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Lestrade. It has to be Lestrade. No other policeman in the Commonwealth is allowed to touch his little brother now. It is hardly his division, miles outside of London, but it will not matter. Not for Mycroft Holmes. Not for the British government personified. He wills it so and thus it will happen. But it will take an awfully long time. Time that he has to spend looking at the scene before him. He has made it out of the helicopter, but now his feet refuse to take him any closer. Still, every time he speaks, his voice sounds cold, in control, like it should. It is just his feet that don’t work.
Sherlock is still on his knees, every weapon but the one he made John bring with him still points at him. Minutes ago, his hands have started to sink. Now they are resting at his side. No one remarks on it. His eyes are glazed over; he has removed himself from this place. Mycroft is glad for it.
John Watson sits sunken against the huge windows. Every view seconds he gags with all his might, but he has brought up everything he could minutes ago. It’s not because of the dead body; he has seen plenty of those. It is because it was Sherlock who pulled the trigger.
After an eternity, Lestrade is suddenly there. He seems as ill-suited to deal with all of this as any of them. Mycroft finally finds his feet working again and can accompany him towards his brother. He has never seen a murderer being handcuffed so gently. At last the guns come down. Why hadn’t he ordered them down before? He cannot remember, but there must have been a reason. He finds himself instructing Lestrade to keep Sherlock away from other prisoners, to move him every day. It is all that he can do for him and he knows that in the end, he will not be able to keep him safe. If Sherlock stays in prison, he will die. His little brother never truly returns to his surroundings, but he lets himself be guided into the police car and then Lestrade and he are gone.
The place seems to crawl with police and paramedics, but he has no idea where they came from and when they arrived. They ask him if he is okay and his voice still works and because his feet work again the act is convincing. John Watson now screams in agony with every heave, but can no longer get any relieve from it. They put him in an ambulance and then he, too, is gone. He looks around and there is only police left and his snipers and his helicopter and he thinks that he should leave.
The cottage is a house kept erect by tension and then he has to tell them all what happened and it is another Christmas ruined. Mummy and Daddy cry and Mycroft cannot decide if he or Sherlock is to blame for this. Mummy cries so much that she cannot breathe anymore and they take her to her bed and Mycroft does not see his parents again this evening.
Mary asks him where they have taken John, but Mycroft forgot to ask. He wants to find out for her, but instead finds himself in the clutches of a raging fever that threatens to burn right through him as his body decides to expel all its contents. After half an hour he cannot even get up for it anymore. He finds himself grateful for the presents of that junkie Sherlock brought along and the assassin with the nursing skills. He should feel ashamed for his loss of control, but sentiment has robbed him of his dignity and his shame and his brain does not work anymore, but if he can only make it through the night he will be able to help his brother but he is dying and he cannot breathe and then the world turns dark.
The next morning Mycroft finds himself in a bed he did not lie down in and he is wearing clothes that are not his, but his brain is working again. He writes a note for his parents and the two people who are still sleeping on the ground next to him. Then he calls for his car and makes his way back to London. He has to think and he has to talk to people, important people.
When they are on the tarmac Sherlock sends him away, he wants to bid his farewell to John. Mycroft can only hope his brother will not embarrass himself too much. Does he really think he would send him into certain death? Does he really think he has not long figured out a plan to keep him safe? Does Sherlock really not know that he would stop at nothing to safe his little brother?