Chapter 5: We will never be here again

Sherlock opened the big wooden door that led to his brother's house. Mycroft had given him the keys, and also told him the password, but over the years the number of times he had visited this place could have been counted by fingers. He never felt the need to find him, because Mycroft always seemed to be there, he didn't have to reach out, Mycroft himself would come to meet him at 221B Baker Street. But today Mycroft was very strange. He couldn't believe he could see a person who had never expressed feelings in front of others like him crying, for no reason at all. There must be something, he needed to find out. Feeling frustrated, Sherlock looked around the house, hoping to find a sign of something, or to see his brother. No lights, no sounds. It was early afternoon, but the house with its thick curtains was still shrouded in darkness. Where was Mycroft now?

He found his brother slumped over in his study, where wooden chairs were stacked around a long oak table, beside him was a half-empty bottle of Macallan Oscuro. Getting drunk during daytime, how very unlike Mycroft. He walked over, shook Mycroft gently, smelled the alcohol and heard the soft breathing, suddenly he felt annoyed.

"Mycroft! Mycroft! Wake up, I said I'd come, why are you so drunk?"

Mycroft remained motionless. Sherlock's anger grew.

"Wake up now! Hey, Mycroft!"

Shaken violently, along with a loud call, Mycroft gradually regained consciousness. It was too noisy. Mycroft opened his eyes, but he could only saw a piece of darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut, shakes his head, then opened them again, gradually he could see Sherlock looking straight at him.

"Already drunk at this time of a day? This is not you."

Placing his hands on the table, he helped his body straighten up. He felt his head spin, and for a moment he lost his balance and almost fell back into the chair. Sherlock took his brother's arm.

"I'm just a little dizzy. Sorry."

Sherlock didn't say anything, he silently held Mycroft's arm. After a few long seconds, Mycroft gradually felt steadier, he looked at Sherlock and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you, brother mine. I've been waiting for you forever, so I fell asleep. Sit down here. Have a drink?"

Sherlock looked at his brother with a questioning look. He was in no hurry to answer. He didn't know how to answer either. He didn't know if he should drink with this brother with such strange behaviors.

Mycroft walked slowly over to the cupboard to fetch Sherlock a cup. He grabbed another large blended whisky bottle, dark green colored glass with an old-fashioned name: The last drop. The name itself was so interesting and appropriate. His mind was still reeling, but he regained some control over it. He smiled at his brother.

"Let see. Today is Sunday. Have a drink with me."

Mycroft sat down in a chair. Sherlock was still standing, so he pulled his brother into the chair next to him. He poured the liquor. The sound of alcohol dripping down the glass was the only sound heard. Sherlock broke that silence.

"Is there anything I can help with?"

Mycroft smiled. Over the years, when he came to him with cases, he would always find a way to refuse, and now he suddenly took the initiative to ask to help him, he really did not feel familiar.

"I'm so free, I don't have a case for you."

"I'm not talking about cases! What's with today morning?"

"What happened in the morning? I don't remember. Ah! Nothing happened!" He pretended to be drunk. He didn't know what to explain to Sherlock about why he had accidentally cried in front of him. Emotions were inherently difficult to control, so he had always tried to avoid playing with that difficult mental toy.

Sherlock seemed to realize his brother was pretending to be drunk. He knew he wouldn't be able to get any information out of Mycroft, if he didn't allow. Mycroft never compromised easily; Sherlock had always known that since he was a child. Pretended to be drunk, then he would let him get really drunk! Let the alcohol do the real talking! He took the glass, clinked Mycroft's cup lightly, and drank it down.

Mycroft smiled. He suddenly felt glad that Sherlock had come. He had always thought that he liked being alone, but now he realized it was just something he told himself when he had no other choice. In these moments of weakness, it felt so good to have Sherlock here.

He also picked up his cup and drank it down.

He couldn't remember how many cups he drank, or if he said anything. In his hazy memory he felt Sherlock's voice ring around, then he guided him to bed. He didn't really remember much. Mycroft was never a heavy drinker, although over the years he had developed the habit of drinking to lull himself to sleep, his tolerance to alcohol was still inferior to Sherlock's. He didn't even have anything in his stomach, which made the liquor even easier to absorb. He felt himself in a dreamy state, almost like he had fainted, he found his mind no longer function; unlike usual, no matter how tired he was, his mind could never relax. There was a pleasant feeling of emptiness now, immersed in solid blackness he suddenly thought if this was death? If so, it was not too bad.

Mycroft found himself walking in a dark tunnel. There was only a faint light ahead, but the light was thin and weak as if it was about to go out. He ran to the light source. He felt cold and wet. The cold made him shiver slightly. He heard the call, "Mycroft!" Turning, he saw no one, but the further he went, the louder the call became, rushing and reproachful. "Mycroft!" He kept running, suddenly he saw Eurus, and Sherlock. He found himself in the middle of Musgrave's empty graveyard, a cold landscape with mossy tombstones, his siblings were in their five and six-year-olds' ones. They looked at him with cold and resentful eyes. "You lied to me, you left me there alone, you never came back." Eurus said. "You lied, you weren't there for me, you promised, didn't you? You don't protect us anymore? You never tell me the truth." Sherlock questioned. Mycroft didn't know what to say, he reached out his hand to touch Sherlock, when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his head. He felt his eyes fill with blood; he touched his head then felt a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead. Eurus laughed horribly; she was holding a gun in her hand. He felt so much pain, his head hurt so much, he fell to his knees and put his hands on his head. It hurt so bad, he wanted to die, he could still feel Sherlock's gaze and Eurus' laughter echo in his ears.

