Chapter Text
Shock.
Horror.
Fear.
It ripped right through him all at once, a wave of agony, like a bullet though the stomach. Shredding him inside and out.
It was like seeing through a tunnel. Blurred edges, narrow grey walls closing in, a faint humming sound lingering in the back of his ears-
Everything was numb.
Strange. It was difficult to think, too. Impossible to form a coherent thought. Truly a rare occurrence. For him anyway. Most of the time his mind was difficult to turn off. Even if he wished to.
The world swirled around him and the looming grey walls began to darken to black. He was breathing heavy, but it still felt like he was getting no oxygen. He felt woozy. He was no stranger to hallucinations, but this felt very different. Something in the back of his mind was telling him that he mustn’t fall forward. Thinking right now was like swimming through a muddy collection of half formed thoughts, but he knew he ought to trust the tiny bit of advice his brain was offering him.
So he did the only reasonable thing he could think of. He fell backwards.
. . . . .
Hands were all over him, grabbing and pulling him every which way. They were gentle but firm, gripping under his arm pits and his waist. He could feel nails digging into his skin, even through his waistcoat. He is knees touched the ground as the hands lowered him carefully. His head jerked awkwardly, lolling at the sudden movements. He supposed those hands were what had prevented his head from slamming into the ground when the darkness enveloped him. The world tipped again as the hands laid him all the way down, head resting in the soft dirt.
He blinked sluggishly, eyelids fluttering as he struggled to focus. There were tears on his cheeks. Why?
Someone’s panicked voice was buzzing in his ear.
“-erlock!” he felt a cool hand touch his forehead. “Breath.” Was that Xiao Wei?
He tried, he really did. But his body refused his commands to exhale. The faces above him were swimming in and out of focus.
Another voice broke through the buzzing. This one sounded irritated. “Did he hurt you?”
Something deep in his stomach jolted.
Ah yes.
That.
Realization washed over him, and all at once everything made sense again. Between the shock of it all, mixed with the blood loss, fatigue, and lack of sleep, he must have briefly taken leave of his senses when- when his father-
Suddenly he remembered how to breathe.
He gasped, a choked sob escaping his lips as everything flooded back into his brain. He took several shaky breaths, his entire body trembling. He heard someone shouting behind him, and more urgent voices calling his name. Sand and dirt sprayed his neck as whoever was running towards him skidded to a halt.
“Hey! Hey.” Mycroft’s face loomed into view as he leaned in close, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
He was safe now. His brother was here. He stared up at his him, trying to focus. The older man had blood encrusted on his temple and his hair was askew, chaotically framing his face. A result of the explosion, no doubt.
He wanted to sit, to move, to ask his brother if he was okay, if mother was okay, but the idea of doing so was just too exhausting. He let his eyes drift away from the sorry sight of Mycroft, and stared listlessly up at the sky, the cheerful blue a mockery of how he felt. He could feel the wet tears on his face, dripping from the corners of his eyes into his hair. His father’s handkerchief felt heavy in his hand, the stickiness of the blood a keen reminder of his failings. For a second he’d thought that maybe he could save him. Maybe justice could be served. Maybe they could be a family again. But his father removed that option. He’d been powerless.
Again.
Mycroft’s hands cupped his face, smearing his cheeks with dirt and tears and blood, and gently forced his head back around. Sherlock blinked slowly, trying to focus, reluctantly meeting his brother’s eyes.
“There you are.” He hated how scared Mycroft sounded, how concerned he was.He hated being a burden to the older man. “There you are.”
He opened his mouth to reassure him, but the only thing that came out was another low sob. The darkness swirled around him again, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it all out.
. . . . .
Mycroft all but threw himself off his horse.
As a man who prided himself in his family, work, and intellect, having them all ripped to shreds in a mere matter of months had left him feeling a bit out of sorts. The robbery, Sherlock’s murder charge, loosing his job, his father’s betrayal, his mother’s escape, his sister still being alive- he’d be foolish not to admit to being a little rattled. It had been an absolute whirlwind that he was still trying to wrap his mind around.
