Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

*Blud On My Hands*

~WhiteGloves~

-When S4 finally sinks in after a week-

*Warning for heavy angst*

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry"- T_T

Part 1: Mycroft-centric

The gun was pointed in his direction but all that was there was calm. Funny how that worked for him.

Mycroft Holmes didn't feel any turbulence in his heart at all, no. It was just like one of those dog days where he stands before the so many tirades of politicians in a closed-off meeting with the Prime Minister. Actually the Parliament House was much worst; he'd take a gun on his head any day. So clearly, like what has been suspected by many and what he had been accustomed to believe—he does not have a heart.

He wanted Sherlock to confirm it humorously by suggesting it too. That was how his brother should remember him during difficult times. And so he waited calmly. He saw Sherlock's hand shook. That made him smile a little.

Look at you, all grown up to hold a gun on me, baby brother.

He wanted to say it was going to be alright but refrained from doing so. What's the point of saying those words again?

But then his stupid little brother pointed the gun to himself and Mycroft lost all senses—and all of a sudden his passive heart had all the energy to pound, to hammer, to jump from where it had been buried and scream—no! No! NO!

Eurus was shouting the same somewhere far but Mycroft could hardly care. In his fear, he wasn't even sure if he heard a gunshot when his brother began falling backwards— Mycroft made an attempt to move with his heavy legs but was unsure if his body's numbness would allow it. He was still at lost. That was probably what they call shock. Then John Watson crumpled on his side too and Mycroft just knew something made them unconscious. He shot his brother a quick look and saw Sherlock's chest quietly rise and fall. And a single sigh escaped the older Holmes' lips.

They're alive. Oh, thank god.

He shut his eyes and heaved a low, rumbling sigh, until he could master his nerves. It took him a moment and as he reminded himself again... Sherlock will be the death of me! He opened his eyes with a sorry smile on his face as he gazed at that knocked out young man before him. Oh, dear me…

Then like he was electrified, something occurred to the older Holmes as he stood rigidly on the spot. He realized the room was too quiet with all Moriarty's recording gone and the blinking red lights steady… Sherlock and John were out. They were saved but then… of course. Mycroft shot a look at the television screen, to the person who was responsible for everything. There he found her staring back. Too intently with all the darkness she had been engraved in his mind; with all the hate and anger all visible in her dead, dark eyes. Staring back at him and only him that were making him freeze as he stared back.

And Mycroft's heart did another summersault as he recognized that emotion he had been trying to put at bay ever since finding out the Eurus was out and about after them—

Fear.

Every step he was taking was making his body grow cold. Mycroft tried to press his right thumb nail on his index finger to feel any pain or anything at all but there was nothing. He was lightheaded too and he wondered if he was having an asthma attack. It was too difficult to breathe.

The two guards led him to the room he had often gone into—the very room he recognized to be of Eurus. Then he was by the door and his head ached like it had never done before, especially when the door was opened. Losing his grip, Mycroft entered and then there was nothing on his vision except of a long dark hair coming at him—and a painful crash on the floor as he felt himself get tackled with painful screams on his ears, ringing and ringing like it was in hell— her voice—the painful grip on his throat that was making his eyes water—her dark hair all over his face—her eyes that were too frightening as what looked back to him was unrecognizable— they were the eyes of a real killer like he had never seen before and her scream oh god she screams!

Mycroft felt himself wanting to give up the hold on life—till a miracle happened—or was it worse than death?— as he found himself choking back his breath, feeling the sear of pain on his neck and throat. His eyesight was blurry and upon blinking out the stars so many times, the view became clearer.

And he found himself nose to nose with his little sister who was still on top of him, staring at him with a dangerous flicker in her eyes, her gaunt face too close that he could read all the lines, all the meaning, all what she had been through by just looking at her face and sunken eyes. Mycroft shut his eyes with a sinking heart.

"Oh, Eurus—"

But Eurus quickly clamped a hand on his mouth out of nowhere— also blocking his nostrils.

"Shh— shhh! You're not supposed to speak!" She hissed in her own way of speaking with round eyes all on him, her hair still all over his face. The excitement vibrating from her thin body could not be separated from anger. "You're supposed to be dead, Mycroft! Sherlock should've killed you! You should be dead!"

She leaned her lips down to his ears. "Why didn't he kill you? Can you deduce that for me, my older brother?"

Mycroft gasped air with difficulty, his eyes watering at how short his air supply was. He could feel her hands shaking too… shaking till she was gripping his face with her bony hands.

"Why didn't Sherlock kill you?" she repeated with gritted teeth, "Why did he choose to kill himself? He's been playing with me willingly and steadily sacrificing all those people—then comes on choosing to kill you and he didn't? Why, Mycroft? WHY?"

Mycroft nearly lost consciousness till he felt her hands grabbed his collar and pull him towards her—

"BECAUSE HE LIKES YOU!" she breathed on his face.

"Eurus, please…" he choked back tears till she began shaking him again—

"Sherlock loves his older brother! He didn't want to continue my game because he didn't want to lose his older brother! Do you understand that!? Our little 'brother' prefers playing with you around—not me! And whose fault do you think that is—MYCROFT!?"

And she began screaming again and choking him till he blacked out.

The next moment Mycroft found himself come into, he was still on the floor with his head aching terribly. The pain in itself was an assurance of his life but he didn't dare move. He didn't want to be alive. Sherlock killing him would have been kinder but then… choking a little, the older Holmes turned to his side and choked more till he felt his stomach crunch painfully. He tried to feel his hands on the floor and saw them shake so he closed them. It was no use.

From the corner of his eyes he could see his sister sitting there on the floor too with arms around her knees. Mycroft didn't prolong the wait and looked up at her in wonder. Why was she keeping him alive? He wondered. Then something struck him—the same thing that had been bothering him ever since the grenade was sent to 221B Baker Street to kill. The same thing that had struck him when he saw the wife of the governor got killed by her hands…

Oh… my little sister.

As if reading what's on his mind by the way she gloated at him, Eurus knew.

"You made me, Mycroft. Remember that."

Mycroft didn't reply but how heavy was his heart as he pushed himself and sat by the opposite wall where he leaned with all his power gone. He stared at her and looked away, unable to contain it, unable to accept how true her words were. And they said he was one who easily understands.

"I'm sorry." He breathed softly as he looked away. His eyes had been stinging since awhile back and the lump on his throat seemed to be ever stuck there. "I'm… so sorry…"

She made a face and stood up, towered before him and he watched as she went close, closer and by this time he was no longer afraid, by this time he was unmindful of the pain. All he wanted to do was to look at her, just look into her eyes. And feel the same hatred she was feeling for himself. As if reading it too, she smiled.

"You really are smart too, I know." She knelt before him and their eyes couldn't be distracted, "You know what you were doing when you took me away, I know… but you also know I'd come back right at you, right? Big brother? You knew I began stirring when I wished for Jim Moriarty? I loved seeing you fidget that day. But if you were so worried of keeping me from trouble, why didn't you just kill me? Jim Moriarty had always wondered… why you were obstinate not to kill me when he would have done the same to his boring brother—the station master— for only just. Then we came to the conclusion that you were, well, you did a pretty good display of it when you refused to kill the dead-anyway Governor." Her eyes bulged out of its sockets as he leaned closer to him. "Not a murderer brother. Well, thanks to you I was able to reach the potential you knew I had all because you felt so guilty of keeping me here, that you gave me anything I want. Even if it meant your possible downfall."

Mycroft smiled weakly at that. "I always knew you were going to be my undoing… little sister."

Eurus' eyes lit up as she raised a hand and touched his cheek with a smile lingering on her face.

"Fair enough."

"So you and Moriarty… took those five minutes of liberty… just to have Sherlock kill me?"

"Oh, no—not really. First we just wanted you dead." She shrugged airily, her eyes on side to side, "He hates you pulling his strings, see? Sending people to fetch him and put him in prison here and there. He thinks you've become boring enough to kill— and I just want you dead from the beginning so there goes the denominator. What made it tricky was who was going to kill you and very excitedly we just knew it had to be the little brother. Jim said he'd really kill his own brother if Sherlock would kill his. They're the same, see?"

"Obviously, you're both wrong." Mycroft's eyes sharpened at that as he looked his sister in the eyes. "Sherlock is not the same with Moriarty, little sister… make no mistake."

"So I see…" her dark eyes had found his again and there was no way to pull her gaze away. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here breathing. Jim and I spent the next minutes playing rock, paper and scissors of who'd go first. He won and I get to be his little parting gift to Sherlock in case he doesn't make it—he'll take you with him. He was so sure Sherlock would choose John Watson over you. You would choose John, too, Jim said. Because of your high morals of saving innocent people. Look where that got you."

