A/N: Obviously, this will contain some spoilers for BBC Sherlock, after the most recent special we had...6 months ago. 6 more until we get three new episodes! And then 2 years for another 3! D'X Anywhoo...I'm killing off Mycroft Holmes. Because he's my favorite and why not.512Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvJ96mIyOs5
Mycroft watched as his brother, Mary, and John walked off the plane, and picked up the pieces of Sherlock's list. He put them in his notebook and closed it with a sharp snap, straightening as much as he could in the small plane. Sherlock was high, again, after he had promised he would get clean, again. There was nothing new under the sun, evidently. But, John had promised to look after Sherlock, and Mycroft had no doubt that under John's care, Sherlock would be willing to get clean.512Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhcvcrfm8ze
Confident that he was alone, he let the tremor in his left hand show slightly. It had been 2 months since he had gotten the diagnosis, an inoperable tumor growing in his brain that resisted chemotherapy to the point where he had it stopped, since it only made him feel worse. He knew that everything today had exhausted him more than it should, and that he probably wouldn't be able to get out of bed tomorrow, let alone work.
Everything had been taken care of. His will had been drafted, Sherlock had a trust fund set up for him when he decided he was willing to be sober again, his parents knew but had promised not to tell Sherlock unless Mycroft requested they tell him or he was dead. Everything had been planned perfectly, and all that was left was for him to die.
He walked out of the plane, where, as ever, his assisstant Anthea was waiting for him. "Where to, sir?"
That was a good question. Where would a dying person want to go. "Home sounds as good a place as any, thank you."
Anthea nodded and got in the car behind the one Sherlock had left in, and Mycroft followed suit.
The ride was filled with silence, until Anthea whispered, "You won't do anything stupid tonight?"
Mycroft smiled. His assisstant was as good as him at reading people. She'd need it if she were to replace him after...after. "I have no idea what you're talking about, my dear."
Anthea frowned but said nothing, and the rest of the ride to Mycroft's home was in silence. He walked in, and didn't bother turning on the lights. The sun was just enough above the horizon to show him where he needed to go. He went to the kitchen, and grabbed one of the knives, before taking out his phone and deciding that maybe, just maybe, he should say something to Sherlock. His fingers typed out one quick message, I'm sorry, before throwing the phone on the counter and using the knife to open wounds on his arms. He didn't bother trying to stop the blood that came forth, just grabbed his phone and watched to see if Sherlock would reply. He watched the phone as his vision became fuzzy, as the edges darkened, until he was unconscious.512Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdkcC6md8N6
He never saw the response.
It was all my fault. Don't blame yourself for something you can't control.512Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUQ2qrqm4wp
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