Chapter Text
Though people never believed him, Mycroft Holmes cared deeply for his little brother. So many people in this world needed Sherlock Holmes. Doctor John Watson, the broken soldier that had been rebuilt by Sherlock needed the young Holmes. Mrs. Martha Hudson, the landlady that worried so deeply about Sherlock needed him. Molly Hooper, the woman that had fallen so deeply in love with Sherlock needed him. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, the man Sherlock helped on cases needed him. Mycroft Holmes, the one who watched over Sherlock needed him. London, England, the place Sherlock protected from crime needed him. Sherlock Holmes was such a vital part to so many people's lives, and as Mycroft played a game of chance, he messed it up.
Throughout the years, Sherlock helped and saved thousands of people from impending dooms, solved an innumerable amount of cases. All for it to come down to a game of life and death with none other than James Moriarty. Mycroft watched from cameras as the scene played out. The cat and mouse chase between the two coming down the a fall. The eldest Holmes watched the scene fold out, a plan fail. Sherlock was supposed to walk down those stairs, not jump over the edge. Mycroft saw Doctor Watson standing at the bottom, witnessing his best friend plummet to the ground, to his death. Even Mycroft believed that it was real.
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“Hello, brother mine,” a tall dark figure stood in the doorway of Mycroft’s home office as he poured another glass of whiskey.
Steel blue eyes trailed up to catch the figure, “y-you're alive..” Mycroft’s voice slurred drunkenly.
“Yes, the game is afoot, Moriarty has an underground network that we need to take down.”
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Sherlock Holmes never ceased to surprise his older brother. They helped one another, Mycroft helped Sherlock fight the network, Sherlock helped his brother stay happy. Sherlock had begged time and time again to go back to Baker Street, but Mycroft didn't let up, he thought it'd be more dangerous.
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“Mycroft. Please, I can't keep this up, I need to go home. What if they come after John?”
The eldest Holmes shook his head, “you’ll both be in more danger back at Baker Street.
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So, the game continued. Sherlock traveled the world, using disguises and different names that no normal person could keep straight in their heads. The young Holmes stayed strong. He’d been captured a few dozen times, tortured for information. He'd been a soldier in America, a doctor in Spain, a tourist in India, a citizen in Norway, but it all came to an end two years later. After hundreds of fights with locals and Moriarty’s Network, it came to an end in Russia.
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Sherlock was kneeled down, both arms chained up, shirtless. His curls had grown long and he sported facial hair like no other.
Mycroft sat in the chair in front of his brother, in a disguise of his own. He watched a man in the Network crack a whip hard over Sherlock's back for the nineteenth time. Sherlock didn't scream anymore, he just jolted in pain and grunted, head bowed.
The eldest Holmes finally spoke up in Russian, “я думаю, что это достаточно, он не будет говорить” his words translated to ‘I think that’s enough, he won't speak’.
The man looked at Mycroft and snarled, “то он бесполезен для наc.” Mycroft’s mind worked quickly to put it into English, ‘then he is useless to us.’
Mycroft quickly shook his head, “настало время, чтобы отпустить его.” ‘It is time to let him go.’
Before Mycroft could do anything, the man pulled out a gun and shot Sherlock in the back of his head and walked out.
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After everything the siblings did together to stop this from happening, Mycroft Holmes watched his baby brother die in front of him. Every day, Mycroft wished he had sent his brother back home to John. That he would've not let any of this happen. What Sherlock went through was the ultimate sacrifice to those that he cared about. Now, London was free of Moriarty, John Watson would never be in that danger again, everyone Sherlock ever worked with wouldn't have to worry about James Moriarty returning in another way. Sherlock Holmes made a sacrifice of his life to keep everyone safe. Though, what he never saw was the impact that his death took. Jumping from the roof brought John into depression, drove Philip Anderson into insanity. Everyone that had ever been around Sherlock blamed themselves for his death. He was truly missed, and no one but Mycroft Holmes knew the true story. The fake one was better for the public. John Watson worked his days away bringing Sherlock’s name back to glory. Anderson tried convincing people he was alive. Mycroft Holmes lived with the guilt of being the reason no one had the privilege of being with Sherlock Holmes ever again.