"Where are they?"

"But why did it feel like you made Sherlock choose you?"

"Sherlock and John—where—?"

A second next and he found his sister's elbow pointing at his throat while her other hand was holding him tight on the shoulder. The dangerous flicker on her eyes had returned.

"You still manipulated Sherlock, he followed your request… how much hold do you have on him, Mycroft?"

Mycroft had to grit his teeth but he was no longer afraid. He had given up living the moment he made close contact with his sister because her body was screaming of his death. They were just prolonging it.

"Because John Watson… deserves better after being affiliated with our family…" he breathed. "And I wouldn't have let him die… between the two of us, Sherlock and I both know that at least today, John Watson must live."

Mycroft closed his eyes and sucked in some air. The truth was he had always known he had no chance of surviving after Eurus said Sherlock had to use the last bullet in the end. The bullet had always been for him. While they were playing with the Garrideb brothers, Mycroft already knew the meaning of the game. It was all so simple. And yet John and Sherlock were so busy trying to sort out the crime given at hand. So he refused to cooperate. The only thing he can be certain of was that he wanted for John to survive. That was why he easily dissuaded Sherlock in convincing him to play—because he knew proving himself useful to the game was like burying John Watson in his grave.

At the same time, convincing Sherlock how difficult his older brother can be and how easily he could dispose of him. It was time like this that he was really pleased he could think ahead of others Even Sherlock's.

Even at that moment too, as Eurus' eyes bore on him, it was as if she was reading his mind.

"Clever, Mycroft, so clever… don't you just hate yourself for being clever? I've never thought of it that way but we can actually both predict what can happen, you and me. So what do you think happens after this?"

"Little sister…" Mycroft sighed and licked his dry lips as she lingered before him, "Please…. You don't have to do this… don't add any more blood on your hands, please…"

"Are you begging for your life, Mycroft?"

"I'm begging for your salvation!"

"Haha!" she laughed mockingly at him, "Mine or yours? You do know the blood on my hands is also on yours? YOU MADE ME. This is all yours, big brother… all yours!"

Mycroft breathed hard as he looked in her eyes. "Yes." He whispers. "That's why I want to help you."

"I don't need your help." Eurus sneered. Then her eyes twinkled. "If there's anyone who can help me, it's Sherlock… it's always been Sherlock my favourite. I hated you for taking him away from me… I hated you next to Redbeard—"

"I know."

"Then you also know that when all of this is over, that I will survive because Sherlock will never hurt me! I made all of this to make him aware of what you made of me! And Sherlock will understand me because that's what you've been doing to him too—controlling him all his life! Like we're your puppets!"

"No, please… stop…" it was too much.

"So if I survive, Mycroft… I don't want you to be there."

"Then kill me now!"

"No." she shook her head, "Sherlock likes you… he will never forgive me if I kill you like with Redbeard. No, you must kill yourself!"

Mycroft knew insanity was insanity, and this was one of the most insane things he had heard. He gaped at Eurus with his round, watery eyes and couldn't manage a word at her request. She seemed to read his mind again and it made her smile.

"I don't want you to be there when I come back, Mycroft… because after this I will be disabled and only Sherlock can help me." She leaned closer to his ear with one of her thumb clutching his collar. "Only Sherlock can bring me back from where I will be… and when I do show sign of becoming myself, Mycroft, do this… kill yourself. As a payment for all the blood in my hands… pay all of it… and I will forgive you."

Three months later and here was Mycroft with his family, back in the vicinity of Sherrinford island, watching Sherlock and Eurus play their violins to their hearts' content, as if two mesmerizing melodies in perfect synchrony. His parents had taken the news from him grudgingly and Mycroft never blamed them. As his mother had put it, he was limited. And perhaps he was because mummy was never wrong… He wished Uncle Rudy had better methods before but this was all in the past and he hated things in the past tense.

Like what Eurus had told him, she was indeed out of their reach after everything. Until Sherlock insisted on getting private choppers to visit her daily just to find him serenading her with violin. Weeks later and Sherlock's effort wasn't in vain. Eurus began responding by playing and the duo began making their own sonata. Just like what she said.

Showing sign of becoming herself…

Mycroft was aware of that. And he was glad Sherlock was there to do what he could not. To be the brother she needed. He felt his mother's hand press his and Mycroft knew he was forgiven as they sat there, watching the progress. And then he wondered if that moment has come.

Only to find Eurus looking straight at him for a brief second that surprised him beyond reason. Mycroft's mouth fell open but Eurus was no longer looking at him. She had begun playing with Sherlock again.

Oh.

*To Be Continued*

A/N: Meant to be two parts only, won't take long I promise.

Also, if you prefer a lighter story please read 'Being Kind' :)

Thanks for reading ;)

Chapter Text

*Blud On My Hands*

~WhiteGloves~

-There goes our Mycroft-

*Warning for heavy angst*

T_T

Part 2

"Are you alright?"

Mycroft had been staring transfixed at Eurus outside the glass room with his arms crossed on his chest when he heard a voice behind him. Blinking once and turning to his right, he found his younger brother, who was carrying his violin, standing feet before him. Apparently, he had just come out of the room after the successful concerto— an occurrence that Mycroft seemed to miss as he opened his mouth to reply but found nothing to say.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Mycroft? I asked if you're—"

"I heard you once." The older Holmes responded briskly as he looked back at the glass room to his sister. Then something made him frown as he found his parents already standing where Sherlock had been and seemingly trying to communicate with their only daughter. Mycroft looked behind him and sure enough found the vicinity empty when the last he remembered was the three of them sitting there quietly. And the fact that he was also standing just about the glasses when he never remembered standing up.

It made him sigh. His lapses on memory these days had been disturbing.

"I'm fine." he replied drily and tried to shrug off the evident distraction he knew Sherlock had noticed. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"You don't look fine. You didn't even notice them get there, did you?" the detective was living up to his name as he went on the table to put his instrument in its case. "You seem awfully put out lately."

"I think you're mistaking me from your best friend, Sherlock. I don't need your attention."

Sherlock glared and zipped his violin case, "I'm just giving you observations in case you're getting senile."

"Yes, again—not your best friend." Mycroft said unmindfully as he turned away from the glasses, "No need to get all concerned… that's the last thing I needed you to do."

"And what's the first thing?" sarcasm was ever present there.

"To shut up." Mycroft finished that made the younger brother glower.

"Well—that's difficult considering I never do—"

"Can't you just let me have the last word for once?"

"Nope, other people have already spoiled you so never."

Impatience was there on Mycroft's face as he frowned at the detective. Clearly, Sherlock won't leave him in peace most like. Just like his little brother to be so… persistent.

"You shouldn't mind what mummy said. She's just upset." Sherlock suddenly whispered in a low voice it was barely audible that made Mycroft blink at him instead.

"Where's this coming from?"

"You tell me." There was a serious note in Sherlock's tone, making Mycroft consider his reply and shook his head as his mind brought him back to the isolated meeting they had inside his office where their parents were not entirely pleased with his decisions regarding their sister. The older Holmes closed his eyes at the memory resurfacing and kept it where he had kept everything about Eurus intact. The thing was, his memory of her was in shambles and all he could see was her in her white dress, her dark eyes and her long dark hair—and the words she kept repeating inside his head— over and over—how she sounded so distraught Sherlock didn't kill him. That he was still alive.

Not wanting to stay in his mind palace, Mycroft opened his eyes.

"Funny how I upset most people these days." He breathed, sitting on his vacant seat, eyes travelling back to the glasses.

Sherlock leaned on the wall and crossed his arms. "Probably because you never intended the opposite."

"Don't be smart."

"That too. Are you never going stop rubbing that in?"

"Less of course you begin to understand it."

"I can if right now you tell me what's on your mind?"

Mycroft raised both eyebrows testily at the way Sherlock was looking at him expectantly.

"You really want to know my occasional brainstorms?"

Sherlock eyed him, and then shrugged as he turned back to his bag. "No, that would take weeks to get unloaded and deciphered. Not to mention I'd be under security breaches and protocols and nation alert status— and it's not even Christmas yet."

"Then stop asking." Mycroft went on flatly as he stood up, his eyes lingering to his parents. "I shouldn't even be here, I don't know why you lot keep insisting I come here—"

"You're here because she's our sister, Mycroft. She's family." The sudden acid tone in Sherlock's voice could not be contained, "What's the matter with you? The least you could do is to show her your concern considering—"

"Considering what?" the Holmes brothers exchange heated gazes all of a sudden, "What, Sherlock?" He knew Sherlock had been thinking of it because he—Mycroft—was always thinking of it every second. All it needed was to be said aloud by his brother too. Their parents were very vocal about it, Sherlock needn't be considerate. Not of him. Mycroft remembered Sherlock defending him from their parents but that wasn't what he needed. Not now.

