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Chapter Text

"I'll never leave you."

But he had, hadn't he? He'd made promises when it hadn't been his place to do so, and he had left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. Not just Mycroft's, but Sherlock's as well. As for their mother...well, Mycroft was sure that the news had found a way into her heart as well. If she had one.

"You'll take care of Sherlock."

It had been a statement, not a question, leading Mycroft to believe that he hadn't a choice. But he had sworn to do so, nonetheless, no matter how difficult the task was proving to be. No matter how hard he tried, Mycroft was simply not an adult. He was seventeen, Sherlock was ten; their mother nearly out of her mind and their father newly buried. What a family they had made. The boys had matured faster than they would have preferred; fending for themselves had forced them to do so. Life had been difficult to say the least, but it had made Mycroft into the man that he was today. Strong. Impassive. In control. At least on the surface. As Sherlock had grown older, he had become that way as well. Mycroft had quite hoped for the opposite, but it was no matter now: once Sherlock became set, it was hopeless to try and change him. Mycroft supposed that he'd had something to do with it. He had shut down completely, and Sherlock had learned behaviour by example.

"My, why does it hurt so much?"

He hadn't had an answer prepared for such a question. There was so much that he could have said: Because we loved him, because he cared for us, because you have a heart. Instead, he had taken his younger brother firmly by the shoulders, and met his eyes.

"All lives end," he'd said gently, "All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." He'd simply been trying to save his brother the pain.

Chapter Text

Greg's death had come as a surprise, and it was no secret that Mycroft Holmes detested surprises. Lestrade's mind had assessed and acted on the threat before the elder Holmes had even recognized it. And for that, he would never quite be able to forgive himself.

Time, he thought now, secure and alone in the rear of a hired car, he hadn't given me enough. It was true. Though he had been second to take notice, he should have been the first to respond. Mycroft had the resources, after all. He'd simply had to have uttered a single phrase, and they would have been completely safe and free of harm. But he had allowed pleasure to distract his focus, and good very rarely came of that. The assassin had been captured and punished to the full extent of the law; both Mycroft and Sherlock had seen to that. But the justice did little to relieve him of his guilt.

As badly as he felt, the guilt did not rest entirely on his shoulders. Greg had, quite literally, jumped the gun, and even Mycroft Holmes was unable to stop a bullet. The papers had called it sacrifice. Mycroft called it foolishness. There had been no need for Lestrade to take the bullet. No need at all. But that had been Greg, loyal to the point of stupidity. But Mycroft had cared for the man. Deeply. And it pained him in equal measure, knowing that he was gone. The car pulled even with the curb in front of the church, and Mycroft allowed himself to be guided inside, face as unreadable and impassive as ever. He recognized nearly all the faces he saw. John and Sherlock were in the second pew, and Mrs. Hudson was not far behind. Keeping his head high, Mycroft waited for the service to begin.

"You miss him," Sherlock commented quietly from behind, just as the service started. Mycroft allowed himself the faintest of nods.

"He was brave," John offered next. Mycroft lowered his gaze.

"Bravery is, by far, the kindest word for stupidity. Don't you think?" He excused himself and exited the church, relying heavily upon his ever present umbrella.

Chapter Text

Though Mycroft's sudden presence appeared to be random, both he and Sherlock were well aware that it was not. He planned every move precisely, and he followed that plan without fail. And just because Sherlock had grown accustomed to it didn't mean that he had necessarily come to welcome it.

They were both young; Sherlock twenty and Mycroft seven years his senior. In spite of their shared childhood (or, perhaps, because of it), the brothers pushed themselves constantly, forced themselves to succeed, to excel. For the elder Holmes, that meant creating a job for himself in the British Government. As for the younger...well, that was why Mycroft was here.

He worried about Sherlock. Constantly. His brother was brilliant, there was absolutely no doubt about it. No, it was the methods that he used to both dull and enhance his brilliance that were cause for concern. Sherlock had become quite fond of tobacco, and his occasional use of cocaine was steadily becoming more frequent. And Mycroft did not approve. Smoking, though a filthy habit, was the safest of his brother's vices. But Sherlock was extremely waif to begin with, and the cocaine was eating away, slowly, at his thin frame.

It would have been senseless to stop him. No matter how many men he had on his brother, Sherlock would always find a way to shake them off. There was always a way for him to get what he wanted. Mycroft understood; truly, he did. Sherlock needed a way to combat himself, to keep himself sane. And in some way, that was what the drugs did: they kept him well inside his head.

It was the most Mycroft could do to simply check in on him, to make sure that he ate and bathed on a semi-regular basis. That was all that Sherlock would allow him to do. And now, studying his brother, Mycroft wished that he could do more. He saw the bright fever of Sherlock's eyes, the way his cheekbones seemed to jut out of his gaunt face, his emaciated frame..He saw all of this, and he despised himself for it.

No words were exchanged as the brothers met each other's eyes. No words were said, but volumes were exchanged. With a steadying breath and a tight grip on his umbrella, Mycroft Holmes turned to go, leaving his brother alone until next time. He worried about him. Constantly.