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Mycroft had never envied his younger brother much.
He’d never had a reason to, really.
His parents had always made it clear that he was their favourite son. They had not tried to hide it.
Mycroft got all of the awards, the highest marks, the special positions at school.
He had a large group of friends, all young men bound for greatness in some form or another - much like Mycroft himself knew he was.
Mycroft was unfailingly polite, mannerly and charming (when he wished to be). He was the perfect little gentleman when his parents had their powerful friends and colleagues over for dinner, standing quietly by and offering to take the guests' coats.
He made polite, intelligent conversation with them, and was always allowed to have dinner with the adults, even from a very young age.
Sherlock was always locked in his room when they had guests over.
Mycroft never really approved of this method of keeping his troublesome, rude, disrespectful younger brother out of the way, but he never voiced his thoughts on it either.
Sherlock wasn't like Mycroft. He didn't pretend to be anything less than what he really was- a genius.
Sherlock didn't conform to what was expected of him at all, and didn't give a damn about what others thought of him. If he correctly deduced that the French Ambassador and the CEO of some important company were having an affair, then he would announce his deduction, regardless if it happened to be in front of the collection of the twenty most powerful men and women in the country.
Because of his thoughtlessness and complete inability to understand the emotions of other people, Sherlock was often punished by their parents, and bullied by his peers.
This had also led to the divorce as well, of course, after Sherlock had blurted out his (correct) deduction that their father was having an affair with his PA, one fateful Christmas evening at the dinner table.
So, no. Sherlock was never the subject of much envy on Mycroft's part.
However, there was one thing that Mycroft had always been jealous of - his younger brother's affinity for music.
From a very young age, it was obvious to everyone who came into contact with him that Sherlock was enormously talented when it came to music. Not that he wasn't talented in other areas as well of course - languages, maths, technology, engineering, judo, fencing, boxing, and even (though Sherlock would admit it only grudgingly) art all sprang to mind as well-but Sherlock's perfect pitch and his ability to learn to play any instrument to concert standard in less than half a year if he put his mind to it was something else altogether, and both Sherlock and Mycroft knew it.
Sherlock had learned to recognise any note by ear by the age of three.
He had learned to play the piano (after Mycroft's failed attempt) at the age of five.
He had composed his first piece for the piano at the age of five and a half.
By the age of six, Sherlock had found his true musical calling in his precious violin-and had reached the highest grade after only four months.
By the time Sherlock left home at the age of seventeen to accept Cambridge's invitation to study Chemistry there (another area he excelled in), Sherlock could play the violin, piano, guitar, saxophone, cello, bass, trumpet and even the drums, although the violin was clearly his favourite.
Mycroft had always envied Sherlock for this, but had never mentioned it to him.
He hadn't needed to, of course. Sherlock could read that jealousy like a book. There was a reason why Sherlock always decided 'on a whim' to take out the violin and begin playing whenever Mycroft happened to visit 221B.
Mycroft had never gotten the hang of the vibrato-one of the many reasons why his music career had never lived beyond the six months he had been forced to attend violin lessons by his mother when he was ten. Music was just not his forte, and Mycroft had been forced to accept this quite quickly.
So, why 'Anthea' (as she had chosen, for nostalgia's sake, to call herself today) had decided that a night out at a concert of classical music at the Royal Albert Hall was a good idea for Mycroft's birthday was beyond him.
'It will do you good, Sir' she had said, for once taking her eyes off her Blackberry to look with concern at her employer. 'You've been a bit down, since….'
Mycroft, sitting in his seat in the VIP box and clapping politely, yet disinterestedly, at the conclusion of Vivaldi's 'Spring', still couldn't get his head around Anthea's reasoning.
How could taking him to a classical music concert with a full forty-two piece orchestra possibly be a good way to take his mind off of his little brother's suicide a month ago?
He watched as Anthea applauded enthusiastically beside him, before turning to look back at the stage.
At least she is enjoying this, he thought tiredly.
The MC was on the stage again, a painfully cheerful man whose chirpy voice had gotten on Mycroft's nerves from the very start.
'Well, I hope that everyone here is enjoying themselves tonight, and our orchestra and conductor have been absolutely fantastic, as I'm sure you'll all agree-a round of applause for them, Ladies and Gentlemen!'
Mycroft clapped wearily along with everyone else, thinking idly that his palms were beginning to sting. Anthea glanced at him, and he sat up straighter, trying to put more effort into it for her sake.
'Now, to give them a little break, we're going to have something a little different. The leader of our orchestra is going to perform 'the Lark Ascending' by Vaughan Williams solo for us'
Mycroft watched as the leader, seated at the edge of the orchestra , stood up with his violin and made his way to the front of the stage.
He winced at the thought of having to listen to someone play the violin solo, like Sherlock, and the painful memories that were starting to spring up.
He remembered long hours being forced to listen to his brother play for their parents at Christmas and other special occasions, and the annoying little bow Sherlock would give at the end.
He remembered the smug smile Sherlock had shot at Mycroft as he breezed his way through 'Fur Elise' on their grand piano at home for the first time, at the tender age of five.
