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Mycroft rubbed his hands over his face, lowered them and stepped towards Sherlock.
“We’re not actually going to discuss this, are we?” Mycroft glanced at John. “Make your goodbyes and shoot him.”
Sherlock watched his brother construct the argument: the smartest must survive; soldiers die for their country; John reduced to ordinariness. Then his cruelty became theatrical.
“You always were the slow one, the idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you.”
“Stop it.”
“Shoot him.”
“Please, for God’s sake, just stop it.”
“Why?”
“Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing.”
Mycroft’s performance faltered. Their eyes met, and everything neither Holmes could say passed between them.
I know.
Mycroft had shielded him with secrets, with lies, with his own body. He had loved Sherlock through drugs, death and every vicious rejection, even while teaching him that love was a defect in reasoning. Sherlock remained his first responsibility and permanent weakness.
Sherlock raised the gun.
“You said you liked my Lady Bracknell.”
“Where would you suggest?”
“Not in the face, please. I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society.” Mycroft fastened his collar. “I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me. Why don’t we try for that?”
Sherlock answered him with the smallest nod.
Your heart it is, then. I love you too.
Sherlock turned the gun on himself.