Archive of Our Own ^beta

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"There he was, larger than life and so much more than I expected.." That's how John Watson would describe James Moriarty, though Sherlock had a whole other view on the situation. John was always one for the more dramatic twist on everything, he always over exaggerated things and made them seem much exciting. Although Sherlock Holmes was certainly one for theatrics, he would not go quite as far as to call James Moriarty larger than life. He certainly wouldn’t call him more than he expected, if anything Moriarty was less than he expected. The Consulting Criminal was short and friendly looking, someone that was made to read children's books. Surprisingly enough, that was the trick Moriarty used to make the youngest Holmes look like a fool.

John and Sherlock’s first encounter is a chilling story, but not one for today. Today was a much more important day, one that they both treasured much more than any other day of the year, perhaps more than any day in their entire lives. Today was the wedding day - the day two lovers waited for eagerly and impatiently. Sherlock Holmes was getting married, something he never thought would happen. The Baker Street Duo had been put through many trials, they’d gone through rigorous cases, they’d both been hurt, worried. They had both experienced loss and sacrificed. They were able to mend a relationship after a two year faked suicide. Not many people could manage that, but John Watson and Sherlock Holmes could. They built a life together after Sherlock came home. John showed more love to Sherlock than the man had ever experienced in his entire life. On Christmas day, 10 months ago, John gave Sherlock a present that he would never forget, John Watson gave Sherlock his past, his present, and his future, making a thousand promises with one titanium band. The blonde man proposed to Sherlock, asking the younger man to be by his side forever. The Consulting Detective would never deny John, especially of that. Now the day was finally upon them.

The church bells rang as Sherlock walked out in a pristine suit, arm wrapped around his new husband’s arm. The newlywed couple walked out, rice being thrown into the air as the looked around. Gregory Lestrade stood with his arm around the eldest Holmes, both of them smiling, Ms. Hudson threw rice up with Molly Hooper. Everyone was happy and smiling, everything was okay for once. Nothing could go wrong, the two set their vows and now they were bound together in every way possible.

At the reception, Sherlock sat as close to John as he possibly could, smiling contentedly. John leaned over to his new husband, whispering in his ear, “I love you Mr. Holmes-Watson.”
The taller man let out a soft laugh, “and I love you, Dr. Holmes-Watson.”

Their soft words sent the couple into a small giggling fit and John smiled wider than Sherlock had ever seen. “Through everything, you’ve always kept me going, I was so blind, and for that I apologize deeply.” They soldier paused, “if you hadn’t come into my life either of those times? I wouldn’t be here today.”

Sherlock instantly shook his head and covered John’s lips with his own, giving him the gentlest and most loving kiss that he could, “I don’t want to hear it, John, that’s behind us and I will never leave you in the dark again. You are the strongest and bravest man I have ever had the good fortune of knowing, and today, I sit next to you as your husband.”

The two smiled at one another and shared another kiss before John escorted his new husband to the dance floor for their first dance. The lights were dimmed slightly and a violin piece that Sherlock had composed and recorded started playing. The blonde let Sherlock lead him around the dance floor in a ballroom dance as they looked into each other’s eyes, both pairs dazzling. They could communicate their undying love and happiness through just their eyes and the way they moved.

The pair went through a few more dances before their gentle, loving kisses got more eager and heated. John didn’t take long to thank everyone for coming and saying their goodbyes before they rushed off to their honeymoon suite, hands never leaving the other. Needless to say, Mr. and Dr. Holmes-Watson didn’t get much sleep that evening. If there was one way that William Sherlock Scott Holmes-Watson would ever describe their wedding day, would be a single word – fantastic. Though when he walked through those double doors and saw John Watson standing at the altar, waiting to become his husband, well, in the words of that extraordinary man – “there he was, larger than life and so much more than I expected...”

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Typically, Sherlock found new people mundane and uninteresting. Meeting people was a dull task that he was forced to do on a regular basis - greet, smile, shake hands, introduce, repeat. That’s how it worked. It was an unnecessary process that truthfully gave Sherlock anxiety to no end, especially when others were watching. The Consulting Detective never imagined he could meet a new person and actually enjoy it - he stood to be shown otherwise.

Sherlock was attending a case, a dangerous one if he was to be honest. The man that he was chasing was a highly wanted criminal, having just committed a quadruple homicide of a family. Three sons and the mother, all dead. The father had died in a car accident the previous month. Sherlock solved the case quickly, of course, but now was in grave danger as he cornered the criminal who pulled a gun on the youngest Holmes brother.

Sherlock dipped behind the dumpster, panting heavily. “Give it up, it’s over.”

There was no response, Sherlock frowned and repeated himself once more - still no verbal recognition to his statement. Just as the man went to stand up to see if the man had escaped, he found himself eye to eye with the gunman, the firearm pressed against his forehead. The raven haired man slowly put his hands up as a sign of surrender. The man’s brain calculated every possible way to get out of the situation.

Before the Detective could finish his calculation, he heard a shout from where the sidewalk was, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!”