His younger brother eyed him head-on and for a moment, Mycroft was almost apologetic and wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear it. But then realized once again the necessity of being unmissed. It won't be long now.

"You know what I meant." Sherlock compressed his lips in displeasure, "Things like these don't need saying."

"Why be considerate now?" Mycroft put his right hand over his mouth while his other arm was pressed tightly on his stomach. "You're going to hurt your tummy if you don't say it, little brother."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock snapped.

"I'm not used to you being silent is all I'm saying."

"And I'm not used to you needing to hear it when I thought you're smart enough to know it!"

Mycroft glanced towards Sherlock and all he saw there was pure contempt. It was the same look he would receive whenever he steps into Baker Street or when he would have his younger brother taken from somewhere and be delivered to him. Yes, right there, Sherlock was himself again. Because the last time he remembered, Sherlock was ready to die for him. Such link must be severed before he does what it was that must be done. Mycroft pressed his thumb nail on his index finger again.

"Are you two fighting?"

Both brothers looked up to find their mother descending from the glass room with their father right behind her. She looked spent and exhausted but the power in her voice was constant. Mycroft looked away as he felt his younger brother's eyes linger on him.

"Banters on family meeting. The usual." The older Holmes muttered as he put both his hands inside his pockets that received a sharp look from her.

"Behave, Mycroft. That's the least you could do."

"Why because I've done enough?" Even his father had glared at him for that.

"Mycroft!" she was looking at him now as if she had never seen him so clearly, "What is the matter with you, child?" and then she walked out of the room with their father shaking his head that made Mycroft stand still on the spot, eyes perfectly fixated on the glasses. Sherlock was still there with him and was giving him a hard look.

"Keep that up and she will slap you next." Sherlock then said as he walked passed his older brother carrying his violin.

Mycroft heard him leave and closed his eyes tight with a small sigh.

"I wish she would." He whispered under his breath.

Opening his eyes towards the glass room, he found Eurus staring at him with her dark orbs that showed no sign of life. Mycroft had grown accustom to her way of reaching him that he merely stared back.

"Don't worry, little sister…" he assured her quietly, "It'll be over soon."

He had just finished calling the PM when he received another call from his secretary asking if there was anything else he required because he had just went out of his way to work out all decisions, all mental works, all meetings and all entangled messes in the British Government in a matter of a day and now his schedule for the following week was free. He declined and told her he will be occupied and under no circumstances will he be disturbed for the following days.

"What about your brother, sir? He is still under surveillance."

Mycroft paused awhile as his sedan glided quietly back to his house. Sherlock's security—the one last thing left unsorted. All these years he knew a day would come that he would say it, and when he does it would only mean one thing—his darkest secret was out and Sherlock has remembered. That or something-y happened that forced the revelation.

"Terminate security." He said after a long, deep sigh, "Terminate everything."

She conceded without question and hung up. Mycroft looked ahead of him into the darkness of his the road and then closed his eyes. The night won't be long now. The shortest night of his life.

It was all about the ceremony.

A phonograph was playing amidst the night and the fireside was cracking with fire in the middle of April. Before him was his bottle of his best vintage wine, the oldest he's got in his cellar. He had also taken the liberty to prepare a cup of tea for tea he would never miss— then his favourite weapon of all— his umbrella lying on the table just an arm's reach from his left side and on his right was the gun. The same gun confiscated from the scene of the crime back in Sherrinford. He could not help but leave a touch on his own demise.

And there he sat in the middle of the dark inside his study room thinking, with both hands pressed together near his lips, that everything will be accounted for. That Eurus, his parents, even Sherlock need not condemn him: his condemnation of himself was enough. If he was going to be just, then by all means, he will do his sister's last request for after all—he owes her.

You made me. Eurus repeated inside his head and the older Holmes had to sink his face to his palms and let the clock do its bidding… tick tock… tick tock… Funny how Jim Moriarty seemed to be watching him from the other side.

Ah yes, he did say it was where he was getting off… right after Mycroft Holmes dies. Mycroft remembered Jim Moriarty and the moment the deranged man said good bye to him on Sherrinford Island five years ago… wasn't he smiling triumphantly? And didn't he—Mycroft—knew something was about to come?

Calculated risk, he said. The very thought was making him smile at his last moments. The calculated risk he sought back then was only a backfire for himself with him as the only casualty and not those innocent people that died on Eurus' hands… so in another way of looking at it—he really did make her.

Now questions suddenly popped into his mind palace that crashed the last wall of his defense—

Why did he send Jim Moriarty there when it was like asking for a death warrant? Eurus Holmes and Jim Moriarty in one room for five minutes? Even a lesser time together was already of concern. Two atomic bombs in a room… This calculated risk of his was irrational—so why did he? Was it his 'heart' asking that it was enough? That he must tell his parents—Sherlock—all of them of his deceit? It was not a lie he could take to his grave after all…

Or was it his subconscious hoping for something better? That somehow it knew sending a derange criminal to Eurus would actually 'awaken' her… and that he, Mycroft was also curious to see… what it would be like for her to work on her faculties… and to confirm his previous assumptions… whether he was right or wrong… that she really is destructive when set loose?

'Please, Mycroft I want to talk to him. Five minutes. Please.' He remembered Eurus echoing inside his head with her please never noted as beg but a casual drawl of voice five years ago. 'Let me talk to him and I will make your burden lighter.'

'What 'lighter'?' he asked her curiously, knowing full well her methods but trying them all the same every time he went to see her. "What do you mean?"

And she only smiled, her dark eyes twinkling meaningfully at him as if her answer was the sweetest in the world.

Mycroft shut his eyes and let himself be drowned in his own thoughts. He could not identify which was which; all he wanted to do was to stop all these thoughts from shaking him… because the next thing he knew in that memory, he had conceded the meeting…

Now that he thought of it when she said 'burden'… she was most likely talking about him keeping her a secret to everyone including their parents and Sherlock for many years…

Mycroft sighed.

The truth was rarely pure… never simple…

Midnight struck its cue and that was when the glaze on Mycroft's eyes disappeared.

It was time.

There was no need to over think. For the first time in his life, he would do as his body willed. Without further ado, the older Holmes sat up and fixed his tie. It was always the tie that needed attention. He was in his complete three piece suit for nothing else suffices a proper death.

A moment of silence, and Mycroft's eyes travelled down to the gun on the table. He gazed at it awhile and then slowly reached for it. His hand turned cold at the touch of the barrel and had to exert effort when he lifted it up. He was surprised at the steadiness of his grip as his eyes locked on the object. Finally, seeing it again up close after Sherlock had pointed it at him. It was always meant for him.

He leaned his forehead on the gun and gave a long sigh with his eyes tightly shut. And he thought he was ready.

Kill yourself. Eurus commanded.

Mycroft didn't need to open his eyes as slowly, his hand worked the gun and pointed it at the side of his left chest. He gripped his hand tight. He had never thought of killing himself before but he had seen plenty of death to last a life time… none of them by his hands. He would never kill. Well, at least if there was really any direct deceased he can account for, it would be his. That sounds about right.

His finger found the trigger and all he needed was the courage to do it. Courage? No, it wasn't courage or he would be facing everything with head and chin up in the air. No… this was mercy to the organ that had been crying its demise ever since he let his sister be confined. One would call it a 'heart'. Just when it has awoken, it would be put to sleep again. And it was for the better. He suddenly thought how unfair it was of him to expect Sherlock to shoot him… his brother had enough blood on his hand without adding the mess of his brother's. Yes, Sherlock…

He wondered if Sherlock would forgive him. Balancing probabilities, he thinks not.

Eurus would, though.

Mycroft gave a final sigh and pulled the trigger without a second hesitation—

The gun clicked—

But nothing came out. Mycroft breathed out and was confused for a second as he blinked his eyes and felt a massive wave of nausea came over him. The gun—he was still alive. But how? Breathing heavily, he checked the contents of the barrel and found it empty. Someone removed the bullet. But who…?

Then Mycroft's eyes lit up in understanding as he saw something move from the corner of his eyes. Of course… who else? He shut his eyes close again and gave an exasperated sigh. Upon opening them, he raised his eyes up instinctively to find what he was expecting to see. That man. He was there by his doorway and using the shadows to conceal his presence and in his dark coat—who else but his younger brother, Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft involuntarily dropped the gun on the table as Sherlock stared at him transfixed. There was no need for words between them as the detective quietly raised his right hand with his fist closed. Suspended in the air, the younger Holmes opened his palm and from there something heavy fell on the floor with a loud thud that echoed in the silent house. It was the bullet.

