A Study in Mystrade

Silence

Disclaimer: I'm not sad or demonic, I just wanted to write this idea.

It was raining again for the fourth time that week.

The drizzle that had come with the dawn of a bleak Saturday had transmognified into a steady downpour that gathered in dark pools lurking in the swells of the grass. The wind softly blew against the tall spiked gate, drenching the black metal in slick water.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella nervously, clutching in one hand a bouquet of red roses, which he held close to his chest to spare them from the onslaught of the fat drops. He took a shaky breath, tightening his grip on the bamboo handle of his umbrella until his knuckles were a snowy white. Mycroft Holmes, the iceman who was unaffected by most human emotions, was more than a little nervous about his meeting with Gregory.

His mind raced ahead of his treacherous feet as they carried his vessel on the roughly hewn stone path overgrown with spongy moss, placidly soaking up the rain. He abruptly stopped at an immaculate marble wall topped with life-sized black metal skulls benevolently watching over a latticed gate liberally covered with ivy. As Mycroft unlocked the gate, he could barely keep his hand from trembling, and he was dangerously close to dropping the bloodred flowers he had tucked under his arm.

The gate opened with a quiet sigh onto a courtyard that seemed straight out of Victorian England, willow trees casting long shadows of dappled sunlight across the short grass. Violets, small but radiant, turned their pale faces towards the sun. But the only thing that Mycroft had eyes for was Greg, standing silent in the tree's canopy. He approached his fiance with trepidation, quietly kneeling in the partially dry grass in front of him as the rain slowed down to a gentle fall. Mycroft let the roses in his hand fall to the ground In front of Greg, but kept his eyes on the soggy earth.

"I brought flowers for you, my love," Mycroft murmured, his voice barely audible over the fat drops running off of the leaves in rivulets. When he recieved no reply, Mycroft stumbled through an explanation. "They're the same colour of roses we were going to have at our wedding, like the ones you brought to Angelo's on our first date." The corners of his mouth twitched almost like he was going to laugh at the memory, but the smile didnt quite reach his eyes.

"You got off of work late, and it was pouring outside. Your hair was absolutely soaking, but you miraculously kept the roses dry. Even though you were only ten minutes late, you were stammering out an apology like you had broken the law. It took forever to shut you up." Mycroft, still staring at the ground, silently put down his umbrella, the light-coloured handle gently resting on the flower's shiny plastic wrap.

For a long moment, there was nothing to hear bur the steady drip of rain surrounding the two, each droplet accenting the silence with their own melancholy noted of an eternal song of heartbreak. Overhead, a lone bird warbled cheerfully, a contrast to the gloomy atmosphere that had been created by the overcast weather. Finally, Mycroft gathered up the courage to speak again, but still kept his eyes glued to the ground. He didn't want to face Lestrade, not now, not when he felt so miserable.

"Everyone at the office adored you and your frankness. Anthea was so smug the first time you came to bring me coffee and lunch at work that I threatened to fire her. She kept leaving bags of goldfish crackers on my desk for several months afterwards." Mycroft fell silent, waiting for a satirical comment, or the infectious snorting laughter he had grown to love, but all he heard was stony silence.

"Gregory darling, can we work this out? I'm tired of being lonely and wondering what you're doing. My mind is against me with the pessimism I thought I'd left behind, but now I've found it was biding its time." Mycroft blinked back the drops (was it rain?) That were blurring his vision, sending them softly sliding down his cheeks. "I've missed you so much, love. Life is painful when everything reminds you of the past..." he trailed off as his phone vibrated in his pocket. Slowly, he pulled it out, only to put it back in disgust. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock; he'd find out soon enough. Mycroft ran a thumb across hid wrist, the texture difference between rows of raised lines and the smooth silkiness of skin an almost foreign concept made familiar by heartache.

As the quiet seemed to wrap a shimmering cloak of rain around the pair, Mycroft felt almost inexplicable anger towards the Detective Inspector. Why wouldn't he speak? Even Sherlock, annoyingly naive at times, knew better than to make the iceman open up. You would be better off conversing with a statue.

"Really, Gregory, you're being incredibly childish. I'm not quite sure what I did, and frankly, I don't care. Ignoring your problems won't make them go away, it makes them worse." Mycroft heard his voice escalating in volume,but he was beyond self control. "It's time you faced up to your responsibilities, Lestrade." He spat, calling his partner by his surname for the first time in years.

"You were always so lovingly altruistic, putting long hours into the job to keep unnamed men and women safe from harm. You kept my brother from spiraling out of control, and put him on his feet. You made so many people's lives better, and helped so many that were in danger." He was definitely crying now, the words fighting to get out between tight sobs as his shoulders shook with the effort of speaking.

"You didn't have to do it,you know,but you were always acting on instincts. I wish you hadn't jumped in front of me,or gotten there too late." Mycroft pressed his forehead against the cold granite, tracing the name on the stone with a trembling finger. In a small voice, he whispered, "Gregory my love, if you were going to die, why didn't you wait for me?"

He sat there for some time, curled against the headstone, his tears rolling down his face and splattering onto the deep red roses, as if he was watering them with his grief. Presently, Mycroft composed himself, letting the snowy handkerchief damp with melancholy float like a leaf and land on top of the flowers. Abruptly, he looked up, his bloodshot eyes fixing on a clearing between the stones. A small smile flitted across his face as a light breeze blew through the trees, causing the willow branches to dance and sway. "Took you long enough." Mycroft teased.

****

Sherlock was at Dartmoor with the new D.I helping with a triple homicide when he got the texts. When he saw it was Mycroft, he sighed in annoyance, and was going to make a smart remark until he read the message, and froze. Sherlock sprinted towards the nearest inn to call a cab, while praying he wouldn't be too late. During the infuriatingly slow ride to England, he read and re-read the three texts. He called Mycroft nonstop, but always reached voicemail. The messages seemed to be engrained in Sherlock's mind as he called John.

I hope I'm not bothering you, brother mine. - MH

Gregory's here. - MH

Tell Dr. Watson, I'm sure he'll understand. - MH

John jumped out of the sleek black car and broke into a run, almost flying over the cobblestones as he ran deeper into the cemetery, ending at the black lattice gate, ominously swinging in the wind with a silvery key still in the lock.

Not far into the Holmes plot, John stopped dead in his tracks, feeling his breath catch in his throat and tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes. "Mycroft, you bloody twat," whispered John, gazing at the body in front of him with remorse.

At first glance, nothing seemed to be amiss about the man kneeling in front of Lestrade's grave, and John had to take a closer look to really tell if he was dead. His eyes were closed, the slight amount of blood lightly spattered on his white collar the only sign something was wrong. Mycroft's umbrella was open, shielding the tombstone strewn with roses from the little amount of rain that drizzled off the leaves. The handle of the black umbrella was in his hand, the barrel of the small gun turned rosy pink by tragedy. John sank to his knees beside the man, even though he knew there was nothing he could do.

He was too late to save Mycroft from himself.

And as John sat in stunned silence among the dead, he could have sworn he heard the infuriatingly smug little laugh of the British Government, and the snorting laugh of D.I Lestrade.