Not A Thing You Get To Choose

Nothing Extraordinary Anymore

"Get out, get out of my house, get your men away or I shall call for your arrest!" Mycroft exclaimed in disgust, wielding his briefcase as if it were a weapon, standing before his defenseless brother like a guardian angel in a shabby work suit. Victor gave a great growl, pulling himself immediately to his feet and nursing a bleeding nose with the back of his hand, wincing however a smile was on his face, a poisonous smile.
"You cannot arrest an Inspector." He growled as he straightened up, brushing off the dirt from his black trench coat and staring at Mycroft with a look of a mad dog, his blue eyes alight like a lightning storm.
"I can certainly try." Mycroft warned, standing tall and even with his short stature he somehow managed to look down upon the towering Inspector, the one who now growled and limped back inside, calling for his men to leave as he himself glared at the two brothers before pulling open the carriage door and clambering inside. One by one the police left the house, none of them seemed to have found much except nothing, and so they all looked rather disappointed as they followed their leader inside, all except one who managed the horses and started them all back to the station, whipping at the horses so that they could start off down the road, clomping and dragging the heavy carriage wheels over the dirt. For a moment the two stood in the road, Sherlock was leaning against the house, short of breath and in a state of panic, his heart throbbing and yet not with love, with quite the opposite. He was disgusted, honestly and whole heartedly revolted by the man who dare lay a finger on him! How dare he think he was in any place to kiss him, to try to take possession of the heart that was in John's protection? And yet he acted like he knew, he acted as though he had some sort of insight that Sherlock never expected him to have. He acted almost as if John was their little secret...
"Are you alright, Sherlock? Are you hurt?" Mycroft asked suddenly, turning on his brother as soon as the police carriage rumbled off into the distance, the sound of the horse's hooves finally fading off and becoming mere background noise for the otherwise silent pair.
"I'm fine, I'm fine he's gone, he's...it's alright." Sherlock whispered, shivering madly before shaking his head and trying to get to his feet. Mycroft rushed to his aid, and for once Sherlock didn't wince, he his brother support him, he leaned on his shoulder and let Mycroft help him into his bed. Sherlock just sat on it, however, for he still remembered that Victor had just been sitting on it moments before and to lie where that man was...well it was something he would want to avoid.
"That vile man, oh he should be hanged, not you! The scoundrel, to always knew there was something off, oh I should've guessed it from the start, thank God I was there Sherlock...thank God." Mycroft mumbled, standing near Sherlock's bedpost and looking down at his brother mournfully. He immediately grabbed for a blanket, trying to pull it over Sherlock's shoulders all while Sherlock tried to push him away, he didn't want to be pampered like this, all the fussing only reminded him once more that it had actually happened.
"I think he knows, I think somehow he knows about John." Sherlock breathed.
"Oh let him try, let him try to prosecute you for the same thing he is guilty of." Mycroft growled.
"He will get away with it, he's an inspector, whatever he says is valid, no matter how hypocritical." Sherlock insisted in a small voice.
"And no one would ever listen to us." Mycroft agreed. Sherlock nodded quietly, finally pulling the corners of his blanket around his shoulders and staring down at the floor. Mycroft was right, of course, no one would believe them. They were poor, they had no titles, they were forgotten and they were the closet things to criminals you could get. Sherlock himself was a triple offender, while Mycroft could most certainly be tried for being an accomplice, harboring a fugitive, and aiding and abetting. They would both hang, should all the crimes be recognized, unless of course Sherlock somehow convinced the jury that he had Mycroft under his spells this whole time, making him turn a blind eye, being in complete control of his actions. It was pathetic, to have to lie to protect one of the only good people in the world, and yet Sherlock didn't see a pretty future for either of them. Now Victor was angry, like a mad dog who had just got off his chain, certainly he'd be back, certainly he'd be ravenous.
"No one ever does." Sherlock agreed quietly. "And yet we'll just make sure we don't have to speak, maybe he'll stay away."
"He won't, that creep will be drawn to you even more now, oh it's just...it's disgusting!" Mycroft exclaimed horrifically, shivering violently before sitting down heavily in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, hanging his head in his hands and breathing rapidly.
"Being a homosexual is disgusting?" Sherlock clarified with a blink. Mycroft just sighed heavily, shaking his head and looking up at Sherlock mournfully.
