For Only You (Teenlock!/Johnlock)

Chapter 23: The Fall of a Holmes

I raised an eyebrow, the name ringing no bells to me, no recognition finding its way into my slightly numbed system, "Sherrinford?"

A heavy sigh rattled Mycroft's shoulders, his chest puffing up from the intake of air that he suddenly seemed to need. He stopped walking, providing no warning of his abrupt halt, before looking into my eyes with a gaze more intense than I had ever felt before.

"Our older brother."

Mycroft's P.O.V

John's reaction was only to be expected, the constant blinking of his eyes that indicated a lack of understanding within his more basic mind. I was of two minds about learning that John had not been informed about the circumstances that surrounded us; the memories were more painful than one could express in casual conversation, but this was the man that my brother had decided is his goldfish. It was a difficult situation to be placed in, and telling John wasn't something that I would have hoped to have to do in order for him to truly understand the situation.

"Our brother died at the age of nineteen. He was on his way home from university, and I made the mistake of phoning him. He didn't see the truck coming."

I took a trembled breath, the familiar guilt flooding me like a wave, a poetic metaphor that barely managed to describe the extent of sheer pain that such a reminisce brought along. I had not wanted to remember the way that the man I had looked up to had died far too young, thanks to no one but myself and the distraction that caused his demise.

I could see the same twisted grimace grace John's lips as I often found on Gregory's when he learned of the negative sentiment that this made me experience, "Mycroft, you were just a kid..." he began, not continuing when I shook my head, dismissing his fragile attempt at alleviating the self-loathing that I had felt for such a long time. I hadn't just lost my older brother, I had cheated my mother and father of a son, my little brother of the role model that he deserved, that should still be present in our lives. I felt immense regret everyday, and John's words would not change that.

"His death is what changed us both so much when we were younger... Sherlock shifted in his temperament, decisive that he had to become like me. I became the man that I am today, teaching both myself and Sherlock that caring is not, and never will be an advantage. It is lucky for us both that we have yourself and Gregory, for if we didn't, I fear that we would be missing out on a shred of humanity that we seem only able to feel because of our partners," I explained in a low voice, wary of the constant busy rush of the hospital surrounding us.

The simple truth was that we were in a fragile situation, and we would only truly be able to help my brother if we united, even if it was an odd pact for all involved. Sherlock was already sinking back into the old ways that he used to behave, pushing away those that he loved most. I would be damned to loose my only brother left.

John's hand found its way onto my arm, and I could see the relief spread in his eyes when I did not push him away. I could see that he was about to speak from the moment his thin lips parted, a tiny breath filling his lungs, "Time. We need to give him time... God knows I am finding this difficult, and I haven't known Molly for nearly as long as Sherlock has, even if we are close."

After a small conversation in which I mostly agreed to what the stoic young man was saying, we made our way towards Sherlock's hospital room, disregarding the polite notion of knocking before entering, simply pushing into the room with quiet determination.

The question of my brother's mental wellbeing was on my lips, but quickly fell short when John spoke again, his tone very different to that of the words we had shared previously.

"The morphine was not that high when we left."

Sherlock's P.O.V

"Mm?" I hummed, unsure of why John felt the need to point it out. I liked it... It felt better than before. Now, I could think, without sentiment holding me back, my body feeling pleasantly numb.

I could see Mycroft's eyes flickering over me at an absurd rate, soaking in the information. I didn't care. He could judge all he pleased, he didn't understand.

"You do not need such levels of morphine," he scolded in a somewhat less icy voice than he usually held when reprimanding me. Most likely because one of my few friends had been gone for two days and I had been incapacitated, completely unable to help.

"Perhaps I wouldn't if she wasn't gone," I retorted, before words slipped out without my full permission. "If you hadn't killed Sherrinford we wouldn't have to worry about this."

In the blink of an eye, Mycroft was gone, the door bouncing off the doorframe as he left, the crack in his armour completely shattering his defence. It served him right for trying to dictate what I could and couldn't do.

Closing my eyes, I leaned back, uncaring of anything but the gentle throbbing of morphine still keeping my mind at bay, blocking unnecessary thoughts from surfacing. It was a surprise to hear that John wasn't demanding answers...

"He told you, then. How... noble of him."

"There is nothing noble about this situation Sherlock, and that was damned uncalled for. You damn well know that he cannot be blamed for an accident, and that was cruel."

"I am supposed to care?" I asked after a small pause, beginning to believe that there was a slight possibility that I should care about what I had just done to my brother, my only living brother.

Moments passed, and it became clear that John was waiting for my inevitable realisation.

"I should apologise," I mumbled, still not looking at him. It was only because of the bed dipping to my right that I knew he had joined me, lying on the bed next to me. Unlike what I would usually do, my arms remained by my sides, making no move to comfort or to hold John. I didn't need that from him, from anyone.

I wasn't an idiot, so I leaned back over to adjust my morphine levels to the highest that they would go, ignoring the fact that John had changed them. I didn't want to feel, to feel this attachment, these pointless sentiments that seemed to hinder and destroy everything a person could ever care for in this fragile world. My own body had been tortured before, and I could only assume that it was Moriarty who took away such a dear friend.

I would find him, and I would kill him. Ripping apart James Moriarty is the one thing that would consume me now, not John, not anyone. I would get my revenge, no matter what the consequences were, who I hurt in my path.

Caring was not an advantage.