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Something To Live For

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The days leading after Sherrinford... difficult to put it bluntly.

Knowing what happened, having lived through it; having to watch Sherlock and John witness it as well, watching as Eurus tormented them, as they helplessly witnessed the governor kill himself and then could do nothing as Eurus killed the man's wife in retaliation for John being unable to kill him.

Then as if it wasn't enough, Mycroft was faced with his own mortality, Eurus giving Sherlock no choice but to shoot either John or himself. And what was worse, what was the most terrifying of all, he almost witnessed the mortality of his brother's, as Sherlock refused to shoot him, and turned the gun on himself.

Fortunately, thanks to his brother's unmeasurable brilliance, he managed to put an end to the nightmare.

But just because it was all over and Eurus was properly secured again, doesn't mean it that the demons still didn't linger. Because while everyone assumed Mycroft was fine, while he put on a good front: smiled and waved off others concerns.

In his mind, in his brilliant but isolated mind, he was far from alright. Because it had all become far to much to bare. 

And the nightmares he had as the result of them did not help. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there in Sherrinford, back in Eurus' twisted little game, where the dream warped time after time between two different scenarios; one where Sherlock does actually shoot Mycroft in the heart, killing him or the one where Sherlock does in fact, pull the trigger on himself and Mycroft could only watch in horror as his brother's falls to the ground dead.

Each one left him breathless, kicking and jerking until his sheets fell to the ground and his eyes snapped open, where a wordless cry escaped his lips. He hadn't regretted offering himself when Eurus had given his brother that one option. Because in Mycroft's mind, he knew that Sherlock and John would be able to stop Eurus together.

His brother and Dr. Watson who, had been a better brother to Sherlock in the past couple years then Mycroft had ever been in Sherlock's whole life.

He wanted them both to live, wanted it so badly that he was willing to die for both of them, and willing to have Sherlock be the one to kill him, this was all his fault after all, it would be a fitting punishment.

Him and Uncle Rudy's, he knew this. 

What he'd done to Eurus, what he could have been for Sherlock and his sister, had he tried hard enough to be the brother they both needed instead of what he thought was right.

But in that dream... he didn't know what was worse; watching Sherlock die in front of him, or the feeling of himself dying.

The fear, the anguish, the gut wrenching horror he felt when it came to seeing Sherlock's lifeless eyes, the hole in his dear brother's head as blood dripped from the ceiling.

Or the relief, peace and happiness he felt from feeling death.

He wasn't suicidal, or at least he hadn't been before Sherrinford. But ever since then, every since, he hasn't been the same. He couldn't look himself. His own reflection, his physical appearance, so pale and ghastly, dark circles hung heavy under his eyes lids as his hair was unkept and greasy.

It disgusted him, the fact that such trauma caused by his own little sister had caused him to change so drastically, he was nothing more then a hollow shell of who he use to be. His brain, his brilliance, was worth nothing if he could no longer see his importance, whereas he could before.

Where he valued his job, his position, his responsibility to look after his brother and protect his family, now felt like he couldn't.

Someone else could always replace him.

John could replace him as Sherlock's brother and protector, hell he already was, and had been these last few years. And at his job, he was expendable. And Sherlock, even if reluctantly, could protect their family. Far more brilliantly then he ever could.

And he was so tired. So very tired and he just wanted to sleep, just for one moment, just for one second he wanted to sleep without the nightmares, without his sins crawling on his back, dragging him down into a sea of his own guilt.

So he left his umbrella on his desk, along with his car keys, wallet neatly placed there. He then mimicked what Sherlock had done with Moriarty—

And jumped from his rooftop.

It felt like an eternity for him to hit the ground but as he did so, he felt his life rush past him. Moments of good and moments of bad, moments he adored and ones he was ashamed of. And it only further his urge. His intent to just sleep.

God, he wanted to sleep.

Wanted it to end.

