Almost as soon as John disappeared the front door opened, almost as if Mycroft had choreographed his entrance so as not to disrupt our conversation. I turned to face him almost fearfully; worried that he might have overheard what we had been saying. Oh well there was no use now, anything he didn't know he must have guessed by now. He was a smart man, no matter how dull the farming life made him look.
"He's in the barn, hidden in the hay." Mycroft muttered, walking over miserably to the scrub brushes and sinking to his knees so as to start with the mess. He looked defeated in a way that I had never seen him before. He looked as though the entire world had just collapsed upon him, and that everything he had once been fighting for was just torn from his fingers. He looked helpless, and yet he picked up the brush and began to work, heaving the bristles into the wood so as to distract himself from the pain that was flaring up into his heart. I thought for a while, as I stared at him, why our father's death should mean so much to him. Surely he didn't love the man; surely he didn't need him for anything more than employment and shelter? Well now as the heir to the farm, Mycroft really didn't need my father for anything. The more I thought about it, of course, the more I realized that his misery wasn't rooted in our father's death. No, what broke my brother wasn't his sudden orphanage, it was my leaving. I suppose I was the only one he had ever cared for, and now I was forced to go into exile, to run for the police and live the life that Mycroft had always imagined for himself. Oh how tragic it would be, for this poor man to find himself so terribly alone. But what was I to do? Invite him to run away with us? Well that would be rather awkward, at best. No he could not come along, not if we weren't going to leave this farm to rot. He would have to say, and that's what made him hang his head low. My heart broke for him, and yet I could think of nothing better to do than join him on the floor, in the mess of soap suds and my father's blood. Scrubbing up that awful man, and cleansing all evidence that he had ever lived or died here from the boards that had been force to support his weight.
"I hope you love that boy, William. I hope you love him enough to justify all of this." Mycroft muttered.
"Of course I do." I insisted, pausing to readjust my hands along the wooden scrub brush. My hands were not used to manual labor, and the delicate skin was not taking lightly to the work. Mycroft sighed heavily, bowing his head as if he was already planning out my funeral.
"It seems as though you've gone out of your way to disobey me." Mycroft admitted.
"It's always been meant to be. That's why you were scared for me, all the way back then. You knew as well as I." I reminded him. "Besides, we're already criminals; we've got blood on our hands. They can't hang us twice."
"No I suppose they can't. But once will be enough, William." Mycroft reminded me. "Once will be enough to break my heart."
"Mycroft..." I started, and yet found that my words would not follow. It was midway through the silence that I realized I hadn't been prepared to say anything, nothing that would make his heart feel any better. And so there was nothing I could do but stay quiet, and return to my work.
"It will be Victor who will hunt you down." Mycroft reminded me.
"I know." I agreed, a bit hauntingly. The idea of that man on my trail sent shivers down my spine, and yet for what reason I could not say. He was threatening in a way which made me want to stay on his good side. I didn't want to give him power over me; I didn't want to owe him anything. Most of all, I didn't want to give him any reason to hurt me, or control me in anyway. It seems as though I hadn't thought of that, at least not before I picked up that knife.
"You can't let him find you, William. It's simply not an option. As soon as he catches you I...I can't think what he might do. I don't want to think." Mycroft admitted, shivering before dipping his brush into the water and returning to his work.
"He won't find us." I assured quietly.
"You don't know that." Mycroft reminded me. "He's a clever man, William. He's a lawless man."
"Do you still..."
"Don't say it." Mycroft growled at me, flashing his black eyes in a ruthless stare.
"It's a valid question, Mycroft!" I defended, to which my brother hissed, avoiding eye contact in silence. "Would it hurt you if...if we had to take desperate measures against him?" I asked hesitantly.
"You'd kill him?" Mycroft whispered, pausing all together as if he hated to consider the idea. As if deep down, despite his spite for that man, there was still a hint of affection. Just enough leftovers from his passionate youth to move his heart at the idea of the man's death.
"If we had to." I admitted. "But I'd find another way, if you still do love him."
"I don't love him." Mycroft growled. "But if I did, if in some other...well I suppose I love you more. I suppose I would allow you any methods of defense."
"Thank you." I muttered, turning away from him now so as to avoid any awkward stares in the aftermath of such a conversation. "You should find yourself another, Mycroft. You deserve to be happy, even if that happiness isn't saintly in your narrow definition."
"At this point, William, I don't even know what happiness is." Mycroft murmured. "And I doubt that I could find it, even if I tried."
"Happiness is love, with someone you feel something for." I reminded him. "You used to be in love, Mycroft. God don't try to deny it, please just allow yourself to be human for once!"