"No of course not, that man is my age, and he dares to kiss you, and to scare you, and use his job to hold us hostage oh he's infuriating!" Mycroft exclaimed angrily, clenching his fists before sitting back in his chair, shaking his head as if lost in thought.
"He's gone now, Mycroft. We can just eat, we can clean up, we can forget about all of this. I'll go and look for a job tomorrow, maybe John can help me." Sherlock murmured.
"Do you really want to be seen with him yet? After you publicly killed him?" Mycroft clarified, looking quite mystified.
"There's only one way to publicly prove that he's alive. Maybe if people see us together they'll think we're...I don't know, healing?" Sherlock suggested. Mycroft nodded, however he still seemed reluctant, for he held his chin on his fingertips like he did when he was lost in thought.
"Sherlock maybe it's best to just lay low for a while longer? If you see him again, I fear to think what might happen if you were alone." Mycroft admitted with a shudder.
"I won't be alone, I'll have John, or Greg, he was the one that took me today." Sherlock admitted with a shrug. Mycroft knitted his eyebrows curiously, looking at Sherlock as if he wasn't aware that Sherlock had even gone out.
"You went somewhere? Where?" Mycroft wondered nervously. Sherlock's cheeks immediately went pink, shrugging his shoulders and swinging his feet reluctantly.
"I went to John's...he invited me. I think he's finally realized that we're meant to be together after all." Sherlock said with a little nod, to which Mycroft only hummed. He had of course never known the first part of the story, in which John left Sherlock to ensure his safe passage to Heaven, however what mattered now was that they were back together, happily reunited and looking forward instead of down.
"Well that's good; I suppose that's what matters now. Think not on Inspector Trevor, he is a mere leaf in the whirlwind of life, and surely enough he will be blown away by the changing winds. Let's eat then, and think on happy things. Maybe you could play the violin for me tonight, to liven things up a little bit." Mycroft suggested with a smile, to which Sherlock just nodded reluctantly, easing himself off of the bed and letting his comforting blanket fall into a heap on the rest of his sheets. The violin sounded wonderful of course, however the last time he played it he saw his life force play out before him, mirroring his thoughts as the music mimicked his feelings. He had been falling in love then, what felt like so long ago, and so the music had been happy and the birds had flown and John had been there, he had kissed him. And yet now Sherlock felt drained, he felt miserable, he saw only one man in his head and surely that man would be displayed in his music, his slow music, his dreary music...It wouldn't do to liven anything up at all. For dinner Mycroft had only bought a single loaf of bread, and it was already more stale than Sherlock was used to at this time. He could only imagine the state it would be in the next morning. And yet when they didn't have a daily salary this was what they resorted to, the bare minimum, it felt so long ago that Mycroft was cooking up ground beef, joy in their hearts...and now they sat here in silent despair, trying to hide the fact that inside they were aching. Mycroft didn't seem to have anything to say and yet it was obvious that he wanted to say something, for he was sitting rather stiffly, staring at the table below his hands as if looking to it for conversational inspiration. Sherlock didn't want to talk, and to be perfectly honest he would prefer the silence to whatever sort of conversation Mycroft wanted to strike up. There really was no aspect of their life that wasn't depressing anymore, and after all the fiasco of life and death it was really inopportune to factor in Victor Trevor's disgusting taste in forceful flirtation. When dinner was over Sherlock didn't want to play his violin, and so he made his excuses and went early to bed, not even daring enough to try to read his borrowed textbooks by the light of a candle, he wasn't quite sure that he could concentrate right now. So much excitement, all in one day...Sherlock pulled the curtains around his bed and lay in the darkness, shielded mediocrely from Mycroft's flickering candle as he tried to get ahead on some of his clerk business, sitting at the table and writing out numbers on some very confusing looking spreadsheets. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, longing for John, wishing that he could just curl up with him ever so innocently, hold his head against his beating heart and listen for the rhythm that Heaven had created so as to lull him to sleep. And yet that very heart had given out because of him, that heart had stopped...because of him. Sherlock wasn't sure now if even that would help him sleep, it was a horrible state of loneliness that overcame him, of helplessness. He missed the coos of Merlin from the bedpost, Merlin who now lay in the hastily dug hole in the field he had once explored. He missed having magic, he missed conjuring spells and pleasing crowds, he missed having a purpose...he missed being special. Now who was he, really? A commoner, a criminal, a homosexual? Nothing without his magic, nothing extraordinary anymore.