But the end never came, for he awoke. Which hadn't been something he had expected since he, like Sherlock, never believed in God, and therefore didn't believe in the afterlife, or heaven. So the only explanation as disoriented he was, was that he was still among the living and still very much alive.

Well Christ...

He had planned to not make it, he planned to be long gone by the time someone likely noticed his absence. And yet here he was, albeit in pain but laying in a hospital bed, and still very much alive. He let out a low moan, but not from pain but from the dread he knew he was going to receive from his family.

Eurus wasn't part of the equation because he knew she hated him. Had wanted him dead the moment Sherlock pointed that gun at him, had planned for every encounter, showing all his faults, the mistakes he made, that got them to that point, in order to make it easier on Sherlock to kill him.

But Mummy and Father?

They'll be distraught far more so that he tried rather then he would have had he succeeded.

And Sherlock...


He knew that brother already detested the very idea of suicide, but the fact that he— that they all must have had time to read the notes he left them individually, Mycroft knew that the answer, the conclusion that everyone would come to, would be clear once his family arrived. 

And surely enough, a few minutes later, Mycroft heard the door to the hospital room slide open, and in walked his parents, the sounds of his mothers cries, followed by Anthea and John, the familiar sound of Anthea's heels and John's cane clicking and connecting against the title floor, and finally Sherlock, as quiet as ever but still managing to change the very air around him, as he often did.

Mycroft kept his breathe slow and level, in the means to fake being asleep, because while he very much did not want to have this conversation in general, he damn well didn't want to have it in a hospital room just after it all happened.

No, he'd wait.

Wait until they all left, then he could gather his thoughts. And perhaps lie his way through his teeth, maybe come up with a story on how he'd been stalked for weeks, and recently his assailant finally got the best of him. But what of the notes? Yes the notes he had delivered by postal, days before he secured himself in his home. Perhaps he could say that he'd written those ahead of time, as a precaution, after all, none of the notes he'd written by his own hand ever had any indication that he was attempting to take his own life. At least not directly, not painstakingly staring directly at one's face.

He could use that, that could work.

But even as he rehearsed that in his head, came up with several excuses then the alternative, Mycroft knew that they would all fail, because in the eyes of strangers, his poker face was perfection, but in the eyes of his family, the people closest to him, he could not lie. Not to his parents and certainly not to his brother.

Sherlock would spot his lie a mile away, especially since Mycroft wasn't up in pare with Sherlock at the moment, his mind disoriented thanks to the drugs they had pumping through his system.

As he lay there, staying perfectly still, the people around him began to speak. "Oh my boy..." Mummy murmured, and Mycroft could feel those familiar comforting fingers run through his hair, so very gently. Mycroft had to fight every urge he had within him to not lean into the touch, least he give himself away that he was awake. Though he could not stop the tell tale burn that spiked at the corners of his eyes.

"None of this makes sense?" Anthea sounded worried, which was so unlike her. In all the time he's known her, she always seemed to carry herself in a way the showed she didn't care and all she wanted was to get paid so that she could go home. "He always made sure his security system was on. He even got a new one recently, one that alerted the police immediately upon it being tripped. So how could someone break in and do this to him?"

A shift in movement to his right, "Um, well... Actually it is quite easy to get inside." John stated rather awkwardly, "When we wanted information on Eurus, we thought... well I thought it'd be an idea to scare him into telling us."

Ah, Dr. Watson, honesty maybe your downfall.


Mycroft flinched visibly at the stern tone of his mother's voice, and though he could not see, he was almost sure that Sherlock flinched as well. Realizing his slip up, Mycroft let out a low moan, in attempt to fool everyone that he was still asleep.

"Darling?" Mummy whispered, stroking his forehead loving, her voice hopeful, wanting, wishing him to awaken.

But he remained perfectly still, inhaling a deep breathe before letting it all even out.

The atmosphere seemed to shift then. "I want to know who did this to my son." Father demanded, his tone fierce and clearly not up for discussion. "William, do you have any leads?"

Oh dear, full names, their father meant business.

