The roads we walk have demons beneath —
There has never before been a moment in time which personified failure as surely and as deeply as the present; while bright florescent light burns beyond the lids of Mycroft’s eyes – and while the elder Holmes tries to ignore the ever-present smell of rust – he worries.
( For upon his first awakening and after careful surveillance of his surroundings, Mycroft had been ill. )
Sherlock and Doctor Watson are gone, no doubt taken by Mycroft’s vanished sister; the putrid odor of sick that turns the mere thought of shame into tangible evidence is difficult to bear.
( Of course the elder Holmes cannot escape this foul taste, which now runs rampant over his tongue, glides easily between his teeth, and prompts more bouts of near painful nausea. )
Ah, but this sickness is well-earned, isn’t it?
While the loathing spreads, corrosive to Mycroft’s remaining senses, he finds himself acknowledging that it is both a blessing and a curse that his sister’s cell is silent; Mycroft’s oxygen depraved brain is still gasping, sluggish from the onset of trauma that had been, for all intents and purposes, ignored for decades.
(If only Eurus had left him a bottle of cognac —)
— No – the only matter of importance is getting out of here – not for himself, no, never for that –
The bodies of both the governor and the governor’s wife provide no solace for Mycroft’s nerves when his eyes free themselves of darkness. Panic glistens his forehead with sweat, dried tracks of moisture reddened on too-pale cheeks; Eurus is no longer physically near, but the devastation she had wreaked settles into Mycroft’s shaking limbs; his fingers curl so deeply into his palms that he bleeds.
The weight of a truth so buried has been hideously dragged to the surface – the elder Holmes will never forget Eurus’ amusement, nor will he ever cease to remember John’s hasty step backward once the admittance had occurred aloud. Yet by far, the worst of it had been his little brother – for by the end of their sister’s taunts and by the end of her game, Mycroft had used every ounce of self-control left inside his frame to try and make things easier for the sibling he’d essentially helped to destroy.
( If faux uselessness is what it takes to keep Sherlock happy and safe, to make John the thoughtless choice in regards to worth – )
Better dead than to see you sink again, brother mine.
A sound not much unlike a moan is drawn through clenched teeth – Mycroft knows very well that this cell cannot simply be escaped from without help – and judging by the definite lack of footfall in the hallway, not a soul is coming for him; this could mean death for both him and his brother.
A shout to an empty room – the foolishness of it would almost be comical if Mycroft were able to control himself; hopelessness had never been a feeling of which he allowed himself to grow accustomed to – and now his brother could be dying due to Mycroft’s own failures.
The antrum of the stomach contracts, the fundus and cardia relax—
—the diaphragm cramps and pulses sharply, the spasms shaking Mycroft’s frame as he inhales more rust and promptly bends his head to the floor and retches; the repetitive heaving produces nothing but bile, acidic and bitter in the elder Holmes’ throat. He knows even as his eyes close that this agony is much deserved – for the years of secrets, for his sentiment, for caring too much —
My fault, my fault, my fault – this is my fault.
— these demons are justified.
— and mine have been waiting for a very long time.