He remembered a-still-chubby-with-baby-fat Sherlock bent over on his bed, dark mop of curls hiding his face as he furiously scribbled down the notes for his next composition.
He remembered vividly one thing in particular- Sherlock's habit of twisting his wrist, and therefore the bow, in a barely perceptible flourish before bringing the violin under his chin. He had done it every single time he picked up the instrument, without fail, a habit he hadn't ever been able to shake and one which Mycroft half-suspected was put on specifically to annoy him-he was one of the only ones who was observant enough to spot it, after all.
Mycroft noticed that Anthea was looking at him again, this time with a hint of worry (and was that pity?) on her face, so he hurriedly put on his impassive stage face and concentrated fully on the violinist as the audience quietened down and the lights dimmed.
The musician was a slim man, quite tall as well, if Mycroft's sense of perception was correct. He watched with interest, still trying to shake his mind free of Sherlock,( just for tonight, please!) as the man hesitated a moment, looking around at his audience, as if looking for someone.
Mycroft stilled as the violinist's gaze drifted towards where he was seated and stopped on his face, half hidden in the shadows of the box.
The man, looking straight at Mycroft, smiled a distinctly smug, familiar grin.
And then, in another move so familiar that Mycroft gasped, his mind reeling, the violinist moved his violin up under his chin, twirling his wrist in a barely perceptible flourish as he brought the bow to the strings.
Mycroft, afterwards, could not remember the rest of the solo.
All he could remember was the feeling of profound shock, delight, amazement, relief, and above all admiration as his little brother, his undeniably, unbelievably alive little brother played to an enraptured audience of over five thousand, the haunting melody drifting flawlessly from the violin in his hands.
.
How was this possible? Mycroft had seen the CCTV footage, heard the eyewitness accounts of his brother's fall. Five whole days he had spent searching desperately for a clue, just one sign to show that Sherlock was still alive. He had found nothing, not even after hours of watching and re-watching the video footage from that day at St Bart's. Mycroft had given up hope then-if he, probably the only man in the world more observant than Sherlock, couldn't find anything, then the logical thing to assume was that there simply was no clue to find, and that the detective really was dead.
He remembered the look on John Watson's face as he had told him this conclusion. It was a look that he was sure he would carry to his grave.
Mycroft had not gone to Sherlock's funeral, telling himself the excuse that he was 'too busy', but he had gone to visit the cemetery where Sherlock was buried eventually, after all the fuss had quietened down.
But…there Sherlock was now, on stage.
Mycroft's mind raced back to what he had seen and heard about Sherlock's jump.
Sherlock, according to his information, had not returned to Baker Street that day after his arrest and had instead gone to St Bart's Hospital.
John Watson was not with him at this time, which was unusual in itself-his brother and the doctor were rarely seen without each other anymore.
John had arrived later, but was called back home by the (false) news that Mrs Hudson had been shot.
Sherlock had not gone with John, even though Mycroft knew that Sherlock cared a great deal about his landlady, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Conclusion: Sherlock had known that the news was not true.
Sherlock had met James Moriarty on the rooftop of St Bart's immediately after John had left. He had had a long conversation with Moriarty, which had concluded with the consulting criminal shooting himself.
Sherlock, even though the threat of Moriarty was gone, had stepped onto the edge of the roof anyway, ringing John Watson as he arrived back at Bart's and telling him that he was a fraud and that he had invented Moriarty, before saying goodbye to John and throwing his phone away.
What was it John had said were Sherlock's exact words?
'Keep your eyes fixed on me….please will you do this for me?'
Had something been happening on the ground that he hadn't wanted John to see?
'I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly…'
Molly? That girl from the morgue who had had a hopeless crush on Sherlock ?(Which the detective had often played on to get what he wanted from her, namely bodies)
Then Sherlock had jumped….but hadn't he made sure that John was standing in a very particular place first?
Mycroft brought up his mental photograph of the hospital, and pinpointed where exactly John had been standing in relation to Sherlock's position on the rooftop.
And then, everything started to fall into place.
The anonymous cyclist who had knocked John down just after Sherlock hit the ground, who then had cycled on without even stopping.
The particular way Sherlock's body had lain on the ground, with one arm stretched out in John's direction, the same arm which John used to check for a non-existent pulse when he had finally managed to reach his friend.
The amount of people who had gathered around Sherlock's body in such a short space of time, pulling John away from Sherlock and not letting him touch or examine the body for very long.
The speed at which a stretcher had been brought out to remove Sherlock's body; far faster than what should have been possible, really, unless it had been waiting just inside the door.
All these thoughts flew through Mycroft's mind in less than ten seconds.
Overall conclusion: Everything, absolutely everything had been planned.
Sherlock had done the impossible, yet again.
Sherlock was alive.
Letting a genuine, delighted smile cross his face and ignoring Anthea's puzzled glance at him, Mycroft shook his head in amazement as he watched Sherlock nearing the end of the piece.
Well-played, little brother.
No one was more surprised than Anthea when, as the last notes echoed throughout the hall, Mycroft was one of the first to surge to his feet, clapping wildly, joining the standing ovation that was sweeping like wildfire through the audience.
Sherlock - the man who had cheated death -grinned up at his older brother, and took a bow.