Mycroft slowly stood up to stare at the object and then looked at his brother again.

Sherlock was looking at him, straight and with his mouth into a curve. The dark glinting of his eyes conveyed all meaning that made Mycroft square his jaws. Sherlock just stood there, watching him, and all Mycroft did was curse himself for failing.

And now here was one of his weaknesses looking at him again… his younger brother's accusing dark eyes.

His siblings and the daggers in their eyes… one who wanted him dead, and the other that wanted him to what exactly?

"You idiot." Sherlock darkly graced him an answer.

*To Be Continued*

A/N: We must three... Why do people stop at three?

Last part on chapter 3 really! :) And really thank you for reading!

THANKS ;)

Chapter Text

*Blud On My Hands*

~WhiteGloves~

-There goes our Sherlock-

*Warning for heavy angst and drama*

T_T

Part 3

His eyes flitted towards the nearest mantel clock by the fireside that read half past midnight while the gun lay pointlessly beside his hand on the table with two curious things filling his mind: that first obviously he had been read by his brother—gathering data from whatever source his mind had taken him and then even bothering to come upon realization— but why? And that second—whatever happens next will be unsightly now with Sherlock around. He clutched his hands at the latter thought.

Sherlock had stepped into the light of the fire, making his shadow grow taller, his features calm but with eyes undoubtedly raving. He moved there like a silent storm and Mycroft met his eyes with his jaw clenching, his tired eyes flickering but unyielding.

Why he must feel uncomfortable under the scrutinizing eyes of his younger brother, Mycroft couldn't be sure. More often than not he was the one possessing that look and throwing it on his brother so he could humorously watch him obdurately resist. Now it seemed everybody was giving him that look like they were given rights to do so when his own men couldn't even look him in the eye— John Watson for one. Then the late Mary Watson. Worst was the landlady from his brother's flat—Mrs. Hudson who seemed to have made it her mission to make each of his visit painstakingly excruciating.

That was probably why Sherlock was fond of them. They were all kindred spirits of ganging up against him when opportunity presented itself. How Mycroft endured but he had always been heedless of Sherlock's playmates what with his own hands full with more important things. It wasn't an overstatement.

What he had was far more complicated than vicious land ladies and cynical best friends…

But then doesn't he spell complication with his brother's name too?

The thought made him press his eyes tight with his lips thinning. He wished he didn't know what Sherlock would say because he can guess them… piece by piece… He will be embarrassed to hear them, surely. Because he knows Sherlock just as much as he knows Eurus… because he had been watching over them his entire existence ever since he realized by the age of seven that he couldn't be the only one like 'him' in the world who sees everyone and everything like they were goldfishes and the like; that the probability of him not the only one different was slim because there was a little sister and a little brother next to him. He wasn't alone.

And then Eurus showed the same talents—

The sudden thought of his sister sent a spark of alarm in his subconscious and his eyes darted back to the gun in a disturbing way as he reminded himself—well, then there was always the Beta plan—

All of this spun inside his head in the middle of their silence, having been silently treated while his brother took the chair beside the fireplace. Angry was beside the point with flames dancing in his eyes. Mycroft could read revulsion through his brother's movements. He had seen that look before, he actually sees it every day whenever they engage in verbal repartees so what else was new? There was nothing else to read there except what Mycroft had already expected so he opt silence. He didn't have any power left to speak, not after pulling the trigger—he was spent. This could have all ended if he had just noticed the less weight on the gun—he could usually tell those micro things… but alas he wasn't to have his way and as usual there was one reason for that:

Sherlock.

Sherlock's face remained hidden; his eyes were illuminated like two glinting orbs amidst the blackness. Mycroft had already looked down on the gun again when a brown bag come flying out of nowhere and dropped just before his hands.

"Chips." Sherlock said coldly when their eyes met for the enth time. "You're allowed chips."

"I thought we're finally on none speaking terms." His voice was barely a whisper, "I can live with that."

"Apparently you can't." Sherlock's tone was reverberating, more so his eyes. "Now eat."

"If only it guarantees you leaving, I might consider." Mycroft's brows slightly rose at the commanding tone. "But that isn't likely to happen, is it?"

"I'm not the one suicidal here so I get to decide." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And you're just dying to get rid of me, aren't you? If only just."

"As always." Mycroft smiled dimly, seeing Sherlock grit his teeth next knowing it sure was to come now— the common sibling banter—

"I can't believe you're making light of this, Mycroft—"

"Which of course is overrated—"

"—I knew you were an idiot but of all your idiotic scheme… this?"

"Am I really supposed to go through your verbal abuse cordially—?

"Damn right you are!"

Mycroft put a hand on his forehead indifferently. "Charming, brother."

"I've been called worse."

A long pause came next in which Mycroft exhaled what felt like a year's worth of sigh. Sherlock had always been strong with words, he thought as his eyes looked down to his free hand which was holding on his pocket watch. Time ticked tocked… and Sherlock continued being a nuisance— it had to stop.

"Fine… I admit it…" Mycroft started again as he looked at his brother with his expression the one he was accustomed to wear on daily basis— "I was wrong. That should suffice. Or do you want me to write lines?"

Sherlock's frown deepened and if possible got darker. "You're wrong for what?"

"For… what?"

"Wrong for what?! For getting caught?" Sherlock seemed determined to make this night longer than expected when Mycroft wanted nothing but peace—

"For goodness sake— you're putting words in my mouth and making something out of a trifle!"

"YOU PULLED THE GODDAMN TRIGGER!" Sherlock bellowed and Mycroft was surprised he was willing to engage in the heat of the moment—

"Is this some kind of a joke? Am I supposed to explain my own choices like it matters—?"

"Your choices had been manipulating this family for as long as I remember!" Sherlock had gotten to his feet this time, rendering Mycroft speechless, "So yes—it matters if it has something to do with family!"

The Holmes brothers exchanged intense gazes with nothing save their deep breaths filling the silence. Mycroft's head ached as he ran his hand on his mouth distractedly. Sherlock speaking of family and its burden as if already feeling its weight when long ago Mycroft alone carried it. Flashes of finding Eurus alive after the fire with Uncle Rudy years back resurfaced. And the man asking him to swear in secrecy for the sake of his broken parents and broken brother...

'Because you're the only one who can do this, Mycroft.' His uncle had said while they watch Eurus who was looking at her brother as if she knew what was going on… what he was doing.

Mycroft shuddered at the memory and shook his head.

"I… I suppose if this is family matters then I might find Dr. Watson hiding behind my curtains?" he suggested weakly as he raised his eyes up and found Sherlock slumping down the chair once more.

"You can worry about him when I'm done with you. Believe me he doesn't forgive things like this easily."

The older Holmes nodded in defeat and felt like he had run a marathon when he leaned his damp back on the chair.

"What gave me away?" he didn't have to look up as he could just imagine his younger brother's expression.

"It was quite obvious, really." The detective quietly answered, Mycroft not glancing up. "It had occurred to me when you wanted me to shoot John in Sherrinford. You were practically shouting to be murdered yourself. You were bursting to be killed."

"I made a point there—"

"So did I— but the real point is—thoughts like that, brother dear, tend to linger. You wanted to die. Just that single thought."

"So what—do you make it a hobby to lounge about my house without permission, unloading guns and about?"

"No," Scorn appeared in Sherlock's eyes as they both remembered the night the detective and John Watson came in his house to confront him about the hidden sister with cinematic effects of portrait blood, clown and Mycroft's umbrella, turned into sword—turned into gun that kicked useless when necessary— "only when I know my brother has potential and increased interest on suicides." Sherlock's eyes flashed darkly. "Temperamental, on edge, sleepless, a bit of a fish in bowl with observation, deep markings on index finger—all just about equates to disturbance of mind… pretty easy to read people's actions I know so well. Hence the chips."

They both looked at the brown bag this time which naturally Mycroft dismissed after a long pause.

"You've been watching me."

"I'm always watching you." The detective corrected, "Scratch that—I've been monitoring you since you left the island."

"Monitor?"

"Because you've been compromised."

Mycroft's dead eyes lit up again. "Compromised? Me?" there was a ring of indignation in his voice as he found his younger brother watching him closely. Does his brother not remember who he was talking to? For him, Mycroft, to be compromised? He was the one who compromises people and not the other way around, for god's sake!

Mycroft wasn't sure if he uttered the last bit of his thoughts but Sherlock seemed to hear it.

"I'm talking about Eurus."

