The bunker was moderately sized and liveable for a few days. If he lived that long. It had several beds, bathroom facilities, food and the most important thing, at least in his mind, a first aid kit. He'd used it immediately to bandage his side, thigh and shoulder. He knew he probably had a head wound as well, it would explain his occasional confusion.
His new suit was completely ruined, though that was not really important, just terribly annoying. It was painful to stand, making travel towards the food and drink incredibly difficult. He hoped someone found him soon, or that he would be able to escape this..tomb himself. Though that was looking increasingly unlikely.
He lay on one of the bunks, resting his leg on a pillow. It probably was not a good idea to sleep right now, but the movement outside had ceased, his pocket watch told him it was night. In the morning, he would try and make himself heard.
----
Present Day...
-----
The funeral was packed, not that John was surprised when you considered Mycrofts occupation in the government, minor indeed. Everyone seemed elegantly dressed compared to himself. Everything seemed elegant. Even the empty coffin.
John sat with the Holmes family, Sherlock had insisted. He did not want his mother crying on his shoulder, so had placed John in between himself and her. It was cold, but John suspected it was out of his own grief that he did so. So now John had Mrs Holmes crying all over his jacket.
Many people spoke about Mycroft, mostly collegues, one ex-lover, even Anthea spoke. Sherlock was still unsure if he should say anything or not. After all... what would he say? Anything he said would be something he'd rather keep private, even from all his family. But John was right, talking about his brother could help ease the pain.
The podium was empty now, John looked over at Sherlock and nodded, holding his hand in reassurance for a few seconds. Sherlock took a breath, stood and made his way to the front. What to say, what to say...
He stood now in front of everyone, suddenly frozen. A memory from earlier slipped into his mind, making him smile ever so slightly.
“Mycroft...was someone who had always been there for me. Even as a child. When I was growing up I always looked up to him, he read to me, played games with me, taught me so many things. I...loved him with all my heart...” His voice broke, dammit Mycroft look at what you are making me do! You're making me express my feelings, I hope you're happy!
“Without him I would not be the man I am today. He has helped me through the most difficult periods of my life and been with me during my best....I'll miss him very much.. I just wish I'd told him how much he means to me...just once..” He couldn't go on from there, his hand reaching his face, trying to hide his tears. John must have followed him, because he now felt his arms around him, leading him from the podium and back to his seat.
Everything after that seemed a blur. He felt so numb.
Re: Oh Brother Of Mine 23/?
-----
The bunker was moderately sized and liveable for a few days. If he lived that long. It had several beds, bathroom facilities, food and the most important thing, at least in his mind, a first aid kit. He'd used it immediately to bandage his side, thigh and shoulder. He knew he probably had a head wound as well, it would explain his occasional confusion.
His new suit was completely ruined, though that was not really important, just terribly annoying. It was painful to stand, making travel towards the food and drink incredibly difficult. He hoped someone found him soon, or that he would be able to escape this..tomb himself. Though that was looking increasingly unlikely.
He lay on one of the bunks, resting his leg on a pillow. It probably was not a good idea to sleep right now, but the movement outside had ceased, his pocket watch told him it was night. In the morning, he would try and make himself heard.
----
Present Day...
-----
The funeral was packed, not that John was surprised when you considered Mycrofts occupation in the government, minor indeed. Everyone seemed elegantly dressed compared to himself. Everything seemed elegant. Even the empty coffin.
John sat with the Holmes family, Sherlock had insisted. He did not want his mother crying on his shoulder, so had placed John in between himself and her. It was cold, but John suspected it was out of his own grief that he did so. So now John had Mrs Holmes crying all over his jacket.
Many people spoke about Mycroft, mostly collegues, one ex-lover, even Anthea spoke. Sherlock was still unsure if he should say anything or not. After all... what would he say? Anything he said would be something he'd rather keep private, even from all his family. But John was right, talking about his brother could help ease the pain.
The podium was empty now, John looked over at Sherlock and nodded, holding his hand in reassurance for a few seconds. Sherlock took a breath, stood and made his way to the front. What to say, what to say...
He stood now in front of everyone, suddenly frozen. A memory from earlier slipped into his mind, making him smile ever so slightly.
“Mycroft...was someone who had always been there for me. Even as a child. When I was growing up I always looked up to him, he read to me, played games with me, taught me so many things. I...loved him with all my heart...” His voice broke, dammit Mycroft look at what you are making me do! You're making me express my feelings, I hope you're happy!
“Without him I would not be the man I am today. He has helped me through the most difficult periods of my life and been with me during my best....I'll miss him very much.. I just wish I'd told him how much he means to me...just once..” He couldn't go on from there, his hand reaching his face, trying to hide his tears. John must have followed him, because he now felt his arms around him, leading him from the podium and back to his seat.
Everything after that seemed a blur. He felt so numb.