"I'm not trying to be anything; I'm not denying myself anything! Not all of us are allowed our soulmates! Not all of us are matched up by coincidence; some of us are just intended to suffer!" Mycroft exclaimed, silencing me before I could think of anything else to say to defend my point. I let my brush fall to the floor, turning on him with the intention of telling him off for being so pessimistic. And yet my harsh words were silenced when I saw that my brother was bent over himself, nearly touching his forehead to the floor with his bloody hands covering his eyes. He was trembling, shaking with the tears that he was trying so hard to contain. I didn't know what to say, if anything at all. I didn't know what to do...God it was so much easier to fight with him, rather than console him! His tears alone reminded me of how broken he really was, how distraught this life had made him, and how helpless he saw his future to be. These tears reminded me of just what he had to sacrifice so that I could live the life I had ahead of me. 

 Mycroft didn't permit me to sleep upstairs with John, though I don't know what this single night of solitude was going to do. He knew full well that when we were together during our flight we wouldn't be bothering to keep ourselves apart. Perhaps he just wanted to remember me as the innocent boy that he knew growing up, perhaps this one night would help ease his mind about what was to come. Oh, in any case, I didn't get much sleep anyway. The blood was finally cleaned off the floor at about two am, and by the time I settled myself on the couch I was much too excited and disturbed to do any sort of sleeping. It was there in the darkness, the hallow living room which was short a drunken creature, that I was finally afraid of what we had done. No, it wasn't the consequences that scared me, for Victor was daunting yet not all together unavoidable. It was the guilt, or rather the karma, that would be haunting me for a long time. I wasn't a firm believer in the paranormal, yet I felt my father's presence in that living room, creeping along the shadows just as soon as I closed my eyes. He was still with me, coming for his revenge now; oh no matter how hard I tried I was on edge, with one eye open and scanning my surroundings! I was a criminal in the eyes of the law and a sinner in the eyes of God, surely such grievous crimes could not just be forgotten? Surely I could not walk away from patricide without a blink of the eye? That night was my agony, that night was how I paid for my crime. And the morning that would follow, well let's just say it wasn't as carefree as I had hoped. With the sun came my brother, who despite the late night was so programed to wake at dawn that he was moving around just as soon as the first rays of sun were poking above the sky. Despite my promise to leave at daybreak I decided to sleep in just a little bit longer, for the sunlight aided my fearful brain, and finally I was able to close my eyes long enough to drift into a very delirious state of unconsciousness. I heard the brief opening of the door, which meant that my brother was off to feed the animals, and in another thirty minutes he had returned. 

"William, you ought to get moving." Mycroft suggested, hovering over me and talking with a voice that was very far away. I forced my eyes open, rubbing my aching temples and staring at my brother with a very bothered look.
"What's Victor going to do?" I grumbled. "Five more minutes."
"Get up, William, that's an order!" Mycroft demanded, pulling the thin blanket from off of my body and exposing me to the chilly draft that was coming from somewhere in the gapped window pane. I gave a groan of protest, curling into the tightest ball I could yet understanding finally that I was beaten. Surely sleep would have to be postponed, at least until we could start a life somewhere new.
"I'll get John awake." Mycroft muttered, deciding that his job had been completed down here.
"We'll need to clean his wounds!" I called back.
"I know, get breakfast ready!" Mycroft insisted, his words followed by his quick footfalls on the stairs. I groaned once more for show, before heaving myself up into a sitting position, scowling at the daylight as it filtered through the dusty windows. My attention was then grabbed by the floor, though it wasn't a fault in the floor that bothered me, rather the cleanliness that chilled me to the bone. It was cleaned, clean in such a way that in years to come no one would remember that a man had died there. His blood was scrubbed, his body hidden. If the murder was never discovered, that space on the kitchen floor would mean nothing. There was something disturbing about that, yet at the same time there was also something very pleasing. My father never deserved a legacy; he never deserved to be a martyr for his own foul causes. Just like his life, his death too would be forgotten, and there would be no one left once we were gone to tell his miserable tale. It was better that way. I prepared some oatmeal, the only thing I really knew how to cook. Thankfully it didn't take long, and just as soon as John and Mycroft descended the staircase I had three full bowls, ready with some honey on the side for taste. John was looking better, despite his open wounds. He was able to walk on his own, at least, and that was enough to ease my mind.
"Good morning Sherlock." John managed, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table and letting his eyes cast over the spot where my father had lain. He looked rather impressed, but didn't say anything to congratulate us on our housekeeping skills.
"You'll have to take only what Redbeard can carry." Mycroft warned, eyeing the stack of luggage that I had collected the night before. It was all pushed to the side of the front door, yet obviously it would prove to be too much for the old horse. Two riders was usually enough to make that poor thing buckle, so surely we would have to pack light.
"Just clothes then, clothes and money." John suggested, as if he was trying to make it seem like he had anything more than that. He didn't even own the necessities, much less anything that would be useless enough to leave behind.
"Yes alright." I agreed glumly, eyeing the bag that was filled with my books and papers, things I had planned to use in college.
