The Inevitable Dusk (Chapter 2 Cont)
Chapter One, One cont, Two
Author's Note: This is it! I rather enjoyed writing this, despite the (many) bumps I had during the process; it was a nice piece that gave me the chance to ponder Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship, and what would happen if one of them died. Let me know what you think!
Chapter Two Cont
Three Years Earlier
“How is Miss Adler, these days?” Mycroft asked pleasantly from across the kitchen table. Sherlock looked up from his microscope and glared, then focused back on his samples.
“Witness protection. At least, that’s what John says,” Sherlock replied evenly, and switched out the slide. “I wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen her since I unlocked the phone.” It appeared that the frozen cells had a different hue than the room temperature ones; Interesting.
“Miss Adler, according to my intel, was supposed to have died due to a being beheaded in the Middle East.”
“Trying to spare me the gory details? How touching.”
“Imagine my surprise when she turned up a month later in Japan, decidedly not dead.”
Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Why did you save her?”
Sherlock switched out the slide again to determine if the difference in colour was present in other types of cells. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You took a trip to the Middle East around that time too, didn’t you?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at Mycroft with raised eyebrows. “And you think I...what? Prevented her execution out of a sense of love? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“There is no such thing as coincidence, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied evenly, giving him a shrewd look as he stood and straightened his suit jacket. “The universe is rarely so lazy. I just hope you didn’t create more trouble by letting her live.”
When his phone went off, Sherlock abruptly stopped in the middle of his sentence and stared at the screen. Unknown caller, it informed him, and something in his brain clicked, connecting another piece of the puzzle. Of course he would call. It’s about superiority, what better way to show he’s above me than to taunt me with my failure to find him?
“John,” he began, voice utterly calm. “Call Anthea, have her call Walker. He needs to trace this call.”
“Do you think it’s-”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, interrupting Lestrade’s question (no such thing as coincidence), and reached for the phone, pressing the answer button as he brought it up to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Well hello,” Moran said, sounding delighted. His voice was throaty, husky, no that’s not the word I’m looking for what--
“Are you surprised?”
“About what?” Sherlock returned calmly. “You’ve done quite a bit in these past weeks.”
Moran chuckled darkly. “No, not about that. About my time at the Yard.”
“Not particularly. It fits in with your egotism and need to prove yourself better than others,” Sherlock replied; a look at John told him that Walker hadn’t traced the line yet, so he continued searching for the word to describe Moran’s voice. That’s the key, that’ll tell you who he is, his mind screamed. His eyes fluttered closed, and Sherlock stood in a massive library that he had seen on one of his trips to the Continent.
“You can’t search every book, little brother,” Mycroft’s voice chided from behind him, and Sherlock whirled around at the sound.
“Go away. I locked you, those emotions...you’re not supposed to be here.”
Mycroft came closer, swinging his umbrella. “Do try to be mature, Sherlock. You need my help.”
“You’re dead!” Sherlock yelled.
Mycroft blinked at him, and a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. “Yes, well. Let’s be thankful for memories. Now.” His voice turned dictatorial, reminiscent of all the times he had coached Sherlock on mis-formed deductions as a child, and his back straightened. “Think. Language is so subjective, but it appears that’s all we have to work with. What is the first word that comes to mind for Moran’s voice?”
“Throaty.”
“Why? No, don’t-” Mycroft held up a hand. “Don’t give me feelings, Sherlock. What are the physical ailments that could cause a person’s voice to become lower and more gravelly?”
“Excessive strain on the vocal cords - particularly from yelling - , illness of some kind, aggravation caused by allergies or extreme weather, smoking, Oh.” Sherlock looked to Mycroft eyes wide, memory taking him back to the previous afternoon, on his way to meet Wiggins. The security men, the extras. Two were obvious, suits in the cafe across the street, those are always there. “But I wanted to know where the other ones were, the new ones. There were two I could see, a man at a cafe that had already finished his paper, and a smoker. But that wasn’t a member of your team, was it? Moran is the smoker.”
It was so simple now; the man’s face was clear to see in the memory, his features being taken in as habit borne from having a brother that paid people to follow you around.
“So glad you’ve managed to observe,” Mycroft said with a wry twist of his lips, and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Sherlock called, and Mycroft paused, looked back.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I didn’t say it before,” Sherlock argued.