Both Sherlock and the criminal’s head shot over to see who had spotted them, the gunman moving his pistol to point over in that direction. Standing in the light was a short man. He had a cane, dressed in a jumper with a button up underneath, his free hand behind his back.

Sherlock’s mind worked quickly as he observed the man that stood before the two. Straight posture, erect, proud - trained. Short hair, pristine look - military trained. Cane, cheap clothing - discharged due to injury. Hand behind his back - gun. The words appeared before Sherlock’s eyes and he froze, the military man was ready to shoot. That’s all he could tell at the distance and the light from the lamp above, but the situation was not good. Perhaps the man had a grudge against the criminal? Another killing? A family friend?

Before Sherlock could get anything else, he heard two gunshots, a cacophonous noise ripping through the night air. The Consulting Detective snapped back into reality as he saw the soldier hit the ground, looking over to see the criminal running off, one arm limp at his side, he’d get to him later.

Sherlock rushed over to the complete stranger and kneeled down, quickly looking him over quickly. He’d been shot in the side, the bullet exited without hitting anything major. Sherlock put his hand over it and dialed 999.The man spewed out the series of events that had just occurred, requesting an ambulance. He put his phone away and looked down at the man.

“What’s your name, sir?” Sherlock asked frantically, he needed to get the information to tell the response team.

“J-John Watson,” the military man stuttered, taking deep breaths, eyes closed tightly in pain.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty one,” his breath started to slow as he began to lose consciousness.

Sherlock used his free hand to pat his cheek, “you have to stay with me, John, just until an ambulance arrives.” Sherlock moved John’s head into his lap to keep his head elevated.

John stayed awake for just a few moments longer, almost as soon as the sirens were within ears shot, the man passed out.

The Consulting Detective helped the paramedics load John up onto the ambulance, giving them everything he knew. Sherlock did his statement and ran off to find the criminal that had now injured yet another person.

Once Sherlock finished the case and reported to Scotland Yard to do what Lestrade needed him to do afterwards, he made his way to Saint Bartholomew’s to see John. When he arrives, he used Mycroft’s clarence card that he stole to get straight to John’s room. He walked in and sat down in a chair beside the bed, observing him. After a few hours, the man started to wake - it was a slow process.

John fully woke up and Sherlock wasted no time starting to interrogate the man, not in a harsh or rude way, but he was rather curious.

“Why did you challenge him like that? You got shot for no reason.”

John jumped and looked over, “what the he-?”

Sherlock cut him off, “I needed to be sure you were okay, but why would you put yourself in danger like that?”

John blinked in pure confusion and hesitated before answering. “Well, you were in danger.”

Sherlock shook his head, “bystander effect. You shouldn’t have stopped. You’re human, you should’ve assumed that someone else would help and kept walking for your own safety, that’s how the human brain is programmed.”

John frowned slightly, “I was the only one that saw, I had a gun on me.”

Sherlock looked at the man for a long moment, intrigued. He wouldn’t prod anymore, John needed to rest. The raven haired man stood and paused before walking over and leaning down, pressing a light kiss to the soldier’s cheek.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered and left.

A few days later, when John was released from the hospital, he found Sherlock’s blog and a number to go with it. He had gotten the man’s name from the Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard - Gregory Lestrade.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and at his phone when it went off.

‘It’s John Watson from a couple of evenings ago. I found your number online. I was wondering if you’d let me take you out for dinner Saturday evening at 7? -JW’

Sherlock smiled and shook his head, the doctor was extraordinary.

‘I’d like that very much -SH’

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At the age of 5, Sherlock Holmes was a very bubbly child. He loved to run around and play pirates with his Irish Setter, Redbeard. He never was one to really make friends, but that didn’t bother the young Holmes, he had his older brother, Mycroft. Some of Sherlock’s favourite childhood memories came from his older brother. Sherlock thought the world of Mycroft when they were young. He would play pirates with Sherlock whenever he wanted, they would have sword fights and explore the seven seas, it was more than any little boy could ever ask for. Sherlock Holmes truly believed that Mycroft was the best older brother that anyone could ever have.

Mycroft was 7 years older than Sherlock, the older boy adored the small curly-haired sibling that he had to watch over. He thought Sherlock was adorable, and he loved him with all of his heart. Everyday when Mycroft came home from school, his little brother would be sitting on the stairs outside of the house with two wooden swords in his hand. The little boy’s eyes would light up whenever Mycroft would approach and he would jump up and run over to him as fast as his little legs could carry him. The want-to-be pirate would wrap his small arms around the larger boy’s waist and hug him.

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“Myc! You’re home!” the curly-headed boy squealed.

Mycroft chuckled and wrapped his arms around Sherlock and picked him up, “I was only at school, brother dear.”

Sherlock giggled and wrapped his arms around his neck, placing a pirates hat atop Mycroft’s head, “well, it still took forever !”

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The siblings were practically inseparable. They were together from the moment Mycroft arrived home from school to the time he had to leave. Many times, they would even sleep in each other’s rooms. As Sherlock would sleep, Mycroft would lay awake watching over his younger brother, keeping him safe. The eldest Holmes sibling would constantly worry about Sherlock, he would monitor him if was playing alone, he would watch over him at night. The worry only grew with time.

