I’m currently working on a bigger article, so here you have a snippet of something that has passed my mind and I have already shared with you, but hadn’t explained appropriately.
I told you that Mycroft knew about Sherlock being still alive.
You may have assumed that it was just from his ability to find out everything about anyone in seconds, thanks to him BEING the British Government. And the British Secret Service. And the CIA on a freelance basis. He knows. He is defined by knowing. The Holmes boys always know. From his perpetual need of information to the annoyance at its lack, Mycroft expects proof for everything and, since Molly couldn’t have possibly shown him a body and just expect the brother of the supposed deceased to recognize a foreign corpse, he couldn’t trust her. Or her words. Or everything the press was saying.
Just as I told you. Trust nothing but the evidence of your eyes. Mycroft lives on that principle. Did you expect him to believe what Sherlock’s friend, Sherlock’s best-friend and a million strangers told him?
You remember this scene, don’t you? Then you should acknowledge the fact that that is Sherlock’s Thinking pose. And Mycroft’s too, as we see. Now. Your brother has committed suicide. He had shone more despair when his job had been threatened. He may be the Ice-Man, but nothing in the world hurts more than losing a part of your family.
The two of them used to be close. Very close. They used to have only each other when their dad had left them. Sherlock was the pirate, Mycroft was the East India Trading Company or some voyaging captain looking for gold and glory. They used to be brothers and friends and family until the unknown and the unspeakable happened and ice began to form. The ended up two damaged men, at the height of their careers, unable to forgive and unable to forget.
But family-bonds never die and Mycroft had watched over Sherlock for far too many years to let such an ending undisturbed. He knew Sherlock better than any other man and, while Lestrade may have started to wonder, he never had. Moriarty had always been real.
When he tries to decide something, his usual thinking pose is this. He is a far more subtle individual, not as pointy as his sibling. While Sherlock holds his fingers stretched and tensed, Mycroft almost like he tries to hide them. A secretive man, with secretive hands.
So once you eliminate the impossible, you end up with some form of truth. Mycroft knew Sherlock far to well to believe that he would commit suicide upon the discovery of Moriarty’s nonexistence. He knew the suicide thing had to be a bluff, a fake for the eyes of the media. He starts analyzing it all, but the terrifying truth that lies beyond the logic is the undeniable reality of Sherlock’s disappearance. Whether dead or away, Mycroft had lost sight of his little brother. Unable to deduce his further moves while surveyed, what could he expect to understand when his brother was gone?
Here, see? Same position of the hands. Shock gesture, the covering of the mouth and his own thinking position. That is how you look when you’re shocked.
When Sherlock fell, it wasn’t sadness or shock that filled him.
It was doubt. He knew Sherlock. He knew what he could do and he knew that he must have known what Moriarty was planning. His brother hated people, but his work was his life. All he lived for was the thrill of the hunt, of the riddle. And that wasn’t lost from him, not really. Not yet. The suicide was just a plot for the eyes of the world. It had to be and since no body existed, he was allowed to suppose. But could he?
I do believe though that a part of him, the human part of his soul, acknowledged the fact that Sherlock had died. Everything led to that. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him and Sherlock Holmes was gone. Dead. Could he believe that? Could he believe that the genius that was his brother had died by his own hand? Ignorant of the reasons, for reasons could be found….
Could he believe such an ice-cold reality? That his brother was dead?