InsaneJournal

At first, when Mycroft heard the shouting, he had considered simply ignoring it. Yes, he knew the voice to be his brother's. He also knew that, if Sherlock were in the tunnels and searching for him, clearly something had transpired that required his attention of some sort. After all, Sherlock would hardly waste the time coming to look for him otherwise. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to truly care. Sitting in the veritable dark, with only a singular light overhead remaining intact to illuminate the area around him, with Pepper's dead body just off to his left, Mycroft really couldn't bring himself to care about much of anything.

It wasn't like him to react to things emotionally. He was a man who always, always, kept such things in check. In fact, he was so good at doing so, that many believed he lacked any real emotions at all. It wasn't true of course. He did feel things, even very deeply at times. He simply had become an expert at hiding such a thing from everyone and focusing on the logic of a situation rather than his immediate, gut reaction.

This time, however, logic well and truly failed him. He couldn't fathom how they had been ambushed by a singular zombie. He also couldn't understand how it was that Pepper had managed to get between him and what would have been his killer, or why she would have done such a thing at all. She had far more to live for than he did, all of his intelligence and successes aside. And now she was dead, shot by his own hand - at her request, no less - before an infection he really didn't understand could strip her of both her mind and dignity.

So he had been sitting there since it had happened, wholly incapable of putting the ordeal into a perspective that was remotely familiar and therefore also incapable of moving past it and doing something even as simple as leaving the tunnel where it had all taken place. There were other reasons he hadn't left, too, of course. He wasn't certain which direction was the safest route, for starters. He also wasn't certain he was up for stumbling across another horde of zombies just yet. However, no matter what his reasons, the point was that he was still sitting there when Sherlock called out for him. And he might have kept right on sitting there, too, if his brother hadn't tacked on something more than his name in a tone that made it clear he had no intention of giving up searching for him anytime soon. Sighing in an annoyed way that only Sherlock could cause, Mycroft finally raised his voice just enough for it to be heard but without causing it to echo in such a ridiculous fashion so as to attract any zombies that might be in the area or even simply passing close enough by to overhear.

"I'm scarcely deaf, Sherlock. You needn't shout."

His voice sounded strange to him. Strained. Weary. He considered trying again, this time with a bit more focus on sounding more like himself, then decided he really didn't care what he sounded like. Just as he didn't care that his suit was splattered with blood that was not his own or that he was clearly emotionally affected by what had happened. He really didn't care about much of anything anymore. Except, that is, the man who had come looking for him and who had apparently managed to find him despite having had no idea the tunnels even existed.

In a way, it was comforting to know that at least some things never changed. Even if it was his brother.

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We should get her out of here.

Seven words, all common enough in the English language, put together in a sentence that both made sense as well as was clearly the most prudent course of action. Yet Mycroft merely blinked at the idea, his gaze flickering for a mere tenth of a second to Pepper's body before sliding to Sherlock, then finally to the wall directly across from where he sat. He didn't speak for several moments, the hand he'd used to pull the trigger of the gun reflexively opening and closing in a rhythmic fashion. Finally, as seconds ticked by into a minute, and one minute stretched into two, he made himself say something if only to assure his brother that he hadn't completely retreated into his own mind just yet.

"Did John tell you what happened to you in our own reality, Sherlock?"

Under normal circumstances, the question would have been asked - in the unlikely event such a thing ever happened - with little to no emotion whatsoever. It would have been spoken in a way that would have made most others think they were merely discussing the weather rather than Sherlock's own, untimely, demise. Now, though, there was a slight waver, barely noticeable but nevertheless present, in his voice. There was also a hint of sorrow that laced the words. Again, it wasn't obvious to just anyone but, well, his brother had never been just anyone and never would be.

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"Because..." Mycroft let the word trail off, his own mind far too sluggish from the weight of everything else to really allow him to continue for a long moment. He didn't want to say what he was thinking. He would have preferred to go to his grave without having to tell his brother what had really happened. Yet now, with things seeming to terribly bleak, he saw no reason not to discuss it in some form or fashion. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to do so. Holmes' didn't talk about things of such nature, not without a very good reason at least, yet here he was, about to do that very thing without the faintest clue as to why.

"Because," he finally began again, turning his head ever so slightly to look Sherlock in the eye. If nothing else, he decided, his brother deserved that much. "I'm the reason it happened, Sherlock." And then his gaze slid back to the wall, eyes becoming slightly glazed over as he tacked on, almost distractedly, "Just as I'm the reason that young woman there is dead."

He fell silent then, for a few seconds, before giving a shudder that was as verbal as it was physical. Leaning lightly back against the wall behind him, his eyes slid closed. "I see no point in any of it, anymore," he admitted. Whether he realized that Sherlock was still there or simply was speaking aloud to himself was anyone's guess. Nevertheless, he continued in the same weary tone as before.

"And I'm quite tired of pretending as though I do."

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"That's entirely beside the point," Mycroft replied archly, his eyes slowly opening and his attention returning to the wall rather than his brother. It was easier that way, somehow. If he didn't look at Sherlock, he could still imagine he was alone as he had been since the moment he'd pulled the trigger and ended Pepper's life. His face twitched a bit at the memory but he got the motion under control quickly enough.