And yet nothing had prepared him to see his little brother get shot. The entire situation had left him feeling like a rug had been yanked out from underneath his feet and he was still trying to find his balance. Nothing could have prepared him to see Sherlock in Moriarty’s arms, bleeding out all over his hands and onto the concrete. The subsequent events would likely be etched into his mind forever.
Somehow the ordeal still wasn’t over.
He’d followed behind the three of them in a blind panic, one or two minutes behind. There hadn’t been a horse readily available, their own left nearly a kilometer behind, and it had taken a regrettable amount of time to locate one and rush off after them. And even after that, he’d had to fight James off to take it. Fortunately, their trail had not been difficult to track and finding them had been easy.
Despite his urgency to follow, apparently he’d still showed up a little bit too late. He’d seen from afar as Sherlock collapsed, Xiao Wei darting in to prevent him from hitting the ground too hard.
Now he was shouting, unable to contain his worry, as he sprinted forward. Oh God, what happened? What had his father done?
Heart thumping wildly in his chest, he made his way as fast as he could to Xiao Wei and skidded to a halt next to Sherlock’s crumpled body. He stumbled the last few steps and fell at his brother’s side, all but pushing the princess aside. Sherlock was flat on his back, eyes glazed and darting around, hands clenching and unclenching in the dirt. His cheeks were pale and wet, breathing ragged and uneven. He was quite the sight.
“Hey! Hey.” He gripped his brother’s shoulder tightly, desperate to comfort him somehow, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
Sherlock barely responded, his eyes drifting away with a distant look. Panic settled deep in his stomach. He reached out and took Sherlock’s face in his hands, forcing his head back around, trying to ground him.
“There you are.” He said as Sherlock’s blue eyes finally met his. “There you are.”
Sherlock blinked at him slowly, weakly, and Mycroft could see tears on his stained cheeks. His mouth opened and shut a couple of times, like he was trying to speak, but nothing but a small gasp came out. Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut again.
He leaned forward, his cheeks still cupped gently in his palm, desperate for a response.
“Hey! Come on, Sherlock!” He hadn’t meant to sound snappish, but the panic was making it difficult. He shook him gently, hoping to blessed heaven that Sherlock would open his eyes again.
Several long seconds passed, and but there was no response. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered under his eyelids, his breath quick and shallow. He might not be fully unconscious yet, but he was certainly very close. Mycroft released him reluctantly and ran a hand over his face and mouth, as if to scrub the panic away.
“What happened?” He could feel Xiao Wei’s presence nearby, her own concern preventing her from straying far. “What-”
“He jumped.” It wasn’t Xiao Wei who answered. Mycroft turned slightly, craning his neck to peer as his sister over his shoulder. His sister. What an insane thought. He’d forgotten all about her.
“He did what?”
“He jumped.” She sounded disinterested, almost bored, “Your brother stopped us from shooting him, and then he jumped.” She was near the cliff edge, peering over. Probably looking for the body. He felt a shiver creep up his spine. He glanced towards the princess.
Xiao Wei sighed, and dropped down to kneel next to him. “Yes. He dragged him.” Her accent was much thicker than usual, laced with an emotion he wasn’t quite able to identify, “Used him as a shield, and then jumped.”
Mycroft closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, trying to regain control of his conflicting emotions. Father was gone. It was done.
He could picture it easily. Father, bleeding and unarmed, cowering miserably, about to be shot in cold blood by his own daughter. Sherlock throwing himself in front- his soft heart and fierce sense of morality preventing him from allowing something like that to happen. Sherlock’s hesitation in the hospital came back to mind. What had he said?
