The hole was deep, dark and dreadful, equally so the metal object hidden inside. He very well knew that it could and would end his life.
Mycroft maneuvered himself into a comfortable position and placed the barrel of the gun in his mouth. It was cold and smooth and tasted of iron. By now his heart was throbbing in his chest and the ground seemed to do the same. He didn't understand why. A logical man like himself knew that it was only time before one died. Death is inevitable and he was ready to face it, but still his vision blurred and fat tears rolled down his cheeks.
Mycroft had found his brother half dead in an alleyway from an overdose of cocaine. Sherlocks groans made Mycroft shudder.
“Would it kill you to kill me, brother mine?”
Mycroft had called Lestrade in to take care of his younger sibling and swore that he would keep his brother safe no matter the cost.
Sherlock had jumped a week later and his loss broke his heart. Whatever was left of it. Mycroft was ready for his own death, but not of the ones he loved.
Love. What an interesting concept. He swore never to feel it. After all he was a government man and he couldn't compromise his job because he let his feelings cloud his vision. But this was too far.
Sherlock. Had. Died.
Sherlock. Was. Dead.
“Sherlock” the tears came now in full force seizing up his throat so that he almost choked on his brothers name. Placing his finger on the trigger he got ready to die.
For a week now a Mycroft struggled to keep his feelings in check. To stay strong for his mother and father, but mostly for himself. As soon as he was safe in his house he would fall against the door sobbing uncontrollably. As much as Mycroft tried to keep his emotions suppressed, he fell, deep into the pit of grief he had been digging for himself for a while now. It was only a matter of time before he slipped. When he reached the bottom he had no more energy to even try to climb back up. He resorted to suicide. If his brother had died he would go down with him.
He collapsed on the ground shaking. His head was aching painfully and his heart felt worse. For a moment he looked at the gun wondering how it got into his hands. It was a ‘Beretta 92FS’ the same kind that Sherlock used to shoot at his blasted wall. Trying to control his breathing, Mycroft lay on his wooden floor and repositioned the gun. Again his heart rate picked up, but he tightened his grip and pushed the gun further into his mouth.
He hesitated, his finger hovering over the trigger.
“Oh shit Mycroft, don't you dare.”
The voice sounded familiar.
“DON’T YOU PULL THAT BLOODY TRIGGER MYCROFT!!!”
Mycroft choked on air.
“Sherlock.” and he burst into tears. Sherlock grabbed the gun out of his hands and threw it across the room and embraced his brother before he could even get up of the floor. They lay there, arms wrapped tightly around each other.
“Why?” Sherlock whispered.
“It killed me to kill you.”