Now You See Me

John Watson was dead.

There hadn't been anything they could do. By the time he was found, it was too late, lying in his own blood on the pavement.

He was curled into a fetal position, expression relaxed, body still.

It was the result of a case gone terribly, irreversibly wrong-Sherlock and John had gotten separated while chasing down two notorious, dangerous gang members, and when Sherlock found John again, he was on the ground, dead from a gunshot wound to the heart.

Sherlock knew the moment he saw it, that John had given up his life for Sherlock's-the doctor was a soldier, and a bloody good one-the shot had been meant for the detective, and John had taken it.

John died doing what he did best-protecting his friend.

The medics arrived ten minutes later, to find Sherlock holding the lifeless doctor in his arms, repeating soft, strangled apologies, a gloved hand cupping John's face. "I've got you, John. I've got you. I've got you." Sherlock's head dropped to John's, his body sagging as if he had no strength left, touching his forehead to the doctor's. "I'm sorry...John...I'm sorry...come back...I promise I'll do better. I promise. Please. Please. Just don't go. Don't go."

How would you describe me, John?

Resourceful?

Dynamic?

Enigmatic?

The coroner was called, and minutes later John Watson's body was being lifted into the coroner's van, while the medics were attending to Sherlock, who was sitting in the back of the ambulance, eyes blank.

Lestrade appeared, face ashen and white, making a beeline for Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at the inspector with dead eyes, and suddenly something in his expression shifted.

"Did he suffer?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but found himself unable to say a word. Instead, with one hand, he hooked a gentle hand around Sherlock's neck, and pulled him into his chest.

"Do you think he suffered?" Sherlock insisted again, his voice choked.

"Don't think about it now," Lestrade said hoarsely. But then he reconsidered, clutching harder to the detective. "No. I don't think he suffered. It must have been all very quick. Painless."

The doors on the coroner's van slammed shut, and Sherlock startled to attention, staring at the van as it drove away.

Late.

"Don't," Lestrade said, and Sherlock realized he had spoken aloud. "You can't blame yourself, there's nothing you could have done."

"I could have been there," Sherlock said simply, and Lestrade looked at him, fresh out of any comforting words to say.

###

And Sherlock Holmes disappeared.

The day of John's death, Sherlock locked himself in his room and wouldn't come out, not for days. Friends tried in vain to coax him out, receiving only silence in response. Eventually, he was left alone, with only Mrs. Hudson leaving him food outside the door.

One week later, Sherlock emerged, frightening Mrs. Hudson half to death.

"Sherlock, dear, you scared me," Mrs. Hudson said cautiously. The detective's hair was slightly ruffled, his clothes rumpled, but otherwise he looked normal. In fact, he was smiling.

"So sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said cheerfully, kissing her on the cheek. "I'm off to Scotland Yard, Lestrade promised me a case." And with a twirl of his coat, he was out the door, yelling something about Christmas, leaving Mrs. Hudson completely baffled.

Sherlock seemed absolutely and perfectly-fine.

He returned an hour later, buzzing with exhilaration at his newest case, running about the flat and yelling observations to Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson insisted. "Isn't there something you want to talk about?"

"Talk about?" Sherlock laughed. "What could we have to talk about?"

"About-" Mrs. Hudson's voice broke. "About John."

"What about John?" Sherlock asked, without skipping a beat. He was at the table, already set with his goggles, lab coat and gloves, filling up a beaker with some unknown liquid.

Mrs. Hudson could hardly believe what she was hearing and seeing-Sherlock, knowing full well about the death of his friend, and yet carrying on as if everything was normal. She hesitated, watching the detective. After a moment of no response from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock looked up.

"Yes? What about him?"

He was staring up at her with such innocent, childlike eyes, with an unsuspecting smile on his face, that Mrs. Hudson couldn't bring herself to say it.

"Nothing," she said finally, forcing a smile. "Nothing at all, dear."

###

Sherlock continued on as normal, much to everyone's surprise and dismay.