“And you shouldn’t say it now,” Mycroft snapped, then sighed and pursed his lips. “Memory, no matter how useful, is not the same as reality, Sherlock. Go,” he gestured with his umbrella. “Catch Moran. Leave the emotions for later.” And with that, Mycroft left, and Sherlock opened his eyes with a gasp.
“...it was so touching, to see you over his body, trying to stop his death. I really think-”
“Shut. up,” Sherlock growled, standing. “Do you think that I can’t find you? Do you think you're really that good?”
“Your brother-”
“My brother didn’t know the things I know about you, Sebastian Moran. And trust me, I know you, down to the very core of your mind,” Sherlock spat back. “And I am nothing if not determined; hide wherever you want, but I will find you. There’s nothing you can do.”
“You’re insane,” Moran tried valiantly, but Sherlock could hear the tremor in his voice. “A psychopath.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research,” Sherlock said coldly, then hung up. “John. Where is he.”
“Bart’s.”
How fitting. “Keep Walker on the line. Tell him to follow Moran through the CCTV, very closely. If I’m right, he’ll be able to keep track of Moran before the virus takes effect,” he instructed, moving toward the door.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade started, and Sherlock caught his eye as he threw on his coat.
“I suggest you stay behind. Not because I don’t appreciate your...gesture. But as an officer of the law-”
“I know. But I’ll be here, when you’re done.”
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. “John, let’s go. A cab can get us there in fifteen minutes,” he barked, then clattered down the stairs, pulling open the ground floor door and looking both ways down the street. A cab was coming up, and Sherlock waved it down as John hurried through the door.
“Bart’s Hospital, as quick as you can.”
“Now look here mate, I was supposed to pick up another--”
“I’ll pay you double,” Sherlock snapped, and got in without another word. “John, status update.”
“Walker says he hasn’t moved.”
“Good.” Sherlock looked out the window. “The more time we have until he starts running, the better. Do you have your…” he trailed off, unwilling to say gun where other people could hear.
John nodded and patted his coat pocket. “Yes. I’m pretty sure Lestrade knows about it now.”
Sherlock blinked. “He always knew. He turned a blind eye to it because he liked you and because you saved my life,” he replied, then turned back to the window. He felt jittery, like he was hitting the top of a cocaine high, fingers twitching and legs shaking with an inability to stay still. The cab was moving quickly in the light early-morning traffic, and it was barely ten minutes before they pulled up in front of Bart’s; Sherlock shoved his door open and got out quickly, hardly pausing to pull out some cash from his wallet and hand it to the cabbie.
“He’s moving north east, probably making for Long Lane,” said John, and Sherlock didn’t answer, just started running, the sound of John’s footfalls slightly behind him spurring him on.
The quickest way to Long Lane is through the Rotunda, then a short run down West Smithfield, it’s likely-
“Sherlock, up ahead-- is that him?”
Sherlock squinted, and barely made out a figure, running toward--
“He’s not going to Long Lane, John! He’s going down Hosier!” Sherlock yelled, and increased his pace, despite the fact that John was starting to fall behind. I have to catch him, there are too many ways for him to disappear around here; he could hear the blood rushing through his ears as he ran, and his lungs started to burn, still not back to full capacity after the puncture in Serbia, but he forced himself to speed up. The figure became more defined, and Sherlock could make out blond hair when Moran passed under a streetlamp. He disappeared around a corner, and Sherlock realised he must have gone on to Smithfield. Go faster, you can’t afford to lose sight of him now-
As he turned the corner, something slammed into his solar plexus, and Sherlock crumpled, gasping and coughing. He must have stopped, decided to confront--a large hand came down and grabbed his collar, tugging him into a narrow alley.
“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Moran said from above him.
“Why not?” Sherlock asked, desperately trying to breathe in air. “You were planning on killing me.”
“Because now it’s so terribly messy,” Moran replied with fake disappointment, and then Sherlock felt the barrel of a gun press against his temple.
“Boring,” Sherlock gritted out.