Mycroft's body stiffened. Sherlock saw that.

"She didn't just lock you up in her old cell, did she? Because I never believed for one second Eurus did not hurt you…." Sherlock told him flatly after a few seconds of silence. "If she was angry with anyone the most, it would be you. Locking you up on her cell wouldn't be adequate when she wanted you dead. Frankly I was surprised you were alive. I thought I'd find you…" he stopped in midsentence.

Mycroft looked up to see Sherlock's eyes soften for a brief moment and managed a small smile.

"Not surprise as I was." He opened his hand and found his watch ticking away.

"Why didn't you tell me about this in the first place?"

"It was but a mere episode of a horrendous experience that one must keep. We all have that." The older Holmes shook his head with a resolute glint in his eyes. "Besides, it didn't have anything to do with you. It was between me and her."

"That's not the way I see it." Sherlock replied curtly this time and Mycroft could only smile at the sudden overwhelming assurance his brother was giving him. But Beta plan was in action… and he would repeat the same answer to Sherlock—

"I was being responsible."

"Say that again when mum, dad and I are all standing around your coffin—"

"That should be a sight to see because that's what this family needs right now— a real coffin."

"Mycroft!"

But Mycroft was no longer listening as his mind palace triggered a response and another memory so buried resurfaced— of Eurus' fake coffin and that of Sherlock when he faked it too with his help duly—and of course just presently—Redbeard's identified bones—a child's corpse—Mycroft's grip on his hands tightened to the point of pain—

'Which one is pain?'

Mycroft sucked in some air as her voice rang in his ears like it always does in his mind. How her eyes would flash and look at him whenever he observes her… as if mentally telling him to sod off… how she would always give him her cold blank stare whenever he was concerned… because he was there and aware when it all happened… the cuttings, the drawings, the fire—oh god, the fire—

Did he not run to her room when he noticed the smokes while mummy ran for Sherlock?

And found her by the window—sitting and watching the flames engulf the walls of her room—and she looked at him straight with eyes that disconcerted his senses—what was it she said?

'Come brother, see…I burned Sherlock.'

"Mycroft!"

He flinched at the harshness of the voice and blinked several times before catching a glimpse of Sherlock on his feet again and halfway towards his direction. The two stared at each other for a few seconds with Mycroft becoming aware of the alarm on his brother's face. Blinking again, he found Sherlock's eyes eyeing something down the table. Mycroft glanced down too and surprisingly found his hand clutching tight on the gun again.

It took awhile for him to convince himself to let go of the weapon and when he did, he saw his hand tremble.

"It's alright." He heard Sherlock spoke softly before him and when he looked around next, his younger brother was there and was slowly pulling the gun away from his reach. Sherlock took the gun on one hand and surveyed his older brother with troubled eyes that had replaced his sharp ones.

"You've got to stop doing that." Sherlock went on as he remained rooted on the spot.

"Just reflexes…" Mycroft refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Never you mind. It wasn't loaded anyway, thanks to you." He tried to clear his throat but found the task draining.

"Oh, who knows, you can always find uses to empty pots." Sherlock tried to simper but ended up looking uneasy and sighing. "You've got to stop going there, Mycroft."

"What?" he looked up in genuine confusion.

"Your mind palace." Sherlock whispered, not losing eye contact, "With Eurus."

Mycroft didn't know. He wished it didn't have to show. But his face which had always concealed his true emotions had betrayed him and he knew Sherlock knew that he was afraid. Because by right his knowledge was much vast than most—even much more than just an Appledore like Magnussen's… his was much greater… but lies underneath it were his buried memories of Eurus and it wasn't as little as what Sherlock remembered.

If Eurus could remember everything about them, then so could Mycroft. He was there. He built the pillars—the foundation of his mind palace in their ancestral home.

And Eurus was a large part of it. Every step, every turn, she was there.

Disturbing… his mind alerted him but it was too late to free himself from the quagmire.

He closed his eyes and all he sees where the walls of Musgrave… Sherlock's favorite spot with the gravestones, Eurus' room which he had often visit because he knew what his parents neglected to see…

And Redbeard was running around too as if motioning for him to follow. Often the little boy would be around the house, in the graves, near the river, running into the woods… But now that his whereabouts had been found, all Mycroft sees was the child coming out of the well, calling him… blaming him.

Mycroft turns around and the next wall surrounding him was Sherrinford. His very own, much personal hell with Eurus all over him, her hand clamped on his mouth, her round eyes transfixed and screaming—

A painful slap rang in the air—and Mycroft Holmes felt a sting on his left cheek. He opened his watery eyes and found Sherlock angrily staring at him with the blades in his eyes back and cutting.

"I said stop it!" he snarled with a painful clutch on Mycroft's left shoulder as he also shook his brother. "Don't go any deeper than you've already had!"

Mycroft blinked several times, his stinging cheek lighting his features, his ears ringing painfully.

"Did you just… slap me?" he whispered as he brushed Sherlock's hand away from his shoulder to touch his cheek, his blazing eyes suddenly at his younger brother who looked back at him with the same intensity. "You slapped me!"

"I'd do it again in case you need it— you've been tumbling down memory lane and even you wouldn't like the face you're making!"

"Jesus," Mycroft wiped his sweaty, cold face and tried to stand up, only to find his legs too shaky and sat back down. "Do that again and I swear, Sherlock—"

"Go swear, I don't care— but like I said—you've been compromised." Sherlock repeated with gritted teeth as their eyes meet again. "We both know what she's capable of at close contact – your word, she can reprogram people by just talking to them and you— you were left with her for more than an hour—"

"Are you suggesting—?" he began hotly, his emotions from being just slapped sinking in, "She can't do that to me—I'm plenty smart than most people— and I know how to deal with her! I knew what I was doing!" Damn right, he was always with her on occasions and never had she successfully managed to intimidate him or make him do anything… except the Christmas presents. She was entitled… she was still his little sister!

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "I found you with a gun on your hand. Not very convincing. How often do you meet Eurus?"

The sudden question got Mycroft distracted for awhile.

"Uh… once… twice a month… every Christmas…"

"I wasn't talking about going to Sherrinford. I was talking about in your mind."

Mycroft shot his brother what appeared to be a look of reproach.

"For goodness sake—"

"It is." Sherlock nodded. "Don't lie. We both know what's hidden beneath these faculties. The sleeping dragons, I call it. If I got a psychopath on mine—"

"Psychopath?"

"— then you're of no exception which means the only other person you consider much more terrifying than yourself and mummy—would be Eurus."

Silence fell between them and by this time Mycroft no longer wishes to hide and so he nodded his head.

"But she was just a mere child…" he whispered when he looked up at his brother gently.

"Which makes the trauma more dangerous and easily triggered by the same person it replicated."

"No—'trauma' is a strong word."

"You found the nerve to pull the trigger of the gun on yourself when you couldn't even do it to save an entire pilotless plane—of course it's trauma!"

"The governor was a victim—I don't kill innocent people!"

"Really? You didn't think twice of shooting the clown I hired with your self-designed gun—"

"He was attacking me! It was self defense—"

Sherlock suddenly banged his hands on the table that got the older Holmes to watch him with undivided attention as he bellowed once and for all – "Then think this thoroughly when I tell you that right now our sister, Eurus is attacking you and you have to put your defense up and kill the thought because that's all it is—A THOUGHT!"

Mycroft's hold on his pocket watch slackened and it fell sadly on his lap.

"I…" he began, eyes not leaving his brother's.

Did he really believe he knows exactly what Sherlock would say? Piece by piece?

"Mycroft… you're smarter than this, for heaven's sake."

No, Mycroft decided with a small sigh, he really doesn't.

*To Be Continued*

A/N: Because Sherlock doesn't advice on stopping at three O.O

So we four! Sorry I couldn't cram it all here -.- it should be the last~

THANK YOU FOR ALL THE WONDERFUL WORDS & SUPPORT :O

Chapter Text

*Blud On My Hands*

~WhiteGloves~

-There goes the truth-

*Warning for heavy drama and brotherly*

T_T

Part 4

"I'm always the smart one."

Softly, Mycroft repeated the words under his breath like a mantra as he looked down his pocket watch while Sherlock scowled at him. It was a fact that Mycroft never doubted even now as Sherlock had pointed it out loud, he knew he needn't to be reminded— he would always be the smart one.

And he had proven to be above his brother yet again as he saw the ticking of his clock… the irony of being too smart that equipped him to estimate the future. Of always having Beta plans in case something goes amiss on the first take. So no matter how dawn plays out afterwards, Mycroft would never doubt the works of his brain.

Because he never liked loose ends.

That was just him being him.

