Title: Bleeding Alone
Disclaimer: Don't own anyone.
Pairings: Sherlock/Mycroft brotherly love.
Warnings: Character death, blood, angst.
Spoilers: For both series, probably, though nothing major.
Word Count: ~1000 words.
Summary: He is dying, and there is no one to say goodbye to.
Mycroft should have realised there was someone else in the room. There are signs all over the place, a slight shifting of a chair, a little cigarette ash on the floor, as well as the scent of smoke in the air. But he is foolhardy, he is busy, he walks into the study with a sheaf of papers and his mind full of facts, and he does not notice any of the signs until a man steps out from behind the curtains and shoots him.
He is using a silencer, so there is no noise, and he shoots Mycroft right in the stomach.
Mycroft staggers. The man shoots in the same place again and Mycroft falls back into a chair by the fire.
The man cocks his gun. "Do you know who I am?" he asks.
Mycroft nods, too in shock to speak. It is Mark Jordan, father of Daniel Jordan, who was working for Mycroft when he was killed. Probably unavoidable.
The man nods. "Good," he says, and leaves as swiftly as he came.
There is silence. Mycroft puts a hand to his stomach and pulls it away; it is covered in blood. He can feel he is sitting in his blood too, he must be bleeding profusely, he is already dizzy and light-headed.
He can't move.
There is no one else in the house. There is no one he can shout to. There never is.
He is alone.
It is indicative of Mycroft's nature that - even at such a crucial moment - his mind turns to Sherlock. Even though Sherlock has never done anything for him, has never helped his older brother when he was in need, has never touched him, his arm or his hand or even a little finger, Mycroft thinks of Sherlock.
There is a panic button under his desk but that is too far away.
His phone is on the floor, where he dropped it as he was being shot. It is probably two steps away but it looks like miles away.
There is blood all over his hands and he can't think straight.
All he can think of, bizarrely, is Sherlock, Sherlock as Mycroft saw him last, full of acidic comments and tweaking his violin and pouting because John threw his last experiment out. Sherlock being Sherlock. He remembers Sherlock.
Gently, Mycroft manages to shift the chair sideways towards the phone, pain rippling through him. He wishes it would clot, wonders how long that would take, thinks about when he last cut his finger, how long the blood took to clot. He needs the blood inside him, inside him, not over his hands or his arms. He clutches tight to his stomach in an attempt to keep it in.
He is not thinking straight, he cannot think clearly, and this - to him - is the worst horror of all.
He wishes there was someone else in the house.
Mycroft shifts the chair again, but it takes all his effort he has to pick up the phone, and he collapses again when he has it in his hand, the study spinning around him, his harsh gasps filling his ears. He closes his eyes and feels around the phone's buttons, typing in Sherlock's number. It is not difficult, he has spent his whole life typing that one number of that one troublesome person, it is an automatic reflex now.
The number rings. Mycroft drops the phone in his lap, too weak to even hold it anymore. When Sherlock answers, he will speak, he will say something, maybe his name, and Sherlock will know from those few muttered syllables that something is dreadfully wrong.
Only Sherlock doesn't answer. He cancels the call instead.
He probably thought Mycroft was ringing to try and persuade him back into the case he rejected. The thought would make Mycroft laugh if he had the strength.
He tries to pick up the phone again, to call again, but his hands are slippery with blood and the phone falls to the floor once more.
He does not have the energy to pick it up again.
He does not even have the energy to lift his head.
There is blood everywhere, but the pain is lessening, and Mycroft knows enough to know that is not a good sign.
He lets his head fall back against the chair and his eyes rest on the open study door. Maybe Sherlock will come and find him before it is too late.
Sherlock has never come to see him before, never, not even when Mycroft moved in, but maybe this time will be different. Maybe.
Sherlock has never come to see Mycroft, even though he can see how alone Mycroft is, how alone he has made himself, how he sits alone every night by the fire. Mycroft has done everything he can for Sherlock, but Sherlock will never make the effort to come and see him.
He will not come now, when Mycroft is dying.
He is dying. Dying, and he never thought it would be like this.
He is dying, and his blood is soaking into him.
He is dying, and there is no one to say goodbye to.
After a while everything goes black, but Mycroft keeps his eyes on the study door until it does.
Just in case.
Sherlock cuts off his violin playing with a screech, freezes. His spine is tingling as if he has just received the smallest of electric shocks.
He glances towards the open door of 221b, but no one is there.
He could have sworn he heard Mycroft saying his name.
John looks up from his concentrated paper reading. "Something wrong?" he asks.
Sherlock stares at the open doorway, as if it will unravel the mystery to him if he does, but no one steps into view, Mycroft is not there.
"No," he says, and goes back to his violin playing.
His stomach rolls with horror, but he cannot say why.