all depending
BBC Sherlock; minor character death, grief, hurt/comfort, bed-sharing, first kiss, fluff
When Mycroft suddenly passes away, Sherlock experiences heavy grief. John is there for him through thick and thin. After all, there’s no one way to deal with grief. It all depends on the person. It all depends.
READ ON AO3
It had all started on a bleak day, as it should have. It was raining for days, the quiet pattering on the roof loud and yet just soft enough to notice.
That was the only sound in the flat that day. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was being particularly quiet because she liked to read her novels on rainy days. Thus, there was no reason for her vaccuum to run, nor for her Spanish music to blast on her radio as she scrubbed the grime from her sink.
Then that's when the phone rang. It wasn't the house phone. It was Sherlock's cell phone, buried deep into his pocket, the ringer loud enough for John to hear across the room, where he was trying to type up their latest case on his blog. The sound was just shrill enough for John to lose his concentration, and he had stood up and crossed the room to tell Sherlock to get off the microscope answer it already.
"I'm busy," Sherlock said, even though John hadn't said anything yet. "Can you get it for me?"
John huffed, rolling his eyes, but he obliged the man anyway. He reached into the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown, and pulled out his ringing cell phone.
Then John pressed answer.
"Hello?" John asked.
"Hello. Is this Sherlock Holmes?" the person on the other end asked. A monotone voice. Matter-of-fact. Business-like.
"No, this is Doctor John Watson," he said. "Can I take a message?"
The next few seconds were filled with absolute dread, like something had reached in and clenched the guts of John's stomach so hard that he nearly doubled over. The blood rushed in his ears, flowing from his face and leaving it white as a sheet.
John's mouth fell open. His throat felt dangerously dry, but he still somehow found the strength to reply.
"Oh, oh my God," John said. His voice was hoarse. "Thank you. Right. I'll pass on the message. Thank you."
Sherlock had heard the tone of John's voice, and he looked up from his microscope as John hung up the phone. John's hand was shaking, and his forehead slightly sweaty. Face deathly pale. Something was definitely wrong.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked, and even he was unable to keep the concern out of his voice. "What's wrong?"
John couldn't answer. He looked at Sherlock. Furled his lips. How was he supposed to tell him what the call was about?
"John, please tell me," Sherlock said, halfway out of his seat. "You're worrying me."
John swallowed hard. Best to just get it out, then.
"It's Mycroft, Sherlock," John whispered. "He's dead."
