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He stares at the body—broken, bloodied, torn and tattered. The head has been smashed open by the impact of the fall, and even now blood continues to ooze out, crimson soaking through the sheets and staining the floor.
Mycroft sighs.
Even until now, he always finds it hard to believe that humans could live for decades on end, not when their bodies were just so… fragile. A bullet, a knife, a blunt object—used in the right place and at the right time, any of them could easily be a weapon of death. Not for the first time, Mycroft wonders just how humans could have this much potential in such weak bodies. If they could be have something much more—
He stops his train of thought there before he can let it go on any further, shaking his head slightly to dislodge it out from him. Mummy would be displeased if she had heard that—and above all else Mycroft had no desire to displease his mother.
Taking a step forward towards the table, Mycroft takes a moment to swing his umbrella once, then twice before he regards the corpse lying before him and speaks. “How much longer are you going to lie down there, Sherlock?”
No response.
Mycroft sighs once more, and takes another step closer so that he can inspect the body of his brother up close. Dark eyes flick across the bloody, broken form of Sherlock, and after a moment Mycroft wrinkles his nose up in a look of disgust as he takes a step back.
“I suppose you still haven’t quite figured everything out if you’re still lying dead like that,” the elder Holmes says, more to himself than to his brother. A third sigh escapes from Mycroft as he starts to move, pacing around the table that holds Sherlock’s brother while he continues to talk.
“A long time ago, there were two brothers who were… very close.” Mycroft twirls his umbrella once, studying its polished wooden handle with a fair amount of attention. “In fact, you could say that they were perhaps the first brothers to have ever existed at all.” He looks up, giving Sherlock another brief glance before he paces around again. “But then, one day, their father brought in something… somebody else, and he asked his children to respect this new creation he brought in. The younger brother, being the favoured one amongst all, rejected this command. He did not wish to pay homage to this new creation.” Mycroft stops for a moment, casting his gaze elsewhere as his speaks his next words much more softly. “And for that, the elder brother had to strike him down and exile him away from home.”
He presumes walking again when he starts on the next part. “A long time later, two human brothers on this world were destined to bring about the end of this world by being the first two brothers. But rather than following what destiny had set for them, they tore up the script and burned the pages. In the end, they managed to lock the first two brothers away and keep their world going.”
“So now,” Mycroft stops again, this time studying his hand. “Our father—mother now, really—tries again. She got us out of that Cage and made us human, placing us into these bodies from young. She wishes for us to understand what we have never been able to all this time.” A wry smile crosses his face here, and his eyes gaze up to his brother. “I think that somehow this time, you are the one who have gotten the better of me. Perhaps I should thank John Watson for that.”
The elder Holmes reaches out now with his right hand, placing his palm on Sherlock’s chest. Mycroft’s entire body starts to glow in a brilliant white, eyes flaring with an unearthly golden gaze—not quite unlike the holy fires of legend.
“She only gave me enough to bring you back, Sherlock,” Mycroft states, as the glow starts to shift, light swirling up his body and concentrating on the palm he had pressed against his brother’s body. The light flares once, briefly, before it sinks into Sherlock’s body. Mycroft watches coolly as his brother’s skin starts to glow, illuminated by the shine that flares through every one of Sherlock’s arteries and veins.
“Now do you understand why I worry so much?” he says, just as the light dies out and Sherlock suddenly sits up, back alive and gasping for air.
Mycroft continues to watch as Sherlock clams down and takes in his surroundings before the younger Holmes notices him, and unlike before this time Mycroft can see the age old familiar flicker of recognition that flares in his brother’s eyes.
“Michael,” Sherlock rasps out dryly.
Mycroft’s only response is to smile back.
“Welcome back, Lucifer.”