Chapter 7: Ruin will strike the man down, crazed and blinded until he's paid the price

Mycroft gently closed the wooden door. Looking at Sherlock's back, his Belstaff coat flapping in the wind with each step, just like the wings of a large bat, Mycroft smiled. His brother always walked as fast as running. He looked so full of energy.

Finally, Mycroft was left alone. Yes, no matter how much he denied Sherlock, he always knew he was truly a loner. Loneliness by choice. He had always refused to go deeper into relationships, he had always tried to keep it purely on a work level. He thought of Lady Smallwood, and Anthea. His death would probably have a big impact on those two women. He felt a little guilt in his heart. He didn't want people to suffer because of him, but staying alive became too much of an idea. If he continued to exist when he really had no desire to live anymore, every day to him would be pure torture. He knew he was selfish, but he felt like giving up, wanting to end it all. Edwin would probably take his position. Sherlock would be fine, parents too. Eurus wouldn't care. He felt a wave of dizziness coming, his vision blurred slightly. The time had come.

Mycroft sat at the foot of the bed, he closed his eyes and a part of him was strangely enjoying the moment. He felt he deserved it. For his sins, he deserved the pain to come. He felt his head spinning, the headaches gradually came, his ears started ringing. Mycroft felt his stomach begin to twist. He ran to the bathroom to throw up, he tripped over but luckily, he still managed to crawl to the toilet before vomiting all of his dinner. The dinner Sherlock cooked for him. He felt sorry, but he could not think for long, he found himself continue vomiting blood. Bright red blood rushed down his throat, mixed up with the vomit into a horrible combination. He stayed sitting on the bathroom floor for a few more minutes, when he felt better, he tried to get himself up. Mycroft looked down at the bloody toilet, disgusted with himself, he held the flush button for a long time. He wanted to go to the rooftop, he needed to get some fresh air. He knew he would soon faint, but he didn't want to pass out in the bathroom, that would be too pathetic, even for a reptile like him.

Lightheaded, he clung to the handrail forcing himself up the stairs. Blood from his nose began to drip onto the wooden floor. His whole body started to tremble. He felt a chill in his body. Opening the terrace door, he aimed to walk towards the familiar rattan chair, but then the pain in his stomach suddenly returned, it ached like there was a knife stabbing and twisting from inside. The pain made Mycroft unable to see clearly, even though it was dark all around but his eyes seemed to be blinded with white pain. He fell to his knees and vomited a large gulp of blood. His head hit the stone floor hard, but he felt nothing. He only heard the ringing in his ears grew louder, overwhelming all his senses. His face pressed against the cold ground, Mycroft felt his surroundings wobble, his mind reeling, and then slowly he gave himself up to the darkness.

His consciousness came back while he was in the ambulance. He heard car horns howling, it sounded far away. He frowned; the headache returned again. Mycroft felt bone-chilling cold, he trembled uncontrollably but his tiring mind didn't even recognize its body was shaking. Mycroft tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't see anything, everything was like in a thick fog. He heard Sherlock's voice in the distance, someone was clutching his hand.

"Mycroft! Oh my God, Mycroft, you're awake! Look at me! Mycroft, hang on, you'll be fine, brother."

Mycroft did not respond. He wanted to talk to Sherlock, but even opening his mouth was difficult, he couldn't move anymore. Someone raised their voices.

Please ask him what he took.

Talk to him, keep him conscious.

Then he heard Sherlock's voice mixed with his sobbing.

"Mycroft, brother, tell me what you took? Mycroft? Tell me please, so they can help you."

Mycroft turned his gaze to the sound. He still couldn't see Sherlock's face. Sherlock still squeezed his hand. Mycroft moved a little, he wanted to tell Sherlock not to cry, but when he tried to talk, suddenly his stomach hurt again, blood from his stomach rushed up to his mouth, choking on his nose. Mycroft spat a large mouthful of blood into the oxygen mask. He fainted again.

Sherlock was terrified, a hand fiercely pulled him back, forcing him to let go of Mycroft's hand. Immediately the nurses stood in front of him. They quickly removed the oxygen mask and placed Mycroft on his side. Blood still trickled down the corner of his mouth. From Sherlock's view point, he could only see Mycroft's hand hung limply on the stretcher.

Can't measure blood pressure anymore. Acute circulatory failure is happening, increase the rate of infusion. Prepare Norepinephrine 4 mcg per minute.

Risk of hypovolemic shock. Patient does not respond to medication, temperature is getting higher, 109°F, prepare Phenobarbital 200mg as a single injection for anticonvulsant.

