One more miracle

Chapter One

"He still visits your grave, you know. Every day."

A soft, gentle drumming trilled from the thin glass window as it constantly contacted the rain, pattering endlessly. Two men sat in the room together, each holding a stolid face of solemnity. The elder one carefully filled his crystal glass with a fine, strong drink, sipping delicately as if a sound too loud would shatter the current reality.

"Three years is a long time, Sherlock. Don't you think this has drawn on long enough?" He leaned forward, the creaking leather ringing out in the heavy silence recently broken by his words. This caught the attention of the younger man, his crystallic eyes flashing as he turned to face his brother, each ebony curl whispering like grass as it shifted.

"I can't yet. You know that." His oceanic orbs returned to the relentless rain, admiring each peculiar path carved by a single drop as it traveled. "Moran is still out there. I cannot risk the safety of John, Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade."

"This ridiculous feat of hiding is putting John at risk anyways, Sherlock." The intensity in the elder man's voice raised. "I've taken every precaution of my own to keep him safe. Moran, at the moment, is no threat to John. He is a threat to himself."

Sherlock's night-colored brow furrowed as he considered what his brother had said. He knew it was true. "I'm going to have to convince him to move on from your 'death' if you continue. We cannot wait for Moran to be caught, or me may lose John beforehand."

"You can't do that, Mycroft." The lanky man stood abruptly with a new fire devouring the dull, glazed look he had possessed moments before. "Don't tell him to move on. He'll forget me, and when the time comes, he..." A man who was usually well prepared to speak suddenly stopped, mulling the situation over in his heavy-laden, complex mind. If John did indeed move on, all hopes of returning things the way they were would vanish. Sherlock didn't appreciate the thought at all, and glared daggers towards his brother. Mycroft only returned the bitter gaze.

"I can, and I shall. I'm sure losing John to his own sorrow will be far more painful than the alternative." Mycroft stood, walking in a brisk manner to his desk and running a finger along the surface. "Sherlock, the man reads the paper to your tombstone every Sunday. Every other day he simply sits and talks, just hoping you can hear him. He has Practically thrown his life away out of his sorrow for losing you, and you aren't even dead."

"I can. I can hear him." Sherlock growled, now placing himself next to the misty glass. "I haven't abandoned him. Every day, when he comes, I listen." His deep baritone voice grew more distant as he reflected back on each day John came. When reading the paper, he always took great care to only read the murders, for that was all that had ever been of interest to Sherlock. Although John's conversation subjects were rather dull, he simply enjoyed to listen. It was his way to remain connected to earth, his constant reminder that he was not dead. Not yet.

His thoughts shattered like delicate glass as Mycroft cleared his throat dismissively. "You still can't carry on this way. It's bad for both of you." Sherlock whipped around to face his brother, anger distorting his face. "I will not put him in danger by revealing myself! He will be fine! John..." Sherlock gripped his gloved hands, biting his lip briefly. "He is the strongest man I have ever known. Stronger than I ever could be." He refrained himself from delving into his thoughts as he focused on Mycroft, heading towards the door. "I have taken care of the other two, only Moran remains. I will rid of him, that way I can ensure John's safety. All of their safety." With that, he slipped out the door and just it with a force of slight anger.

Mycroft simply sighed, taking another hearty drink. He knew that possibly, for the first time, Sherlock's emotions were getting the best of him. He was certainly concerned for John's safety, but indeed so focused on it he did not see what was happening to his dear friend upon his own accord. He didn't seem to notice his withering, darkening face. Nor did he notice Johns constant limp, and the fact he had to use his cane once again. Mycroft knew if Sherlock remained hidden for too long, John would be more of a danger to himself than Moran would be. He had to try and fix it, otherwise Sherlock's final miracle would be for nothing.