Chapter Text
Snow had been falling incessantly for the past three days, silently covering London’s rooftops with a thick, candid blanket. It was early, and the cemetery was quiet. A lonely bird was singing, perched on the branch of a tall cypress, laboriously shaking the snowflakes off its feathers.
The gravestones were covered with a heavy layer of snow, new flakes swirling in the wind before idly settling on the top. The sight might have been beautiful, if lit by the cold winter sun, with the snow twinkling in the light, reflecting the pale rays that dared cut through the clouds.
That was, however, not the case. London hadn’t seen the sun in days, safely buried under the gelid mantle, the wind continuously whipping the trees, the thundering sky restlessly gushing snow.
It was still snowing in the cemetery, but it was quieter. It wasn’t a storm, not quite. The flakes were falling steadily, yet silently, almost hesitantly, not wanting to break the forenoon stillness. The wind was not howling, and a single bird was singing.
Sherlock’s boots made no sound as he walked through the wrought-iron gates, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of snow covering the cobblestone path. He shivered a little, hugging himself tighter in his coat, burying his nose in his blue scarf as a solitary gust of wind burst through the open gates, their creaking echoing in the empty graveyard.
Sherlock clenched his hand around the handle of his violin case, privately wishing he’d accepted John’s offer to take his gloves with him. John had also offered to come, but he had politely refused. It was something he ought to do alone. He had postponed the visit long enough.
A year and one day, Sherlock reminded himself as he kept walking, his heavy steps sinking in the soft, freshly fallen snow. It had felt like a lifetime.
A couple minutes later, he stopped his track, standing a few feet away from the headstone. Sherlock’s throat tightened as he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He regarded it carefully, uncertain of what to do. People usually visited tombs to embellish them, clean them, or so he’d been told. He felt strangely foreign to the place. He stood there, in the snow, not really knowing how to proceed.
The wasn’t much to do with the gravestone. It was tidy, yet completely bare. No flowers, as requested. The dark grey marble was polished, covered in snow, the base barely visible from under the thick, white layer. Sherlock took one tentative step closer, clearing his throat as if announcing his presence. Silly, really, since he was the only one there. He sighed, summoning the courage to take another step. The wrapped gift in the breast pocket of his coat felt impossibly heavy.
He stood there, unmoving, as he contemplated the option of turning back and leaving the cemetery. He let himself wonder, briefly closing his eyes, sparing himself the sight of the tombstone for one, blissful moment.
Then, he opened them again, his gaze immediately drifting to the dates elegantly engraved on the marble.
26 February 1975 – 25 February 2018
He didn’t need to glance at his phone to know what day it was. He had been staring at the calendar in Baker Street for hours the previous night, ever since the clock had stricken midnight.
26 February 2019. A year and one day.
Sherlock ignored the way his eyes stung as he read the familiar name, blinking the tears away, refusing to let them fall. The refined cursive calligraphy cruelly stared back at him.
Mycroft Holmes.
------------------------------
25 February 2018
“John, whose terrible idea it was to purchase a new television for Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock complained, groaning as the fake laugh tracks from God knows what sitcom the landlady was watching erupted from downstairs.
John, who was peacefully reading a book on his chair, didn’t give any indication of having heard him at all. Ignoring the detective’s question, he shifted to sit in a more comfortable position, utterly unbothered by the noise coming from the stairs.
“John!”
“I believe it was your idea, Sherlock,” the other man replied, still not looking up from his book.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, gesture which went once again unnoticed by John. “Well, it was a terrible idea,” he muttered, throwing his head back as he let himself fall on the chair in front of his flatmate.
“You could always close the door,” John suggested, turning the page.
Sherlock replied with some noncommittal noise. “I can’t concentrate!” he lamented, grumbling loudly as he sat up, leaning forward. He clasped his hands on his knees, then rubbed them together, looking around. “It’s impossible to think!”
“What would you even think about? We don’t have a case, you can just relax,” John pointed out, eyes glued to the story.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow, staring at the book. “What are you even reading?”
John sighed, flipping another page. “The Fellowship of the Ring. I watched the movie last week and I liked it, so now I’m read–”
“Boring,” the detective interrupted, bouncing off the chair and heading for the kitchen.
“It’s really not,” John retorted without any real heat, continuing his reading and completely ignoring Sherlock’s restless pacing.
