This Sherlock (BBC) fanfiction is a submission by Otter.
The ruffling of papers was all that was heard in the silent room. The sound echoed around where no words were allowed. Papers and magazines clashed against one another as their reader set them gently down on his lap. A sharp intake of air came next from the man as he stared blankly at the front page.
“Suicide of Fake Genius” was in big bold letters upon the front page.
This is how he got the news.
The news of his brother’s death.
He brought his hands to his face, his mouth gaping and his eyes wide in shock.
He didn’t mean for this to happen. This wasn’t supposed to be the outcome.
He was supposed to protect his brother, keep him from harm. Keep him safe. But instead he got him killed.
Guilt, pain, and utter sadness welled in the man’s throat, as he struggled to breath. It hit like a ton of bricks, crushing him, breaking him down, shattering his insides.
Once he had finally caught his breath he ran his thin fingers through his balding hair.
After what felt like hours of silence, the papers began to rustle again as the man gathered his things, deciding it was time to leave.
He slipped the papers into his briefcase and slid his umbrella gently under his arm.
He stood up shakily, repeating over and over again, “What have I done?” in his head.
He left with a heavy sigh and approached the sleek black car waiting for him in the driveway.
The driver climbed out as he saw the man strolling up. He then opened the door for him, where his assistant was waiting, sitting silently, completely absorbed in her phone.
The man sat down, and a feeling of melancholy filled the car.
The woman stole a glance at the man, who had his head in his hands.
“Are you alright sir?” She asked, only looking up from her mobile for a quick second.
“Yes. Fine,” the man lied, plastering a fake smile on his face “Just… Family matters.”
The assistant knew this was code for “My brother is up to his shenanigans and I must intervene… again,” and she thought nothing more of the matter. She must not have heard the news yet, which was nearly impossible. The event was circling the news, a huge scandal. The world’s smartest person, the hero to all policemen, was proved to be nothing more than a fake, and then decided to end it all with a topple off a building.
The ride to the man’s house was almost completely silent, except for the on-going tapping of the assistant’s fingers keyboard and a quiet ping from the man’s own phone.
The man’s pocket vibrated and he slipped his phone out of it.
With sad eyes and a long drawn out breath, he read the message.
Guilt seemed to build up inside his throat and his hands shook.
With wet eyes, he reread the message
“How could you?” The message read. The raging anger and pain couldn’t be more clear. It was like the writer was there, his anger and depression filling the room.
“He trusted you. His own brother and you got him killed! You said you said you were worried! You said you would protect him! And he wasn’t just your brother, he was my best friend too! It’s your fault he’s gone. YOUR FAULT he’s gone. You let Moriarty out, you decided that Moriarty was a lesser threat to the government than your own brother. You chose the government’s safety over his. No wonder he wanted nothing to do with you.
Remorse shot at his insides, constricting his breath. His face became ghastly white, and his hands shook slightly.
He didn’t blame him for being angry, he did just kill his best friend.
As the car came to a stop, the man’s stomach lurched. He wanted to sit there, locking himself away from humanity. Punishing himself for not caring as much as he should.
But as the driver opened the door he quickly threw on a fake smile. Muttering a thanks, he quickly tried to speed into the house before anything else could be said. But that plan was shot down as soon as the assistant opened the car door and stepped out.
“Sir, are you sure you’re alright?” She looked up at him through her thin rimmed spectacles, setting her phone in her pocket.
“Give it back Mycroft!” his brother would scream, chasing after him.
“NEVER!” Mycroft would scream, holding his brothers most prized possession over his head.
He tried to get as far as possible, but always ended being caught by their mum at the end of the hall. He would always have to give it back, because she would threaten him with a beating.
The man wandered through the halls, peeking into his brother’s old room. Like a movie playing over and over, he watched as he remembered his brother playing pirates in his room, Mycroft joining along every once in awhile.
“SHIVER ME TIMBERS! YOU LANDLUBBER!” he would yell.
They would play for hours, Mycroft and his brother, hitting one another with broken, plastic swords. Even with wimpy swords, they would both emerge from battle bashed and bruised. No matter how hard they tried to hide it, mummy would always find out.
“Boys! What have I told you about beating each other with those plastic death sticks!?” she would lecture, cleaning their cuts and scrapes.
“To not to,” they would both answer, putting their heads down in shame. With an apology, and a spanking, they would be dismissed, just to go and do it again.
