literature

It's Okay to Cry (Johnlock in Mycroft's POV)

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I've never seen my brother cry. Not even when our mum passed. He always saw weeping as a waste of time and never really understood emotion. Before John, love...or even just feeling was a fairy-story...a mystery even Sherlock Holmes couldn't deduce. His brain was his one true love and the work satisfied him more than sex ever could. He was neither happy or bitter.

From the moment I first met Doctor John Hamish Watson, I could tell he would mean something to my baby brother. And then, to prove it, he killed for him. Shot a rotten cabbie on the first night they knew each other, he did. It obviously surprised Sherlock quite a bit. No one had ever gone to such measures to protect him. No one really went to any measures to protect him as far as he knew. Suddenly, John wasn't just his annoyingly ordinary flatmate. And it was at John that I saw Sherlock actually smile for the first time in years.

My little brother was in love.

Things escalated rather quickly after that.They became inseparable.You never saw Sherlock without John and you never saw John without Sherlock. Sure, there were bumps in the road and small rows over who would pick up the milk and jam, and the only real physical aspect of their fighting was the single punch to the face Sherlock received when he returned from being “dead” for three years. But it was nothing that couldn't be solved with a few loving kisses, a long, lingering hug and a slow shag on Sherlock’s bed. Everyone saw it coming. It only took Sherlock jumping from a building to set things in motion. So no one was really surprised when they announced their engagement a year later.

After the small ceremony, my brother was the happiest I’d ever seen him. He loved John with the same passion, intensity and tenderness as a man loves his wife. And I write this in all honesty. Sherlock loved John more than anything in the world, and John considered Sherlock the center of his universe.

There was a time when John came to me with tears in his eyes. He told me that they had gotten into, yet, another row and Sherlock had thrown a glass beaker at the wall in sheer frustration. The doctor was shaking with grief and fear, (Yes, he was a soldier, but I believe it was fear from being hurt by someone he loved more than the fear of being hurt in general), mumbling something about ‘almost dying.’ But I knew my brother. It didn't matter how frustrated or angry he was, he would never intentionally harm his John. I sent him a text later that night, after John had fallen asleep on my sofa.

Don’t lose him baby brother. You need each other. -M

Minutes later, Sherlock appeared in my doorway, nibbling on his bottom lip in guilt. He apologized profusely. John, being the good man he was, forgave him immediately. They shared a loving kiss and went home. I believe that was the first time I had ever heard a ‘Thank you’ from my brother’s mouth directed at me.

As we reached our old age, the good doctor became weak. He threw up almost constantly and became thinner and thinner. It wasn't until he started throwing up blood that tests were run. The trip to St. Bartholomew’s proved to be grave. Stomach Adenocarcinoma. He was told that it was already too advanced and that while chemotherapy and radiation may prolong his life, it would not save it and that it may even give him the symptoms with no benefit. John took it surprisingly well, chuckling and shaking his head, declaring that while they were white, the last few hairs on his head were precious and he’d like to keep them. He also brushed off every single one of Sherlock’s desperate protests with a squeeze of his hand.

John’s health deteriorated quickly. He could no longer get out of bed on his own, and on top of the deadly disease, he was dying from dehydration and starvation. Sherlock tried his best to get him to eat, (“Funny,” he once said humorlessly, “Just a few years ago, he was the one trying to get me to eat.”), but nothing would stay down. Not even soup. John’s ribs were visible through his sallow, sunken skin and his voice cracked from the acid erosion. He started sleeping more and more but Sherlock never left his side. He retired early and stayed home to take care of his sickly husband. The worse came when John refused to eat. When asked to go to the hospital, he shook his head and replied, “I want to stay home with Sherlock.”

I watched as Sherlock held him, stroking soft white locks and whispering deductions about the nurses to him even if John wasn't awake to hear them. He was hardly ever awake anymore. And when he was, he was throwing up the contents of his empty stomach or kissing his husband and telling him how much he was loved.

I was there when John woke up and grasped Sherlock’s shirt, “I’m scared,” he gasped, “Don’t leave me, Sherlock.” My brother assured him that he wouldn't and John relaxed, falling back into his slumber. Only this time, he stopped breathing. The machine flat-lined and Sherlock panicked, shaking him and calling out for the nurses.

It’s said that after a loved one passes, their spouse can be known to die of a ‘broken heart.’ After John’s funeral, Sherlock’s health took a grave turn. He didn't cry. He just sat in his chair, staring at the wall with lifeless grey eyes. I tried to get him to eat but he refused any substance or companionship. Nothing could convince him to get better.

On John’s birthday, I took Sherlock to the cemetery. Usually, I would complain about the bumps making it harder for me to wheel my brother’s wheelchair across the ground, but this was different. As we sat, silently staring at the beautifully carved stone a thought occurred to me.

I’d never seen my little brother cry. But for some reason, when he visits John, he can’t stop.
So this little piece of angst popped in my head today. It reduced me to ears, so be warned.
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Mycoft being a great brother. This story gave me a warm fuzzy.