His brother, who'd been uncharacteristically non-hyperverbal this entire time finally spoke. "I do have some. Though none of them are going to make you feel any better, in fact they may have the exact opposite effect."

Mycroft waited, the heart monitor that he had connected to him began to spike.

"Isn't that right, brother dear?"


Having been caught, which wasn't at all a surprise to him, Mycroft let out a low sigh, cringing, gagging when his breathe and throat muscles caught against the tub down his throat and finally opened his eyes.

The entire room erupted into chaos after that.

His mother's tears, holding his hand tightly, while his father moved out of the room and called the doctors, Anthea pulled out her phone and began typing on the keys. While John stepped forward began speaking to him, carefully instructing him how to breathe against the tub without gagging until the doctor and nurses got here. Sherlock was the only one who hadn't moved, and Mycroft knew why.

They stared at each other, a battle of wits beginning between them, something they've done since early childhood.

While the nurses carefully removed the tub from his throat, his eyes never left Sherlock, who stared right back at him, unblinking.

As they, tried to read each other.

But it didn't long for exhaustion to over take Mycroft. And for the first time in his life, he faltered, faltered only the slightest bit, but stumbled nonetheless. And Mycroft watched as Sherlock's eyes widened, and witnessed fear and surprised enter those soft blue green eyes. An emotion that Mycroft hasn't seen since they were kids and Victor first went missing.

Sherlock was scared, not scared of Mycroft like he had been with Eurus, no. His little brother, as childish as his was, and as complicated as their relationship could be at times, was scared for Mycroft.

Worried for him.

The momentum of Sherlock pointing a gun towards him, flashed within his mind. And he realized then that his brother had show fear them too. 

Oh brother mine, has confronting what Eurus did to Victor, has facing the truth of the pain you felt as a lad finally brought out the emotional child in you after all these years?

But Mycroft couldn't say any of that, not with everyone around, so he pleaded silently, with his eyes.

Not now, He begged, as he did his best to breath without the tub all the while still looking at Sherlock, not in front of everyone, later... please just... later.

And to his surprise and sheer relief, Sherlock blinked hard, and followed suit with a nod. Mycroft blinked in return, finally looking away, and towards their parents. Mummy, petted his hair as though he were a child again and Father cupped his cheek. This time, Mycroft allowed himself that indulgent, and leaned into that touch.

Afterwards, when the chaos died down, the doctor motioned for all to leave the room, as listed Mycroft's many injuries.

Or at least attempted to, while he wasn't an expert on medical practices, he could tell from the state of his body that he didn't need a list to know he was going to need some extended physical therapy afterwards.

What he was curious about, was why he wasn't being held down by straps.

He knew the Doctor knew what he tried to do, it was painfully obvious to anyone who could put the pieces together and yet, he wasn't strapped down to the bed. He voiced this thought, and the doctor gave him a look, and leaned forward. "You're brother found me after we managed to stabilize you. At the time we weren't really sure what happened. Then he gave us the notes you left behind. He requested that we not strap you down, because he ensured us this wouldn't be happening again."

Confident as always, his brother was.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to avoid the subject now that Sherlock knew for certain what had happened, and though he really didn't want to have this conversation in a hospital of all places, still hooked up to a monitor, he still requested the doctor to send Sherlock in anyway.

But just his brother.

No one else needed to hear what he was about to be discussed.

A few minutes pasted before the door opened and Sherlock walked in. Mycroft straightened up as best he could and greeted him with a polite smile, "Hello, Sherly."

Sherlock glanced at him, before walking towards the window, and stared down at the people below. Huh, so they weren't going to immediately speak of it? That's... new, Sherlock was always one for getting straight to the point.

Alright, if that's what his brother wanted, then he could play along with whatever game was being offered. "Receive any new cases of late?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue, "Yes, I have several, actually." His brother answered, "Had one, funnily enough, was about to head out the door, when I received a call from Anthea."

Ah, so much for small talk.

