Chapter 4: Come, friend, you too must die. Death and the strong force of fate are waiting

It was noon when Mycroft got home. Exhausted, he closed the door and sat down in the single armchair facing the fireplace. The fireplace was cold, he didn't lit a fire but just sat still and watched his loneliness. Unlike Sherlock's small apartment, his house was large with a lot of antique furniture, but no long sofa. He didn't receive guests at home, he didn't have friends, except very few rare occasions that Sherlock visited his house - he only came to his study and never stayed to chat.

He felt really alone in his own house. Right now, he knew those were the last moments of his life, but there was no one beside him, and he couldn't confide in anyone. A large house, many rooms with no one to occupy, it would later be sold to support the families of the plane crash's victims. He wrote that in his will, along with all the money he had ever saved up. Sherlock wouldn't want this house anyway, he had also never spent Mycroft's money, unlike what everyone might thought. Yes, he earned a lot of money but always did not know how to spend it, the money he was paid for his years of service to the British government would now be used to make up for his sins. People come and go from life with empty hands. He wondered what people would remember when they thought of him. A diligent employee? Or a murderer? A good brother, or a brother who deserved a shot in the chest? A responsible son, or a disappointment in the family? He didn't know how Sherlock would explain his death to his parents. He didn't dare to think, his biggest fear was facing that question. His parents were already in their 70s, and he really wished that Sherlock could hide his death from them, so they wouldn't have to suffer for the rest of their years. But he knew Sherlock wouldn't, and he wouldn't be able to either. Mycroft still called often to check on his family, his parents would surely be suspicious when he wouldn't call anymore. How he wished that he could sacrifice his life for this country, that death would not embarrass his parents for ever bringing him to this world. The wish could not come true. Over the years, through many things, he never thought that there would come a day when he would loathe himself as much as he did now.

Picking up the phone, he pressed the call button. What needed to be done must be done. After five rings, he heard his father's voice.

"Hello, Holmes family listen."

"Dad."

"Mycroft, oh. What's up, dear?"

"... I just call in to check. Have you and mom eaten yet?"

"No, not yet. Your mother is still cooking. Did you eat your lunch? No matter how busy you are, you must remember to eat well, son."

Mycroft smiled. His father still always considered him a child, and he had never made fun of his appearance, ever since he was an overweight boy until now.

"I already ate. Dad..." He hesitated. "When we're not there, you and mom have to take care of yourselves."

"Yes, I know. So do you, son. Mycroft, are Sherlock and Eurus all right?"

"The two are still the same as the last time you saw them, dad. I'm... I'm doing some paperwork, after done it will be much easier for you and mom to visit Eurus."

"Oh, that's such good news. Mycroft, it must be a lot of work for you. Don't be upset at your mother's words the other day, okay?"

To Mycroft's surprise, he found his own body shaking at his dad's words. Trying to keep his voice normal, he replied.

"Sure, dad. It's very understandable that mom is still mad at me, she has every right to, dad. You too. I've never been a good brother to her. I always felt apologetic towards Eurus, toward you and mom, for years, but it wasn't until now that I finally got the chance to say, dad, I'm sorry."

"I understand, but your mother, she needs more time. This whole thing, it was so unexpected for her, maybe she was overreacting, I hope you didn't mind. Oh, Mycroft, she is done with cooking, do you want to talk to her?"

"Ahm, I... yes, please, dad."

Then, he heard his father calling for his mother. Marie, Mycroft is calling. Then his mother's voice replied. I'm busy, tell him is there any urgency? He closed his eyes, trying to stop the trembling in his heart.

"It's okay, dad. I just called to check on you, nothing special. Dad, please take care and tell mom... I'm sorry for everything."

"Sorry son, I will talk to your mother. This stubborn old woman!"

"Yes, Dad, please hang up the phone. Goodbye, dad."

"See you son."

Mycroft remained seated in his chair with the phone ringing in his ear. He felt so bad, his stomach rumbled and he thought he was going to throw up. He wondered what would they feel, whether his parents would be disgusted with him when they knew what their son did.

Then he couldn't surpass the urge anymore, he stood up, ran to the toilet he tried to vomit but couldn't. For the past four days, he had not eaten anything, nor could he sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined of the burnt-out scene of the plane, with thousand pieces of debris and the cries of family members. He was scared of what he saw with his imagination, he tried to keep working, he tried to solve everything with the highest speed and concentration, to try to keep himself out of that obsession. In just four days, he completed all the plans, instructions and necessary notes for his existing work. Now that everything was done, the persons who needed to say farewell to had already heard it, he slowly pulled himself to his feet and trudged with heavy steps, he walked into the bedroom.