Touring farther into the house, Mycroft walked into the parlor.
“Don’t touch the floor! It’s lava!” a younger Mycroft would call. He and his brother would climb over the chairs, hop on the cleverly placed cushions, and walk over the coffee tables.
Mycroft smiled, reminiscing the old times with his brother. Not a fake smile like the last time. A real, genuine smile. His tour brought him to the foyer and to the stairs leading from the base of the house to the third floor. A balcony overlooked the layout of the room, standing tall upon white marble pillars.
“Come on you filthy sea rat!” would call Mycroft’s younger brother, a crooked tri-cornered hat sitting cock-eyed on his mop of raven, curly hair. He had managed to climb the balcony, and placed himself on the other side of the white railing.
“Get down from there!” Mycroft called, worried about the stupid stunt his brother was about to pull.
“look Captain Skully!” the little pirate wanna-be said to the inanimate skull sitting carefully on the banisher. “My’s a scaredy sea rat!”
“Am not! I just don’t want you hurt!” Mycroft retorted, crossing his arms.
“It’s safe! I piled pillows at per… per-cise-ly where I wanted them,” the little boy said, making sure he pronounced the word correctly
“That doesn’t mean anything!”
Before Mycroft could stop him, the brave little pirate boy took a step off the railing, falling quickly into the pillows. Everything seemed alright, like he was going to hit his mark, until there was a large Ther-Wack! and a sharp, painful cry.
“SHERLY!” Mycroft called as he ran over to his brother, who was curled into a tight little ball, buried amongst the bed of pillows.
He rolled him over, revealing a disfigured arm, and a waterfall of hot tears
“I-I dunno what happened!” He cried, bawling as he clenched his arm, which had begun to turn purple, and swell.
“You forgot to move the table. I was going to tell you that, but you wouldn’t listen to me!” Mycroft answered his brother, sitting him up.
After hours of excessive pain, a fractured radius, a shattered olna, and a trip to the emergency room, the little pirate emerged, with a newly casted arm, and his hat still firmly on his head
As Mycroft reminisced about this, he began to think of how ironic it was. That this is how he perished.
A long drop, and a quite sudden stop.
Mycroft pushed tears from his eyes, remembering the incident. He forced himself to move forward, with one last stop on his journey. He shuffled his feet as he came across a door. The door had been shut for many years. Ever since their father died.
Being a young man, of the age of 17 at the time, he remembered it well. Almost too well.
“My boy,” his father said weakly, grasping Mycroft’s small hand. His face was cadaverous , his eyes glazed over just slightly. “You’ve always been so good. Listening to what I say, obeying everything,” he smiled as he spoke softly. Mycroft began to tear up at his father’s words.
“Take care of your brother, he’s always getting into things, always in trouble. Protect him. I won’t be able to do that, so do it for me. If that’s all you ever do, do it well.” His father’s words were quiet, and faded in volume as he spoke.
With his mother waiting in the corner of the room, her face swollen from crying and her eyes red with tears, Mycroft looked at his father, and with a strong nod of his head said “Of course I’ll protect him. Make sure he’s ok.”
“That’s a good boy.” And that was the last thing he said to Mycroft before he passed.
Mycroft walked out of the big, solid oak doors, over to his brother, to tell him it was his turn to get his last moment with his father.
At this memory, Mycroft was undone. He sat at the edge if the unused bed, guilt, pain, remorse, and any other possible feeling welled inside him.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. He sat, his head in his hands, and cried. That was all he could do. Nothing could bring his brother back.
A light echo of footsteps was faintly heard over the uncontrollable sobs of Mycroft Holmes.
The door opened, but Mycroft didn’t seem to notice until a familiar voice was heard.
“Mycroft…” the figure spoke. As he did, his deep voice rang, quieting the sobs, as he placed his gentle hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.
He gasped in utter shock at the figured clad in a black coat. His mop of raven hair, free of any pirate hat, his thin figure pale and stick like, same as it was when Mycroft last saw him in the morgue, on a slab.
“S…S-Sherlock?” Mycroft started.
The figure nodded, his curly locks bouncing in sync with his movements.
Without hesitation, Mycroft nearly tackled the man in a hug.
“I am so sorry,” Mycroft repeated as the man soothed him.
“You said yourself, caring is not an advantage,” he said, his voice flat and calm.
“Nor is it optional sometimes.” Mycroft repeated.
“It’s alright,” he said, in a calming manner. “I’m not dead.”