I find it difficult to condemn him to death so readily…
And he’d said that even after Father left him for dead in the tunnels. He should have realized sooner something like this might occur. Nausea rolled in his stomach as he realized that while he and his mother had been so caught up in their own idea of vengeance, they’d forgotten Sherlock’s childlike wonder and admiration for him. While their anger was been fueled by years of hurt and mistrust, Sherlock’s was fueled by the sting of betrayal and a broken heart. Father had taken advantage of his kind soul and used it against him. Manipulative and abusive, even to the very end.
“Can’t see a body.” Beatrice’s voice carried back over to where he was crouched, “I’m going down to check.”
So that was it, then. Instead of his death being at the hands of those who wanted revenge, he had chosen to end it on his own terms. He looked down at Sherlock again.
“Did he h-“
“I don’t think so.” The princess was already leaning over Sherlock and carefully shifting his clothing, and it didn’t take long for Mycroft to realize what she was looking for. As soon as she pulled his jacket aside, his eyes immediately landed on the crimson blood stain.
He joined her, hands trembling, and began trying to undo Sherlock’s buttons on his vest. As they jostled him, something yellow fell out of Sherlock’s hand, and he hastily shoved it into the pocket of his trousers. They pulled his jacket apart somewhat unceremoniously, several of the buttons popping off and bouncing into the sand. As soon as he got the first layer open, he was greeted by the sent of sharp copper. With Xiao Wei’s help, they peeled apart the final layer.
He nearly gagged.
The bandage was hanging loose, blood seeping through the shredded strips. It was messy and unpleasant, far more gruesome than the original wound had been. How much of this was due to his brother being a stubborn git who hadn’t told them how badly he was hurting, or injuries from recent events, he had no idea.
“Oh…” he breathed, the earlier fear bubbling back up again, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Were the others far behind?” Xiao Wei asked, “We have… medicine. With the horses.”
He shook his head wordlessly. He didn’t know. It wasn’t difficult to assume they’d eventually gather their things and follow them, but how far away they were, or even if any of them had sustained injuries of their own, he didn’t know. They would come eventually, but they couldn’t rely on them quite yet.
He began to gently remove the worthless bandages, pulling them away as cautiously as possible. He was by no means a doctor, or educated in that way by any means, but he did know that if he rushed, any clots could be ripped away and the bleeding might resume. His brother was so pale, so ashen, he didn’t think he could afford to loose any more of the precious liquid. At least he wasn’t feverish, his skin cool and dry to the touch.
The wraps came away and he deposited them unceremoniously in the dirt behind him. The bullet wound was red and swollen and the stitches that hadn’t popped were stretched and angry looking. There was grime and ash coating the wound, sticking to the rough edges.
It looked like the beginning of an infection, if the pus and stench was any accurate indication, but there was also new bruising around the wound as well. Clearly the trauma from being blown back after the explosion made it worse.
“Do you have any water?”
He looked up. “I believe so. Hanging on the saddle, if you would be so kind.”
She gave him a terse nod and rose, leaving quickly.
Mycroft took a deep breath, and crossed his legs in front of him, rubbing his hand over his face and across his forehead. Blood and dust came away on his palm, and he wiped it on his pants, cringing slightly. They would all be needing new suits after this, he thought distantly. Sherlock especially. In the last month he’d managed to dirty every last one of his jackets and shred holes in all his trousers. Mrs. Crowley would have quite the task when they all finally retired to the Appleton Estate. Had he been this destructive at 20? He didn’t think so. But he supposed he also hadn’t been put in such ludicrous situations either. Sherlock seemed to collect odd adventures and colleagues like candy. It was becoming absurd.
A rustle of fabric and quiet steps pulled him from his thoughts, as Xiao Wei crouched next to him again. “Here.” The Chinese princess pressed the flask in his hand, the cork already unstopped. “There were also rags in the saddle bag.”
He murmured quiet thanks, accepting the flask without hesitation. He poured the contents over the exposed wound, flushing some of the blood and dirt away. While he didn’t necessarily want to cause his little brother any pain, part of him was disappointed when Sherlock remained still.
