pipmer1

Title: Mirror Image
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft
Spoilers: Mild ones for Series 2
Rating: G
Wordcount: 928
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach (of a sort), angst, slight AU, friendship
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: A Post-Reichenbach fic, with a twist.

A/N: Not beta'd, this just clawed its way out in the middle of the night.

He stared at his reflection, barely recognising himself. The bags under his eyes were bigger than they had been yesterday, purplish and bruise-like. The skin on his face was sallow and translucent; it reminded him of the onion-skin parchment that was used for airmail correspondence. He thought if he touched it, it would disintegrate underneath his fingertips like brittle leaves. He tested this by lifting a weary finger to the tip of his cheek. Poking, it felt just as smooth as it ever had. His finger lingered on the point, creating an area around the tip that was even whiter than the surrounding skin. Bringing his finger back, the blood rushed back into place, adding slight colour to the region.

His eyes, once vibrant and full of life, were dead and lustreless. The hair that women so often wanted to run their hands through, normally so soft and silky, now lay dull and lifeless upon his skull. The hands, once so calm and steady, well-suited to his profession, were both trembling uncontrollably.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image of himself from his mind. He needed to pull himself together. This unending grief was debilitating and useless. He needed to get on with life, at some point. Maybe today, after he picked up his friend's ashes and joined them with the sea, he would find some kind of closure, and as a result, some peace as well.

He highly doubted he would find either.

"Are you sure that all this is absolutely necessary?" Mycroft Holmes's expression was carefully blank, the tone of his voice and his tight grip on the mobile pressed to his ear the only clues to his state of mind.

"Yes, I am aware of the necessity for deception and secrecy, but couldn't you have told him?... No….. I think you underestimate your significance to him… You know what happened with Irene, why would you put him through that… He's not stupid, you know, he will figure it out…"

Mycroft sighed, as if he were used to these kinds of conversations, trying to talk sense into an intransigent mind. "As long as you promise that you will wrap things up within a reasonable timeframe. He's not doing well, you know. I fear that before too much time elapses, he will join you, either by his own hand or by a more indirect route. No. No. He won't even speak to me, let alone accept any overtures of concern. He blames me for everything. Rightly so, I agree."

Mycroft's mouth twists into a frown. "Don't say I didn't warn you. When you come back, don't be surprised to find a shattered shell of the man you left behind. Some things you can't come back from." He huffed at the person's response, and finally gave in to his frustration by ending the call.

Mycroft stared out of the window of his home office, barely registering the scene of bucolic tranquillity. His insides churned as he contemplated all that his brother must be going through, and the helplessness that he felt at the fact that he could do nothing to ease his way. Sherlock was enduring this alone, and it was all so unnecessary. Those two were always better together than they ever were on their own, and it took an outsider looking in to see that.

He wasn't sure how this was all going to end; even if things ended with the result he hoped for, the situation could still be irrevocably damaged beyond repair. If Sherlock and John were to lose each other because of this, Mycroft didn't want to be around to pick up the pieces.

It was out of his hands; all he could do was hope for the best.

He stood at the edge of the English Channel, wooden urn clutched tightly to his chest. His friend had left specific instructions as to where his ashes should be spread, and by whom. He still couldn't quite believe that he had been the chosen one, the one to whom a sacred trust had been delivered. The thought had quite literally saved him. If he were worthy of this, then his continued existence must be of some importance. He couldn't just throw his life away, even for the purpose of following the one he couldn't seem to live without. And what good would that do anyway? It certainly wouldn't bring him back.

He closed his eyes and listened to the waves crashing to and fro. He soaked everything up that he could of this moment, and filed it away into a safe, dark corner of his mind, where he would be able to call it up any time he needed to, in order to keep the memory alive. He could hear the screaming of the gulls; he could taste the salty tang of the water upon his lips. His bare feet dug into the wet, gritty sand, water periodically washing them clean. He didn't know how long he stood there, until he was sure that everything about his surroundings had been burned deep into his subconscious. Until he was sure that he would never forget.

He let out a soft sigh as he opened his eyes. He blinked once, valiantly holding back the unfamiliar sting of moisture. Slowly he unscrewed the cap to the urn and gently tipped the contents out onto the gently lapping waves. He left a small bit remaining; he would keep it on the mantel, alongside the skull. Two friends, sitting side by side.

"Good-bye, John," Sherlock whispered.