"He'll come out of it," they said. "He's just in denial."

"He doesn't feel things like other people."

"This is probably his way of grieving."

"I'm sure he'll be fine."

Sherlock also seemed completely unaware of the buzz that was going on around him, his friends, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly- trying to puzzle out why the detective was so collected and calm.

In all the fuss, none of them realized that one particular person had not tried as of yet to even see the detective, much less analyze his brother's odd behavior.

And before they could realize this, Mycroft Holmes was far ahead of them.

He came to visit 221B one bright, sunny day, twirling his umbrella as he made his way up the stairs.

Sherlock was locked in his room again, and he denied his brother entry when he knocked.

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous. Let me in."

"I'm busy."

"You realize I do have a key, don't you?"

There was a brief silence as the detective mulled that over.

"Then do whatever you want."

It only took a moment to fish the key from his coat pocket. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, Sherlock sitting on the bed, back facing him. He held a book, nonchalantly turning the pages.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He said flatly.

Mycroft was silent as he stepped into the room, standing a few paces away from Sherlock, who kept his eyes fixed on his book.

"Came to check up on you, of course," said Mycroft. "And I believe you have something of mine."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock responded.

"Don't lie to me," Mycroft snapped. "You may be able to fool your little landlady and the rest of your friends, but you do not fool me. Where's the file?"

Sherlock lowered the book. "Dresser drawer."

"Thank you, Sherlock." Mycroft said airily, walking over to the dresser. He opened the top drawer, which was empty.

"Mmph," Sherlock grunted. "Are we done now?"

Mycroft didn't respond, instead casually opening up the file and flipping through it.

"Why do you have John's case file?"

"No reason." Sherlock said curtly. "Are we done now? I have other things to get to, you know."

"How are you faring? Mycroft asked. "You know."

"I'm perfectly well," Sherlock answered flatly. "Is there a reason you're still here?"

"No more illusions, Sherlock," Mycroft barked suddenly. "Show me."

"What do you mean-"

"You know what I mean. John has died and your friends report that you are unaffected, that you are unperturbed, but I want to know the truth. Turn around."

"I-"

"Turn. Around."

Even from where he was standing, Mycroft could see Sherlock's back stiffen, and in spite of himself, Mycroft's heart dropped. He thought he needed to see, needed to know, but now he knew and he most definitely didn't want to see.

Sherlock stood up and turned, deliberately with his hands stretched out at either side. His eye was blackened and bruised, with a spread of yellow and dark purple bruises on his neck and shoulder. There were deep slits on his hands, and before he could ask, Sherlock pushed up his sleeves, showing that they crisscrossed up his arms as well, bright and red and terrible.

Self-inflicted.

Same clothes, one week.

Alcohol consumption.

His brother was standing before him, bruised, exhausted, emotionally compromised-the look in his eyes was haunting, blank and empty, and for the first time that Mycroft could remember, he had to hide his fear, the fear that was bubbling up inside him and impossible to repress.

Broken.

It was a disgusting word to describe his brother as, but it was the only word that would come when Mycroft looked at him, the word repeating in his mind over and over again.

Sherlock smirked, but the expression didn't reach his eyes, which remained blank.

"There," he said softly. "Now you see me, brother."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. "What have you done?"

"Me? I haven't done anything," Sherlock said, his voice low and cold. "Not yet."

"You cannot get involved with this case," Mycroft said, realization dawning on him. "You are too-"

"I was involved the moment John Watson became involved, Mycroft!" Sherlock roared, and he threw the book he was holding at the wall with violent force, the book colliding with the wall with a bang.

"There is nothing left but this," Sherlock hissed, breathing heavily. He pressed his hands to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. "I have…I have nothing left but this."

"I'm telling you that you cannot get involved," Mycroft repeated again. "You are too emotionally connected to this case and you know it."

"I don't care," Sherlock said darkly. "Don't you see? I don't care. I don't care what you think I have to do or not do. I. Don't. Care."