“I’m so bored John, I want to think of something interesting but Mrs. Hudson stupid television won’t stop disturbing and I–”
The doorbell rang, cutting him off. “Client!” he exclaimed, dashing into the living room, whatever he was about to say long forgotten. To his great joy, John’s attention was focused on something other than his Fellowship of… what was it? Fellowship of the Bracelet? Unimportant.
The shorter man had stood up as well, his book neatly placed on the armrest, finally closed. “Were we waiting for someone?” he asked, frowning as he tried to remember any appointment.
Sherlock shook his head. “No, but that’s even better! It’s always interesting to have unexpected–”
Then, he fell silent. The noise coming from Mrs. Hudson’s television were drowned out by the clicking sound of someone climbing the stairs in heels. The main problem with that was, Sherlock recognised the cadence of the pace, the precise and yet swift stride.
“What?” John inquired, clearly perplexed by Sherlock’s sudden mood swing. “What is it?”
Sherlock sighed, enthusiasm draining from his body, his shoulder deflating like loosely tied balloon. “I know who’s coming,” he answered, his voice clipped with annoyance. “And I likely know why she’s here. And I’m not interested.”
“She?” the other man repeated, evidently not following Sherlock’s deductions. “Who’s–”
In that moment, Anthea briskly walked into the living room, holding her ever-present BlackBerry in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“No,” Sherlock said, not even bothering to greet her. He turned around, but John grabbed his arm as he tried to leave the room, keeping him there.
“You haven’t even heard her,” he tried to reason, while simultaneously flashing the PA a welcoming smile.
Sherlock huffed, breaking free from John’s hold. “I don’t need to. It has likely to do with my brother, and I really don’t wish to hear whatever he might require my assistance with.”
He spun around, facing Anthea, opening his mouth to tell her to go away and send Mycroft his kindest regards, when something about her demeanour stopped him.
At first glance, there was nothing wrong with the woman’s appearance. Nothing out of the ordinary, everything in place, from the tailored trousers, to the dark pink lipstick, to the meticulously brushed hair. It was something in her eyes, that made Sherlock go quiet.
Her hands weren’t shaking, her mouth wasn’t trembling, her face was exceptionally firm, her shoulders squared. She was the very picture of composure, except for the faint glisten in her eyes.
Anthea had been crying, or was trying very hard not to.
There were very few plausible reasons why she might be so distressed. And there was only one that would explain her presence in Baker Street.
“Where is Mycroft?” Sherlock found himself asking, ignoring John’s confused look.
Anthea swallowed, lips pressed together. “As you know, Mr. Holmes left the country for a diplomatic meeting three days ago.”
Sherlock nodded, because his brother had told him that.
“I’ll be away for a few days,” Mycroft informed him one evening, showing up once again unannounced at his flat. “I should be back for Sunday.”
“Mh,” Sherlock answered, only half-listening as he pretended to read the newspaper.
Mycroft sighed, pinching his nose as he leaned on his umbrella. He seemed tired. Not that Sherlock cared. “I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me, next Thursday.”
“And why would I ever agree to that?”
His brother rolled his eyes, his patience running thin. “Sherlock, I know you remember what day Monday is. I would like to celebrate with you, but I have urgent matters to attend, and Thursday happens to be the first available date. I am offering you to spend the evening together, as I would also like to discuss some… important topics with you.”
Sherlock hummed again, still not looking up from his newspaper. “And I am declining your offer, as appealing as it sounds. I have more important things to do.”
Mycroft scoffed. “Such as?”
Only then, Sherlock lowered the paper, flashing his brother a dazzling smile as he tilted his head. “Absolutely nothing. But I won’t have dinner with you, Mycroft. Honestly, it’s boring to have dinner with people. If you wish to discuss something with me, you can always come here. Or don’t, I don’t really care either way.”
He paused, studying his brother for a moment. He had dark circles under his eyes. Mycroft always looked tired, but those hadn’t been there, last time he’d seen him.
“I’ll call you,” he added, his voice quieter. Mycroft’s brow shot up to his forehead, clearly surprised by the promise. “Or I’ll text you happy birthday, more likely. I do remember what day Monday is.”
His brother regarded him for a moment, an emotion he could not decipher flashing in his eyes, before disappearing behind the usual aloof façade. “Very well,” he said eventually, offering Sherlock a small smile as he walked to the door. “I will hear from you next week, then.”
Sherlock nodded, frowning as he watched Mycroft turn around.
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”
After that, he stepped out of the living room, slowly starting to go down the stairs.
