Stalking into his flat, and accidentally startling Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock growled at Mycroft's incompetence. While he may act as if he was the wiser, older, more responsible brother, he really was no more than an immense hypocrite.
"Caring is not an advantage, brother dear" Sherlock mimicked in a high approximation of his brother's nasally, upper class, voice growling on the last word," Don't go caring for that John fellow! It's okay that I can remove myself from everyone else and look down upon you for trying to be human when it turns out my biggest weakness is my 'illogical little brother'." Angrily pacing around the flat, he finally settled down on his couch, stepling his hands to think.
Mrs. Hudson busied herself with the flowers resting on the table in a pot, a disapproving glare unfamiliar on her face. A shake of the head in disapproval towards his general direction followed by the small tut tut was all the punishment he got however.
"Now you don't start on saying that Mycroft's only doing this out of the sentiment he holds for myself, however minuscule and buried deep it is, and only wants what's best for me and will use his power to always get me out of trouble again and again. Don't give me that sympathetic look either, it's quite out of place and extensively distracting." Sherlock spat, his hackles raised by the affections from his older brother. How crude of Mycroft to do this, he might tell others that it was all out of plan to defend London, but the harsh reality was that Mycroft still clung to a the unattainable hope he and Sherlock would be closer again. Not in a million years would that happen and Sherlock was there to make sure it never happened.
He was useful in many circumstances, though. The Fall wouldn't have been as flawless without some help from Mycroft, or funding for anything in that manner. Save that and a few other occurrences , maybe, he was of little concern to Sherlock. Their relationship as siblings was from the outside a simple, usual sort of one, yet deeper in was layers built upon layers of regret and abandonment over the course of their mysterious lifetimes.
Shaking off the memories like a thin coat, Sherlock flopped down into his chair with his usual flare of drama and rapidly started to process what to do. His greatest enemy, even above Mycroft, had also faked his death that terrible day on that rooftop. How though? He had been right in his face, felt the spider's pulse which had been eerily slow. Slow, slow, SLOW!
"SLOW! That's it!" Sherlock exclaimed in pure excitement, making Mrs. Hudson jump again. Disregarding her reaction he sunk back into thought, pushing away the emotion of the moment and preparing himself to re-enter the memory, an experience he tried to avoid as much as he possibly could. The day had been too full of feeling to revisit unless under dire need, as which it was now called forth warily.
The sky was a grey carpet riddled with holes of sunshine reaching down to cold London like pillars in a cathedral. It seemed to be preparing itself to weep for the fallen detective, as he knew would soon come true. A ghastly melody floated across the rooftop, cutting through the London noise like a scalpel through flesh.
'Staying alive staying alive ah ah ah ah staying alive.' Cringing at the harsh sound of the music Sherlock stepped into the glaring sunlight leaking through the cloud blanket and into view of the one and only consulting criminal. A cruel smile danced across his features as Moriarty registered his presence. From then on everything was a blur of emotion right up until Sherlock refocused on one particular moment in the memory, the spider's final speech.
"You talk big," the taunting scottish voice drawled in an extensively bored and skeptical tone," Nah, you're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."
Heart pounding, Sherlock thought a moment before responding,"I may be on the side of the angels," He knew what he was admitting, and poured out all the venom he could muster into the words," But don't think for one second that I'm one of them."
Moriarty scrutinized him, weighing what he thought he knew of Sherlock against his actions and words on the roof. This was different than the time at the pool. Then, Sherlock had been tested and evaluated and he had come out as an equal, someone Moriarty would be able to die with. Now, however, Sherlock was a doofus, couldn't even figure out a simple trick, but here he was stating otherwise. A golden halo surrounded his head, illuminating the dark mop of curls and the jagged outline of his figure. He was telling the truth. Sherlock may be on the side of the righteous, but he was dark even in the light.
"No, you're not. I see." Continuing to look Sherlock up and down Moriarty prepared for the inevitable," You're not ordinary, no, you're me. You're me! Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, thank you. Bless you." The time had come and he was ready to ensure the Fall of the great detective. Moriarty grasped his hand as if to shake in a congratulatory way,"As long as I'm alive you've got a way to save your friends, well, good luck with that."
Rapidly pulling a handgun from his pocket, Moriarty leveled it with his mouth and fired, falling back without Sherlock's firm grip on his arm. The shot rang out over the rooftop, taunting and despairing. Frantic motions replaced Sherlock's smooth, calm, ones of earlier. This wasn't supposed to happen, he couldn't do it. Suddenly a silence draped over the roof. He was forced to think strait, even though most of his thoughts and heartbeat were frantically struggling to comprehend. It was time.
Physically waving the thoughts away, Sherlock cleared his mind of all that was irrelevant. John needed to believe this. The code was quickly texted to Mycroft and all he had to do was wait for John. Good old John, who was astoundingly loyal and caring. The man whom had made the most ridiculously cruel machine more human. His friend above all. Now he was to abandon than amazing man to save all the people John had helped Sherlock to care for.