Walking to the corner, he gently pulled out two picture frames from his suit pocket, which he placed next to the other picture frame currently on the table. It was a picture of his family from a Christmas about ten years ago, when Sherlock was only twenty-five, and had not yet met John, a picture of only their family. Mycroft stood next to his father; Sherlock stood next to his mother. At that time, Sherlock had just finished rehab and started his detective work. Sherlock hated Mycroft at that time, Mycroft remembered the whole year he barely said anything to him, they only met a few times. Mycroft regretted the time that had passed, how he wished he could go back, to mend with his brother. He arranged three picture frames neatly, then opened the drawer of the cabinet and touched the back of the table, where stuck secretly a small bag of powder. This bag of powder he had kept since the assassination attempt on Tony Blair in 2006, since that day it had always been in his drawer. Clutching it in his hand, he stepped outside.

He knew Sherlock would come in just a little while; he couldn't control himself this morning so his brother would surely come to find the answer to the big question mark inside his head. Thinking of his brother, Mycroft felt his chest tighten. After all, when he left this world, he would probably be most worried about Sherlock. The young man always showed that he didn't have any emotions, but actually among the three Holmes children, only Sherlock was the emotional one. He feared his death would have a bad effect on Sherlock, like Victor's did. Mycroft sat helplessly in his chair, he slumped over the wooden table. He never could forget when he first saw Sherlock, the boy looked just like a red wrinkled monkey, how wonderful he had felt that finally he would no longer be alone. That seven-year-old's Mycroft made a promise to himself that he would always be there to protect Sherlock, and the Mycroft of present had never broken that promise.

Memories flooded back, he saw how happy he used to be when he was still a boy, with a little brother constantly circling around asking him to read books, asking him this and that, who kept hugging his brother's neck and saying, Mycroft, Mycroft. They used to be very close, that was before Sherlock erased his memories after Victor, and with forgetting about Eurus, Sherlock also forgot how close he used to be with his brother. It seemed that he had built a self-protection barrier, preventing himself from expressing his emotions as well as feeling the emotions that others brought to him. Thinking back now, Mycroft felt regret. At that time, he didn't think too much, he just felt that it might actually be good for Sherlock to lose part of his memory, so he also helped control this forgotten trauma. "Redbeard is a dog", "Mycroft is the smartest", these trigger phrases he never intended to use them to bully Sherlock; they actually were meant to make sure Sherlock still didn't remember about Eurus, and his painful past. He claimed to be the smart one, and said Sherlock was an idiot, he didn't calculate that gradually made the two of them come to have such a big distance. He could no longer be as close to his brother as he used to be.

Then he reminded himself, caring is not an advantage. Ridiculous. He felt stupid. After many years of losing brotherhood, finally his enemy still figured out his fatal weakness: Sherlock. He had always thought to himself, it was better for Sherlock not to be so close to him, to avoid his enemies targeting Sherlock. But then this day still came, facing with the choice between his own brother's life or others', he did not even need to think. Everything he did, who he became, where he was today, wasn't it just to protect Eurus and Sherlock? So, he had accepted to throw himself away, he knew that the crash of that plane would be the end of his life, even if he was not reprimanded, he would never allow himself to continue living with that amount of guilt. But Sherlock would live. Once he died, Sherlock would also reduce a large number of his enemies, maybe his life could be easier. And a little safer. After all, he always wanted him to stop interfering, now that he could finally stop caring. With his death.

Holding the poison bag in his hand, he resolutely stood up. He was afraid that if he waited for a moment more, if he saw Sherlock, he might lose the courage to leave and break his heart. He needed to do it now, he couldn't give himself any chance to back down. He had reached the point of no return. Mycroft felt lucky, he was so glad now that his brother had John by his side, once he left, John would replace his place. Sorry Sherlock, my action was really selfish, but I couldn't take this anymore. After my death, please take care of yourself. You will become the eldest brother, please take care of parents and Eurus too. Mycroft opened a bottle of whisky, he poured the golden-brown liquid into the glass, then the powder, looking at the wavy liquor in his trembling hand, he smiled. This is it. His stomach rumbled, he felt empty. He drained the glass, it tasted bitter and strong, he had hoped it could fill his empty feeling but he still felt the same pain. He did not feel liberated. Everything had been decided, now all he had to do was waiting for Sherlock's arrival.

Mycroft looked at the empty glass in his hand, afraid that Sherlock might touch it later, he carefully walked into the kitchen, washed the cup and then poured himself another one, fuller this time. His stomach was still rumbling. He felt a surge of nausea rise to his throat, but then he swallowed it down, with a large gulp of whisky. The feeling of drinking alcohol on an empty stomach was so enjoyable, he could feel the liquid slowly going down his stomach, burning each inch of his inside. He began to feel that the fatigue was getting unbearable, days of non-stop work and the lack of nutrition were starting to affect his nervous system. He was no longer as young and healthy as he once was. Middle age came, closing his eyes, he collapsed on the table. His eyes darkened, and in the darkness, he seemed to see Sherlock's eyes fixed on him. A look of sadness and full of questions. Sherlock.