Work Text:
The first thing Sherlock thinks as Vivian Norbury aims the pistol at him and sets it off is, really, again?, remembering well the pain and fear he felt when Mary shot him ( it hurts, he isn’t used to hurting, John is in danger, John, John, John) . His second thought is something he isn’t even sure what to call.
Shock?
Confusion?
Dread?
A combination of all three?
Before Sherlock can even process the motion, a familiar form jumps in front of him, grunting as it falls to the floor and hits its back against the wall, and after what feels like a millisecond but an eternity at the same time, Sherlock recognizes the form bleeding out on the floor is Mycroft.
“Mycroft!”
“Surprise,” Lady Norbury says, an overconfident, proud smirk on her face. Sherlock is vaguely aware of officers rushing to her to snatch the gun out of her hand and restrain her, but he isn’t paying much attention. None of that mattered anymore. All he can think about is the blood seeping out from Mycroft’s suit, staining his white undershirt a forsaken crimson.
Sherlock finally springs into action, knees half buckling, half voluntarily kneeling down next to his older brother. He finds the location of the wound and begins pushing, ignoring (or trying to ignore) the way Mycroft groans in pain as he does.
“It’s okay,” Sherlock says, hating the way his voice shakes. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Sherlock,-” Lestrade tries, but Sherlock cuts him off. “Call an ambulance, now.” Lestrade does.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft puffs out with a weak breath, causing Sherlock’s attention to whip back around on his brother.
“Shut up, Mycroft,” he says roughly. “Don’t try to talk, you idiot.”
“Sherlock,” he says again, this time clearer.
“What,” Sherlock snaps, pressing harder as more warm, red blood washes over his gloved hands.
“Caring isn’t… an advantage,” Mycroft’s voice trembles, and Sherlock can not believe Mycroft just said that. Right now? Of all moments to say that, he chooses right now .
“Stop it, Mycroft, just stop it,” Sherlock replies, hating the panic seeping into his voice. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Oh, come on, Sherlock… you can do… you can do better than that,” his brother manages a chuckle as he says it.
“Mycroft, I swear to God, if you don’t stop talking I will shoot you myself,” Sherlock says, and Mycroft laughs, blood staining his teeth. Something heavy settles in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. He realizes at this moment, he has never seen his brother bleed. “Mycroft, please.”
“Mary!” Sherlock hears, and he hears John’s familiar footsteps echo as he rushes into the aquarium. Mary reaches for him, pulling him next to her, but John sees the scene happening and stops. “Oh, my god.”
John leans down next to Sherlock, springing into doctor mode and gently, but purposefully moves Sherlock’s hands out of the way. John presses into the wound, and begins inspecting Mycroft’s pulse. Sherlock watches him, trying to push away the sound of his brother’s struggling breaths out of his ears.
Finally, though, John looks at him, sorrow in his eyes and just… shakes his head. Sherlock does it back, not understanding. “What is that,” Sherlock asks. “Why are you shaking your head?”
John’s eyes are filled with sadness. “Sherlock,” is all he says, and his tone of voice is all Sherlock needs to hear, because he knows .
Your brother is dying, is what John’s eyes tell him.
“No,” he says, “No, do something !”
John doesn’t say anything, those same sad eyes looking at him. The doctor looks lost, mouth open like he wants to say something, but doesn’t have the words.
And Sherlock physically feels it. The way the understanding his brother is dying hits him so hard, he wonders if Norbury has shot him too. He looks back at his brother, who in the last few seconds has grown an ashen gray. He is shaking, and blood continues to seep out from John’s hands, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do. He looks back at John for answers, who has none to give.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, blood on his lips. “Sherlock, look at me.” Sherlock does. Mycroft coughs, more blood dribbling down, and Sherlock finally puts one of his hands on his brother’s shoulder (whatever good that does). “Caring is not… an advantage.”
“Stop saying that,” Sherlock whispers. “Stop it.”
“Please remember that,” Mycroft requests.
“You’re the one who jumped in front of a bullet for me.”
Mycroft smiles. “Precisely.”
“Dammit, Mycroft!” Sherlock yells. “Don’t.”
“It’s okay,” Mycroft whispers. “It’s going to be okay.”