"You'll have to get moving, quickly William! Irene can show up in any moment, and Victor...well I need not remind you how unpredictable he is." Mycroft insisted, insisting that I eat my oatmeal much more rapidly than I wanted to. John was finished before I was, and so he went out to help Mycroft get the horse ready. I wanted to protest, and insist that John take it easy, yet I knew of course that he would have to work through his injuries from here on out. He ought to get used to the pain, so as to ride for about an hour to the outskirts of town and then hike on the road from there. And so I finished up my oatmeal, and spent the rest of the time figuring out what I should and shouldn't bring. Well of course the necessities ended up being just my wardrobe, or rather a fraction of it. It was almost pitiful to be taking a single backpack slung over my back, yet I figured that I'd rather buy clothes along the way than haul a suitcase across the countryside. I met John in the front yard, where he had saddled Redbeard up and was just about to come inside to get me. I only realized when it was too late that I had not taken time to savor my last few steps within my house. The place that had harbored me for these seventeen years, the rooms which housed my first steps, first words...the place where my mother had lived. I walked out the door so quickly and I never looked back, not once to appreciate the building which had been home for so long. I was much too distracted by John, who was now patting Redbeard's nose and speaking words of encouragement to him. The morning was crisp, as spring had only just set in, and there was a heavy dew clinging to the green grass. My shoes were soaked as I approached my brother, who was staring rather mournfully at me, realizing of course that this was going to have to be goodbye.
"I'll come and get Redbeard, then, at the edge of town." Mycroft decided. "I'll start walking just as soon as you leave."
"We won't see each other again, will we?" I muttered hesitantly, shouldering my backpack and watching as my brother shrugged, sinking his hands into his pockets just to give himself something to do, something to distract himself with.
"Not for a long time, at best." He agreed. "If I come to you they'll find you, and vice versa. Mail will be traced, phone calls will be pointless..."
"And that's all assuming we survive this." I added. Mycroft nodded once more, his black eyes turned down towards the grass. He couldn't look at me, presumably, lest he burst into embarrassing tears.
"I will be angry if you don't." he admitted. "God William, please don't make me angry."
"I won't." I assured, not entirely sure if that was his way of euphemizing the plea 'don't die'.
"And don't...well you know the rules yes, the rules of chastity? Not until you're married." Mycroft warned.
"But we'll never be married, we're not allowed." I pointed out with a frown.
"Ah, all the better then." Mycroft decided, nodding his head and rolling very awkwardly onto his heels.
"I'll keep it in mind, but it certainly won't be gospel." I suggested, which was a polite way of denying any of his pathetic rules. He wouldn't be there to stop me, in any case.
"Be good, William." Mycroft said finally, looking over to John where he was waiting a bit awkwardly.
"Ya, I'll be alright. And you too. I hope you get a good harvest, I hope it's enough to keep you going. We left you some of father's money, I hope that..." Mycroft cut me off, breaking into something of a sob and wrapping his arms around my neck, forcing me into one of the roughest hugs that I'd ever been forced into. Yet I hugged him back, God I had no choice in the matter, I hugged him back and felt my eyes begin to leak tears without my permission. My brother, my only brother, my only proper family. How hard it was to say goodbye, and to let go of his hand after these seventeen years. How hard it was to leave him behind. I imagine it was worst for Mycroft, in that moment and beyond. For while my life was going to change his was going to remain the same, the same yet so alone, the same yet terribly stagnated. I was off to live the life I deserved, while he was left to suffer through the remnants of the life I had left behind. Finally he let me go; rubbing his eyes so as to wipe away any of the damning tears. We didn't want the other to see our emotions, even in a moment like this we had reputations to uphold.
"Get up there, come on then." Mycroft insisted, the first of his choking words that he was able to manage out. I nodded, climbing up onto Redbeard's back and helping John as he clambered up. I could hear him wincing as he shifted, as if every movement hurt him, and yet I chose to ignore it, as I knew that I could do nothing to ease his pain. It would be a long journey for the both of us, even if we had been in perfect health.
"Alright then." Mycroft muttered, making sure all of our bags were slung onto Redbeard's saddle bags, ensuring that we were good to go. "John, take care of my brother. And William...thank you for staying by my side for so long."
"Thank you, Mycroft." I muttered, my words coming hoarsely as I tried to think of anything that might sum up the emotions I had for him. Well, anything that I could not put into words was surely lingering in Mycroft's heart as well, so it was better left unsaid. We both housed the appreciation, and the pain, and so it was better that we just get it over with. So I smiled at him, and gave Redbeard a kick enough to start him going through the morning dawn. I heard just a small mutter, the last words from Mycroft's mouth that I heard for a very long time. Along with the chorus of hooves upon the grass, I was able to catch just the faintest statement..."Farewell, brother mine."