"Did you now?" He answered, faking curiosity. Sherlock wasn't wanting to beat around the bush, but that didn't mean Mycroft wasn't, "Strange, I could have sworn I had given her a days vacation. What'd she say?"

"She explained to me that you hadn't never arrived to work as you normally do, and strictly speaking g any sane person would be able to tell that something was off with the knowledge right away, because you're never late for anything." Sherlock deducted faster then he normally did, as though his brother was trying to talk fast in order to to get it over with. "So she called you, several times in fact and you didn't answer, she knew something was wrong. She went to your home and found you in the garden near bleeding to death."

Mycroft hummed, thoughtfully. "Well, lucky she called the ambulance..."

Sherlock turned to him and stood there, stalk still. "Actually no, she was far too distraught, finding you there. I had to call them."

"I see, well, thank you, brother mine."

"Spare the pleasantries, Mycroft." Sherlock looked... emotional. His brother's eyes were laced with so many different emotions; anger, fear, guilt, shame. "I know." Sherlock spat out those two words, venomously, Mycroft took note that his brother's eyes were misty. "How distant you've been lately, the fact that your OCD never allows you to ever be late for anything ever, or about the fact that you left your belongings on your desk with several notes addressed to the closest people that have worked their way into your icy heart. How every door in your home was locked from the inside since you recently updated your security."

Mycroft's own guilt and shame bubbled to the surface, he looked at his hands, becoming particularly interested his IV attached to his right arm.

Stubbornly refusing to discuss what Sherlock already knew.

"Brilliant deduction as always, brother dear. And your conclusion?" His stubbornness was relentlessly because he knew what his brother was trying to do, and he wasn't going to say it first.

Sherlock realized this as well, because he locked his jaw into place, hands behind his back, "Ever since Sherrinford... what Eurus—" They both flinched at the mention of what happened a month ago. "You've been acting different. When Eurus told me to choose between you or John, you... Mycroft, you wanted me to shoot you."

Mycroft nodded, once again faking ignorance, rolling his eyes and pretending to be bored with this conversation, "I'm aware, Sherlock. I was there. I practically asked you to. Please, you asked me to spare you the pleasantries? Well then return that in kind and spare me, you beating around the bush. If you require a question from me, then ask me. After all when have you ever the one to hesitate before?"

Please just ask, just ask... I haven't the strength to say it otherwise.

Sherlock took in a deep breathe, then pulled out the very obvious note Mycroft had addressed to him and began to read aloud;

"My dearest Sherlock.

It has come to may attention and therefore my realization, that ever since Sherrinford, I come to the notice on how deeply I have failed. Though my acts always had the best intentions, they still were flawed and hurt the people I care about the most. My mistakes are my own, my failures all apart of me. How I failed Mummy and Father, Victor, Eurus... you, even the good Doctor Watson and Ms. Hooper.

So I feel that it would be in everyone's best interest, if I went away for a while. Go on that Holiday Father always told me to take. Perhaps to Uncle Rudy's cabin in the mountains. Breathe in the air up there and clear my mind a bit before coming back and being Mycroft Holmes; British Government again.

Mycroft was starting to get rather annoyed, and agitated, "I know what I wrote, Sherlock. You don't need to read it aloud."

"Oh, I don't, do I?" Sherlock's voice sounded danger, like he was on the verge of shouting but was keeping it all in. "Then you know damn well that Rudy's cabin burned down years ago. After he committed suicide via cutting his own wrists."

Nearly there now, just one more push.

His hands started twitching, "This is all getting rather old, brothermine, if you won't spit it out and ask me what you been painfully leading up to for dramatic effect, then I request you leave—"

"You attempted suicide."

The air in the room changed after that, it had already been filled worth tension before but after those words left his brother's mouth, it was like everything took a nose dive and had no intention of stopping. And Mycroft felt like he was going to suffocate from the force and silence of it.