Sherlock turned around. "Get out, Mycroft." He said calmly, as if he was making a mild comment about the weather.

"Sherlock-"

"I said, get out!" Sherlock shouted, whirling around to face him again, eyes wild.

The brothers stared at each other for a full minute, the younger breathing heavily, the elder quiet and still.

"I'll leave," Mycroft said finally. "But I'll be watching."

"You always are," Sherlock said flatly, and the wild look disappeared, replaced again by the unnerving blankness.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," said Mycroft carefully, and he turned and left, leaving his brother standing there alone.

###

John's funeral was held a week later. It was a quiet, but a well attended ceremony-Sherlock was asked to speak, but the moment he opened his mouth to speak, he froze. The crowd watched as the detective struggled for words, gripping the microphone tightly, his mouth opening and closing again, like a fish out of water. After a long, painful minute, the only word Sherlock was able to force out was John's name-a desperate plea for help. He seemed completely lost on what he should do or what he should say, so he did nothing. Without the doctor by his side, the detective hardly seemed able to function. Lestrade eventually emerged from the audience and guided Sherlock to his seat. He whispered something to Sherlock, who didn't seem to fully register the inspector's words, a vacant, defeated look on his face.

After the funeral, Sherlock stayed behind at the grave, hands in his pockets. Mrs. Hudson, once she realized the detective had stayed behind, went back for him.

"Sherlock, aren't you coming?" She asked softly, touching his elbow.

Sherlock mumbled something, staring hard at the grave.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson said soothingly, taking his arm.

"I..don't want to," Sherlock said haltingly.

"How about I take you home and make you a nice cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson said. "You've had a long day."

Sherlock didn't respond, continuing to stare at the grave.

"Come on, sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson said. "Please, Sherlock." Her voice broke at his name, and she tugged gently at his arm. "Sherlock," she pleaded again.

He didn't even seem to hear her, refusing to take his eyes away from the grave.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson said, more loudly this time, giving his arm a harder tug.

Suddenly, Sherlock reacted, and Mrs. Hudson was not prepared for it. He ripped his arm out of her grip, whirling around violently. He swung around so quickly that his hand struck her shoulder, causing her to cry out. Her emotions seemed to overwhelm her, and she sank to the ground, choking on tears.

Sherlock's face was white, hands clasped over his mouth. "Mrs. Hudson," he gasped through his hands as he sank to his knees.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson sobbed, and a choked, strangled noise came from Sherlock's throat as he began to sob, his hands trembling and his body jolting with each sob. Mrs. Hudson took her boy, her little boy, into her arms and held him, rocking him as he cried.

###

One month later

Mycroft Holmes knocked on the door of 221B, tapping his foot impatiently.

There was no answer.

Mycroft frowned. He had Anthea keeping an eye on Sherlock's flat, she reported that he was in the kitchen experimenting, just a minute ago.

Well, perhaps the detective was ignoring him. This wouldn't be the first time that had happened.

He turned the doorknob, pushing the door open easily. He stepped inside and saw no one. His eyebrow furrowed, and he moved further into the flat.

He took his phone from his pocket, dialing Anthea, his body pulsing with the dread that was quickly filling his heart.

"Status update," he said curtly when she answered.

"Sherlock Holmes is still in the kitchen experimenting, sir," Anthea responded.

"Anyone else in the flat?" Mycroft questioned.

"No, sir."

"He tampered with my feed," Mycroft muttered.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't hear that…"

"Thank you, that will be all." Mycroft said harshly, and he hung up.

Mycroft disliked running. In fact, he despised it.

But now, he ran.

###

Mycroft was running, running faster than he had ever run in his life, not caring he was running in his nicest business suit or tearing his second nicest pairs of shoes.

All that mattered was getting to Sherlock.

It had taken some quick detective work, but he had managed to track his brother down to this alley.

He shoved past the stragglers in his way, ignoring their complaints.

They were pointless. They were meaningless.

