PARA/DOX

The Blood of the Brothers

"This must have been dropped by them." Sherlock declared, bending down to retrieve the jacket from the mud. Already the landscape was blinking, the changeable nature of the realm they now tried to stay put in.
"Are they here?" Mycroft wondered, looking down upon the jacket with admitted confusion.
"They could be anywhere. But they might be close." Sherlock guessed. He rose to his feet, draping the muddy black fabric across his shoulder and pressing his nose to the collar. It smelled like dirt, though there was a splash of cologne still lingering. It was a pleasant smell, one that must have been manufactured closer to their present time. The staying power it had within the fabric and against the elements also had some telling qualities. The jacket itself was ancient, pawned or bought from an antique shop, though the cologne spoke of its recent significance. The travelers had been here, they had perhaps been wandering in the same direction that Sherlock and Mycroft were now going. And so the brothers followed. They allowed themselves to wander in and out of the time zones, succumbing to the choices of the atmosphere that surrounded them. In this realm the time was more like a liquid, like waves rolling across and forcing them under its influence. In some cases Sherlock felt as though he was being pummeled underneath, as if he was lost and tossed, unable to catch a proper breath and unable to clarify anything about the world surrounding him. Other times he recognized the gentle lolling of a soft current, as if he was floating upon an inner tube above a slowly flowing stream. In this setting the timelines rolled carefully over, cleanly with every step he took, and sometimes they allowed him to walk a couple of paces through their allotted time, as if he had accidentally strayed too far into the second that had been captured and, instead of wandering across time, had delved into it once again. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was seeing the same things as Mycroft, though the brothers kept the beam of light on their left, making sure never to stray too far from their only source of escape. Every now and then Sherlock checked in on the present time, making sure that there was no talk of turning off the machine once and for all. Somehow they had not walked away from the spot of interest, for each time Sherlock looked he could see the machine in all of its humming glory. No matter how far Sherlock walked, no matter how his feet ached or his body began to wither from exhaustion, they had never taken one step away from the machine's place of residence. According to infrastructure of the present Sherlock had yet to move a step from where he originally spawned. The room itself stayed consistent as well. Occasionally there were scientists poking with it, reading the dials and trying to ensure that it was maintaining its speed and consistency. Other times the room was empty, which honestly made Sherlock feel more confident about his countdown. The moment the scientists began to swarm he would have to make a decision fast, which was never his strong suit.
"We must be walking closer to the present, not farther from the agency." Sherlock suggested. "I can see still see the machine."
"I hope that means we're on the right track." Mycroft grumbled. Sherlock nodded, shoving his free hand in his pocket while he pushed up the visors and swung the jacket across his shoulders like a preppy schoolboy. He wasn't too coy to acknowledge the elephant in the room; in fact he was already beginning to consider the most polite way to ask. As they continued on in their silence it had only grown too apparent that Sherlock had done all of the talking. He had summed up the whole of his life since his brother's death, and yet Mycroft had never done him the same honor. Sherlock didn't care if the occurrences in these long years did not make any logical sense. He just wanted to know what had become of his brother since the life leaked out of him in the warm, perfumed bathwater.
"Have you been wandering through this the whole time?" Sherlock asked at last. Mycroft remained quiet, down casting his eyes and making for a rather incompetent search party.
"Yes." He agreed hesitantly, as if this confession would have come to a surprise.
"What are you searching for?" Sherlock wondered.
"I'm just walking to walk."
"That doesn't sound like you. Not Mycroft, the man who's allergic to exercise." Sherlock defended, prodding his brother in the side as a sort of mockery. Mycroft merely growled, as if he wasn't quite as acceptant of his brother's jokes on this side of the curtain. Sherlock took the hint, clearing his throat shamefully and deciding it was better to hold this conversation in the serious tone it ought to be.
"Have you been able to review your past? Or are you trying to review the past that has been created since you left?" Sherlock wondered.
"I'm not looking for anything specific." Mycroft said again. Sherlock quieted, supposing that it wasn't a question he was supposed to be asking. And so he changed his tone, changed his attack.
