Chapter Text
There were few things that he lived for. Some would assume that it was power, control and wealth, but they would be wrong.
It's always a struggle to keep the darkness away; the darkness that he knew surrounded his heart, more than ready to swallow it whole.
He was always at that point, on that fine edge between falling into the darkness or flying with the angels, and maybe that was what made him so good at his job; the ability to work for the greater good but still do what needed to be done.
Some call him heartless, some call him the ice Man; some think he is devoid of emotion, unable to feel, but that is where they are all wrong. It is because he feels and cares too much that he doesn't let they them burn; doesn't let the world burn at his finger tips, because he could if he really wanted to.
The unfairness of the world; the innocents who are murdered because some maniac has a power complex, the cries of injustice and despair all clutch at is heart and make him want to give in to the darkness that would have him cleanse the world of evils, but he knows that if he started he wouldn't be able to stop, and as much as everyone thought of him, he was not god, so he tries to stay afloat by exercising control and calculation and only lets some of the darkness to peak through.
The day that Sherlock essentially died; even though he knew that he lived, but the fact that someone dare think to harm, much less kill his little brother, threw him into a rage that consumed him.
Striding down the halls of Bart's, determination in his measured steps, his mouth held in a tight firm line, he let the chaos run through his usually controlled, orderly mind; he let the darkness in, and let it consume him. Clenching his fists by his sides until his knuckles turned white, his mind screamed for blood; he was going to burn the world and destroy all and any who meant harm. Mercy and forgiveness made you weak; made it possible for people to get to him and his.
He bursts into the morgue, a fire blazing in his eyes with an almost anticipatory dark glee that promised a swift and final retribution. Sherlock was sitting atop the cold, metal table, chatting away merrily to Dr. Hooper with almost a note of glee at how well the plan had gone off.
She looked at him in startled surprise, not being able to fathom how someone as clever as Sherlock could be so dense and oblivious to others. Sure the plan went perfectly, but what about all of those that it affected; what about John and his parents, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, his brother; sometimes Sherlock was too caught up in his own genius and forgot about those around him.
At the sound of the door slamming against the wall, Molly started, hand clutched to her heart and breathe caught in her throat in surprise. Sherlock turned his head almost lazily towards the door, having already deduced it was his brother from the sound of his footfalls on his way in.
In a snide voice heavily dripping with sarcasm, Sherlock intones as he slowly turns his head, "Brother, how good of you to finally grace us with your presence. I understand the extra weight makes you..."
At the sight of Mycroft standing just inside the door, his chest moving up and down quickly to match his elevated breathing, his body tense and muscles tightly coiled, and his eyes the colour of a raging storm that spoke of death and destruction, Sherlock balked.
The look in his brother’s eye made the insult die on his lips, and momentarily took him back to when he was a child; the nervous flutter of anticipation in the pit of his stomach that always accompanied that dark look in his brother’s eyes. Although that barely contained wrath was never aimed at him, he had seen its ruthless destruction many a times.Most dangerous man he knew indeed.
“Go on Sherlock, finish that sentence, I dare you” Mycroft practically growled.
Sherlock enjoyed pushing his brother’s preverbal buttons, what little brother didn't, but even he, the man child who liked to see how far he could push boundaries was not that suicidal. Knowing better, Sherlock's jaw snapped up with an almost audile click.
“No? Go on little brother” he continued, with an emphasis on the word little, “Please, I know you are just itching too. Come on, it would make my day.”
He loved his brother with all his being, he really did, but sometimes the urge to snap his skinny little neck was sometimes overwhelming.
“Dr. Hooper, where is it?” He ground out, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's form.
When there was no answer his head turned towards Molly.
“Dr. Hooper...?” He repeated.
Jumping slightly at the tone of his voice she squeaked out “This way” before she preceded to flee over to the next autopsy room where Moriarty's body lay out on the cold metal slab. On her heels, the Holmes' brothers followed closely, although Sherlock was conscious to put a bit more distance between him and his brother.
She pulled back the sheet for him so that he could see the man who tried to kill his brother. Upon seeing the body, Mycroft's eyes narrowed at the sight; he could still see the arrogant half smirk that was now frozen on the dead man’s lips; still hear the taunting words ringing in his ears as he listened from a distance.