“Don’t eat too much cake!” Sherlock yelled, grinning to himself as he heard the door slam with a little more force than necessary.
“Is he back?” he inquired, trying his best to ignore the anxiety pooling in his stomach. Something was wrong, that much he could tell. He still couldn’t figure out what.
Anthea cleared her throat, clutching the briefcase a little tighter. “He was due to come back this morning at seven thirty, but his flight never arrived. I tried to contact him, unsuccessfully.” She paused, blinking a couple times. Her voice was impressively steady, but she couldn’t help the moisture gathering behind her eyelashes.
“Around five in the afternoon, we received a video sent from an unknown, untraceable server. We have…” And then, to Sherlock’s utter dread, her voice cracked.
When she recomposed herself, her voice was firm, but quiet. Soft, almost. Sherlock had never heard Anthea talk like that. Until that very moment, he wasn’t quite sure she could. The woman locked eyes with him, offering her best impression of a sympathetic smile.
“We have reason to believe that Mr. Holmes is dead.”
And Sherlock wasn’t thinking.
As far as he had recollection of, he had always been relentlessly thinking. He had never been able to shut his own brain down, never been able to make it quiet, to make it stop. Not without the drugs, at least. Meeting John, solving cases for Lestrade, all that had certainly helped. But it had never really made it go away. The thinking even when there was nothing to think about, the incessant turning of the so-called metaphorical gears, it had never stopped.
Never, until that moment.
Sherlock’s brain was quiet. Silent, like the padded sound of a radio whose signal has dropped out. He couldn’t hear Mrs. Hudson television anymore. He saw John mouthing something to him, but he couldn’t make out the words.
There was only one sentence that kept playing on repeat, monopolising his thoughts, deafeningly ringing in his head like the siren of an ambulance darting through the empty streets of a ghost city.
“We have reason to believe that Mr. Holmes is dead.”
No. No, they had to be wrong. It had to be a mistake. It simply couldn’t be, could it? There had to be another possible explanation.
There had to.
“How?” John chocked out, visibly shaken, his eyes nervously flitting between Anthea and Sherlock.
Anthea’s face crumbled a little, her lower lip trembling imperceptibly. She bit the inside of her cheek, taking a measured breath before proceeding to explain.
“During our last interaction with Mr. Holmes, he confirmed us that the meeting had gone as well as expected and that he was about to return to his hotel, then to the airport. The vehicle he was in, however, was intercepted by what we believe to be mercenaries hired from an unknown terroristic cell.”
She paused, clenching her jaw, swallowing thickly as she searched for the right words. “Everybody on board was killed, except for Mr. Holmes. From what we gathered, they tried to extract information from him.”
“Jesus,” John whispered, sounding almost as horrified as Sherlock was feeling. He didn’t speak, though. His throat was too dry.
“When it became clear that he wouldn’t give anything up, they executed him.”
Sherlock’s breath caught.
“Shot him in the head from behind. They send us a video, probably as a warning.” Anthea paused, lowering her gaze to the floor.
“They executed him.”
They have to be wrong, Sherlock found himself distantly thinking. His own thoughts felt surreal, so far away, like a scream heard underwater. They have to be wrong, they have to be wrong, they have to be–
“There is an ongoing investigation on who could have known about Mr. Holmes’ real role in the government, as he simply is – was,” Anthea corrected herself, blinking fast as she continued speaking, “listed as a minor employee in the Department of Transport on every official record.”
“You’re saying there is a mole working for the terrorists?” John inquired, his eyes still glued on Sherlock’s face, searching for any expression, reaction, anything.
Sherlock still hadn’t moved. He still hadn’t talked.
But John’s words had reminded him of something.
“I would also like to discuss some… important topics with you.”
Oh.
Sherlock’s eyes widened, causing John to frown.
Oh, of course.
“Sherlock?” the shorter man softly called him, a medley of concern and curiosity swimming in his gaze as he regarded him quizzically.
Of course, it was brilliant.
“…contacted your parents, they wish to speak to you–” Anthea was saying, but Sherlock was only half-listening to the PA’s words.
“Brilliant,” he murmured to himself, not really paying any attention to the other two people in the room. “Of course he did, it’s so obvious. Absolutely brilliant!”
Anthea interrupted her speech, shooting him a puzzled look. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, he’s brilliant! Of course he did it!” Sherlock repeated again, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Come on, can’t you see?” he asked, turning to John, who was staring at him as if he’d just lost his mind. “Can’t you see, John? Can’t any of you see?!”