Mycroft applied for a private boarding school at the age of 12, the summer before Sherlock started his first year of school. He received a letter in July that told him of his acceptance, he was ecstatic. The boy ran into the kitchen to talk to him parents about it, a bright smile on his face. He’d forgotten about Sherlock.

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“Mummy! Daddy! I got accepted into the school!”

They smiled brightly. “That’s wonderful, Mycroft! I’m so proud of you!” Mummy Holmes pulled her eldest close and tight, hugging him.

His father’s smile softened, “congratulations, son.” He ruffled his hair.

Sherlock looked over from the kitchen table where he was colouring, “are we going to school together, Myc?” His voice was filled with excitement.

Mycroft looked over and his smile faded, “actually..I’m going to London..”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, “we’re going to London!” He giggled and hopped up, “I’m gonna go pack!” The small boy ran upstairs and grabbed a suitcase from his parents room and dragged it into his own.

Mycroft followed, entering his little brothers room to find him throwing clothes into a bag, talking to his dog.

“I can’t believe it, Redbeard! I always wanted to go to school with Myc, and we are! We’re going to school in London!” He laughed happily, “Myc and I are going to school in the city! I wonder what it’s like! You’re coming with us, of course! I would leave my first mate behind!”

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Breaking the news to the hopeful, bright eyed young boy was the most painful thing Mycroft Holmes ever had to do. Sherlock was heartbroken, he cried and cried and cried. The small boy wouldn’t play pirates, he would eat and sleep and stay in his room. When the time came for Mycroft to leave, Sherlock refused to leave his room despite his parents efforts. A knock came on the door and he finally let them in.

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Mycroft stood at the door in a white button up with a blue cardigan and khaki pants. “Hey, little brother..”

Sherlock looked down and away from the brother he once looked up to, “what?” He mumbled quietly, starting to cry again.

The eldest Holmes sibling kneeled down and held out a small gift bag, “Sher..I know I can’t make it up to you, but I love you, so much, brother mine. I promise I’ll come home and play with you whenever I can, but..until then..”

Sherlock looked at him skeptically and hesitantly took the bag, opening it. Inside was a stuffed bee with an eye patch and a pirates hat. The boy started crying harder, “t-this is for me?” He looked up at Mycroft.

He nodded softly, “you’ll need a bad guy to defeat while I’m away, right? So, this is my replacement..”

Sherlock lunged forward and hugged his older brother, sobbing into his neck. “You’re not a bad guy, Myc. I love you. Please. Please come home.”

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That small bee became Sherlock’s best friend. He took it everywhere with him, his parents had a hard time taking it from him in order to wash it. He brought it to school, he brought it to the store, he slept with it every night. Except for when Mycroft came home, then it would be his older brother that he played with and slept with, refusing to leave his side no matter what.

Mycroft never ceased to adore his younger brother, he constantly wrote to him and talked to him on the phone. Each letter sent would receive one back. Sherlock’s letters would be written on lined paper, his handwriting taking up two lines in order to keep his handwriting size consistent. The boy’s would be messy, his b’s and d’s switched, is a’s looked like o’s. Mycroft thought it was cute. He saved every single letter that his little brother wrote him. Sherlock even sent pictures that he had coloured, all of them containing him and Mycroft, usually playing pirates. His letters contained stories about school or home, always expressing over and over how much he loved and missed Mycroft. Sherlock would always wait for his brother on the stairs outside of the house. When it was Christmas time, the young boy would sit with a blanket around him and two cups of hot chocolate in his hands. In the summer, he would wait with their pirate gear in his lap, ready to play.

When Mycroft was 17 and Sherlock was 10, the younger boy came to his brothers graduation. Sherlock was happy for him, but he had grown up quite a bit. He didn’t play pirates anymore, but he still carried the stuffed bee in his bag, keeping it close to him at all times. They had a small celebration at the house, it was fun, they played more practical games such as chess. Mycroft left again for college that semester, leaving Sherlock. Mycroft was gone when Redbeard died and Sherlock was alone.

By the time it was time for Sherlock to graduate, Mycroft was unable to make it home in time. When he did get home, the next night, he couldn’t find Sherlock, at all. He asked his parents where he had gone, they said he went over to Victor Trevor’s house. The man went and found out where that was and approached the door, he found out who Victor Trevor was, a classmate of Sherlock’s. He also discovered that Sherlock wasn’t there, but the boy gave Mycroft an address to go to. Mycroft Holmes sped off to find himself at an abandoned house, a drug den to be accurate.

The man rushed in and searched desperately for his baby brother. When he found him, the sight was one that he would never forget no matter how badly he wanted to. Mycroft finally saw the toll all of the leaving had taken on his little brother. He was thin as a rake and as pale as paper, he had dark circles under his eyes, his curls unruly. It was one of the most pathetic, heartbreaking sights Mycroft had ever seen. What had really pushed Mycroft over the edge, past his normal, uncaring facade was too see the small stuffed bee clutched to his brothers chest and Redbeard’s collar in his hand.

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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.