"Even if you are alive, it doesn't change my involvement, Sherlock." Which was a true enough statement, of course, but was entirely beside the point. Would it change his involvement? No. Of course not. Nothing would. However, it might alter his guilt. And, while some part of that wanted nothing more than to alleviate such a foreign emotion from his shoulders, he couldn't bring himself to do so. It had kept him going for what seemed like such a long time now, that he frankly wasn't sure what he would do without it.

Another pause, this time to force himself to glance briefly at Pepper. "How very odd," he said distantly, gaze sliding over Sherlock then to the wall once more. "All evidence points to her cause of death being not the bite mark she suffered but rather the gunshot wound to her head at a rather close proximity." The words were clearly meant to be sarcastic yet lacked the luster and bite they normally contained. Instead the came out sounding flat and disconnected from what was going on, much as he felt at the moment.

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For a long moment, Mycroft didn't respond at all. He knew, distantly, what Sherlock was trying to do and really couldn't be bothered to react as was considered the norm for him. After all if there was one thing that could be said about him, aside from his intellect and ability to quash emotional responses to the point that many in the British Parliament truly wondered if he even had any, it was that he could be lazy to the point of sheer ridiculousness when he decided to be. It was the reason he had opted for a 'minor position', meaning a job behind the scenes, in the government back home rather than claiming the title of Prime Minister even once of the multitude of times it had been offered to him. It was the reason any diet he attempted tended to be met with great success until he opted to stop following it. It was the reason for a great many things in his life, really. And, in this instance, it was the primary reason he didn't immediately rise to the rather obvious bait his brother was daring him to take. Yet, even through his laziness, his melancholy, and even his guilt, Mycroft couldn't remain silent for long. It wasn't something that came easily to him, vows of silence in specific places not counting of course, and apparently even in his throes of emotional turmoil, he couldn't give in to it now.

"Sherlock," he finally murmured, once more looking to his brother and openly acknowledging he knew the man to be present, even if his actions said otherwise more often than not. "Do shut up."

The words caused his lips to quirk ever so slightly, the familiar furrowing of his brow also present for the briefest of instants. Of course, his attention did return to the wall immediately after that, but even then he still managed to tack on a bitter, "And it still does not matter whether or not you are truly dead. That does not change the fact that I should have simply killed Moriarty when I had ample opportunity to do so. It also does not change the eventual outcome of the world as a whole believing you to not only be deceased but also a fraud." This time, his attention snapped to his brother quickly, his look a touch sharper than it had been before. His tone matched.

"I am the reason for that, Sherlock. In my efforts to protect the country, I placed your life in danger... and it was all for naught." A look of pain so out of place it was downright foreign shone in his eyes. He quickly dropped his gaze to Pepper's still form that was growing colder by every second. Softly, he tacked on, "She deserved better. As did you."

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In the end, it was the gentle squeeze of his arm that made Mycroft come to his senses. The haze that had settled over his normally razor-sharp mind lifted and, quite suddenly, he seemed to register the fact that he was sitting in a dark, dank tunnel, feeling sorry for himself, while the city as a whole was succumbing to an invasion of the dead returned to life. And, to top it all off, his brother was the one trying to offer him comfort.

That alone was enough to do it. Nevermind that he and Sherlock weren't particularly close. Nevermind that they spent a fair majority of their time trying to one-up the other in the lack of proper emotional response department. The fact was, he was the elder sibling. It was his job to watch after Sherlock, to offer comfort as best as he was capable. To have it the other way simply felt wrong and, despite the overwhelming guilt that still plagued him, he refused to allow it to continue.

"As amusing as that might be to witness," he finally replied, his tone dry as he cast a look in Sherlock's direction, "it also won't be necessary." And, although a large part of him really did want to continue to stay where he was and continue to wallow in guilt and misery, he forced himself to get to his feet.

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Although he gave no outward indication of it, something inside of Mycroft recoiled at the sight of Sherlock holding Pepper's lifeless form. He knew it was an irrational, ridiculously emotional response that had no place in any situation, much less the one they were in. However he also knew that he would not, could not, let his brother carry her from the tunnels. So rather than immediately leading them toward the exit, he instead stepped closer to Sherlock and met the man's gaze.

"You take that," he said, a slight tip of his head indicating Pepper's gun that was still resting on the ground beside where he'd been sitting mere moments before. "And I will take her." He wanted to add more, wanted to all but snatch her away as though Sherlock might somehow cause her harm even if that was utterly impossible. He didn't, though. He simply waited for his brother to acquiesce, tacking on a pointed, "After all, there's no sense in ruining your favourite coat when my suit is, quite clearly, already a rather lost cause."

A flimsy excuse, one that even a child could see through, but Mycroft didn't particularly care. It was the best he was going to come up with and the only explanation he was offering. One way or another, though, he was going to carry Pepper out of the tunnels. Regardless of what Sherlock had to say on the matter.

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