But then he suddenly woke up. It was not death, just a nightmare. Death would come, but not yet. He found himself lying alone in his bedroom, he raised his hand to look at the hand watch. It was 6 pm, darkness surrounded around him, no more sunlight shining into the room. His head throbbed, jerking in pain. Mycroft felt faint, closing his eyes he did the math. So, he had took the poison for five hours, he calculated it would take effect tonight. That was an interesting trait of ricin, after the poison was ingested, symptoms of poisoning would not occur immediately but at least ten hours later. Once the symptoms began to show, it would be too late for emergency care. It was indeed a wonderful poison for those who really needed to die, a long and painful death, but a guaranteed one.

He forced himself to sit up. The thought of spending the last hours of his life lying in bed thinking about death was indeed very unlike Mycroft's personality. His hands gripped the bed sheet tightly, he kept his body steady, then he slowly stood up. It was so cold, he reached for his coat hanging on the chair, he put it on and went outside. Maybe Sherlock had already left.

Dragged himself to the dining room, he was about to pour a glass of water as his mouth tasted bitter and dry, when he startled to see Sherlock still sitting in the dark, hands clasped resting his chin on, his blue eyes glowing in the dark. He looked at Mycroft intently.

"Oh, Sherlock is still here? I thought you had left."

Sherlock stood up. The wooden chair dragging on the floor made a loud noise. He headed towards the kitchen, then turned on the light. The sudden light dazzled Mycroft a bit.

"Ahm... Do you want to eat something? I cooked some while waiting for you to wake up."

Mycroft was shocked, he had never eaten Sherlock's cooking in all these years. He didn't even think that his brother was capable of cooking. As if reading his mind, Sherlock spoke with a shy smile.

"Just some tomato soup, and scrambled eggs with toast. I don't see anything else in the fridge that is edible. What happened to your hourly maid? Are you really that serious about losing weight this time? Or should I order pizza?"

Mycroft looked at his brother, he suddenly felt the bridge of his nose sting. He gently sat down in the chair next to Sherlock.

"I want to try your cooking."

Then he smiled, turning his back to see Sherlock started to turn on the stove to reheat the soup. He reached for the plate, poured the soup out, and said in his deep baritone.

"I still remember, when you brought me home from drug dens, you always cooked me soup. I haven't forgotten its taste. I also planned to make pumpkin soup, but your refrigerator doesn't have the ingredients, hence these dishes. Give them a try?"

Looking at the warm soup plate on the table, Mycroft scooped a small spoonful and brought it to his mouth. The slightly sour soup entered his bitter mouth, creating a feeling that was difficult to describe in words. He closed his eyes, then he was surprised to feel his eyes blurred, tear welling up a little. He blinked, a tiny drop rolling down so quickly, he hoped Sherlock didn't recognize.

"Delicious. Thank you."

Sherlock sat still, looking at his brother. The air around them suddenly became thick, as if they were both thinking about what to say next, and neither could think of it. Sherlock suddenly reached out and grabbed Mycroft's left hand, which was lying on the table. Mycroft was surprised, he tried to pull his hand away, but Sherlock held it tightly. Mycroft's hand was cold and dry, he could feel Mycroft shaking slightly, it seemed like not only his hand, but his whole body were shaking.

"Listen, Mycroft..."

"Yes?"

"Can't you tell me?"

He looked at him. His gaze was deep, as if he wanted to say it all, but also needed to hide it all.

"I just don't want you to worry about things you can't handle".

"I only want to know what's bothering you so much? Maybe I can't solve it, but... I still feel very worried not knowing."

Mycroft said nothing. He gently pulled his hand away from Sherlock's, he even patted the young man's hand twice reassuringly. Mycroft leaned down, pretending to be focused on the soup, when he was really lost in thought. He didn't know what to tell Sherlock so Sherlock could be more accepting of his impending death. He really hadn't figured out yet. His hand gripped the spoon tightly, then he put it down on the plate, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze he whispered.

"Sherlock... I've resigned."

Sherlock was shocked, he sat up straight in his chair, and waited silently for his brother to continue.

"I failed to stop the HS121 from crashing. I must take full responsibility for this. I'm going to... leave London. I hope that when I'm not here, you can help to take care of our parents and Eurus. I spoke to Lady Smallwood this morning, from now on all decisions regarding Eurus will be through you."

Sherlock was silent, not knowing what to say. Then he sighed, looking at his brother with a sympathetic look.

"Just one mistake in your whole life, all these years you've served this government, one mistake should not destroy it all, Mycroft. Was it you who taught me that we should always have chances to make amends?"