He shut the pocket watch with a snap and heaved a sigh. Being the smart one was one thing… being enlightened by his brother was another. He realized upon self introspection that he really needed his brother's opinion like how he had wanted to know what his younger brother thought of his Lady Bracknell.

Because Sherlock always mattered make no mistake on that…

He glanced at his brother and just watched him for a second, seeing Sherlock's distress behind the sharp glinting eyes— awoken from his past but surprisingly more stable than he had expected. Sherlock had exceeded expectations. No matter what happens afterwards, he was sure his brother will just be fine.

He will be fine.

Mycroft pulled his thoughts away from this new discovery and smiled at Sherlock.

"You really did think I'm the smart one, didn't you?" his smile lingered a little.

"It's a fact you've already established on my every waking moment and really quite necessary for you to remember now— so yes." Sherlock nodded briefly and continued gaping at his brother. He was still standing too close to where Mycroft was seated while the older Holmes waited for any of his additional sarcasm, his disdain for being made to point the difference in their intellect. But when he didn't, Mycroft's eyes fell back into a space, his mind palace changing the course of his thoughts to something more—exceptional.

"Mrs. Hudson said you were 'always going on' about me—"

Sherlock gave a grunt and made a face, "When's this? Why are we talking about her now?"

"I just recalled…"

"What— you invited her for tea—?"

"Oh god, heaven's no." Mycroft sat up straight at the idea and glared at his younger brother with a surge of adrenaline. "I… paid your flat a visit couple of months back while you were in comatose with Culverton Smith at the hospital."

"If you'd been paying attention you'd know I wasn't really—" Sherlock said through gritted teeth—

"I came around looking for a reason with your sudden obsession with the man… and she accidentally pointed out how you would 'go on' about and 'think I'm clever'. So I wondered." He pressed another smile towards Sherlock again and saw his brother step back from him. It made him smirk. "You talk about me to Mrs. Hudson?"

"Why do you think she doesn't think highly of you?" Sherlock quietly emphasized, making Mycroft's smile to widen and to look down at his watch which he opened with a flick of his thumb.

"It did sound like you were bragging about me."

"I was complaining half the time!"

"Done so in a way that those who would hear could make a conclusion that I'm better?"

"I state facts as is and never believe in being humble." Sherlock answered flatly. "We both don't."

"I wonder how much you talk about me to other people?" Mycroft threw interesting eyes at the detective who looked aggravated and snapped—

"Mycroft, I was helping you get confidence—not egoism."

"Same result."

"I think my job here is done." Sherlock threw back at the man with an irritated air as he moved towards the end of the room near the fireside as if he couldn't stand being near his brother. Mycroft slipped his pocket watch inside his coat and sat straight, his glinting eyes serious. He had been waiting for that opportunity to come.

"It does feel good to be talked about in kind… by your brother." He went on softly after awhile and he meant it. "I never bullied you, Sherlock… I was always just… testing you."

Sherlock glared at him. "Same result."

Mycroft closed his eyes and knew he had to say it. "I'm sorry. The approach I must've used made it impossible for you to… express yourself as a child. Thinking of it now, I suppose if I had been good with humans I could have raised you well..." he looked down, trying to think of more precise words. In the silence, he noticed Sherlock from the corner of his eyes and saw the man sit back on the chair he had previously occupied with the gun now on his hands just when Mycroft thought he would leave.

"How old were you?" Sherlock asked.

The older Holmes marveled his eyes up. "What?"

"How old were you when this Uncle Rudy— who I can't remember by face— took you in his confidence about keeping our sister's status from everybody?"

Mycroft's mind reeled to the memory like he was there—

"Around fifteen, I had just entered my first year undergrad as an advance student when he came to my boarding school and brought me some place. He had some connections to people, you know what that means. He told me everything en route about the second fire Eurus created… and pointed out how crucial it was that I understand. Logic was never my weakest, as you already know." he said it as if reading lines from a book he already knew by heart with less inclination to emotion. He was used to that. "And then I saw her and needed only to speak with her briefly to know the depths she had gone into."

"She was only seven…" Sherlock whispered with a critical look at his brother.

"Yes." Mycroft took a moment as he weighed his words again. "Sherlock, you have to understand when they took her away you began forgetting her… and then years after she started another fire and when it came to telling our parents, this was the plan Uncle Rudy decided to be the best when he spoke to me."

It was not a surprise when the older Holmes found his brother looking at him critically. Back then he had started the lie, back then he had lost a lot of things but logic wise… it was the smartest move on the board. His parents already wrecked trying to figure out how to help her, younger brother traumatized and trying to deal with a broken heart she left… there was only one thing to do to make them live again.

Mycroft swallowed the lump on his throat and met Sherlock's eyes, waiting for him to come cutting through then—

"So Uncle Rudy decided to share the knowledge because he deemed you logical enough?"

"Oh, that too. Mostly I thought he was thinking there was still a chance for her to be retrieved." When Sherlock's eyebrows rose up, Mycroft went on— "You must not think Uncle Rudy heartless. He pitied her otherwise nobody needed to know she's alive at all… and I was the only one close enough—not just as kin— but of mental prowess she wouldn't be able to control. So my task mostly was to keep her company. Talk to her. Keep her in social form…"

Mycroft stopped and pressed all the memories arising from distracting him— of beginning the day of speaking with her, how she would always ask for their parents and Sherlock… how he would try to make her see things differently, that she would be able to come back only if she would change… and how she would always proved to be incredibly complex by seeing deadlier perspectives… how she was so inclined to hurt people… and make him do things Mycroft wouldn't dare repeat to anyone save himself. Days became weeks… weeks became months and then years… and Mycroft still saw no hope of releasing her. She was the real epitome of 'uncontainable' so to speak.

Sherlock's eyes were intent on him when he resurfaced from the thought. He ignored the lapse and went on—

"Bottom line is—as our uncle had said of being the eldest and capable—it needed to be done. I can assure you I've weighed all the options—all the possible ends of all possible scenario of others knowing about her and it's simply disturbing—even with our parents, you—"

"Stop it. It wasn't that… You did your best." Sherlock repeated with now a frown forming on his face, remembering that one intense night Mycroft had to deal with their parents and surprisingly Sherlock was behind him. Until now, it seemed his brother was making him realize it as the detective went on—"As of how you think you raised me— well, you could only do so much with two psychotic siblings who both were not only uncooperative but destructive. I don't blame you—I won't ever blame you and nobody has the right to do so. Among the three of us you were always smart one. You've been doing your best since then. That should account for respect and not otherwise."

A ringing pause—even Mycroft thought his ears would burst of it.

Sherlock gave him one look before looking away but not before Mycroft saw the tenderness that flashed in his eyes for a second. It made him clench his jaw as he regarded his younger brother with his eyes threatening to water. And he felt his discomfort get washed away as he sat there, eyes full of wonder at his younger brother.

For Sherlock to even consider him when Mycroft was ready to accept his usual critical words, these…

"Thank you, Sherlock." It was barely a whisper.

The detective nodded and another ring of silence filled the two brothers who were both too hesitant to break it. It was one of those rare occasions that they both sat there quietly… no banters, no insults, no games… just brother to brother.

Till Mycroft unceremoniously checked his watched again and felt dejection hit him harder than he had expected.

Oh… He distracted himself so as not to get caught by his brother who went on saying—

"So are you—" Sherlock cleared his throat as he looked at with a change of topic faster than Mycroft could answer Einstein's relativity equation that made the older Holmes smile to himself, "Are you still suicidal?"

"If you mean 'do I still feel desperate to atone for my actions…' why don't you tell me?"

Sherlock gave him a long, hard look that made Mycroft straightened up for a better judgment.

"You still look awful."

"Between you and me you know that will never be true." Mycroft replied with a sigh as he pulled on his tie and fixed it with a hand and was about to reach for his umbrella on the table. "Can we get this over now?"

"Not quite." Sherlock replied suddenly with a pointed look at the umbrella Mycroft took and now held. "I still have one last question."

Mycroft had a feeling it would come— and now he can truly say he knows exactly what the question would be because if he had been in Sherlock's position—he would be damned not to ask it. He can already see the w's forming in his younger brother's mouth.

"Whenever you're ready." He quipped. Sherlock looked too serious then—

"Why are you not eating the chips?"

Mycroft clenched his jaw as he eyed the brown bag. Maybe not that question—

"It's past eating time…" he shot a look at the man and saw him smirk. "I'm not really hungry." He looked at his clock and saw it was down to one hour. Just one more hour.

"How about sleep—? You need sleep—"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft grunted with an irritated eyebrow flying up, only to find his brother smirking at him.

