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He sits patiently on a chair in the research lab of St. Bart’s, absently leafing through a book on chemical science. His brother’s handwriting adorns the margins, several post-its mark points of interest and spilt experiments stain the pages. He notices his brother has cleaned the desk, cleared out his equipment and removed his unfinished experiments from the tables. He has prepared thoroughly for this. His act must appear to have been a thought-through decision. It must look as though he prepared to leave this world. He didn’t leave a note, but Mycroft has no doubt that it has been taken care of. Conveniently, all evidence of further investigations into Moriarty’s network have been removed also. This is the desk of a dead man, a madman who believed in his own experiments, and in his disappointment in the world, chucked everything out.
The door opens.
“You’re late.” Mycroft doesn’t look up, but offers the handkerchief from his breast pocket.
“In every sense of the word,” Sherlock replies, quoting his brother’s words from a few months back. It’s a joke, but neither one of them smiles. Not even Sherlock, who surely should be smugly pleased to have beaten his only rival at his own game. There is, however, not even a tug at his lips. The cost of beating his archenemy has been higher than he imagined. Lying to John has been harder than the detective thought it would be. Mycroft hears it all in his voice but makes no comment of it.
Sherlock accepts the handkerchief and returns it to his brother moments later, blood-soaked. Mycroft looks up to his brother then, dead-pan eyes regarding the bloody mess, wordlessly making clear that he obviously will not accept the rag like this. The blood-drenched handkerchief disappears in Sherlock’s pocket instead.
His brother looks awful. His hair is sticky and drenched with blood. His face looks better now that he has cleaned it a bit, but its in dire need of a wash of water. He’s scraped and cut himself in the process of landing, and they are visible under the bloodsmears on his face. Mycroft refrains from asking whose blood was used and if it was tested beforehand. From his stance, Mycroft can also deduce that he has several bruises on his arms and legs. Well, he did just fall off the top of a building
“Your room is ready,” Mycroft tells him.
“And Baker Street?” Sherlock asks. There’s nothing in his voice to indicate he’s just jumped off a building. But he wouldn’t have asked about Baker Street if nothing was amiss.
“I will pay for the first few months. I can’t make any guarantees beyond that.”
Sherlock looks away. That’s not what he meant. It’s hardly a moment for sentiment, but his brother can’t help it and Mycroft doesn’t remind him of it. It was his only friend, after all.
“I don’t think John would appreciate my talking to him,” Mycroft argues. “He holds me partially responsible for your death at least. What he does, is out of our hands.”
Sherlock inhales. Composure. Sentiment cast aside. It’s fine. A nod. He agrees.
“You were right, by the way,” Mycroft continues. Still no smug smile on his lips, still no glint in his grey eyes. It truly has been hard for him. “The name has been registered there a year ago, but no one is ever seen to go in or out. The light is switched on every night at the same time, but other than that it is an empty house.”
His face turns to stone. He will not look back, he will not doubt his decision. This is something he needs to do. This is something he needs to see through to the end. And he will. “Then there’s my first target.”
Moriarty’s legacy will not survive for long.