"Can you tell me anything from before you died? We never got an explanation. Never a note." Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft grunted, as if he regretted having left his family in a plunging darkness. Perhaps he didn't understand just how hefty his loss had been, how difficult for his mother and brother to decipher.
"I found out about our father, Sherlock."
"Charles Milverton." Sherlock agreed, stammering out the name almost subconsciously as it overtook the fallacy of the 'William Holmes' he thought he had grown used to. His father and his farce. Mycroft nearly stopped in his tracks, his leather shoes hesitating within the mud before he resumed his pace reluctantly.
"How do you know that name?" he wondered.
"John Watson discovered it. He's done his research, thirty years of it before I even met him." Sherlock admitted.
"Thirty...Sherlock! You're dating someone who's at least fifty years old?" Mycroft exclaimed, slapping his brother playfully upon the shoulder as if trying to knock any sort of common sense into him. Sherlock merely grinned, figuring this was a good chance to explain the more complex side of John Watson. He told the story of the flash drive from his own perspective, starting with the time traveler and ending with Victor's search and seizure. Though this he was able to explain their theory about John's connection to the traveler, as well as the loads of information he had at his disposal in order to make the machine they were now taking advantage of. It seemed a fantastic story, and Mycroft listened with the quiet content of someone who did not have to do the talking. As Sherlock spoke he felt his voice becoming choked, and when he ended with the theory that the time traveler loved him his voice twisted and went silent all together. The boy clenched his fist, realizing just how powerfully he loved that man. Mycroft must have sensed this, too, though for his part he stayed silent. Perhaps he was reflecting on his own love life, and how much he wished there had been some effort on Victor's part to demonstrate how his love was justifiable and returned. Both brothers struggled with their internal thoughts, both mending broken hearts and becoming too engrossed in the act. Sherlock was so busy weeping for himself that he hardly noticed the sound of a voice coming from somewhere off his left shoulder. The sound of a cry, distant and aggressive, from somewhere within the timeline that he now tread. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, unable to accredit that yell to a lonely farmer or a stray bird. The field was empty this time of year, not hosting a tractor nor any sort of wildlife. Sherlock could see for miles, and when he stopped in his tracks he could hear it again...a yell, undeniably human.
"Mycroft, do you hear that?" Sherlock whispered, pulling his brother by the wrist and hoping they might share the same time zone. There was no way to tell if they were coordinated appropriately, though as Sherlock concentrated his energy he was able to step forward within the world, blocking the rest of the seconds out for this moment of dedication. There it was again, a cry. Sherlock picked up his speed, now recognizing that the consistency of the cornfields had been interrupted with lumps upon the ground, the heaving and twisting bodies of very lost men. It took the whole of the boy's willpower not to concentrate on them yet, he denied himself the freedom to make theories he might rely too heavily upon. If he focused on anything other than where his footprints landed he might go running off thirty years too far, coming back empty handed without the chance to try again. All that mattered in this moment was staying consistent within this timeline, running towards the shimmering light that meant a free ride home.
"Sherlock, they're people!" Mycroft exclaimed, catching up to his brother's shoulder as the two boys descended upon the squirming lumps on the ground. Mycroft was right, of course. The lumps were humanoid, colored blobs that did not belong in the cornfield. They were splayed across the ground, their heads sunken into the mud, their limbs sprawled. Sherlock was unsure if they were exhausted or close to death, though as he yelled out his return he felt the truth of the matter fall freely from his lips. It was not just the orange blob struggling in the corn. It was the feeling he got, the feeling of reconciliation. He knew what it was; he recognized the body before he could identify it any further.
"John!" Sherlock screamed, descending towards the figure and nearly falling face first in the corn in an attempt to steady himself upon his knees. The boy wobbled in the mud, pulling at the shoulder that was now shielding him from the rest of the Doctor's body. John was lying on his side, and with some effort Sherlock was able to flip him upon his back to reveal his face, gasping for breath with parched lips. It was indeed John Watson, more accurately; it was whatever was left of him. Sherlock's heart plummeted, unsure if there was any life left within the body.