“What did you say?” Moran questioned, punctuating each word with a jab of the gun. Wait, wait for him to get closer. “Did you just-”
Now. Sherlock flung his head back and heard Moran curse as his skull hit Moran’s face; Sherlock took advantage of the other man’s disorientation and hauled himself off the ground, taking ahold of Moran’s hand where it held his collar and using it as leverage to throw Moran onto the ground. The gun fell out of Moran’s grip and skittered across the ground, but Sherlock kept his attention on Moran, who was staring up at him with a snarl on his face.
“Boring,” Sherlock repeated clearly. “Everything you’ve done, from the beginning, was boring, useless, emotional. You’re a failure.”
“Shut up,” Moran hissed, and tried to roll away, towards the gun; ruthlessly, Sherlock brought his foot down on the vulnerable part of Moran’s leg, the side of his knee cap that was exposed by his movement. An audible crack reached Sherlock’s ears, and Moran screamed in pain. Sherlock spared a moment of thanks that it was barely half two in the morning, and that there weren’t any people around. Stepping away, he picked up the gun, then walked back over to Moran.
“Any last words? No, never mind. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”
Moran’s eyes widened even more in terror and his nails clawed at the ground in an attempt to pull himself up and run; Sherlock pressed down on Moran’s broken leg with his foot, and the man stopped struggling with a whimper.
“You can’t kill me,” Moran argued frantically. “You’re-- you’re a civilian, there are laws-”
“I’m here with the sanction of the British government. And even if I wasn’t, do you think a small thing like laws would stop me?”
“Please,” Moran whispered, and Sherlock was filled with contempt for this man who had played assassin, had killed who-knew how many people without a second thought, but was so afraid of death.
“You murdered my brother,” Sherlock stated coldly, staring down at the other man. “How could you ever think that I would grant you mercy?”
Everything, for a split second, slowed. Sherlock was aware of every detail, the slightly ragged sound of his breathing, the exact shade of the blood leaking from Moran’s nose (must have broken it earlier), the warm and heavy feel of the gun in his hand.
It’s time, his mind whispered. Time to end this.
His arm swung up in an elegant arc, and pointed the gun at Moran; he steadied his breath, then pulled the trigger, a calm caress of the metal. He did not flinch from the booming sound of the gunshot or the large, gaping hole that appeared in Moran’s forehead.
It was silent, after. Sherlock stared down at Moran impassively, lowered the hand holding the gun. There were footsteps running towards him, but Sherlock didn’t turn to face John as he came around the corner.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, breathing heavily.
Sherlock turned his head slightly, pinning John with a stare. “If you are uncomfortable with this, I suggest you leave, John,” he replied emotionlessly, even though the thought of John walking away now made his stomach clench.
“No,” John denied, shaking his head. “I’m not... I don’t blame you for doing that,” he said, nodding toward the body. “I just wish you didn’t have to.”
Sherlock blinked, but didn’t reply.
“It’s sentiment,” John said, answering Sherlock’s unspoken Why? “I know you’re in pain, and I wish you weren’t.”
“Ah.” Sherlock realised his hands were shaking, and the gun clattered to the ground as his fingers surrendered their control. Pain. Pain was an old friend; he’d felt the sharp sting of needles, the sweaty tremors of cocaine withdrawal, the fiery bite of stab wounds and bullets. But this...every beat of his heart ached as his mind assaulted him with every damned feeling he’d locked away after Mycroft had bled out in front of him. His breathing was ragged, and his sight turned blurry; after a moment, Sherlock realised it was because he was crying, hot tracks of tears crawling down his cheeks as he shook, overwhelmed by memories of Mycroft, Mycroft’s blood, Mycroft teaching me how to catch butterflies for observation, Mycroft leaving for uni, Mycroft’s attempt to disguise his look of approval when I solved my first major case, and how, how can such a small word as pain be used to describe this?
After a long moment of silence, John gently tugged on Sherlock’s wrist. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”
Home. The word awakened a gaping hole of exhaustion in Sherlock’s chest, and he nodded wearily. “I have to call Anthea; she’ll take care of Moran.”
“Fine. But do it later,” John replied, and Sherlock let the pull on his wrist lead him out of the alley, still overwhelmed by emotion and fatigue. At some point, John’s hand captured his own, and Sherlock allowed the warm touch to anchor him in the city of the present, instead of getting lost in the halls of his Mind Palace, overrun by the ghosts of the past.