Sherlock is stunned into silence, unsure what to say. What do you say? What do you say to the older brother who was a pain in the ass all your life, but still protected you when it mattered most, who loved you so much he would jump in front of a bullet for you? What is he supposed to say? What do you say, what do you do , when the man who protected you his entire life, and even used the entirety of the British Government to make sure you remained safe.
Sherlock thinks back to all the times his brother being the one who dragged him out of drug dens, took him to his home when he had nowhere else, paid for his rehab ( John doesn’t need to know about that ), and then gifted him the most beautiful violin he’s ever owned as a reward to his sobriety.
Mycroft makes a pained noise, and he winces, and Sherlock wishes he could remove that image out of his mind, because this isn’t Mycroft. This is someone else, because Mycroft is always composed, face wiped clean of emotions, difficult to read. But this… this Mycroft is very clearly in pain and… afraid , and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do .
“Hey,” his brother’s voice trembles. “Sherlock, look at me.” Sherlock hasn’t looked away. “Promise me something,” he says, and Sherlock cuts him off.
“No,” he shakes his head, voice firm. “No, we’re not doing this. You’re going to fight this, Mycroft, and then help will be here, and you will get better. You will go back to being the pain in the ass older brother you always have been.”
Mycroft laughs again, but it turns into a coughing fit, which turns into a pained sob. “No more drugs,” he requests, no, he demands . “No more stunts like jumping off Bart’s hospital. No more shooting influential people in the head. No… No more- I can’t… I can’t protect you.”
“Shh,” Sherlock tries to soothe, but it doesn’t feel soothing. He feels like something inside of him is on fire, the flames licking his insides like torture, and he can’t breathe . Much to Sherlock’s dismay, a tear slides down his brother’s cheek, and Sherlock can feel his own welling in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall because caring is not an advantage.
“Please, Sherlock, please promise me.” His brother is begging now, a pale, white hand gripping at Sherlock’s arm.
“Alright,” he responds gently, because he doesn’t know what else he is supposed to say.
Mycroft sobs again. “Promise me, okay?”
“Okay, Mycroft,” he says, nodding his head. “Okay, I promise,” he continues to say this as Mycroft continues spewing requests to please promise before he runs out of breath.
“Hey… J-John,” Mycroft struggles.
“Yeah, mate?” Sherlock doesn’t look at his best friend as his brother talks to him. He can’t move his eyes off his frightened older brother, fear and desperation in his eyes that Sherlock has never seen before.
“I always did like you,” Mycroft trembles, breaths becoming more labored, more slow, and Sherlock can feel the world slow down with them. “Did I ever tell you that?”
He knows for a fact he has never said those words to John, and John knows too, but wonderful, merciful, understanding John looks Mycroft in the eyes and says, “yes, yes you did.”
“I am sorry,” Mycroft tries but fails, and tries again. “I am sorry for… always getting a car for you.”
John chuckles. “It’s okay, mate.”
“Look after him,” he begs John, and Sherlock knows he means him, and this could not be happening .
“I will,” John says.
Mycroft looks back at Sherlock, who still has not shed a single tear. He will not, he will not cry because caring is not an advantage. “You’ll be okay,” Mycroft asks him.
Sherlock doesn’t know what to say; he simply shakes his head, unsure. “I- I don’t… Mycroft, please,” he begs quietly.
“Being your older brother,” he gasps out. “Was the only life… worth… living.”
And then he is limp, completely still, eyes still open staring straight ahead at Sherlock. No… No, not at Sherlock, but through Sherlock. Mycroft can’t look at anything anymore. Mycroft doesn’t see anything anymore. Mycroft is dead .
“Mycroft,” he whispers, he tries , just in case. “Mycroft?”
His brother does not respond, does not react, and Sherlock can’t. His mind is short circuiting, nothing makes any sense, it must be a glitch, a glitch glitch glitch in his mind, because this doesn’t make any sense. Mycroft can’t die, he can’t. It is simply impossible.
But he is dead, you idiot. Look at him. Look at him.
He feels numb. He feels numb and he continues to stare at his brother’s eyes that are no longer looking back at him. He puts a gentle hand on his brother’s cheek, which is stained red slightly near his neck, and Sherlock wipes at it, but it’s already crusty and dry and won’t budge.