Apparently, Mycroft wasn't the only one who wasn't a fan of the silence that grew around them, for his brother broke the silence with a simple, "Well? Nothing to say?"

Slowly, he inhaled a rather deep breathe, and then opened his mouth. "Why would I say anything when you clearly spoken the truth?"

And oh— The look on Sherlock's face at his words; the anger and fear. It was almost enough for Mycroft to regret his past actions, almost being the operative word.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock swallowed thickly, blinking his eyes rapidly, something they both did whenever they were caught off guard by something or someone. His baby brother's blue green eyes bore into him, "If it's the truth then you wouldn't mind saying it aloud?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, inhale a deep breath, and took a moment to walk through his mind palace before speaking.

His was far different then Sherlock's and while his brother used his for a mental technique, to store or delete wanted or unwanted memories, Mycroft didn't. Since his memory was eidetic, so there was no need to throw anything away. However he does use it to calm his thoughts, because of his brilliant brain, there wasn't a moment where he couldn't stop thinking.

He was always thinking; about his job, the responsibility it entitled, his parents, Eurus, but most importantly Sherlock, and his little brother's friends.

His mind palace was of three separate places. Musgrave; the calm winding hills of his childhood home, where Sherlock would play Pirate with Victor along the funny graves stones that fascinated his brother so. And London; particularly his home, where he found comfort in watching vintage movies while quoting then and finally 221B Baker Street, where his brother went on his day, solving crimes and overall being just an annoying prat as he's often told.

At this moment, he grasped a hold of any calming memory he could get his hands on, he chose, quite ironically, his reasonings for his suicide.

Where he genuinely believed he was making the right call, regardless if he knew it upset the people around him at first. That in the end, they'd get over his passing and move on, especially Sherlock who was as flippant as he often was when it came to such endeavors and with the distance between them, one they both made, in acts of rivalry from Sherlock and acts of protection from Mycroft.

The sound of fingers snapping made him jolt, he blinked several times, his eyes focusing immediately on Sherlock, who's crossed the room and was standing closer to him now. "If you refuse to allow me to go into my mind palace to escape conversations, what makes you think I'll let you escape to yours?"

Mycroft closed his eyes once more, before letting out a sigh. "I jumped off my rooftop." He admitted, "Willingly, I climbed the stairs, to the attic, out my window and attempted to take my own life." Mycroft looked at his hands once again and chuckled, "Your probably wondering, why choose jumping when I once said that I wanted to save my brain? Well, I don't think anyone would want it, considering... well, considering all the mistakes I've made."


Still looking at his hands, caught in a daze, Mycroft smiled sadly. "I felt that it was in everyone's best interest if I—"


The venomous tone caused Mycroft to look up. The expression, the sheer amount of emotion on his brother's face, caught him off guard. He blinked, shockingly at Sherlock, as his brother glared at him with misty eyes.

Mycroft was confused, shocked really. He knew that his brother would have a negative reaction to himself attempting suicide but this wasn't something he ever expected. "Sherlock—"

Turned away from him and ran a hand down his face, as he began to pace? "Why?" He repeated, angrily, "What could possibly have happened that would ever make you even think—" Mycroft watched his brother pause, then the note he'd written crinkled tightly against his brother's fingertips. And those eyes widened in realization. "Sherrinford—"

Mycroft winced, closing his eyes yet again. As his heart monitor let out a beep when his pulse spiked.


Another spike.

"What I said to you, what Mummy said to you afterwards. That's what this is all about."

It wasn't a question, but a simple fact. And Mycroft nodded, "It wasn't just all that." He admitted softly, "My entire life, I have told myself that everything I have ever done, has been for you, for Mummy and Father and everyone that needs protecting. But ever since Sherrinford, I have felt that none of that matters because of the errors I created. Moriarty? Came after you because of me, because I told him about you, because I left him visit with Eurus, because one’s trying to connect with her—"

He paused and cleared him throat, blinking rapidly. "You once said I did my best? Well I think I can say indefinitely that my best, my intentions weren't good enough. It hasn't been for a very long time." Mycroft tried to smile, but he found he had no strength to do so. "My overall use in this world is no longer needed."

