Moments after Sherlock is seated and the jet’s door shuts quietly behind Mycroft—no ceremony there—and the plane begins to lift off the ground, he collapses.
His face pressed into his hands, breathing ragged, muscles stiffening under the strain of superhuman effort for control. Between frantic breaths, he scoffs at his outburst—but there is none of his usual sharpness of self-criticism.
He sits like that for long moments, letting his heart slow down, then he slowly decompresses his hands from his face thinking—
“Can’t you see what’s going on?”
—an easily missed crack in his voice as he whispers to the loneliness around him.