And they were back to normal. It was funny how this simple understanding made Mycroft feel he was the same old brother again— that one that would scold his brother at the tiniest thing, the one that would always tease him about being superior, the brother Sherlock can go to whenever he was at his very last straw of options and ask for favour—which was always—that he was always the one to win. Oh, the irony.

It seemed like this time, his plan will indeed win again albeit his change of heart.

Sherlock made no movements of wanting to leave the chair. It made Mycroft sigh at how his brother seemed to want to linger when not long ago his brother would pay to be away. If only circumstances need not be difficult as time approaches. So many things to say—so little time—

"Can I ask you one last thing too?"

Sherlock's eyes twinkled curiously."Interesting. Go on."

"Why did you not pull the trigger in Sherrinford?"

It was such a cliché question Sherlock rolled his eyes at. "You know the answer. Seriously, Mycroft with the ego? Do pick up a brain already or I can't keep up with you."

The older brother pressed a small smile. "You really can't keep up—obviously you're thinking this is some sort of brotherly sentiment which is not if I may point out. This is logic, brother dear, and my brain is so intact."

"Yes, point you want to make?"

"Not that I do not believe you truly do not want to kill me but—I believe you did not want Jim Moriarty getting the satisfaction of being correct of choosing me instead of your best friend."

"No, you just want to believe I want to kill you." Sherlock swore aloud but Mycroft wasn't done yet as he went on more aggressively, his eyes at his brother—

"Think, Sherlock—think—isn't it ironic that Moriarty would record a video of himself telling you to do exactly what he was expecting when we both know you'd absolutely do the opposite?"

That caught the detective's attention and he turned around. Mycroft caught his eyes and knew all the attention was on him. He had noticed it at that precise moment—back in Sherrinford—in the middle of his younger brother hovering a gun in front of him; how the red lights blinked malignantly and Jim Moriarty quoting— 'Holmes killing Holmes' like it was a signal. Indicating he won—the last thing Sherlock needed. Mycroft could have sworn how fast his brain had worked it out only—Sherlock had already pointed the gun to himself and it was all too late.

Sherlock looked like he was slowly taking in the information which made the older Holmes press another smile that came out as his usual knowing smirk that made him felt like himself again. "I wonder who needs a brain now."

"You're not implying what I think you're—" Sherlock began but he was cut off—

"Oh yes, I should think I am. Moriarty knew you'd never kill John, he would bet his life on that. He did. So whoever would be the other choice aside from John, naturally would be the losing end—which just happened to be me. But by pushing you the idea that he himself appeared to expect it—and knowing how you always throw the chess board across the room when upon a checkmate— Moriarty expected you wouldn't. So where else would the gun go?"

Sherlock gave his brother a long, hard look which Mycroft didn't dare looked away at.

"He wanted me to kill myself." The detective then concluded quietly.

"Oh, look , he finally got there." Mycroft smiled again, but it was the usual smile that would never reach his eyes. "Like how he ended up when you two were there at the rooftop… and blow your head up. You nearly did."

Sherlock's jaw clenched and for a moment it seemed that another argument would follow except that the detective seemed reluctant to begin it, leaving the older Holmes to sigh quietly.

"It seems that you were so preoccupied to even notice it…"

"Preoccupied indeed…and you weren't?" Sherlock whispered as he turned away again, his meaning couldn't have been any vague as Mycroft followed his brother's back. "Can't we just say perhaps I really wouldn't kill my brother?"

Mycroft smiled briefly. "If that's really how you want to put it."

"You're impossible."

He then watched silently as his younger brother turned towards the fireside and tossed the hand gun he was holding into the fire. There wasn't much things left to say as they both watched the flames swallow it with the crackling fire proving to do its promised damaged.

Mycroft observed his brother standing there quietly, his other expertise had shut off thanks to the momentarily improvement of his memory. He had completely slated his mind blank for awhile of that dangerous sequence of a little girl with cold, sharp eyes and replaced it with the boy running around in his pirate hat as his refuge... he let the image sink in and sighed inwardly. Then Eurus was there but it wasn't as forbidding as before.

Perhaps the 'slap' had its true effect…

Mycroft opened his mouth to say the first thing that crossed his mind—

"We have strict rules to adhere when it comes to disposing deactivated firearms implemented—"

"Yes, thank you, Antarctica." Sherlock cut in his usual resonant voice, his back to his brother. "If your code name is as cold as your reasoning we might find fire essential to melt down more sense into you, your brain still has its other uses."

"My senses are fine." He found the crisp bit of his voice and was glad he was able to sound the same when he still feels the lump on his throat. "It's your judgment on firearm disposal that worries me."

"We can also burn your umbrella if you like." Sherlock threw a knowing look towards the concealed weapon Mycroft kept close by his side. The older Holmes gave him a suspicious look, and then sighed as he began turning the handle of the umbrella saying—

"I presume you also took the liberty to remove my—ah." He unlocked it from the handle and found the barrel of his self designed gun empty. "I was expecting that. Mind you—you really have a bad taste for drama. The blood on my portraits— your vandalism costed art!"

"They're portraits of dead people—go get the national museum treasure!"

Mycroft seemed to consider and there was just every bit of possibility that he could get what he wanted that made his younger brother roll his eyes and arrange his coat. The notion made the older Holmes sat straight.

"You're going?" he tried to make it sound less expectant. "I thought you'd tuck me in my sleep."

"I'd tie you on your sleep." Sherlock glared at him, "Stop being annoying. There's no point staying when I've gotten rid of all the guns in the house and reprogrammed your brain."

"That's not funny." Mycroft glowered as only he could. Sherlock would be damned to do that—no actually the all should be damned to do that. Mycroft had often thought if truly used, he and Sherlock indeed could reprogram people. It suddenly struck him if what Sherlock said was true that he glared at his brother who apparently was following his thoughts.

Sherlock smirked. "Unless you still have ghosts in the house you want me to get rid of?"

Mycroft wished he had answered quicker—a second delay only made Sherlock frown more.

"Don't be ridiculous…" he went on with eyes darting towards the doorway of the room—then he had to reprimand himself for Sherlock also noticed that and ogled at the doorway too. Mycroft was quick to give a narration, "There aren't ghosts here… it's never ghost we should be afraid of… it's the living."

"And ourselves, brother?" Sherlock suggested as he looked back pointedly which made Mycroft smile and nod.

"It won't happen ever again."

Sherlock gave him one final look before moving towards the doorway. "I'll make another call tomorrow. Maybe even bring mummy—"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Who knows." The detective smirked as he reached the door's entrance with Mycroft's eyes on him while he arranged his scarf around his neck. The pocket watch now lay forgotten inside the older Holmes' coat pocket. "It might bring the house down."

"It literally would."

"Isn't that exciting?"

"Sherlock!"

"Fine." Sherlock jammed both his hands inside his coat pocket and strode out this time that made Mycroft sigh in relief. "I'll be seeing you in Baker Street tomorrow then?" Sherlock called finally from the corridor—

"Why?" Mycroft called with eyes blinking in confusion. What else must he do there?

"John would want to hear the details from you." His brother called aloud, his steps disappearing into the night—

"I forbid you to tell him—Sherlock! For goodness sake, spare me your obsession of telling stories to your flat mate!"

But no response came anymore and Mycroft waited a little longer, before falling back on his chair and sighing deeply.

Sherlock's gone.

He closed his eyes tight and pressed his hands on them with his elbows on his knees. What has he done?

Mycroft then immediately stood up, grabbed his umbrella and headed for the window to where he slightly drew the curtains with an eye out on the darkness. He could see nothing there save the shadow of the trees. His younger brother had disabled his security alarm again, no doubt about that, and his brother also most likely had taken all his ammunition or he wouldn't leave as confident as he did. Which would leave him to his only weapon—his dear old blade.

He turned his eyes to his umbrella, unlocked it and was pulling the blade up when—

"Obsession."

Mycroft turned around swiftly to the owner of the voice and found him, once again standing by the threshold of the door—Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft's mouth fell open in disbelief upon seeing the detective there again, watching him as if he had been standing there for quite awhile.

"Sherlock?"

"Your obsession with your pocket watch, that's the first thing I noticed." Began the detective who was ever calm as he remained standing there while Mycroft's hands fell on his sides. "I dismissed it for being restless but then even our little talk you continue checking your watch that would only indicate you're anticipation of something."

Mycroft compressed his lips and didn't say anything as he stared at the man with his grip on his umbrella tight.

And then Sherlock, being as he is, stepped into the room once more with air of intimidation Mycroft had never felt before. His eyes were flaring, his jaws locked, and his movements ever direct and ready to pounce like a silent wolf in the middle of the night.