Two Weeks Later
Sherlock escaped from the dinner table with a murmured word, leaving his napkin beside his plate and ignoring John’s worried look. He just needed to be somewhere else, away from the heat and people in the dining room. His parents had insisted upon hosting dinner after the funeral, but the atmosphere in the room had been too cloying (too grieving) to stay for long.
Sherlock wondered towards the back of the house, until he couldn’t hear muffled voices anymore, and slipped into a rarely-used room; a grand piano stood in the middle, and Sherlock sat on the bench, running his fingers over the dusty keys in contemplation.
Mycroft had been the only one in their family that played; Sherlock had always been more interested in the violin, and neither of their parents possessed musical talent beyond humming along to the radio. Sherlock wondered why they’d kept it after Mycroft moved out, when it was unlikely to be used again, then answered his own question: Sentiment.
Shaking his head, Sherlock dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes along with a lighter, taking one out before putting the carton away and flicking the lighter open. The flame danced as he held it to the end of the fag, and the first drag made something in Sherlock’s chest decompress just enough to take another breath. Mummy hated the smell, would surely complain about it later, but the familiar taste of smoke on his tongue was too satisfying for him to care.
There was a soft knock on the door, and then it opened just enough for John’s head to peek inside the room. “You okay?”
Sherlock took another drag off the cigarette and let it out, watching the smoke curl out from his mouth. “Fine. Just needed a moment.”
John nodded and came in, shutting the door behind him. “Do you play?” he asked, gesturing at the piano.
“Mycroft did.”
“Oh, I’m-”
“There was one piece,” Sherlock said, “when I was young, that he would play constantly. I asked him once, why he played it so often.”
John was quiet, and Sherlock continued to smoke his cigarette, looking out the window at the yard, and the woods that lay beyond. He could just make out the form of an old treehouse in one of the trees; they had built it when Sherlock was seven, during summer holiday. He’d pretended it was a pirate ship, with him as its captain, sailing the seas with the help of Mycroft, who was assigned the role of first mate or dastardly enemy, depending on the day.
“What did he say?” John asked at last.
Sherlock smiled faintly at the memory. “Because it reminded him of me.”
~fin~
Author's Note: This is it! I rather enjoyed writing this, despite the (many) bumps I had during the process; it was a nice piece that gave me the chance to ponder Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship, and what would happen if one of them died. Let me know what you think!
Chapter Two Cont
Three Years Earlier
“How is Miss Adler, these days?” Mycroft asked pleasantly from across the kitchen table. Sherlock looked up from his microscope and glared, then focused back on his samples.
“Witness protection. At least, that’s what John says,” Sherlock replied evenly, and switched out the slide. “I wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen her since I unlocked the phone.” It appeared that the frozen cells had a different hue than the room temperature ones; Interesting.
“Miss Adler, according to my intel, was supposed to have died due to a being beheaded in the Middle East.”
“Trying to spare me the gory details? How touching.”
“Imagine my surprise when she turned up a month later in Japan, decidedly not dead.”
Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Why did you save her?”
Sherlock switched out the slide again to determine if the difference in colour was present in other types of cells. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You took a trip to the Middle East around that time too, didn’t you?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at Mycroft with raised eyebrows. “And you think I...what? Prevented her execution out of a sense of love? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“There is no such thing as coincidence, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied evenly, giving him a shrewd look as he stood and straightened his suit jacket. “The universe is rarely so lazy. I just hope you didn’t create more trouble by letting her live.”
When his phone went off, Sherlock abruptly stopped in the middle of his sentence and stared at the screen. Unknown caller, it informed him, and something in his brain clicked, connecting another piece of the puzzle. Of course he would call. It’s about superiority, what better way to show he’s above me than to taunt me with my failure to find him?
“John,” he began, voice utterly calm. “Call Anthea, have her call Walker. He needs to trace this call.”
“Do you think it’s-”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, interrupting Lestrade’s question (no such thing as coincidence), and reached for the phone, pressing the answer button as he brought it up to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Well hello,” Moran said, sounding delighted. His voice was throaty, husky, no that’s not the word I’m looking for what--
“Are you surprised?”
“About what?” Sherlock returned calmly. “You’ve done quite a bit in these past weeks.”