“See what?” the other man questioned, his brown knitted with worry as he exchanged a perplexed look with Anthea.
“He can’t be dead,” Sherlock stated, laughing at his own statement, finding the idea alone incredibly amusing. “It’s absurd, he simply cannot be. It’s Mycroft we’re talking about. Mycroft.”
“Sir,” the PA tried to interject, but she was once again cut off by Sherlock, who was now pacing around the living room, hands buried in his pockets as he chuckled to himself.
“Tell my parents I don’t wish to speak to them. Even better, tell them not to contact me in any way. What I want to do, is to watch the video.”
“Sherlock, I really don’t think–” John began, only to be silenced by a wave of the detective’s hand.
“Show me the video, I want to see how he did it,” he ordered, gesturing Anthea to give him her briefcase. “Can’t you see?” he pressed, after the woman didn’t show any sign of complying. “It’s so obvious, so elementary. Mycroft knew there was a mole, he suspected it, probably he even knew about the terrorist cell, so he faked his own death before someone could kill him for real, just like a did with Moriarty. He pulled a Lazarus. I need to know how he did it.”
“I really don’t think it’s advisable to–”
“You have watched it, haven’t you?”
Anthea gave him a small nod. Sherlock stretched one hand towards her, willing his fingers not to tremble. “I need to examine it, as well. There is something, I’m sure there is. There must be.”
Reluctantly, Athea handed him the briefcase, motioning for the two men to sit on the chairs. She took her seat next to Sherlock, who had already opened the computer on his legs. The woman leaned forward to insert the password, biting the inside of her cheek. “It’s disturbing,” she warned him, clearing her throat as she pointed at him the file in question.
Sherlock hummed, minding her little attention. “I’m sure it’s supposed to be.”
“Sherlock,” John tried again, anxiously looking at his fingers hovering above the play button.
The detective ignored him and started the video without much preamble.
The room fell deadly silent as the images appeared on the screen, the audio muffled and distorted. The quality wasn’t the best, the whole thing had probably been recorded with a very old, very obsolete camera.
The focus of the video, however, was clearly visible at the centre of the frame.
Forced to his knees on the filthy pavement of a basement, with his usually immaculate suit covered in dust, grime and dried blood, was Mycroft.
Sherlock held his breath as he took in the sight of his brother.
The frames were blurred, but the camera was close enough that he could still make out the bruises on his face, shades of yellow, green and purple colouring every visible inch of his skin. His left eye was swollen, his nose likely broken, blood dripping from his chin and pooling in crimson puddles on the floor beneath him. His hands were tied in front of him with a thick rope and he was holding a sheet of paper. Likely a letter given him by his captors to read.
His brother’s eyes were unfocused, struggling to stay open, his shoulders trembling from the effort to keep himself upright. Sherlock felt suddenly nauseous. He forced himself to swallow the bile in his throat, fighting the urge to retch. He could taste the vomit in his mouth.
There was no way Mycroft could’ve faked those injuries.
Sherlock felt sick.
There was only one captor in the frame with him, his face covered with a dark balaclava. He was holding a gun with one hand, pointing it at the back of his brother’s head, the other hand tightly gripping his hair, pulling it and forcing him to face the camera.
Mycroft was reading whatever there was written on the letter, stumbling around the words, misspelling some of them as he paused to cough, spitting blood. Sherlock felt John’s hand on his shoulders, gently squeezing it. He didn’t react. He just kept staring at the screen.
He wasn’t listening what Mycroft was saying, he couldn’t focus on the meaning of the sentences. He could only stare as his brother folded on himself, his body convulsing with another fit of coughs. He let the paper slip from his hand, curling onto himself as the captor kicked him in the stomach with his boot. Once, then twice, then again, and again, and again, until Mycroft’s limp form lay on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. The mercenary clutched his hair again, forcing him upright, then cocked the gun.
Mycroft’s face was covered with dirt, disfigured behind recognition. He didn’t look at the camera. He didn’t move. Didn’t even tremble.
The captor pulled the trigger, blowing his brother’s head.
And Sherlock watched. He stared, as blood splattered on the camera, as Mycroft’s dead body hit the ground, unmoving, the dark stain spreading around from the gushing wound on his head.
Sherlock didn’t move. He didn’t scream, didn’t cry. He didn’t do anything.
The hand John had rested on his shoulder was shaking badly, but he hadn’t otherwise made a sound, waiting for Sherlock’s reaction.
