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mrs. hudson—no, martha, they were on first name basis now—smiled ruefully, her unshed tears alit on droopy eyelids. it was way past her bedtime, and here she was, out of bed and trying to maintain an illusion of composure so john wouldn't feel bad about visiting this late, and john wanted to cry too. he didn't, simply because she didn't, either. martha stepped sideways, her wrinkly hand clenching around john's trembling one, then pushed him forward.
it's high time you went in there, she said solemnly, her voice far away. with shuddering breaths, he nodded; and creaking open went the old, tattered door.
darkness met him first, stale and unfamiliar, wrong. the main room was pitch-black. the kitchen, however, was illumined enough for john to make out the silhouette of a man on sherlock's chair.
tall posture. pale, shaky hands. long crossed legs. smart oxfords. a pair of trousers stopping right above the ankles, a dark vest, and even darker hair.
for the briefest moment, john thought sherlock had resurrected himself.
but sherlock'd always been a skinny rake. sherlock was never so quiet, nor could he stay in the same position for over two seconds. sherlock's tremors, more often than not, resembled that of a long-term addict craving their usual stuff. this person had a belly, barely visible in the dimmed lights of their dusty apartment but still there for him to see, and the slight quivers of their fingers suggested mourning rather than a hunger for recreational substances. the discarded umbrella leaning against the armrest of sherlock's chair also did not help his deduction.
his deduction. john reined in a scoff. look what you've made of me, sherlock holmes.
it was mycroft. of course it was mycroft fucking holmes, the british government, the concerned arch-enemy, the absent brother of the great sherlock holmes. the man was nowhere to be seen on the bleak morning of sherlock's funeral, and now he'd given himself the right to taint sherlock's favourite chair with his filthy, deceitful arse. oh, yes, this was great. wicked, in fact. downright bee knees, if you ask john.
no, probably don't ask him.
because john was absolutely aggrieved. john was bereaved and devastated and livid, for sherlock had died an untimely death and his dearest brother had not even bothered to show up. it was only today—tonight, seeing that it was already after eleven—that the man popped in, nonchalant, as if it was not his baby brother who perished, as if the whole ordeal was meaningless and sherlock nothing but a cheap plastic pawn on the chessboard of england. who gave him the right? who acquiesced to his entitlement? john did not know. john did not want to know. he would give up all his knowledge of the world, if it meant he could beat mycroft to a bloody pulp.
john lunged.
everything after that was a blur. he remembered punching mycroft's cheeks mortled green and purple. he remembered splitting mycroft's thin lips and yanking his hair. he remembered screaming an endless river of profanities into the man's crumpled face. he remembered the anguish that rolled off mycroft in waves, thick like tar and heavy like an elephant. he remembered the tears.
he remembered mycroft, handkerchief pressed tightly to his reddened eyes as martha tended to his wounds: tell him, would you?
i'm sorry.