Moran chuckled darkly. “No, not about that. About my time at the Yard.”
“Not particularly. It fits in with your egotism and need to prove yourself better than others,” Sherlock replied; a look at John told him that Walker hadn’t traced the line yet, so he continued searching for the word to describe Moran’s voice. That’s the key, that’ll tell you who he is, his mind screamed. His eyes fluttered closed, and Sherlock stood in a massive library that he had seen on one of his trips to the Continent.
“You can’t search every book, little brother,” Mycroft’s voice chided from behind him, and Sherlock whirled around at the sound.
“Go away. I locked you, those emotions...you’re not supposed to be here.”
Mycroft came closer, swinging his umbrella. “Do try to be mature, Sherlock. You need my help.”
“You’re dead!” Sherlock yelled.
Mycroft blinked at him, and a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. “Yes, well. Let’s be thankful for memories. Now.” His voice turned dictatorial, reminiscent of all the times he had coached Sherlock on mis-formed deductions as a child, and his back straightened. “Think. Language is so subjective, but it appears that’s all we have to work with. What is the first word that comes to mind for Moran’s voice?”
“Throaty.”
“Why? No, don’t-” Mycroft held up a hand. “Don’t give me feelings, Sherlock. What are the physical ailments that could cause a person’s voice to become lower and more gravelly?”
“Excessive strain on the vocal cords - particularly from yelling - , illness of some kind, aggravation caused by allergies or extreme weather, smoking, Oh.” Sherlock looked to Mycroft eyes wide, memory taking him back to the previous afternoon, on his way to meet Wiggins. The security men, the extras. Two were obvious, suits in the cafe across the street, those are always there. “But I wanted to know where the other ones were, the new ones. There were two I could see, a man at a cafe that had already finished his paper, and a smoker. But that wasn’t a member of your team, was it? Moran is the smoker.”
It was so simple now; the man’s face was clear to see in the memory, his features being taken in as habit borne from having a brother that paid people to follow you around.
“So glad you’ve managed to observe,” Mycroft said with a wry twist of his lips, and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Sherlock called, and Mycroft paused, looked back.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I didn’t say it before,” Sherlock argued.
“And you shouldn’t say it now,” Mycroft snapped, then sighed and pursed his lips. “Memory, no matter how useful, is not the same as reality, Sherlock. Go,” he gestured with his umbrella. “Catch Moran. Leave the emotions for later.” And with that, Mycroft left, and Sherlock opened his eyes with a gasp.
“...it was so touching, to see you over his body, trying to stop his death. I really think-”
“Shut. up,” Sherlock growled, standing. “Do you think that I can’t find you? Do you think you're really that good?”
“Your brother-”
“My brother didn’t know the things I know about you, Sebastian Moran. And trust me, I know you, down to the very core of your mind,” Sherlock spat back. “And I am nothing if not determined; hide wherever you want, but I will find you. There’s nothing you can do.”
“You’re insane,” Moran tried valiantly, but Sherlock could hear the tremor in his voice. “A psychopath.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research,” Sherlock said coldly, then hung up. “John. Where is he.”
“Bart’s.”
How fitting. “Keep Walker on the line. Tell him to follow Moran through the CCTV, very closely. If I’m right, he’ll be able to keep track of Moran before the virus takes effect,” he instructed, moving toward the door.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade started, and Sherlock caught his eye as he threw on his coat.
“I suggest you stay behind. Not because I don’t appreciate your...gesture. But as an officer of the law-”
“I know. But I’ll be here, when you’re done.”
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. “John, let’s go. A cab can get us there in fifteen minutes,” he barked, then clattered down the stairs, pulling open the ground floor door and looking both ways down the street. A cab was coming up, and Sherlock waved it down as John hurried through the door.
“Bart’s Hospital, as quick as you can.”
“Now look here mate, I was supposed to pick up another--”
“I’ll pay you double,” Sherlock snapped, and got in without another word. “John, status update.”
“Walker says he hasn’t moved.”
“Good.” Sherlock looked out the window. “The more time we have until he starts running, the better. Do you have your…” he trailed off, unwilling to say gun where other people could hear.
John nodded and patted his coat pocket. “Yes. I’m pretty sure Lestrade knows about it now.”
