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MYCROFT HOLMES doesn't think his brother should be off running around playing with dead things.
He could still recall a time when they were just children, his mother had scolded Sherlock for performing an autopsy on a dead bird. Mycroft had been disgusted, and he can still remember the urge to throw up when he saw the disfigured nightingale scattered above the tabletop.Little Sherlock, on the other hand, was delighted at his mother's horrified reaction.
" It's not nice for little boys to go around poking dead birds !" She had shrieked," Children shouldn't play with dead things."
That wasn't one of his fondest memories, yet history seems to repeat itself in the most terrifying ways.
Sherlock was a fool to think that something like this won't come to his attention, maybe the younger Holmes knew, and he just doesn't care. His brother had always been reckless. He always claims to have a plan when in truth, his wits can't always save him. Most of the times, even if Sherlock doesn't want to admit it, Mycroft was his savior in times of trouble.
He would come swooping in with his team, extracting Sherlock from the mess he created. Whether it would be out of narrow alleys that reeked of ecstasy or a room full of angry gunmen.
Sherlock Holmes was too smart to put himself in harm's way, yet what made Mycroft worry, what made his entire family worry, is that he just doesn't seem to care.
The world's only consulting detective was infatuated with danger, and boredom can be a destructive thing for a man in love with the stench of death.
That's exactly why Mycroft Holmes doesn't want Annabel Lee around.
It's been a week since her so-called resurrection, and Mycroft wondered why it bothered him more than it did Sherlock that she was living next door to him. To see that she was keeping him busy was more than what he could've asked for, seven days without Sherlock's troublemaking was more than the vacation he deserves.
It was then, did he began to suspect something was off.
When he entered baker street, he was surprised to hear a scream echo throughout the stairs. Immediately he bolted upwards, holding his umbrella in his right hand as he swung the door open with his left, eyes sharp as they scanned the room.
Yet 221B Baker Street was the same as it always been, the only difference was that Sherlock wasn't alone. The woman stood beside him, her hands buried in his dark curls. She was on her tiptoes, struggling to reach his scalp. It took him a moment to realize that the two have been doused in red, and he didn't have to ask to know what it was.
They were both wearing a pair of protective goggles, which were also splattered in spots of crimson. Her bright blue latex gloves were picking out the pieces of flesh tangled in his hair, her face twisted in a mixture of horror and disgust, yet at the same time, she was clamping her lips shut to stifle a laugh.
Sherlock acknowledged him passively," Can I help you, Mycroft?"
The older Holmes stared at the mess before he caught a whiff of smoke crawling from the kitchen. Only then, did his shoulders rolled forward and eyes closed in frustration.
"Another one of your failed experiments?"
" On the contrary," He shared a look with the petite woman, flashing her a private smile," I think we did a good job."
She failed to hold in her laughter, her body convulsing forwards as she grinned," When I said baking, this was not what I meant."
That was what made Mycroft realize, it was going to be difficult to make his brother hand her over to him. Mycroft, after all, specializes in making things disappear to avoid mass hysteria. She, unfortunately, just so happens to be on the list of things that would create moral panic.
As harsh as it sounds, he was glad to hear that she had no relatives that might know about her passing or her restoration. It bothered him just as much as it comforted him, as she was the closest thing to someone nonexistent. As far as the world's concerned, no one else knows Annabelle Lee exists.
She was a phantom, wandering aimlessly in the world without a companion, and Mycroft doesn't want to believe that she doesn't have any single friends or relatives. Humans are naturally social beings, even he has friends ( or rather, colleagues, but that's close to being the same thing.)
It was a good thing he was bloody good at his job, if not he would have never discovered the existence of the only other person to know that she's alive.
That person is somewhere here in London, and whoever this person was, they were good at hiding from people who are desperately looking for them.
Mycroft wanted to share this with his brother, as this might be their next big lead to solving the unsuccessful death of Annabelle Lee.
Although, judging from the way Sherlock was smiling at her, he doesn't seem to want to solve the case anymore.
They were talking in the kitchen, and Mycroft pretended not to hear anything, admiring the skull perched above the fireplace.
" Were you really there," She asked, and he nearly missed her question at how soft her whisper was," When I died?"
She said the word as if it left a bitter taste in her mouth, and he can see from the corner of his eyes the way her face scrunched up in disgust. Sherlock didn't reply for a long time, and Mycroft was sure he had missed her question, but eventually, his baritone voice echoed throughout the flat. As if he knew Mycroft was eavesdropping,he said it loud enough for him to hear.
" I was," He hesitated, Mycroft can tell, and it unnerved him to see his brother trudge carefully around someone, "I carried your corpse to the ambulance, and I watched your pulse fade in my arms. You were dead, Annabelle. You bled all over my coat. There was no way you could've been alive that night."
"Well," She swallowed dryly, and he can tell she was trying to hold back her tears through her shaky voice," I guess you're wrong."
If it had been anyone else to have said that to him, Sherlock would've replied with one of his snarky comments and earn a black eye or two. He would've humiliated the person and most likely, render them to tears.
Instead, he offered a soft smile.
It was the most gentle he had seen Sherlock been, and it was alien, to see him act so carefully around her. As if one wrong move could shatter her like a piece of porcelain.
He wonders what would happen when the time comes, when Annabel Lee would finally tear her paper skin to reveal noting but a walking carcass.
If he stands close enough, he can imagine the stench of rotting flesh and dried blood.
( He has to grip the handle of his umbrella to stop the bile rising against his throat.)
MYCROFT HOLMES warned him about getting too attached because as far as he's concerned, CHILDREN SHOULDN'T PLAY WITH DEAD THINGS.