Sherlock rewound the video, watching once again as his brother crumpled to the floor, as the captor forced him up, shooting him. He watched his body strike the ground. He didn’t blink.
He rewound it again. Mycroft coughing. Mycroft falling. Mycroft being kicked. Mycroft being shot.
Mycroft’s dead body lying in his own blood.
He rewound it again.
And again.
And again.
“Sherlock,” John softly called his name, leaning forward to gently shut the computer close. “I think that’s enough.”
“No,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes still glued to the point where the video had been playing just a second prior. “No, there is something I’ve missed. There has to be a detail, a clue, something–”
“Sherlock,” John implored, hesitantly wrapping both Sherlock’s hands in his, holding them as gently as possible. “Please, stop doing this to yourself. There’s no need to watch that again.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he insisted, hating how his voice was beginning to crack the longer he spoke. “He faked it, I know he did. I don’t know how, but I know– he had to–”
He didn’t have the time. He couldn’t have escaped, he didn’t have enough time.
“I’m sorry,” Anthea murmured, her hands tightly clasped together on her lap, her expression uncharacteristically open. There were tears glistening in her eyes. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look at her any longer.
She cleared her throat, silently standing up and collecting her computer, safely tucking it back inside her briefcase. “I will be in contact with you. You may call me for whatever you need, I promise I will do my best to assist you.”
Anthea paused, standing awkwardly in front of them. John was still holding Sherlock’s hands. The detective hadn’t moved an inch.
“I’ve already arranged the funeral,” the PA added, her voice sounding genuinely contrite as she informed them. “Unfortunately, we were unable to retrieve Mr. Holmes’ body. They must’ve disposed of it. The casket will be empty.”
Sherlock found himself nodding. He could still hear the thud of his brother’s body hitting the ground. There was no body to bury. There was nothing left of him.
He had missed something. He simply must have.
“The service will be tomorrow at four in the afternoon.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up. “No,” he croaked, his eyes burning with unshed tears. “No, not tomorrow. You can’t have his funeral tomorrow.”
Anthea looked like she was about to cry herself, like she was barely holding it together. “I’m really sorry,” she whispered, sniffing a little as she straightened her blazer. “I will send a car for you–”
“I’m not going,” Sherlock hissed, forcing the air into his lungs, struggling to breathe through his clogged throat.
Nor Anthea nor John tried to argue with him. The woman offered him a sharp nod, before turning on her heels and heading towards the stairs. She paused on the doorframe, her shoulders slumping a fraction.
“For what is worth… I really am sorry, Sherlock.”
With that, Anthea was gone. Sherlock waited until he heard the soft clicking shut of the door, then he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“Sherlock?” John hesitated, concern wrinkling the corner of his eyes as he followed Sherlock’s thumb scrolling through his contacts.
“I’m calling him,” the detective stated, “He’s not dead, John. He’s Mycroft, he can’t be dead.” He found his brother’s number and hit call. “You’ll see,” he added, impatiently pattering his foot on the carpet. “He’ll answer me. Mycroft always answers his phone when I’m calling. He’s never missed a call.”
Sherlock waited for his brother to pick up the phone. He waited as it rang, he waited until the answering machine kicked in.
He lowered the phone, frowning. He called again.
He let it ring, and ring, and ring. He tried to swallow, but his throat was completely closed. Then, the answering machine again.
“Why is he not answering?”
Sherlock pressed call, his hand clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grip. “Come on Mycroft, pick up. Pick up the damn phone.”
“Hello. You’ve reached Mycroft Holmes. I’m currently unable to answer my phone. Please leave your name and a short message. I will recontact–”
Sherlock ended the call. He tried again.
“Please, Mycroft,” he begged, struggling around his fitful breaths. “Come on, answer the phone. Please.”
“Sherlock,” John’s voice gently cut through his mumbling, “I don’t think he will answer.”
“You’re wrong,” Sherlock retorted, his hand shaking as he lowered the phone and pressed call again. “You’re wrong, he’s not dead. He can’t be dead, he’s Mycroft. He can’t be dead, John.”
One of John’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close. Sherlock sagged against him, still holding onto his phone.
“He can’t be dead,” he repeated, his words laced with desperation. “He’s my brother, John. Mycroft can’t be dead. My brother can’t be dead.”
John didn’t say anything, he simply held him tighter.
My brother can’t be dead.
But Mycroft never answered.
And the phone just kept ringing.