“Why is he out?”
“It’s been-“ Xiao Wei hesitated briefly, thinking hard, “-a long day. I think his body just had enough.” Mycroft sighed, irritated, but was overall content with the answer. His condition didn’t really need any more explanation than that.
After wetting the wound and rinsing it best he could, he moved aside to let her to pat it down with the rag. He hoped it was clean. She wiped the blood away from the edges, using corner of the rag to remove some of the grit. She moved with deft, confident movements that spoke to it not being her first time in such a predicament. The irony of it being the woman who shot him that was so tending to him so gently now was not lost on him. When she was done, she leaned back and tossed the rag on the pile of bandages behind her. The injury looked much improved.
“Best I can do. Help me get him up?”
“Should we not wait?”
She shrugged, wiping her bloodied hands on her frock. “Maybe. But we should get further away from the cliff...” She didn’t finish, looking sad, and he didn’t need her to.
“Okay. Okay.” He said briskly, slapping his hands on his knees firmly before rising. They’d finish their work on the wound later, when the had a better kit. He didn’t bother refashioning his garments either, content to let his jacket hang open. For now, maybe some fresh air would do the wound some good but they would need to be extra cautions not to jostle or bump it. He stood up tall, shrugging his shoulders and taking several steps away, stretching his back. Now that some of the adrenaline had worn off, he could feel the ache and sting of his own bruises and small injures he’d acquired over the past few days. Nothing a nice warm bath and a bottle of cider couldn’t fix.
“Ready?”
He swallowed once, brows knit together as he focused, and bent down next to Sherlock, gripping him underneath the armpits on the opposite side of the princess. They hauled him up together, dragging him away from the cliff and back towards the trees and winding road. He remained blessedly still, limp as a doll as they awkwardly maneuvered him to where they’d abandoned the horses.
“Here, here,” He panted, as they reached the area where the path dropped off slightly into an open clearing, “Brilliant. This will do.”
He pulled Sherlock’s arm over his head, bending his knees and gently lowering him back to the ground. Once he was down, he pulled his jacket and blazer apart again, preventing anything from potentialy brushing up against the wound. After helping settle Sherlock down, Xiao Wei moved away, back towards the path. Presumably to go retrieve the horses.
It was a good choice, he thought, looking around. They weren’t so far from the road that the others would miss them when they finally caught up, and there was water and shade nearby. They could set up camp here, and head back to Constantinople when they were good and ready. With the weapon dismantled and Father dead, there would be less urgency to get back. They would be able to take their time, perhaps giving the injured members of their party some time to rest.
He pulled off his blazer and began to fold it. He could use it as a pillow for Sherlock while he waited for the others to join with their supplies. The twisting roots and dust made lying on the ground quite miserable, the least he could do right now was make Sherlock a little more comfortable. Perhaps he could also-
A pained groan dragged him from his thoughts.
He started.
Sherlock’s eyes were cracked open, slits of bright blue visible through dark eyelashes. He scrambled forward, leaning over him.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock’s eyes blinked closed, but when they opened again, they were a bit wider. He swallowed heavily, the muscles in his neck flexing. He was still a bit ashen, but there was more color to his cheeks than there’s been before. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing but a rasp came out.
“Hey, hey. Take your time.”
Sherlock swallowed slowly again, likely trying to clear his throat. Water would help. Mycroft felt around on the ground until his hands landed on the flask they’d brought with them. He popped the top off a second time and raised it to his brother’s lips, careful to only let a drop or two trickle out. Drinking while laying down was difficult, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was have him choke.
His brother, clever man that he was, drank slowly without even being prompted, just enough to wet his throat. When he finished his eyes were a little clearer, much improved from the cloudy, fixed gaze he’d first seen.