His eyes narrowed further; his hands clenched and unclenched spastically in his overcoat pockets; his rational mind screaming at him to get out; to walk around; to get some air. But that darker part of him; the part that he so rarely let free; the part of him that took pleasure in seeing the light fade from their eyes, called to him to take a step closer to see the malicious intent in the dead man’s eyes.
He paced like a caged tiger ready to strike in front of the table, his mind waging war, conflicted; all those times he fell into the darkness, it was harder and harder to climb back out.
Blood. Blood. Blood. His traitorous mind chanted at him, colouring the world around him red.
Molly and Sherlock watched from a short distance behind, a curious expression on his face and one of growing concern on hers. She had only met the older Holmes brother a few times before, and it was always punctuated with polite, stilted conversation, but he had been pleasant enough.
The pacing did not help to calm and push his dark thoughts back down into the room with all of the locks and bolts in his mind palace. His breathing ragged and erratic, Mycroft suddenly pulls out his 9mm pistol concealed just underneath his suit jacket; the shining grey metal glinting dangerously in the bright fluorescent lights of the morgue.
As soon as the gun is level with the body, the safety has already been disengaged, and before either of the two could register what was going on (and that was saying a lot for Sherlock), the echo of the shots, as Mycroft fired round after round into the lifeless body reverberated through the enclosed space, crashing and vibrating brilliantly against the cold steel of the room.
Molly instinctively reaches up to cover her ears tightly with her hands, trying to muffle the sounds; a scream of terrified surprise stuck in her throat.
He watches with morbid glee, a self satisfied smirk trying to fight its way to his lips as he sees the body almost dance and jump as each bullet finds its mark.
A small tendril of smoke curls up from the barrel of the gun, spent, and he can’t help but watch it dissipate into the air. His cheat is heaving and his outstretched arm is shaking slightly. His mind is racing, jumping from one idea to the next, while a mantra of “not enough” screams over and over.
He was just about to squeeze the trigger again when his brain finally registered the tight grip on his arm just above his elbow, how long it had been there, he would not be able to say.
His eyes took in the small, slender hand and traveled up the white clothed arm, across her shoulder, up her neck, and finally to her eyes, what he saw made him pause. Fear, of him, was something that he was more than accustom to seeing in people’s eyes. However, fear, for him, was not something that he had been privy to in a long time.
Maybe it was the touch of her hand or the look in her eyes, but it dragged him out of his dark spiral faster than he would like to admit. Disgusted with himself and his total abandonment of his self-control, the gun clatters to the ground.
Sparing her one last glance, he wrenches his arm from her tight grip, turns on his heel, and is out the door before any words could be exchanged with either of the room’s occupants.
He bursts through the outer doors of the mortuary entrance of the hospital, the cold night air hitting him in the face; a balm to his overheated, flushed cheeks. He runs his hands through his hair, disheveling it as he takes in big, calming breaths.
After a moment or two he is able to bring his breathing back under control, and is able to focus on the quiet and stillness of the late hour to be able to lock the dark away once again.
He hears her before he sees her, but does not turn to acknowledge her arrival. He can feel her as she draws nearer, almost as if he could sense a change in the air around him at her approach. What he did not anticipate though, was her touch, again.
With his back turned to her, she hesitated slightly, before her hand found its way to his shoulder. He wants desperately to shrug off her hand, but her touch calms the raging demons inside, and for once, in a very long time he can feel some semblance of peace, and he can’t; he won’t lose that.
“...Mycroft?” comes her quiet voice
“I’m not a good man Molly. Regardless of the things that I do, I can’t and won’t deny that I’ve done many, many things that I am not proud of. Please, don’t waste your sympathies on someone like me” he tells her tiredly, his back still turned to her.
He feels her hand life from his shoulder and squeezes his eyes tightly shut at the pang of loss he feels all too acutely. But then he feels it; at first it is feather light, just the brush of her fingers against his tentatively, until he feels the cool slide of her hand lacing their fingers together. His eyes snap open and meet warm brown eyes not filled with pity or disgust, but rather concern and a fierce protectiveness.
His eyes move down towards their joined hands and he can’t help but stare. Her hand is his is so small; so petite and fragile, and yet it feels like the only thing that is keeping him anchored.
She didn’t say a word, but rather watched the way the frown between his brows eased; the way his shoulders became less ridged; and the way his body subtly leaned towards hers.
She doesn’t know what possessed her to do it; maybe it was because he needed her or her inherent need to help, but before she knew what she was saying she said just above a whisper, “Come home with me.”