Then what happened next shook Mycroft to his core. In his need to explain his actions, he was unprepared when Sherlock, out of nowhere, embraced him. His brother's arms tightly curled around him, finger nails digging into the strings of his medical gown. "Bastard..." His brother murmured, choked out through clinched teeth, "How, in that brilliant mind of yours, something that you've never let me forgot, could you have possibly come up with such a conclusion?"

"I..." Mycroft muttered, still unable to move, "I believe I just said—"

Sherlock tightened his hold, "I heard you! Dammit, I'm asking how!? Why!? After everything that's happened!? You idiot!"

A warmth settled in his heart at the emotions coming from Sherlock; pain, fear and despair. "Is that sentiment I hear, brother dear?" He said with a fond smile, "And here I thought you informed Miss Adler that it was a weakness."

Sherlock tightened his grip, "That was before..."

"Before what?" He asked softly, raising his hand and pinched the fabric of his brother's signature coat with his index and thumb finger just above the elbow.

Before he started to care again

If Mycroft could be grateful if anything, it's towards John, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Ms. Hooper and Lestrade. Because where he failed, they were able to do the one thing that Mycroft has been trying to do from the beginning; bring his brother back.

The one he grew up with, the Sherlock that was far more emotional then how everyone saw him as on a daily. That showed how much he cared by spouting out a 1,000 worded essay on the importance of a person and make it sound like an actual fact, even when his words ran together, and his Asperger's became too much and overwhelmed him.

"Has facing the trauma you endured as a child with Victor finally brought out the emotions you've kept locked away, brother mine?"

Sherlock inhaled, deeply. "Don't try to change the subject. This isn't about me. This is about you, trying to kill yourself, twice."

Mycroft closed his eyes, "Astute, little brother, and if I recall correctly, you retaliated by trying to shoot yourself."

Sherlock suddenly jerked away from him, eyes blazing. "For god's sake, Mycroft, you know I was never going to pull the trigger."

Mycroft let out a hollowed laugh, "No, brother dear. I didn't." A lump formed in his throat as the image of Sherlock place the gun under his chin flashed in his eyes. "You couldn't possible know, couldn't possibly fathom how I felt?" He gripped the edge of Sherlock's coat sleeve to keep himself grounded, as he explained himself. "I was terrified, Sherlock. You must have seen my expression when you started counting down? That's why I wanted you to shoot me, because I knew, I knew you'd come to that conclusion, that solution. And I... I didn't want— as your brother, I wouldn't let that happened."

Looking up, he took note that Sherlock's eyes were no longer blazing but had softened in sympathy. "How do you think I... felt. Mycroft, I may have called the ambulance to save you but that was after I came to your home. I rushed over seconds after Anthea called me... And I saw you..." The pain in Sherlock's eyes, the way he stiffened at the obvious memory he was recalling was still so new to him, that it left Mycroft speechless. "John had to pull me off you when the paramedics carried you away."


But Sherlock continued, "You said you were terrified, was it? When you thought I was going to shoot myself, correct? Can you even imagine how I felt... Feeling is still so new to me, Mycroft, so seeing you so lifeless, blood everywhere." Sherlock's voice cracked, eyes misty as a single tear slide down his brother's cheek.

His heart nearly ceased at the sight, his blood turned to ice and melted all at once because he hasn't seen his baby brother cry, truly cry in years, since they were children where a memory of a much younger Mycroft had to hold very much younger Sherlock as his brother cried out for Victor.

And without a seconds bit of hesitation, Mycroft tightened his grip on the fabric of that Millford coat and yanked his brother down towards him, crushing him against his chest.