“Mycro-ft” Sherlock’s voice was soft, so soft Mycroft had to lean in a bit to hear, “yo-u- have it?”
“What, Sherlock?” He prompted.
“H- handkerc-hief.” Sherlock rasped, sounding urgent.
Confusion surged through him. Handkerchief? What handkerchief? What was he even talking about? Was the boy delusional?
He must have looked as baffled as he felt because even as exhausted as Sherlock was, he still managed to give him that little irritated expression that showed when he was especially peeved. Sherlock’s eyes traveled down to a lower spot, and Mycroft followed his gaze. A tab of yellow cloth was hanging out of his trouser pocket.
Oh! It was the bloody cloth that dropped from Sherlock’s hands when he fell earlier. He removed it carefully from his pocket, cringing at the wet blood, and placed it in the injured man’s hand. Whatever the importance of the object, he would ask later, when his little brother was more conscious and less beat up. Sherlock’s hand immediately closed tightly around the handkerchief, concealing it from his view. As soon as it was back in his possession, some of the tension left his face and shoulders, and he relaxed back into the dirt.
Now that whatever the bloody hell that had been about was all over, he busied himself with his folded jacket once again. He lifted Sherlock’s head gently, slipping the folded garment under his neck. He hummed softly in thanks.
“Little brother,” he tried to joke, “whatever happened to,” he pitched his tone up a little to mock himself, “not dying in my absence?”
The corners of his brother’s mouth twitched up into a tiny, minuscule smile, and Mycroft felt some of the weight on his chest dissipate at the sight. He slumped back a little, forcing his muscles to relax. He was okay. He’d woken up. Everything would be alright.
“A- apologies,” Sherlock said, “I’m afraid it all finally caught up with me.”
“It appears so.”
True to character, even after his confession of exhaustion, seconds later and the fool was trying to sit up. He pushed up with the palm of his hands, groaning, trying to scoot backwards and into a sitting position.
“What in the bloody hell do you think you are doing?!” Mycroft snapped, pushing him back down, “Give yourself a minute, man!”
Sherlock glared at him but obeyed in the end, ceasing his struggle and permitting himself to be forced back down.
In an attempt to pacify him, he lifted the water to Sherlock’s lips again, and helped him take another deeper, longer drink. After finishing, Sherlock lifted his arm up to his lips and wiped away the excess. As he lowered his arm, his eyebrows pinched together in sudden bewilderment. He lifted his head off the jacket, and peered down the length of his body. He looked quite comical, double chinned and confused.
“Why am I naked?”
He couldn’t quite stifle a laugh. Trust his little brother to get straight to the point.
“You got shot, remember?”
“Hard to forget.” He mumbled, letting his head thump back down to the ground. “Still doesn’t explain what you did to my shirt.”
“You were just about done in, brother mine.” He swallowed heavily, regret on not having checked on him sooner sharp in his mouth. All that time in the mansion with their father, all that time on the road, and he hadn’t bothered to ask, “Your injury- your injury was worsening.”
“Ah.” Sherlock didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the news, “Must be why I was feeling a little ill.”
“Your powers of deduction truly are astounding.” he retorted, “And why didn’t you say anything, brother dear?”
“We were kidnapped, brother dear. And the world was ending. Hardly time for minor inconveniences.”
Mycroft blinked at him incredulously, mouth in a thin line. He certainly hadn’t changed much since childhood. His own health was rarely something he concerned himself with then, say nothing of now. He preferring to plod along until he collapsed. It was that way with many intelligent people Mycroft knew. Sometimes the most brilliant people lacked a bit of practical wisdom. Common sense, Mother would call it. Logically, that meant that Sherlock, probably being the smartest person Mycroft ever met, was lacking common sense in spades. Couple that with his unhinged, rebellious streak, and it wasn’t exactly shocking that he kept landing in prison and getting himself into trouble.
And it was completely clear now all of those qualities were the reason Sherlock had always been Father’s favorite.
