Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.
Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological heroes, while trying to keep each other safe.
Filia – Chapter 5
Mycroft seldom made mistakes. It was his job to be infallible. No, scratch that. Not just his job, it was his duty. And now, standing in the deserted living room of 221B Baker Street, it became clear to him how immense his failure had been.
Sherlock had jumped. The little boy that had invaded his bed and begged for a story, the sullen teenager with his troubled mind and raging intellect, the beautiful adult with the philosophical spirit and the dreams of being a pirate had crashed to earth and died on the filthy pavement. His brother was dead.
Mycroft was familiar with the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. He'd bypassed denial. There was no place for it in his character. He'd settled on anger. Deep, all-consuming rage that seldom penetrated the objective façade he'd erected for the benefit of the world. His normally so steady hands shook with it. The other stages were redundant. The inescapable fact that Sherlock, his Sherlock was gone, could never be accepted.
Mycroft hadn't cried. Not even when Molly Hooper had lifted the sheet and shown him the body of his brother, had he broken down in tears. The only thing that had run through his mind had been the absurd notion that it was freezing in the morgue and that his brother must be cold. But Sherlock wasn't shivering, wasn't shaking, wasn't occupied by the perpetual movement that had busied him while he'd lived. Mycroft had raised his hand to touch his shoulder, perhaps brush through the black curls one final time, but something had kept him from it. He wanted to remember Sherlock warm.
Now that Sherlock had been the one to die, their conversation about Hektor outside the Trojan walls had become a painful recollection. Mycroft should've taken his place, but instead, his failing had been the knife in his brother's back. Perhaps that was the hardest element to take: the fact that Sherlock had jumped while knowing it was Mycroft who'd betrayed him.
Mycroft wasn't Hektor. He was Achilles, while Sherlock was his Patroklos. It was Achilles' arrogance and anger that had made him withdraw from battle to leave his friends to die. And eventually the man who was more dear to him than any other, Patroklos, had taken up Achilles' weapons. Unable to bear the deaths of their comrades, Patroklos had advanced against the Greeks and had found his own demise at the hands of Hektor. Achilles, in his rage, had killed Hektor. He'd taken Troy, died a glorious death of his own. But he'd never gotten his friend and partner back. Honour had been an empty victory.
It was Mycroft's fault. Sherlock was his Achilles' heel and it had made him blind to all danger. Moriarty had played his fears and he had won.
Sherlock was wrong too. Mycroft wanted to crumble the piece of paper with his brother's neat handwriting. His Patroklos. The note only contained two words in Sherlock's elegant script.
Mycroft folded it carefully and placed it into the pocket of his jacket. Achilles had taken his rage, his menin, and avenged the death of Patroklos. It was time for Mycroft to do the same.
Moriarty was his.
And Troy would burn.
A/N: That was it! Too bleak to be the final chapters? :P. What did you think?