"I'm sorry." He croaked out, as the guilt sat against his chest, consuming his heart. What he had done, what he attempted to do, Mycroft could not undo, could never erase the imagine of his suicide from his brother's incredible memory, that it would stay there, forever implanted, like roots from a tree. "I'm so sorry. I didn't— I didn't know you... our rivalry, your resentment to me—"

"Isn't relevant right now." Sherlock trembled in his grasp, like his little brother was on the verge of a breakdown at any second and Mycroft couldn't help but hold on that much more. "None of it, and I cannot believe that as clever as you are. Something you’ve always reminded me of, that you'd actually came to the conclusion that I resent you enough to want you dead?" Mycroft flinched without meaning to and regretted it immediately because Sherlock froze, inhaling a sharp breathe before letting it out just as quickly as it had come.


Mycroft chuckled at the old childhood nickname, feeling a wave of nostalgia as his brother hasn't called him that since he was sent off to boarding school. "You never gave me a reason to think otherwise, brother mine." He whispered truthfully, "Not that I blame you, of course. You had every right to..."

Sherlock pressed his chin into Mycroft's shoulder that it hurt, but he welcomed the pain, anything was better then feeling tired and numb, which is how he's been feeling lately, as he quietly repeated the words he'd spoken when their parents had found out about Eurus, "You did your best. And—" Mycroft could feel his brother swallow thickly, trying to find the right words. "And I don't hate you. God's sake, I don't even resent you, not really... not... Not to want you... I just always had to grow up with being under your shadow. Knowing that I could never be good enough, enough to calm the boredom I felt, the thoughts swirling around inside my mind, like a kaleidoscope of thunder clouds."

The guilt, still consuming Mycroft's heart, panged at his chest, "I'm sorry, I should have been better..."

But it seemed his brother was past his point of patience, for he shook his head, and steeled himself. Slowly, Sherlock pulled back, and sat down on the bed, "No, just... shut up and let me talk."

And he did.

"What I said to you back at Sherrinford. It was a lapse in judgement— Yes, I know logically you were at fault— but my words, and mother's words afterwards... were ill timed. We'd been through so much, adding more salt to your already damaged psyche was wrong on my part, and for that I apologize." Sherlock looked so uncomfortable, sitting there as he intertwined his fingers together. It seemed that though his brother was finally choosing to feel again, accept that part of himself, that part of himself that wasn't actually a sociopath and was just a caring soul with a brilliant intellect who's high leveled Aspergers and OCD went untreated because such things weren't researched back then. "Now I don't know what Eurus did to you after she separated us, but I have a very clear idea, that she didn't simply lock you in her old cell?"

Mycroft flinched visibly, as he remembered hours in his sister's cell, while she taunted him, and sang over the speakings 'You are worth nothing. Are nothing. Everything you've ever done amounts to nothing. You shouldn't be alive. You should be dead, just like Victor.' To the point where he even smashed his hand into the glass, and screamed at the top of his lungs for it to start before it finally ended, and where he started believing it. He opened his mouth to replay and Sherlock held up a hand, "No, your not allowed to say anything, remember? Your mind is already compromised from the trauma she put you through, don't even think about what happened. Just nod, so that I can continue."

Mycroft nodded.

"Now, considering everything we went through before she separated us, everything she planned was deliberate, clever. She knew our heads would be strung out and exhausted. And she used that to her advantage to get inside your head, convince you of things that are further from the truth." The logic his brother was speaking was sound, it made sense, and in the back of his mind, Mycroft knew it as well. "And whatever she said to you, whatever it was. Isn't true, do you understand?"

Mycroft opened his mouth, out of instinct to argue, but Sherlock merely shook his head once more.

"Ah, no. I'm not done yet."

Mycroft let out a small huff, and spoke anyway. "Who's the older sibling here?"

"You. Obviously, brother dear. But your mind is compromised right now. Anything you say will obviously be viewed an argument, which I will counter every time." Sherlock reached forward and grasped Mycroft's hand, his brother's hand was awkward and unsure, but it was sincere and determined, all the same. "You are needed, Mycroft. England would fall without you. Mother and Father would be distraught, and I..."