The rest was a blur. Sherlock didn't know how he got to the hospital. Mycroft was immediately rushed to the A&E. After a long while, when he finally came to his senses, he found himself sitting in the hospital corridor, next to Anthea. She saw Sherlock suddenly looking over her, she knew he had passed the stage of shock and must have a lot of questions, she raised her voice.

"He has been inside for 15 minutes. So far, I heard no news. They haven't figured out which kind of poison yet, the blood test must take time. A team is currently at his house to look for any traces of the poison. I haven't informed your parents; I wait for your decision. John has just called me for the room number and he is expected to be here in 3 minutes."

Sherlock looked at his watch, it was almost 1 am. Anthea was still staring at him.

"You said he drank the poison himself? How did you conclude that?"

Sherlock sighed. He looked down at his fist, which was still stained with Mycroft's blood.

"He told me he was resigning and would soon leave London. After the plane crash. I didn't think he chose to leave London this way. If I had known, I would have stayed by his side."

Anthea was silent and said nothing. Then suddenly she said in a very soft voice.

"Mr. Holmes usually succeeds in every plan he made. But this time, I hope he will not."

Sherlock looked up at Anthea. He saw her wiping away her tears. She was still in her pajamas, he had never seen her in such state, she must have immediately run over without minding her appearance. He was relieved that at least Mycroft had someone by his side who was devoted to him. Sherlock said nothing. She said exactly what he was thinking. Mycroft was not someone whose decisions could be changed. To some extent, he understood his brother, and he knew that once Mycroft decided something, it was often impossible for anyone to prevent it. Sherlock clenched his fists, he stared intently at the A&E.

A few minutes later, John came running over. Seeing Sherlock sitting blankly on the hospital bench, John went to give his friend a tight hug. Sherlock suddenly felt like breaking, pressing his face to John's chest, he felt his tears welling up again.

Oh John!

John neither asked nor said anything. He didn't need to know any details; he was afraid Sherlock wouldn't be able to stand it if he had to go through this all again just to tell John about what happened. John just gently rubbed Sherlock's back and sat down next to him, waiting together.

Sherlock wandered his mind. He thought about what he and Mycroft had said today. He thought of the look in Mycroft's eyes as he led him out the door. He thought of when Mycroft buttoned his collar and said goodbye in Sherrinford. He remembered the times he woke up in the hospital, Mycroft would sit next to him and looked at him with his sad eyes. He thought of the look on Mycroft's face when his mother scolded him about Eurus. Then Mycroft's words rang in his ears. "I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I will always be there for you." At that time his anger grew big, he felt annoyed because he thought Mycroft hadn't bothered about his exile. During the week he was detained, Mycroft did not even visit. Now that he thought about it, he felt guilty, aside from being a child needing big brother's care and cleaning up his mess, he had never been there for Mycroft. Mycroft had always been alone.

The clock struck 2 am. It had been over an hour. Still no word from the A&E. Lady Smallwood had also come and sat beside Anthea since when he hadn't noticed. Sherlock was still lost in thought, when suddenly he heard Anthea talking on the phone. Looking up at her darkening face, he almost saw the world falling apart. Sherlock stood up and walked over to Anthea. John also followed him.

"What is it?"

Anthea did not look up. She stared at her phone.

"Ricin. They found ricin."

Sherlock felt a sudden surge of anger.

"Of course, it must be ricin. The fucking coward must choose it to ensure nothing can cure him!"

Slap! Sherlock was surprised to see Lady Smallwood instantly get up and slapped him hard. John was too surprised to react in time. Lady Smallwood said with tears in her eyes.

"Of all the people, you don't have any right to talk about him like that, Sherlock. Your brother is no coward and you well know that, after everything he did for you, even if you have no worries or regret, I thought at least you must show him some respects!"

Sherlock stood frozen; he didn't react. His cheek burned. But there was more pain in his heart. Surely, he must know, he always knew how much Mycroft had cared and sacrificed for him over the years. He just wished he had the opportunity to return the favor, to share the pain that Mycroft was suffering today. How he wished the doctor would open the door and come out saying everything would be fine. But ricin! Ricin had no antidote. He felt anger, anger rather at himself, anger because he wouldn't get another chance. He was angry because Mycroft left no chance for him to help him anymore. Sherlock's tears flowed silently.

John helped Sherlock sit back down in the chair. He took Sherlock's hand; it was cold and streaked with red blood. Anthea also comforted Lady Smallwood in silence. Sherlock still couldn't stop crying, his head down and his shoulders shaking slightly. John looked at his friend with a worrying look, then, hesitantly, he said.

"Sherlock, I think we must inform your parents."

Time is running out, he doesn't say. He saw Sherlock shaking harder, he didn't reply but John knew Sherlock had heard him.