Chapter Text
Ever since Reichenbach, Sherlock’s head was very occupied.
He sat perched in Mycroft’s study. He was curled into the office chair like a child, knees against his chest. The room had long since been extinguished of light other than one candle on the desk. Sherlock was in deep thought. He chewed the skin around his nail pensively. He was dead to the world. He was dead to John and Lestrade, to Anderson, to Donovan, to Mrs. Hudson. He of course had seen them all visit his gravestone, acknowledging his passing. Heard John's plea. He had to go after that. Didn't want to risk being heard crying. He was dead, like Jim Moriarty, he was a thing of the past.
Moriarty was dead, he had to be, didn’t he? Up on the roof. Sherlock kept replaying the scene.
They had been stood together, talking, they were only inches apart. Sherlock had found it odd, Moriarty’s closeness. Really they had remained close together throughout the entire encounter, the majority of it at least. Circling, observing, speaking.
The breath from Jim’s words would brush past his ears, his neck. They surrounded him, encompassed him, circled like a predator. Just like James, just like he had done up on the roof.
They remained so close. How had he ignored the facts he already knew like that? James was left handed, and offered out his right to shake. He should have noticed this this. Used the gesture to distract from his intent, so he could baffle Sherlock and draw the gun. Sherlock should have noticed.
Now they were both dead to the world.
The door opened steadily, to reveal Mycroft stood with two glasses. “Might I offer you a drink, brother mine.” Mycroft murmured, glancing around his study. His tone was soft, one of the only times he had really shown care to Sherlock since they were both rather young. The brightness of the room behind him made him look like little more than a silhouette of a man.
Sherlock gave no reply, only looking bitterly at the light seeping in before turning back to look into empty space. Mycroft continued inside, shutting the door behind him and making his way towards the candlelight, there he placed the two glasses on the table. “You shouldn’t read in this light Sherlock, it’s bad for your eyes.” He stated matter-of-factly, taking a seat in front of Sherlock and relaxing back with one of the glasses.
“I wasn’t reading Mycroft.” Sherlock answered, unmoving from his position.
“Then what could it be that you’ve been puzzling over all this time?” Mycroft’s inquiries were genuine, though unappreciated by Sherlock.
“Hardly anything that’d interest you.” Sherlock replied, tone flat.
“Hardly a fair assumption. We are only the two of us here Sherlock, it is alright to speak your mind. Now that you’re dead and have nothing better to do, what could possibly be going on inside your head?” Mycroft insisted.
Sherlock shifted his glance up towards his brother, as if debating his situation. He tapped his fingers on his knee silently, tapping out the binary code Moriarty had shown him. Imagining his eyes, his face, every single detail as vividly as possible, just replaying it all, frame by frame, dissecting it. And at one point, he got stuck, James was smiling, smiling up at him with that big stupid grin. You’re me. “Really Mycroft, it’s old news, nothing that I imagine could interest you.”
“The fall again, Sherlock?” Mycroft lowered his voice, not pausing to speak after Sherlock was done. “What is it about the fall that you keep going back to, brother mine? Is there something you aren’t telling me?” He sounded like a concerned mother, just trying to look out for her son, who was hiding everything.
The younger Holmes brother glanced away. He tried again to remember what he was thinking off. His brain just kept going to Moriarty, holding his hand, the intimacy in the moments up on the roof, the way James would tap shoulders occasionally as he made his predatory circles. What was it, was Moriarty testing him, teasing him, tempting him? He swallowed hard, running his tongue over his lips. His mouth had grown wet, more so than it should be. “Nothing I wish discuss now, brother.” He almost had to wrestle with the words.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of whatever it was he had brought in. Sherlock reached for the other glass, sniffing it tentatively. Scotch, of course it was. He placed the glass back on the desk. There was a long silence, which Sherlock was initially thankful for. That was, until his mind kicked back up, overanalyzing everything from up on the roof. He adjusted his seating position, lowering her feet to the ground. “Brother mine, did they ever find Moriarty’s body?” Sherlock asked, taking the glass once again and taking a drink.
“Not that I can recall hearing.” Mycroft answered, curiosity growing. “Why is it that you ask?”
“If his body was never found could it be, by some crazy circumstance, that he never actually died?” Sherlock declared, voice growing increasingly excited. Mycroft’s curiosity seemed to drop into pity. “What if he only pretended to shoot himself, so that I couldn’t call off the snipers using him. So that I couldn’t convince him to-.”
“Sherlock, James Moriarty is most certainly dead.” Mycroft’s tone was harsh when he spoke, eyes cold as he looked upon his brother. “I need to find you something to do, this being dead business is doing you absolutely no good.”
With that Mycroft rose to his feet, starting to leave the room. “What would make you want him to still be alive in any case. The man is a killer and a criminal, wouldn’t you rather him to be dead?”
“He said I was his distraction-.” Sherlock began to rise to his feet as well.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting feelings for a criminal Sherlock, what did I always tell you?” Mycroft quickly turned on his heel, tone playful but expression far from.
“Caring is not an advantage.” Sherlock mumbled, taking the glass from the table for the last time and draining it of its contents. "I don't care." He felt the familiar burn as it spilled down, causing him to cough slightly as the dense gas got stuck in his throat.
Mycroft nodded in approval. “Give me a couple days, brother mine, and I’ll have you out of Europe, perhaps that’ll give you more to think about other than the fall. I swear, half of this is your fear of heights coming back to bite you. Ever since you jumped off that roof trying to imitate Mary Poppins with my umbrella.” Mycroft teased, motioning for Sherlock to exit his study. “For now, just try and entertain yourself.”
Sherlock nodded, continuing into the guest bedroom and undressing. He closed his eyes. Right now, he wanted to be buried in his mind palace. Maybe a little maintenance would keep him from over analyzing the fall.