Sherlock faltered for just a moment   

"You?" Mycroft muttered, waiting.

"I need you."

Mycroft smiled sadly, "No, you don't." He couldn't help but disagree, "You've got Dr. Watson, he's been more of a brother to you in the last these few years then I have in your whole life."

"John is there for me, yes. I will agree with you on that. He's the first best friend I've had since... Victor, the first friend that has stayed and that sees me in a bright light that most would deny. No matter my many errors, or faults, John always manages to return because he cares. He is my best friend, my brother in arms as some would quote."

The truth in Sherlock's words only made Mycroft further wished John had been born Sherlock's brother and not himself.

John could have been there in a way he never could.

"But as brilliant as your brain is, brother dear. You are, in fact, incorrect in your words when you say that I don't need you simply because I've got John and simply because of the mistakes you've made and how your mind believes you failed me. You are wrong, because I need your presence just as much as I need John's. You provide understanding, reassurance, a calmness not even John can provide. You know what my mind is like; the storm inside my head, when I can't quite the voices, when I get overwhelmed or stimulated, and my limps and mind betray me, with agitation and boredom, because you have it yourself."

Sherlock tightened his hand around Mycroft's and locked eyes with his older brother. "I need John, yes. But I also need you just as much."

Mycroft was barely keeping it together, his composure was slowly cracking at the seams. Had been for a while but Sherlock's words seemed to be delivering the finishing blows. "Sherlock—"

"Your loss would break my heart."

Mycroft could only inhale sharply as his own words were thrown back at him. "That is, what you said to me once? Back then I hardly knew what to do with that information, that knowledge of your concern for me. But now though, I feel as though I can— If my loss would pain you, break you. What makes you think that yours wouldn't pain me also?" Those blue-green eyes of his younger brother never wavering as they stared at him, "Your loss, your death, suicide or not, would break me, Mycroft. I'm so sorry I never made that clear to you, I'm sorry I made you think that because I felt overshadowed by you, that it made you conclude that I didn't care."

Sherlock raised a hand and gently cupped the back of Mycroft's neck, "I'll do whatever you require of me. I'll stand outside of your therapy sessions, —and yes, you do need them now more then ever— or inside sitting in the corner if you prefer? I'll bring you along to some of my cases, I'll visit you daily if you want, spend the night on the couch and I'll even convince Mother and Father to arrange regular get-togethers so you don't feel so alone, just please— Please, don't ever do this again, I need you, we all need you, please..."

Mycroft's vision blurred, his throat felt tight, agonizingly raw as emotions bubbled to the surface and his facade shattered, "Okay." And he crumbled into pieces, against his little brother's waiting arms. Because who was he, to deny a request from Sherlock. "If that's... what you wish, what you need from me..."

Sherlock held him so fiercely, that Mycroft found it hard to breathe. "Nothing would make me happier. Anata wa hitori janai, brother mine. Always."

You are not alone.

Mycroft let out a wet chuckle, as he leaned back, taking Sherlock with him and settled against the bed. "Did you really learn all of the Japanese language just to quote that to me?"

Sherlock, minding the wires and monitor, adjusted himself to lay on the bed, and suddenly it felt like they were children again. "Maybe. How'd I do?"

Mycroft rested his chin on the top of his brother's head and smiled, fondly. "Exceptional, as always, Sherly."

Sherlock snorted, but said nothing for a while. "Thank you, Myci."

Mycroft blinked in surprise, "For what?"

"Everything. All you did to protect me even when I was being a pain in the arse."

That same warmth envelope his heart yet again, and this time he knew what it was.


Yes, he finally reached sentimentality, but he no longer cared and he held Sherlock tighter, vowing to never again. Never again put his family in pain, for their sake's and for the sake Sherlock's mental psyche, he'd love for them. "Seeing the good man you've become, seeing your extraordinary mind grow and change and adapt. Has made it the most rewarding thing I've ever done in my life."

And from the very depths of his heart, it was the truth.