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It was less of a conscious decision and more of a visceral reaction when he saw it.
The sword rested up against the side of the table, unassuming and small in comparison to the rest of the room. That didn’t stop him from shuddering suddenly and violently before stumbling slightly backwards.
Really he should be used to these reminders by now. Mycroft would call it sentiment; his feelings clouding his judgment. At the moment however, he could practically feel the point of the sword up against his throat, slowly pressing in closer, depriving him of air.
“Sherlock?”
A breath of air slipped past his lips in a rush, he glanced up to take in his brother coming to stand beside him, regarding him with quiet unease. It was only then that he realized he had begun to press himself up against the wall. Physically forcing his muscles to relax, he pushed off the wall to stand on shaky legs, giving a curt nod.
“Mycroft.”
Mycroft didn’t reply, he only continued regarding him. Confused and mildly concerned, he followed Sherlock’s gaze to the harmless plastic play instrument. In an instant, his facial features morphed into something akin to pity.
And that was almost worse; to be looked at like a child who has just realized their beloved pet isn’t coming home, or that their grandparents will be gone one day. That life is neither fair nor endless, and that the world is rather unforgiving.
Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in all of Britain, brought to his knees by a £3 plastic sword.