Trust in Sherlock: Book 2

Chapter 43- Mycroft's POV

(A/N) Yup, switching it up with Mycroft for once. I thought it'd be an interesting twist. I don't see much of his point of view. Let's see how it goes...

Mycroft's POV

Disgusting. Sentimental. Human.

I hate feeling like this. I despise feeling in itself. It is like an ugly worm crawling under my skin and behind my eyes and through my stomach, leaving a sticky and gooey trail of despair in its wake.

And the worst part?

I can't seem to get rid of it.

Ever since I was told of the flat fire near where my baby brother lived, I knew it was her. I knew that it was just like Kathy Larose to pull a sick and twisted stunt such as this. For once, I was too late to warn the young girl of the danger she was still in.

As the hours dragged into days, it only seemed to grow worse. The worm's trail grew thicker and more to the consistency of molasses rather than jam. I began as devoid of emotion, not quite grasping as to how much her death would affect me. The world has dulled without her sparkle and so has my brother.

Oh, Sherlock. The poor boy, I actually pity him for the first time in perhaps my entire life. I have yet to speak with him since the fire. Every time I think of the inevitable confrontation, I find some way to pull myself out of it whether it be the excuse of work or another 'personal matter'.

I do not want to see the same broken expression on his thin face as I once did when Margaret moved to America. That damned violin of his was never put down for months-a constant stream of rugged music and a reminder of the only girl my brother ever loved.

"Sir? We're here." I look up from my hands that sit shakily in my lap and find us to be at the cemetery. Already? Has it already been half an hour since I climbed into this dreadful car?

The door is opened for me and I step out onto the pavement that runs throughout the cemetery. No, cemetery sounds to innocent. Today, it is a graveyard.

My eyes sweep across the landscape until I see the crowd of people gathered under a large tree-the same tree that my baby brother's tombstone had been placed for his 'suicide jump stunt'. What a joke. For him, death was a joke. That is, until it claims the life of his dearly beloved. Then it is irrevocably and disastrously real

As I approach the scene, I spy many people I know and many I do not.

A large majority of the police department-avoiding their duties as always. Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Sally Donovan. Anderson. Mr and Mrs Jones, Penelope Jones. Mrs. Lancer-in a wheelchair and most likely having demanded to be released from Saint Bart's just to be here. Mrs. Hudson, Mary Watson with her disgusting spawn, Eva.

I find my place next to my brother and his ever-present sidekick, Dr. John Hamish Watson. John looks over to me, a look of astonishment crossing his face. I raise an eyebrow at him and say, "I may be a Holmes, but I'm not completely heartless, Doctor Watson."

He says nothing, just swallows nervously and turns his attention back to the coffin in front of him.

I look around in disgust. Funerals are not my forte. The only one I ever planned to go to was my own when the times came. In fact, I'm hoping that day is today so I do not have to bare the current situation. A joint funeral would be lovely-quick and easy so everyone can go back to their lives rather than mourning over a finished one.

"Dear God, are all funerals this long?" I roll my eyes, looking towards the heavens and leaning heavily on my black umbrella.

"Would you shut up?" John whispers harshly, his forehead crinkled as he glares up at me. "You're both acting like children."

I look over to my baby brother, having no clue as to what he could have been up to before I arrived. Whatever it was, it was nothing good. A flicker of a grin crosses my lips before being set back to its usual frown. Always a troublemaker.

"Does anyone have any closing remarks?" The priest asks.

Hm, an alcoholic priest. How exciting. I raise an eyebrow yet make no comment.

I look over at my brother to see him staring at the tombstone, his eyes blank and the stench of cigarette smoke still evident on his clothing.

"I do." I find myself saying before I could stop myself. Briefly caught off guard by my own words, I regain my composure just as Sherlock looks at me. I realise that I am still staring at him and turn away before stepping forward and taking the priest's place by the grave.

Damn...

I straighten my posture. I'm a political figure. I should be good with public speeches. Only Sherlock knew about my hidden fear of speaking in front of crowds, no matter the size. I saw him grin slightly. The bastard...

Tightening my grip on my umbrella, I begin. "Good afternoon. It's a pleasure to be here today..." I pause, realising my immediate mistake. Shit. I quickly continue. "Miss Margaret Jones...was quite different. She could be arrogant, reckless, narcissistic, rude..." What am I doing?

"Dear God, somebody stop him." I hear John mutter, his fingers rubbing at his temples.

"But, perhaps that was just towards me," I continue, "I never was her favorite Holmes boy." I look pointedly at Sherlock and as does the rest of the congregation.

"When we were younger and she wasn't giving me a snarky comeback, Maggie was always putting others before herself and her own safety-what a stupid notion. Then again, my brother is the same way no matter how much he wishes to deny such an idea." I pause and avoid  looking at her grave, "Look where all of that humanity got her."

Everyone is silent, yet my vision is so blurred that it's impossible to tell whether it is out if respect or disgust towards my mediocre speech. "I think I can speak for everyone when I say that Maggie was a person one would find difficult to forget. I suppose, in a way, she was like the younger sister I never had." I hear a few chuckles and I frown. Was that funny? "I will...admit that I am not one for personalised speeches and sentimental gatherings; therefore, I will keep this brief and formal." I look at my brother, our eyes locking for a moment before he looks away and focuses on Maggie's headstone. I sigh and look up at the tree towering over us all. "Margaret Jones was someone I will certainly never forget. How could I? She was the only girl from my childhood who had the guts to place bugs in my coffee and mess up my bedroom just enough that I would notice." I smile fondly, no longer caring about the length of my speech or the useless memories that are currently spilling from my lips. "I remember back when she and Sherlock were about thirteen years old. The two had somehow managed to get into my closet and tied all of my ties together to make a rope for them to use when sneaking out at night. I have yet to figure out how they managed to do such impressive boy-scout knots to hold their weight. Then, just as a cherry on top of the cake, they tied my shoelaces together for the fun of it. I shouldn't have been in such a rush the next morning." I lose my smile. "You two were truly a pain, but I always admired your friendship. It was as if the rest of the world didn't exist. It was Margaret Jones and Sherlock Holmes against the world, with Mycroft Holmes watching from a safe distance."

I rub at my eyes, shocked to find them moist. God, I hope nobody noticed. My wish went down the drain when I fell something warm wrap around me. Oh God, they noticed.

Then, I smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke and recognise the curly locks brushing against my cheek. Sherlock clings to me like he used to when he was young and had a nightmare. I feel a part of me inside shrivel up and my throat tightens. I place one hand tentatively on his back as a sort of return of the gesture.

Poor, poor Sherlock...