Sherlock blinked. “He always knew. He turned a blind eye to it because he liked you and because you saved my life,” he replied, then turned back to the window. He felt jittery, like he was hitting the top of a cocaine high, fingers twitching and legs shaking with an inability to stay still. The cab was moving quickly in the light early-morning traffic, and it was barely ten minutes before they pulled up in front of Bart’s; Sherlock shoved his door open and got out quickly, hardly pausing to pull out some cash from his wallet and hand it to the cabbie.
“He’s moving north east, probably making for Long Lane,” said John, and Sherlock didn’t answer, just started running, the sound of John’s footfalls slightly behind him spurring him on.
The quickest way to Long Lane is through the Rotunda, then a short run down West Smithfield, it’s likely-
“Sherlock, up ahead-- is that him?”
Sherlock squinted, and barely made out a figure, running toward--
“He’s not going to Long Lane, John! He’s going down Hosier!” Sherlock yelled, and increased his pace, despite the fact that John was starting to fall behind. I have to catch him, there are too many ways for him to disappear around here; he could hear the blood rushing through his ears as he ran, and his lungs started to burn, still not back to full capacity after the puncture in Serbia, but he forced himself to speed up. The figure became more defined, and Sherlock could make out blond hair when Moran passed under a streetlamp. He disappeared around a corner, and Sherlock realised he must have gone on to Smithfield. Go faster, you can’t afford to lose sight of him now-
As he turned the corner, something slammed into his solar plexus, and Sherlock crumpled, gasping and coughing. He must have stopped, decided to confront--a large hand came down and grabbed his collar, tugging him into a narrow alley.
“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Moran said from above him.
“Why not?” Sherlock asked, desperately trying to breathe in air. “You were planning on killing me.”
“Because now it’s so terribly messy,” Moran replied with fake disappointment, and then Sherlock felt the barrel of a gun press against his temple.
“Boring,” Sherlock gritted out.
“What did you say?” Moran questioned, punctuating each word with a jab of the gun. Wait, wait for him to get closer. “Did you just-”
Now. Sherlock flung his head back and heard Moran curse as his skull hit Moran’s face; Sherlock took advantage of the other man’s disorientation and hauled himself off the ground, taking ahold of Moran’s hand where it held his collar and using it as leverage to throw Moran onto the ground. The gun fell out of Moran’s grip and skittered across the ground, but Sherlock kept his attention on Moran, who was staring up at him with a snarl on his face.
“Boring,” Sherlock repeated clearly. “Everything you’ve done, from the beginning, was boring, useless, emotional. You’re a failure.”
“Shut up,” Moran hissed, and tried to roll away, towards the gun; ruthlessly, Sherlock brought his foot down on the vulnerable part of Moran’s leg, the side of his knee cap that was exposed by his movement. An audible crack reached Sherlock’s ears, and Moran screamed in pain. Sherlock spared a moment of thanks that it was barely half two in the morning, and that there weren’t any people around. Stepping away, he picked up the gun, then walked back over to Moran.
“Any last words? No, never mind. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”
Moran’s eyes widened even more in terror and his nails clawed at the ground in an attempt to pull himself up and run; Sherlock pressed down on Moran’s broken leg with his foot, and the man stopped struggling with a whimper.
“You can’t kill me,” Moran argued frantically. “You’re-- you’re a civilian, there are laws-”
“I’m here with the sanction of the British government. And even if I wasn’t, do you think a small thing like laws would stop me?”
“Please,” Moran whispered, and Sherlock was filled with contempt for this man who had played assassin, had killed who-knew how many people without a second thought, but was so afraid of death.
“You murdered my brother,” Sherlock stated coldly, staring down at the other man. “How could you ever think that I would grant you mercy?”
Everything, for a split second, slowed. Sherlock was aware of every detail, the slightly ragged sound of his breathing, the exact shade of the blood leaking from Moran’s nose (must have broken it earlier), the warm and heavy feel of the gun in his hand.
It’s time, his mind whispered. Time to end this.
His arm swung up in an elegant arc, and pointed the gun at Moran; he steadied his breath, then pulled the trigger, a calm caress of the metal. He did not flinch from the booming sound of the gunshot or the large, gaping hole that appeared in Moran’s forehead.