Mycroft was right for once, caring is a disadvantage. Sentiment was always found on the losing side. Sherlock should have stayed closed off, yet an army doctor had changed all of that so smoothly there was barely a wrinkle left. He couldn't think of a existence without John, the transaction of him joining the erratic life lead by the world's only consulting detective was seamless. It was as if the men had always been together in everything, from solving crimes to studying at University.
Stepping onto the ledge, it was as if the gravity on the moment finally hit home. A small dot of black pulled up to the pavement below, John's cab. Sherlock's phone rang menacingly, threatening the end of their era.
Gasping, Sherlock drew himself out of the memory to find John looking at him from across the small gap between their chairs with a slightly worried and confused expression resting on his face. Mary sat across the room on the couch, tired with the cost of being in pre-motherhood. A manicured hand lay on her protruding belly with a casual yet fierce protectiveness only found in mothers and fathers. Even though Mary radiated calmness, there was something behind her smooth, placid face that showed nothing as it had been taught to do. Putting aside his theories of Moriarty's, Sherlock focused on what was currently in front of him, intriguing in the least.
Slightly concerned for the good doctor's wife, Sherlock looked Mary over with his quick eye and was dismayed at the feeble deductions he was able to make. What first appeared as perfectly manicured nails were in reality fake ones, the originals being gnawed to the skin in worry perhaps? Fear at an unforeseen event within the last week or so judging by the fact that the expertly placed fake nail were present. That would narrow it down to very few events, this morning couldn't possibly count, too soon. Nothing dramatic happened within the last week other than the ultrasound. The ultrasound! Of course, reality was suddenly showing itself to the fact that Mary Morstan-Watson was to be a mother within the next month. But the there were the deep bruises marking sleepless nights gracing the skin beneath her tired eyes. Forget just worried, Mary was fretting over something unknown to both of the men in this room. Something had shaken her resolution, and that was a feat in itself. Yet Mary's belly was swollen past what normally passed for a single child, but too small for twins. Maybe an error occurred in the growth of a baby? If anything, her problems revolved around the looming pregnancy.
Satisfied, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled over his chest still far away in the great mind palace of his. John and Mary exchanged glances as a great sigh escaped the confines of the detectives chest and his eyes rolled at the steady patter of a pair of feet climbing Baker Street's stairs.
"Mycroft no doubt wants to wish you two a merry honeymoon with his favorite little brother who just so happens to be me." Sherlock mumbled into his hands trying to look as annoyed as humanly possible. True to his deduction, Mycroft Holmes appeared in the doorway
"Two-hundred and twenty-one C is now officially owned by the Watsons and their soon to be child. Congrats, brother dear, you have friends I wasn't able to drive away." Mycroft drawled, putting on a bored facade even when his younger brother saw right through into the politically concealed worry. Years of it had accumulated on his features like dust on an old table that never saw a brush, but recent events had added new layers of grime peeking out from under crystalline glass. Behind the sneering lips and under the slick hair brewed a sickly sweet concoction of worries, fears and all the turmoil of modern day life.
"Ah, yes, seeing as all the others have turned tail and ran in you wake. Remind me what happened the first time you and Lestrade met. Oh wait, I remember! You told him to leave me be and he punched you in the face and called you, how did he phrase it, an idiotic arsehole who wasn't twice the man his younger brother was and that you should stuff your beloved umbrella up your arse. Eloquint as always, Lestrade." Sherlock sneered, appreciating the mingled horror and shock playing on his brother's face and the barely concealed sniggers coming from both John and Mary. A wide smile cracked across his face as Mycroft snatched up the beloved cane and walked stiffly out into the hallway. Turning around on the landing, he called out before he left.
"It would do you well to remember that I do have the power to make your lives very misrable if I so desire." With a final sneer Mycroft decended the old stairs and exited 221 Baker Street.
"I can feel myself quaking in my boots. Hold me Mary!" John sighed dramatically to Mycroft's receding back and falling onto the arm of his chair. Mary chuckled openly and Sherlock's smile widened and almost broke into chuckles, but not before his mind drifted towards what had brought him back.
Sherlock owed inumerable debts to the man who had walked out of the door just moments before. He was one of the reasons Sherlock had a moral compass, among others. Yet each time Mycroft was in his presence a long remembered sense of abandonment draped itself over the gratitude like and old, wooly blanket and clouded the subdued sentiment.
John glanced casually over at the figure of his best friend and sighed in defeat. Looking over to his confused wife he decided that he was the one to break the silence and explain what little he knew.
"Sherlock's not going to come back for a while, I've seen him like this before but it's usually after Mycroft does something nice and he can't figure out what the 'ultirior motive' is." John stated in a bland voice, knowing that the marble statue might move a couple hours later. Mary chuckled and a thoughtful look came over her features.
"So, Moriarty's maybe back and that's not very good."
"Yeah."
"We now live in the same house as Sherlock Holmes, your beat friend."
"I suppose so, is this going somewhere?" John asked, growing skeptic as to where this conversation was headed.
"Terrible place to raise a kid." Mary scoffed