk about 'important business'. Perhaps urgency was the wrong word.
Either way, the tall, brooding man walked much slower and with more purpose than usual. Sherlock almost knocked him down the stairs as he hurried out the door; he hadn't heard his brother's footsteps coming up the stairs.
The biggest giveaway was his apparent concern for his younger brother.
"Are you in a rush, brother mine?" he asked, hoping that he would be let inside.
That and the use of a distasteful title in place of his name. Brother mine.
Sherlock opened the front door wider in answer, his mind preoccupied with questions.
His curiosity forced him to close the door behind him and sit across from the other man.
Mycroft sat in John's armchair. He must be tired.
The man in question gave Sherlock a look.
"What?" the detective asked.
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Mycroft, is there something you need or can I get on with this case?" Sherlock asked, picking up his violin. He plucked at the strings as he glanced down onto the street below.
He never comes to visit unless he needs something. Or thinks I'm back on drugs.
The click of the bathroom door closing was followed by John's query shouted from the kitchen. "Sherlock? Shouldn't you be in a cab by now?"
"Look who's arrived," Sherlock announced.
John poked his head round the kitchen door, his eyebrows raising as he spotted who was in his chair. Mycroft bloody Holmes was in their flat again.
"Oh. Mycroft. I didn't hear you arrive. What does he want?" he asked Sherlock as if the other man wasn't sitting right there.
The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched before he muttered, "Not now, John."
John sighed, looking to Mycroft for answers but receiving none.
"I guess I'll tell Lestrade you'll be a bit late then, yeah?" John asked the air. "Okay. Fine. I'm heading out. Not that anybody cares."
After a moment's silence - filled with an unspoken question - Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Can't I just check up on my little brother?" he asked innocently.
"No," Sherlock replied bluntly. He placed his violin under his chin and started to play a beautiful (albeit harsh) tune. Mycroft looked down at his hands in his lap and sighed. Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye and suddenly, a thought registered in his mind. What date was it today?
The music of the violin suddenly switched to a melancholic melody.
Sherlock turned to his brother and looked at the back of his head. "I know what you're thinking."
"Of course you do, Sherlock. You always know what I'm thinking."
The violin music stopped suddenly and Sherlock sat back down in his armchair with a huff. "I'm listening."
"To what?" his brother asked.
"Why did you come? Wait, I know why you came. But, why now? You never did before."
"Sherlock. Ever since..." Mycroft began.
The younger man merely nodded when he thought of that... unfortunate day. The day he had to say goodbye to his friends, his family. The day he had to 'die'. The three years after that had been the loneliest of his life.
"I've tried to be a better brother to you." Sherlock knew it was his way of saying he still felt guilty about what he had done. "I thought you'd be-"
"Upset?" Sherlock finished. "I manage," he admitted.
Mycroft simply nodded.
"So, I want you to come for a walk with me," the elder stated. He stood up before going out the door, assuming Sherlock would simply follow.
Sherlock sighed. He flipped up his coat collar and walked out the door.
Once outside, he rolled his eyes. A black limousine? Really? In broad daylight? He could already hear John's voice in his head at the sight. Bit much, isn't it? Got any champagne?
A few tourists with cameras were across the road; Sherlock blocked his face from view. Ever since his return nearly two months ago, the press had been all over him. Lestrade had even called him in for a case because someone had gotten murdered within one of the crowds. The place had been littered with intrigued gossipers and crazy fangirls ever since. Dull.
Of course, the murderer hadn't been someone from the press; it was merely a disguise. It was always the one in the cap.
The two brothers climbed into the fancy limousine. Sherlock was thankful that at least the windows were tinted.
"Not exactly much of a walk, is it, brother?" Sherlock asked.
"That will come soon," Mycroft replied vaguely.
The ride passed by in silence with Sherlock fidgeting the entire way. He was supposed to be with Lestrade right now on a case, but now he was-
No. Surely they weren't heading there.
💀
When they finally reached their destination, Sherlock concealed his surprise. The day was chilly and large storm clouds were looming over the car.
They got out of the car, leaving the driver and Anthea – who had joined them for the ride, still busy texting on her blackberry – behind, and walked up to the tall, black, steel gates.
They were at the cemetery.
They walked silently, passing many graves made of stone and marble alike. They passed by a small war memorial for a few soldiers who had wanted to be buried near their families.
When they finally reached their mother's grave, Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He'd never visited. He never thought he needed to. He wasn't one for grief or emotional displays of any kind, after all. His brother knew that but remained quiet nonetheless.
They walked over to the gravestone which was half-hidden beneath a huge willow tree, its leaves skimming across the ground. Sherlock sniffed as he sat down, back resting against the tree's trunk. He glanced over his mother's grave which sat only a few feet away.
Mycroft reached into his pocket and lay down an elegant, pale-pink rose by her grave. He then proceeded to sit down beside his brother, choosing to ignore the dirt marring his pristine trousers.
Sherlock hung his head with a deep exhale, lost in thought. He leaned his head on his brother's arm, but Mycroft didn't move or even flinch away at his touch.
Rain soon started to pour down from the heavens onto the green fields. A few determined raindrops fluttered down through the tree's blanket of leaves and landed on their heads. Mycroft felt many raindrops drip onto his head and hands delicately before he noticed that something was amiss. He looked down at his hand, then up at his brother. His face was tear-stricken and he looked so vulnerable. Mycroft didn't know what to do.
With careful movements, he gently wrapped an arm securely around Sherlock's shoulders. Everyone had to grieve for someone at some point. Sherlock was just a little slow with that concept. It had been almost two decades, after all.
Sherlock tried his best not to make a sound the entire time. He couldn't stop the shudders as his tears fell, however. Mycroft comforted his brother until he stopped shaking, but he never moved his arm away.
Mycroft wondered if John even knew. Or Mrs Hudson. He imagined he never spoke of these things with his friends. He was quite like his brother in that regard. At least they understood each other.
After a while, the rain started to subside and they both made their way back to the car. Sherlock gingerly climbed in after Mycroft, though he didn't say another word. In fact, he didn't say anything for the entire ride home.
He nodded once when he finally arrived at the crime scene. He didn't ask Mycroft how he knew where to go. The older Holmes brother simply squeezed his hand in reassurance.
Sherlock exited the limousine, putting on his mask to face his awaiting audience, like a movie star arriving on a red carpet.
Mycroft watched as his brother walked further and further away. He was glad his brother had understood. And he was glad he had some friends by his side.
He watched as Lestrade greeted Sherlock happily, oblivious to the red tint on Sherlock's cheeks and the tears still drying on his lashes. They both wandered off to the centre of the crime scene together, their game faces on.