Everybody dies. It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?
This is how , Sherlock thinks. This gut wrenching, world ending feeling right here.
And suddenly he is very angry. Absolutely enraged , his breathing hitches and he clenches his jaw; he can hear John next to him telling him he needs to breathe, but that isn’t true. What he needs is a gun.
He turns his head back to glare at Inspector Lestrade, who looks down on Sherlock with pity and sadness, which just makes him angrier. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is the gun poking out of the DI’s holster, and Sherlock moves quicker than anyone can process, shoving Lestrade back while also grabbing his pistol from his holster.
“Sherlock!” John yells, but Sherlock pays him no heed. Instead, he stands up, aiming the barrel of the pistol at the woman responsible for this, the woman who murdered his brother.
“Nobody moves,” Sherlock shouts, but it sounds far away in his ears. There is fog in his ears, in his brain, because there has been a glitch, and Sherlock doesn’t like glitches .
“Sherlock,” Lestrade tries, hands up in surrender, which is just ridiculous , it’s not like Sherlock was pointing the gun at him. He has his eyes locked on his target. “Mate, don’t. You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not,” he asks, and he feels more anger surge when Norbury smirks slightly at him. “You think it’s funny?”
“I never said it was funny,” Norbury says. “But you are.”
“Get her out of here,” Lestrade tries to order, but Sherlock points the gun at the ceiling and shoots once, just once to get everyone’s attention, and everyone stops moving.
“ Nobody moves !” He shouts again. He is seething, air rips through between his teeth, and he knows he is veering towards panic, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Only this.
His finger twitches on the trigger, and finally John moves into his line of vision, arms up in surrender as Lestrade’s was, but that still doesn’t make any sense. Sherlock gives him a moment's glance at the army doctor’s eyes ( sad, understanding, afraid).
“Sherlock,” his friend says gently, but firmly, “Don’t.”
He can’t fucking breathe. He feels like there is a thick layer of black, tar around his heart, the heart he wasn’t even aware he had.
But we both know that’s not quite true , Moriarity says in his head, and Sherlock physically has to slap himself to get it away.
“Sherlock,” John tries again. “Put the gun down.”
“Why,” he grits through his teeth.
For a moment, for what feels like an eternity, John doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Sherlock with clear understanding in his eyes, and Sherlock watches the tension run out John’s body, shoulders relaxing, looking defeated, and Sherlock knows what he is going to say.
“Because caring isn’t an advantage, Sherlock.”
Sherlock lets out a gasp that sounds way too close to a sob for his liking. Bless John, he thinks. You knew exactly what to say. Bless you, John. Fuck you, John. Thank you, John.
Sherlock looks away from Lady Norbury for just a moment to see the look in John’s eyes, the gut-wrenching comprehension in them. Sherlock has to close his own eyes, or else he knows, if he keeps eye-contact with Lady Norbury, then he would not have had the strength to let his arm fall, pistol loose in his grip as his side.
“That’s it, Sherlock,” John soothes, and Sherlock hates it, but he lets him do it because he doesn’t know what else he is supposed to do.
Lestrade comes up behind him, slowly, ever so slowly, as if afraid Sherlock would change his mind and just start shooting bullets. He feels the calloused hands touch his own as he gently slides the gun out of Sherlock’s grip.
It takes him a moment, perhaps a moment too long ( definitely a moment too long ), and finally opens his eyes to send glaring daggers at the woman who just murdered his brother. She still has a smirk on her face, and Sherlock feels physically sick, like he might actually gag. He is shaking, fingers twitching at his side, his knees weak.
“Take her,” he says, and they do. She and Sherlock continue eye-contact until she is completely out of view, turning the corner on her way to, what Sherlock hopes, is a life in prison.
When she is gone, Sherlock can not do it anymore. He turns back to his brother, and his knees fall into the still puddling pool of blood seeping out of his brother’s now dead body. John falls softly next to him, but the doctor knows better than to try to talk or pull him into an embrace. Instead, he just sits with him. And there they sit until his brother is taken away.
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock .
No. It is not… But it did not stop me from caring about you.