Even though they’d rarely seen him after Beatrice’s disappearance, Mycroft was never left guessing who the favorite child was.
Sherlock was a clever mind with an active imagination. For a businessman and a scientist, those qualities were certainly enviable. He was more of a rigid, practical thinker himself, which made him very well suited to the government work his father set for him. He used to wonder why, despite the trouble Sherlock always got into, his father always had a softer spot for the younger man. Wasn’t he the rule follower? The obedient one? An asset to his country and Queen? It felt silly to think about it in retrospect- after the events of the last few days it made quite bit more sense. What use would a criminal mastermind have for the law abiding, loyal son?
He’s scoffed quietly to himself. Father’s affections, here or there, didn’t really matter anyway. Perhaps Mycroft had always sensed the darker side of his father to some degree, because he’d never been jealous of the favoritism. Just relieved. Relived to be in the spotlight less. His father’s expectations and often cruel words used to leave him drowning, but the older Sherlock got, the more the pressure lessened as his younger brother began to show to be the more useful tool. Looking back on it now left him feeling a bit nauseous. He shuttered to think of the manipulation Beatrice had undergone at his father‘s hands. But had Sherlock truly escaped unscathed?
He glanced at Sherlock. The boy was still lying there, quiet, staring straight up at the tree branches above them. He looked exhausted, dirty, pale, worn, his perpetually black eye adding to the effect, but Mycroft knew he was thinking. The gears in his heard were visibly turning. About what, he could only guess.
A thought struck him, and he winced. It truly was like a Greek tragedy. Just like in all the old stories, the fairytales and whatnot, the favored son was with the Father moments before he died. He hated himself, but he couldn’t leave it be. Not after everything that happened. It was his responsibility. Sherlock had been closest to him before his death, and knowing their Father, he would have done or said something before choosing the easy way out. He needed to know now. There was a chance it was urgent, whatever it was.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmmm?” Blue eyes slid tiredly over to look at him.
“Did Father-“ He hesitated, loath to continue, but knowing it was necessary regardless, “Did he say anything, before, you know, before-?”
Sherlock flinched. His eyes hardened, and a strange look crossed his face. It lasted only a split second before his face dropped, every emotion gone. He looked away from Mycroft, resuming his determined vigil of the tree branches. He heard more than saw as his brother swallowed before answering.
“No.”
“Sherlock-“
“He didn’t say anything.”
He hated this. Hated to press further after everything, but something in his gut was telling him that Sherlock wasn’t being quite honest. Something in the way he was hesitating. Guilt burned hot in his chest. Did Sherlock not trust him anymore? His horrified expression that night at the dinner table danced through his mind. It had been so full of disappointment and betrayal that he’d almost crumbled and confessed to his dishonesty there and then.
Ever since, even after revealing his hand, Sherlock seemed colder. Something had changed. Clever banter with Sherlock was always easy. But now it felt strained and awkward. It was his fault, he knew. But life was full of sacrifice, and logically speaking, how Sherlock felt was irrelevant. Even if he didn’t trust him any longer, he needed to know.
“He said something. He wouldn’t have-“ he coughed awkwardly, “done what he did without confiding in you. He is- was too smart for that.”
A muscle was jumping in Sherlock’s jaw as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. It was a heavy moment of silence. “It wasn’t bloody important.”
“So he did!”
“It wasn’t-“
“But he did-“
“Fine! He did!” He spat, “He was trying to hurt me. He always was!”
He knew immediately he’d gone too far, but it was too late to backtrack now. He could deduce now that there was nothing urgent to be concerned about, and if it wasn’t urgent, it was irrelevant. Whatever else it could be didn’t matter now. He would be happy to never think about the whole incident ever again.
But Sherlock wasn’t stopping now-
“He said he knew I always loved him! And then he killed himself! He almost killed me!” He was outright crying now, eyes wide and tears streaming down his cheeks. The brief flash of anger had been completely eradicated, replaced solely with anguish.