It was silent, after. Sherlock stared down at Moran impassively, lowered the hand holding the gun. There were footsteps running towards him, but Sherlock didn’t turn to face John as he came around the corner.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, breathing heavily.
Sherlock turned his head slightly, pinning John with a stare. “If you are uncomfortable with this, I suggest you leave, John,” he replied emotionlessly, even though the thought of John walking away now made his stomach clench.
“No,” John denied, shaking his head. “I’m not... I don’t blame you for doing that,” he said, nodding toward the body. “I just wish you didn’t have to.”
Sherlock blinked, but didn’t reply.
“It’s sentiment,” John said, answering Sherlock’s unspoken Why? “I know you’re in pain, and I wish you weren’t.”
“Ah.” Sherlock realised his hands were shaking, and the gun clattered to the ground as his fingers surrendered their control. Pain. Pain was an old friend; he’d felt the sharp sting of needles, the sweaty tremors of cocaine withdrawal, the fiery bite of stab wounds and bullets. But this...every beat of his heart ached as his mind assaulted him with every damned feeling he’d locked away after Mycroft had bled out in front of him. His breathing was ragged, and his sight turned blurry; after a moment, Sherlock realised it was because he was crying, hot tracks of tears crawling down his cheeks as he shook, overwhelmed by memories of Mycroft, Mycroft’s blood, Mycroft teaching me how to catch butterflies for observation, Mycroft leaving for uni, Mycroft’s attempt to disguise his look of approval when I solved my first major case, and how, how can such a small word as pain be used to describe this?
After a long moment of silence, John gently tugged on Sherlock’s wrist. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”
Home. The word awakened a gaping hole of exhaustion in Sherlock’s chest, and he nodded wearily. “I have to call Anthea; she’ll take care of Moran.”
“Fine. But do it later,” John replied, and Sherlock let the pull on his wrist lead him out of the alley, still overwhelmed by emotion and fatigue. At some point, John’s hand captured his own, and Sherlock allowed the warm touch to anchor him in the city of the present, instead of getting lost in the halls of his Mind Palace, overrun by the ghosts of the past.
Two Weeks Later
Sherlock escaped from the dinner table with a murmured word, leaving his napkin beside his plate and ignoring John’s worried look. He just needed to be somewhere else, away from the heat and people in the dining room. His parents had insisted upon hosting dinner after the funeral, but the atmosphere in the room had been too cloying (too grieving) to stay for long.
Sherlock wondered towards the back of the house, until he couldn’t hear muffled voices anymore, and slipped into a rarely-used room; a grand piano stood in the middle, and Sherlock sat on the bench, running his fingers over the dusty keys in contemplation.
Mycroft had been the only one in their family that played; Sherlock had always been more interested in the violin, and neither of their parents possessed musical talent beyond humming along to the radio. Sherlock wondered why they’d kept it after Mycroft moved out, when it was unlikely to be used again, then answered his own question: Sentiment.
Shaking his head, Sherlock dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes along with a lighter, taking one out before putting the carton away and flicking the lighter open. The flame danced as he held it to the end of the fag, and the first drag made something in Sherlock’s chest decompress just enough to take another breath. Mummy hated the smell, would surely complain about it later, but the familiar taste of smoke on his tongue was too satisfying for him to care.
There was a soft knock on the door, and then it opened just enough for John’s head to peek inside the room. “You okay?”
Sherlock took another drag off the cigarette and let it out, watching the smoke curl out from his mouth. “Fine. Just needed a moment.”
John nodded and came in, shutting the door behind him. “Do you play?” he asked, gesturing at the piano.
“Mycroft did.”
“Oh, I’m-”
“There was one piece,” Sherlock said, “when I was young, that he would play constantly. I asked him once, why he played it so often.”
John was quiet, and Sherlock continued to smoke his cigarette, looking out the window at the yard, and the woods that lay beyond. He could just make out the form of an old treehouse in one of the trees; they had built it when Sherlock was seven, during summer holiday. He’d pretended it was a pirate ship, with him as its captain, sailing the seas with the help of Mycroft, who was assigned the role of first mate or dastardly enemy, depending on the day.
“What did he say?” John asked at last.
Sherlock smiled faintly at the memory. “Because it reminded him of me.”
~fin~