The letter farewell

It's time for big brother to get involved. No, not that brother, Mycroft Holmes shows up at Baker Street. What in the world could have brought Jupiter from his orbit this time? I don't own the characters and don't make any money from them.




Watson carried Holmes down to his room and realized he’d left his bag at home in his rush to come to his friend’s aid. It had been well over a year since he last set foot in the Baker Street rooms and was shocked at their condition. It was obvious that poor Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been able to keep up with her lodger. Papers were strewn over the sitting room, Holmes’ violin lay carelessly dropped in a chair, and his pipes were all awry. “Holmes, what have I done?” Watson whispered, looking around at the desolation.

He jumped as the door slammed open. “You sir, are trespassing where you are no longer wanted,” Mycroft Holmes thundered from the doorway. “How dare you come here to taunt the man whom you have broken?”

“He said, he told me no one knew of this,” Watson stammered, sinking down into his old chair.

“Of course no one knows, but I am hardly no one,” Mycroft said. “He did not tell me anything but I was able to deduce it just the same. He is a broken man, one who will be none the better for seeing you in his rooms.”

“He won’t be seeing anyone for a while,” replied Watson, turning slightly to look towards the bedroom. “He’s lying at death’s door. I don’t have my bag. I can’t treat him. I can’t do anything for him.”

Mycroft flung his coat over the settee with a flourish. “You mean you cannot do any more for him,” he said, striding across the room. “It seems to me what you have done so far has been quite enough.” The elder Holmes’ looked in at his brother, noting the symptoms. “It is all down to him now,” he said. “And I doubt Sherlock cares to continue living in such pain anymore.”

“But why would he do such a thing?” Watson cried, leaping up. “Holmes has always been such a tower of strength. He’s always been so, Holmes.”

“Have you never been in love, Doctor?” asked Mycroft. “Have you never cared so deeply for a person that you would rather be dead than be without them? I can assure you that you haven’t. Both Sherlock and I have felt that way once. My fiancée died of a fever and I chose never to look for another. Sherlock came to love later in life, when he thought there was no need for it.” The man crossed the room and grasped Watson by the upper arms, almost lifting him from the ground. “Sherlock has never cared for another as he cared for you. And you flung that love into his face. He has never told me any of this, I have reasoned out everything for myself. I knew something was wrong today when the Queen contacted my office and said that Sherlock missed an appointment to aid the crown in an international affair that could well mean the end of our nation. And because you were too selfish to see what you were being offered, a man lies dying in his bed. My brother, my only family is dying because he believes himself to be worthless. Now get out of my sight before I do something I sorely regret.”