Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A/N: This, like all my other works, is experimental. This time it's psychological horror I'm having a go at, and exploring Sherlock Holmes at his worst facing off against an unhinged version of Moran.

Looking for critique on my psychological profiling. English is a second language, so excuse the errors.

WARNINGS / TRIGGERS:

Descriptions of

● graphic violence

● blood, gore, death

● sex

● physical and psychological torture

● manipulation, unhealthy relationships

● alcohol, drug use

● (past) bullying

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W

Part I —

Marche Funèbre

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"Honestly, Mother," he says tiredly, "when was the last time you saw him wearing white?"

It is something Mycroft Holmes never thought he'd be confronted by: Picking out the clothes for Sherlock to wear during his funeral.

"Then how about something blue? Yes... How about this one? Such a pretty royal blue..."

There's a red mark on his cheek because he's slept with his face in his hand on the car trip there. He's unshaven and there's sleep in the corners of his eyes, dressed in a suit two sizes too small (but Mother insisted).

"I'd like to see him one last time," she whispers. She wears her gloom like a dark dress. She looks tinier in it than anything else—especially when standing in Sherlock's old room. "Do you think that'd be alright?"

"I don't think so. Seeing him... broken like that... It wouldn't be good for you." Mycroft remembers the pictures in the newspaper. Fake or not, god, there'd been so much blood. "I'm sorry."

She nods and hugs the shirt to her chest. Mycroft regards her, a woman with wrinkles that mark her like a road map; smiled too much here, worried way too much there. She lives a small and ordinary life, squeezed between needlepoint and porcelain figures, dusted lovingly every Sunday afternoon.

The house is old and creaking; there lurks memories behind every door.

"You always fought when you were children."

(It evokes memories...

Constantly watching out for him, holding his hand whenever his thoughts became too loud. Attending bruises after another bullying incident. Watching his grades fall when bitterness and boredom ensnared him. Finding him at an abandoned warehouse full of other addicts like him, drugged half to death, unaware that this would happen countless more times. Holding his hand again—but this time as he puked his guts out in a public bathroom. Following him in and out of institutions as he scared away doctors and shrinks. Guiding him back to life. Feeling a strange sense of happiness as Sherlock declared him his archenemy.

Somehow it felt better than when his little brother had called him a worthless piece of shit.)

"Always," Mycroft says softly.

"I remember when you didn't. When you both were very young, you used to sneak into Father's study and play a game with the maps there."

They'd stretch the old maps across the floor, smoothing out ragged edges. The world beneath their feet, he would declare and laugh. The study was filled with antique oil lamps that cast shadows over the world, deepening valleys and stretching hills. Then they'd begin.

"Where are you now?" Mycroft asks softly, remembering.

"Yes, that was the name of the game. Maybe he'd say to the west for you, beyond the grasslands and beside the river. Or maybe he'd say to the east for you, on a great pirate ship in the ocean, returning home."

Tears fall to the floor.

"I'm sorry," she says, wiping them with a hand chief. "It used to be his favourite game."

'He has a new one, these days.' He lays his hands on her shoulders. "I'm sorry too, Mother."

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"...Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

It is a quiet affair, attended only by family.

"...in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection into eternal life."

From an aerial viewpoint, the funeral consists of a dozen umbrellas, a soaked priest with a black book, and a coffin being lowered into the ground. This fake burial is soon over with.

Then why this rotten feeling?

The coffin is empty.

Mycroft strands a distance from the rest (from normality). He prefers solitude when dealing with conflicting emotions, and does not wish to conjure up more sadness. He feels terribly old, like a giant weight rests on his shoulders.

When he thinks Sherlock, two images pop up in his head. One is of a child with hair like soot and eyes full of fear and wonder. The other is a lanky man with gnarled teeth and sunken in cheeks. His little brother—the child—is dead. Perhaps he committed suicide because of the bullying. Perhaps he died from an overdose. Or maybe a case killed him, or Moriarty, or loneliness.

He'd watched Sherlock build a brick wall around himself. It is a grand construction with a drawbridge, watch towers and gun slits, keeping real and imaginary enemies away. On each brick there is written a defeat, but they are turned inwards so only he can read them. He is a perfectionist and so the wall is entirely without weakness. It serves its purpose, and makes sure no enemy may find vulnerability. Nobody else either.

Nobody.

Mycroft looks away from the coffin he knows to be empty, and looks to the shadow atop of the hill.

John Watson.

He was not allowed to know. But he was not allowed to attend the funeral, either.

Mycroft knits his eyebrows. Even from afar, there was something with John's expression that he could not put his finger on.

The shadow on top of the hill turns and leaves.

Ah. He must've been wrong.

Mycroft sighs. "Where are you now, Sherlock?"

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Where are you now?

In a graveyard, contemplating dead things, soaking wet from English rain.

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Where are you now?

Across the ocean, somewhere icy and mountainous, busy erasing the past.

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Where are you now?

In bed, clutching the remains of not-really-a-love-affair, twisting into something terrible.

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Where are you now?

Looking up towards the sky, thinking to himself that this is only the beginning.

Laughing.