As soon as he'd identified the body, Sherlock excused himself from the room. He wasn't sure where he'd go, but was infinitely glad it was raining outside, Perfect.
It was stupid, but he needed to hide. Far away.
Sherlock hadn't done it since he was a boy, but then again, he hadn't needed to cry since his twelfth birthday, when Mycroft told him that pirates didn't exist anymore. Eventually he'd proved him wrong, of course. But by then Sherlock was in his twenties, and far past the point of daydreaming about sailing the high seas.
Today, however, he couldn't hold it back. At forty-five, he shouldn't be running from his problems like this, but now that his older brother had passed on, he didn't have proper motivation for "acting like a grown up."
Guilt. Sherlock is fascinated by this new feeling, I'm sure he knew… he must've… I never said I loved him, but we're brothers… it should've been obvious… but his conscience couldn't be eased, the knowledge that he hadn't even spoken to Mycroft in five years weighing as heavily as his brother did in his younger days.
Scrambling up a tree in a field somewhere, to get out of most of the downpour, Sherlock weeps, slowly getting worse as he remembers all of the terrible things he did to his brother. There was that one time I stole his security ledger and made him tell his bosses that he'd forgotten it at home… made him look like a right idiot… all because he didn't want to get me in trouble by telling the truth. And then the time I replaced the sugar with salt… or the time I used his credit card to buy a ton of questionable items that he had to explain to a very suspicious bank representative…
He remembers all the nice things his brother did for him. Never let me go to jail, even when I deserved it. Forced me to get clean, even if I didn't want it at the time. Read me bedtime stories when we were children. Taught me everything he knew about deduction. Helped me gain reputation as a detective. Helped me survive jumping off a building…
And, strangely, all the people that Sherlock had lost that he never let know he loved them as well. Redbeard, mom, dad, ***, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft… there's a name he specifically omits, but his mind doesn't let him forget, It's all my fault. I could've saved you, too. And now I'm alone. No one else at my level…
Suddenly, he feels pressure on his shoulder. A hand. He doesn't react, but then a blur of color loomed in his peripheral vision.
"Thought you could use a friend." Moriarty's lilting voice is gentle, empathetic. Soft…
"You're dead." Sherlock announces coldly.
Shrugging, Jim doesn't give much thought to his reply, "You needed me more."
The perch on the branches together in silence, letting the drops cascade over them.
"Aren't you worried about your fancy clothes?" Sherlock notes Jim looks exactly as he did a decade ago, if not a bit tired. Westwood really suits you.
Jim smirks, "It's just water."
Not a drop touches him.