"It's not simply a mistake anymore Sherlock, this is human life, a hundred and eighteen ones and it was all because of my... carelessness. I am covered in blood. Do you think that I still can pretend like nothing happened and still be as proud as a government employee as before, continue to take that government salary which is basically people's taxes, still live in this land? I... I can't fix this anymore, Sherlock."

Mycroft lowered his head, his tears streaming down the wooden table. Sherlock didn't know what to say for a moment, he reached up and gently grabbed Mycroft's shoulder.

"Where are you going to? What will you do?"

Mycroft did not immediately respond. He really didn't know how to respond. He took Sherlock's hand and evaded his questions.

"Promise me you'll take care of mom and dad when I'm not around. Eurus too..." Mycroft couldn't stop a soft sob. "I've always felt guilty toward her. It's her right to want me dead, I put her in these cells with my own hands, and hid her existence from everyone. I'm a terrible brother, Sherlock, aren't I? If I were her, I'd absolutely want me to pay for this. How could a brother be so cruel to his own sister? Even to you, I'm really sorry that I didn't really care for you when I was in Oxford, that's why you got so hooked on drugs!"

Mycroft felt Sherlock's hand grip his shoulder tighter, but Sherlock remained silent, waiting for Mycroft to continue.

"I don't expect forgiveness, that's too much to ask. I just hope that everyone can continue to live well, even though I may have made your lives unbearable. Mom is still mad at me Sherlock, and I'm sure dad is, too, even though he doesn't say it outright. They must be very disappointed of a son like me. I'm not dare to face them anymore, Sherlock..."

He looked at his brother, who was shaking slightly, although he still tried to stop the sobbing, his tears still dropped on the table.

"Parents will understand, Mycroft, they just need a little more time. I... I don't blame you either, don't you listen to the words I said when I was high. Eurus, she doesn't really care enough to blame, you know her."

Sherlock knew his words weren't doing much right now, but he didn't know how to comfort people. Especially when that person was his brother, who was always expressionless, he had never seen his brother cried in front of him, much less broke down completely like this. Sherlock silently watched his brother cry, he saw Mycroft's shoulders trembling, he felt awkward, didn't know what to do. They just sat like that for a few minutes, and then, when he felt the tremors in Mycroft's shoulders subsided a bit, Sherlock pulled him to his feet.

"Hey Mycroft, let not sit here anymore. Let's do something more fun? Do you want to play chess?"

Mycroft got up to follow his brother, but he felt dizzy again. Maybe he got up too quickly, it couldn't be the poison's symptoms, he had calculated, in the next few hours he would still be safe, he could wait until Sherlock got home. Steady himself, he followed Sherlock towards the reading room.

Then as a habit, they played together a few games of chess in silence. Sherlock won all the games, he could feel his brother's lack of concentration, as if his mind was somewhere else. He looked at Mycroft's pale face, he looked tired, even though he didn't say it, he must be having a terrible headache. Sherlock could almost see the veins on Mycroft's temple twitching; it was mid-October but his brow was already covered in sweat. Seeing Mycroft suffered silently without saying anything to him, just because he asked for this game so he continued to play without paying attention to his own health, Sherlock suddenly felt uncomfortable. He thought about how it was always Mycroft who had cared for him since he was a child, but Sherlock had never returned the favor. He had already grown up to be a man, but he never showed Mycroft he was also someone he could rely on. Sherlock suddenly touch Mycroft's forehead.

"You have a fever."

Mycroft was startled by his brother's sudden action; he avoided the touch and raised his hand to squeeze his forehead.

"I didn't notice. Just a normal headache."

"Shall I leave for you to rest?"

Mycroft glanced at his watch; it was almost nine o'clock. He seemed to hear its needles ticking, tick tock tick tock, his time was running out. He looked at Sherlock but didn't say anything. He wanted to make him stay, he really didn't want to spend the last moments of his life alone, but he also knew that Sherlock must leave as soon as possible, he should never let his brother see him die without being able to do anything. He felt sorry for Sherlock, no matter what, when he learnt that he was dead, he would surely fall.

Tensing at Mycroft's silence, Sherlock got up and walked towards his bedroom. As he walked, he raised his voice.

"Do you have your medicine? Shall I get it for you?"

Gathering his senses, he spoke to Sherlock's back

"No need, I can get it myself."

But Sherlock had already walked to the door. He opened it, everything in the room remained the same. But he felt something different, he didn't immediately realize when he heard Mycroft's voice. Glancing at the room for a few more seconds, he closed the door. It was Mycroft's private place, after all, he should not get in. He respected his brother, and also respected his isolated personality.

Sherlock stepped closer to Mycroft, who was now standing up and looking at his brother with a sad smile.

"So, I should be going."

"Yeah..."

"..."

"Well, Sherlock..."

"What, Mycroft?"

"Thank you for spending time with me today. I felt much lighter after talking with you."

"You are being so polite!"

Mycroft smiled, he took his brother's hand and held it tightly.

"I'm not, I just say what I really think. Thank you. Sherlock, goodbye!"