The Last Holmes

Chapter two

A little while later Sherlock stepped into the corridor to find that John Watson was not waiting there.

He hadn't meant to break down like that but it was Mycroft. Why his death had affected him so much was a mystery to the detective. If it were the other way round, would Mycroft feel the same? Surely not.

The brothers always assumed they despised the other. They despised Sherrinford when he was alive and neither one had even a single tear at his funeral. It was different when they were younger of course. In so many ways.

Up until after Mycroft had left for university, the two had shared everything. Mycroft had been quite the proud older brother and in turn, Sherlock played the part of the doting younger boy. Mycroft gave Sherlock his first case and his deductions would not be what they were today without the guidance of his idol. Sherlock had watched him grow up, always older, always smarter but always there. The small curly-haired child had told his brother when his girlfriend was cheating on him (he could tell from one glance at her hands as he opened the front door) but Mycroft never got mad. It was only in recent years that the hate between the two grew.

Sherlock was pulled back from his musings by the sight of John walking towards him with coffee in a cheap takeaway cup.

"Hi, just popped off to grab a coffee. Sorry."

"No it's quite alright."

One look at the mans face and it was obvious nothing was 'alright'. He was usually pale but his skin looked blank and dark circles rimmed his eyes. His eyes themselves were void of the usual sparkle when on a case and instead seemed dull. Even his hair lacked it's usual thick, black lustre and his curls hung limply by his face. John ignored this and instead pulled out his house keys in a gesture to his friend.

"Back to the flat?"

The case could wait if Sherlock still intended to see it through but right now his flat mate needed hot food and a long sleep.