Before he realized he had done it, he had cried out Sherlock's name, his voice echoing all around him, his heart roaring in his ears.

And then Mycroft saw him.

Sherlock was standing about ten paces away, breathing hard, his clothes torn and rumpled. He spotted Mycroft, and he placed a single finger to his lips, hushing him. He looked to his right, and he held out his arms, as if he was waiting for something.

And then there was an explosion of sound, the air being ripped apart, and Sherlock was being thrown backwards, his body colliding with the pavement with a crunch.

And Mycroft ran.

There were the sound of footsteps running away, and Mycroft didn't even turn to look, eyes only for his brother crumpled on the ground.

Sherlock lay, with his eyes open and his face as white as his shirt, blood streaming from his mouth and the bloody wound on his chest.

"What have you done?" Mycroft barked. "Who was that?"

Sherlock heaved a breath, then began to cough, spitting blood onto the ground.

Mycroft knelt on the ground, and pulled out his phone, sending an emergency message to Anthea.

"You'll be fine," Mycroft said gruffly. "You'll be fine." He pulled his brother into his arms. "Hold on, Sherlock."

Sherlock choked out a shaky laugh, his entire body trembling. "How fitting," he gasped out, "that the man who killed John Watson would be the end of me, as well."

"Don't be an idiot," Mycroft said. "This isn't the end."

Sherlock let out another gasping laugh, smiling absurdly, the blood streaming down his face giving him the horrible look of a decrepit clown, vibrating with pain.

"I got him," Sherlock coughed. "I got him. For John. I got him." The same, odd smile still stretched over his face, and his head fell backwards. Mycroft caught him, propping his head upwards.

"You fool, you didn't listen, why didn't you listen," Mycroft moaned, shaking his head. "I told you not to get involved-why did you-"

But Sherlock still wasn't listening, eyes tilted to the sky. "I got him for John," Sherlock repeated. "But you don't need…you don't need to grieve for me, Mycroft. You already lost me."

"What…what are you talking about?" Mycroft whispered.

"The day we lost John," Sherlock said hoarsely. "The day we lost John…you also lost me. You've already been grieving for me, Mycroft. I'm already gone. This is just…making it official."

"Sherlock, no," Mycroft said firmly. "No."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stop…stop trying to being Mummy." He said slowly. His tone was meant to be sarcastic, but it was obvious it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to speak.

He let out a small whimper. "It hurts," he said quietly. "It hurts," he said again, more desperately.

"Hush now, I have you," Mycroft said gently. "I have you."

"I'll see John, won't I?" He turned to look at Mycroft for the first time, and Mycroft was reminded of the little boy, the little brother he had to rock to sleep after having a nightmare. His eyes were the same, full of fear, anticipation, and the insistent desire to have Mycroft fix it, to please fix it.

"I'm sure you will," Mycroft said after a moment, ignoring the catch in his voice.

Sherlock's body relaxed in Mycroft's arms, his head tilting back, but his eyes still locked on his brother's.

Mycroft pushed back Sherlock's hair. "Why couldn't you have listened to me," he muttered. "Why did you never listen…"

"This was inevitable…and you knew it," Sherlock answered, his voice slurred.

It was true, Mycroft did know, from the moment he received the news that John Watson was dead, that Sherlock Holmes…Sherlock Holmes was dead as well.

There was no way that Sherlock Holmes would have existed long in a world without John Watson in it. It wasn't possible, and everyone had known it.

Even Sherlock.

"I'll miss you," Sherlock forced out the words, his body trembling from the effort to speak.

That was the moment Mycroft broke.

His body began to shake, knowing what was about to happen, what he couldn't stop.

"I'll miss you, brother," he said, his voice thick. "You were truly my greatest foe…and my greatest friend."

"And I always will be," Sherlock mumbled, and his eyes closed.

Sirens sounded somewhere in the distance, and Mycroft looked up.

When he looked back, Sherlock was limp in his arms, gone, and peaceful at last.

...

Thoughts?