“Just for a moment! Just for a moment I thought-“ A half choke half sob cut him off. He was trying to sit again, pushing himself up with one hand while the other was held firmly over his bare abdomen. Mycroft reached out a hand to grab him, but Sherlock knocked him away.
Somehow he managed to get himself upright. He moved forward to help, but once again was shoved away. Sherlock leaned forward, knees to his chest and free hand gripping his hair in fistfuls. He couldn’t do anything but watch as his little brother broke. “I don’t know what to do!” He choked, “She was always in my head! What if I see him too?”
“Who, Sherlock?”
“Beatrice!” Sherlock jerked his head up, staring at Mycroft through his knees, eyes wild, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! It was my fault! It’s my fault she died and it’s my fault she was with that monster!”
He blamed himself for what happened to Beatrice? Who had put that ridiculous notion in his head? All Mycroft could do was stare. This was so far beyond anything he’d ever dealt with. He felt completely lost. He’d never seen him in this state before, this jumble of raw emotion and nonsensical rambling. What this a result of his injury?
“What did you do?”
He hadn’t noticed Beatrice approaching. Sherlock clearly hadn’t either, because he flinched when he caught a glimpse of her. How long had she been there?
Sherlock didn’t answer the question, just stared at their sister wide eyed. Beatrice looked annoyed, one hand on her hip and gun dangling loosely in the other. She was clearly dealing with the death of Father much better than the two of them. She raised an eyebrow and shook her head at him. “What’s your fault, Sherlock?”
Sherlock put his head back in his hand for a moment, trying to scrub away the tears. His other was still pressed tightly over his stomach.
“I thought I was going mad. Like mother.” He whispered, “I saw you Bea, everywhere.”
The confession rang loud in his ears and Mycroft bit his lip to stop from speaking. He knew Sherlock had been troubled by nightmares for much of his young life, but he’d stop speaking of them once he turned 13. Mycroft heard him cry out in the night during the later years on the rare occasions he was home from boarding school, but neither of them ever spoke about it. He’d been busy with his career, doing his best to remove himself from his broken family, and he was certain Sherlock would have been embarrassed to admit it. They’d been dealing silently with their demons as long as he could remember.
His seeing things though, that was new information.
“I always wondered what would have happened if I’d played with you.”
Confusion flickered across her face before it smoothed over. The first emotion he’d seen from her so far.
“Played?”
Sherlock shrugged helplessly. “You were dead, Bea. That day- before Silas sent you off, you asked to play with me.”
So he’d tormented himself too. Mycroft perhaps had felt it in different, less direct ways, but he’d carried regret of that day too. The lingering feeling that he could have done something, looked harder, payed closer attention- he would be lying if he said it didn’t haunt him.
He laughed, a hit of mania in the sound, “I didn’t. And then you were gone.”
The confession was staggering to Mycroft, explained so much about the last few years, but Beatrice only cocked her head at him. In that moment, Mycroft hated her for indifference. Now that he thought about it, she hadn’t run over when Sherlock fell. She’d went to confirm that father was dead first. Father might be gone, but whatever influence he’d had over her was clearly still in effect.
“Seems a tad trivial, brother. It would have all happened regardless.”
Sherlock stared wordlessly at her and Mycroft saw the exact moment he regained control. His lips tightened and he looked away from them both, expression closing off completely. He pulled his hand away from his stomach and looked down. Even from where he was sitting, Mycroft could see that there were small droplets of red on his hand. Sherlock stared at his palm for a split second before hiding them from view and rubbing it off in the grass. Mycroft moved forward instinctively to help, but caught himself and pulled back. He was walking on thin ice.
Beatrice turned to him now, clearly having lost interest in the previous conversation. “I couldn’t find Father’s body. It must have smashed on the rocks and sunk in the water.”
“Ah.” He said, “Well, I guess that’s that.”