"What are you not telling me?"

Mycroft was struck and knew it was futile to lie any longer. He stepped forward too and laid his blade on the table.

"It's just something I came up with… hardly surprising, brothermine…" he hesitated upon looking at Sherlock's accusing eyes once again and then finally sighing he went on, "I… devised what I had been accustomed of doing from the beginning. An assurance that in case the first plan fails there would be—"

"Beta plan…" Sherlock's eyes rounded while Mycroft nodded in agreement.

"It's a fail-safe, one would say—when in case I didn't have the heart to—"

"What have you done?" Sherlock had gotten closer and in one swift movement, he was already nose to nose with his brother who stepped back once, only to find himself edging to the table.

"I hired a professional to finish the job." Mycroft said simply.

Sherlock had once given his brother that look—that one look Mycroft received when they were back in Sherrinford and the younger Holmes had him at a gun point and he had just told them he allowed Moriarty and their sister a five-minute catch up. Sherlock had given him that dour consternation—partly expressing his disappointment and a tad concern.

It was there again, that look. Sherlock was angry once again.

"I thought you said you never liked loose ends!"

"I am the loose end." Mycroft pointed, rendering his brother even angrier than before.

"So after all this you still want to die—you're still determined to chase after your own death—!"

"Of course not—why do you think I was holding the blade—I was going to defend myself!"

"Then why didn't you tell me? Ask for my help? You always ask for my help!"

The two seemed to briefly recall that evening when Mycroft was running away from the clown and there, Sherlock came from the windows and the older Holmes asked for his aid. Only to find out Sherlock himself planned the opera. How could Mycroft forget such an event?

"I didn't want you to get hurt." It was partly true too. "This man I hired is beyond dangerous."

"And you think you can fend off when you're only holding a stick?" Mycroft looked offended but Sherlock didn't seem to care as he shook his head. "What's the detail to engage?"

"Half past two in the morning. His orders were to infiltrate and if he sees the target alive by half past two be it for any reason of a change in mind or was stopped that he would eliminate him on sight."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "You really made the conditions for zero survivors!"

"That's me." Mycroft gave him a small smile, only to not receive anything in return. Sherlock checked his own watch and saw what Mycroft already knew. "Two o'clock. Any chance you can retract the order?" he moved swiftly around the room till he was checking the curtains. Mycroft had dropped himself on his chair again with a heave of sign and press of fingers on his temple.

"No. I specifically ordered for it to be swift."

"Do you ever not learn?!" the detective was practically simmering.

"To be fair… it's a first time." Mycroft wanted to smile but heard Sherlock grumbled through gritted teeth as the detective closed the windows and took his own phone and then pressed it on his ears. Mycroft shook his head.

"You should leave—"

"Why? Will this man shoot me on sight too?" Sherlock clicked the button of his phone and slammed it on his ear again when nobody answered the first time.

"Depends if you stop him." Mycroft watched as his brother walk around the room.

"Yeah, sure, I'll let him waltz in by all means." Sherlock snapped and pulled his ear from the phone again looking disgruntled. That was when he shot his brother a sudden look that Mycroft wasn't expecting. "I shouldn't have brought you the chips. I knew you wouldn't like the chips."

The notion made Mycroft glance down the brown bag on the table. What was his brother talking about of all things?

"What?" he mechanically took the bag and glanced up at his brother with a frown, "what are you—?"

He opened the brown bag and out came a circle of white dusts on the air—powder that seemed to double his eyes. Then Mycroft knew what hit him even before he could inhale everything— assassin—powder—

And the last thing he saw was Sherlock jamming his phone on his ear again and turning around in his dark coat—and then everything went pitch black.

The next thing Mycroft knew, he was stretched out on a comfortable bed with his nose apparently stuffed and his throat dry and painful. Slowly, he began pulling himself up with confusion across his face that didn't last long—he was always fast on uptake that he remembered every single detail with Sherlock and the fireside—

He quickly glanced around with the last image of his younger brother turning away from him in the middle of that treacherous—only to find one man seated by the chair across his bed beside a small table with two glasses of wine on it— that eased the older Holmes' mind. But just as is—the man before him didn't seem at ease even though his eyes danced in mild amusement— and also, that little bit of reprimanding expression.

John Watson.

"Idiot." John whispered without warning.

And Mycroft pressed his eyes tight and wondered if he would ever hear the end of it.

*Penultimate*

A/N: We want to hear the end of it _

So we five! Again, it must come to end but not yet! Sorry for pushing long!

The chapter is quite long 0_0

But you're all awesome! THANKS FOR ALL THE SUPPORT AGAIN AND AGAIN! :D

Till the last! :)

Chapter Text

*Blud On My Hands*

~WhiteGloves~

-There goes Eurus-

T_T *Warning for heavy drama and angst* T_T

Part 5

Mycroft wasn't sure if it had become a habit of his to press his palms on his eyes and take deep breaths whenever his brother or his best friend was in the vicinity. Then he realized it was not out of habit—but a response saved only to those two specific individuals who always drove him mad. Why he only began doing the gesture ever since they first infiltrated his house couple of months back, touring in with them a clown and a man-lady in a child's clothes. Frankly speaking, he knew a time would come his brother would come barging in with John just to make a point. He just didn't think with a clown. It was really purely in bad taste.

But why a clown?

The memory made Mycroft glare up at the former army doctor seated in front of him and to scramble to his feet from the bed he recognized to be the guest room of his house. He saw John in act of opening his mouth but Mycroft raised a finger to shut him.

"No. That's quite enough. I'm not putting up with this." He found his shoes on his feet and edged on the bed, only to halt moving further as a wave of dizziness suddenly struck him. The drug on the chips got on his nerve as he glared up again with gritted teeth and swore. "Where's Sherlock?"

He saw John smirk just as he ran his hand to his coat pocket for his phone only to find it by the table. John, who was wearing his plain dark jacket, looked like a sentry by how he was watching him closely.

"Still on hunt for your hired and well trained assassin."

"Good luck with that."

"You don't seem very concerned?"

"With everything getting out of hand one after another, you'd be very surprised how little concern I have left, Doctor Watson. And I don't have much to begin with."

"Yeah, because that's just you being you, huh?"

"That's just me." Mycroft managed to pull himself up to his feet and was about to head straight to the door—only that John's chair was blocking the way and his severe eyes rendered the older Holmes to pause and sigh. "Well?"

The doctor frowned awhile, "Aren't you going to ask how the situation is?"

Mycroft considered as if it was an incredulous question, then recited in his monotone as he remembered this was John Watson, "The danger has passed, Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed to have covered the area with land security and the Secret Service on disposal. It's most likely six in the morning and Sherlock's still on his feet so no, I don't need to ask. I know."

John stared at him in awe that only made Mycroft's eyebrows twitch as he continued to explain— "You already mentioned the assassin's escaped. I deduced Lestrade's involvement with the two glasses of wine on the table because Sherlock does not drink when he needs his mental faculties most on emergencies. And those remains of cigarette with brand the Inspector is particularly fond of—I know I see that on his satellite photos. The Secret Service too most likely is already involved judging by the presence of my phone on the table and six o'clock considering the sun's natural light emitted from the window side." He turned behind him to the close curtained window with light underneath. Then turning around to the thunderstruck Doctor he finished, "And Sherlock's fine—you being here is already the biggest indication."

John blinked with eyes on the older Holmes, and then shook his head. "You brothers always make it sound so common place."

"Too common, even for you—" Mycroft agreed with a sarcastic smile.

"That's why Sherlock left the phone and gave us the wine." They exchanged looks. "Your brother was sending you a message so you wouldn't worry."

"And he left you here to prove his status so I suppose that's your only purpose—may I leave now?"

But John didn't budge from the chair and only gave Mycroft a long look, his face already screaming of meaning that the older Holmes was unwilling to get compelled on.

"Doctor Watson—" he said through gritted teeth—

"I don't care why your brother thinks he left me here for but I'm sitting here on my own and talking to you."

Mycroft shook his head. "We're not actually doing this, are we?"

"I've heard that one before and frankly I'm still stung." John replied shortly, his expressive eyes too easy to read. "You pretty much insulted me back in Sherrinford—"

"Do you also require a written apology?" he pressed a sarcastic smile.

"I want a public announcement."

Mycroft seethed quietly on spot and eyed the doctor. "John—I don't have time for this—"

"Yes you have—for somebody who had the slightest inkling of dying by their hands, I'm afraid you have to make time for this." There was a firm note on his tone that got darker by every word. Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. He knew Sherlock must have told him everything but why? Is it just to spite him because his younger brother knows how John can be when it comes to reaching to their untapped feelings?

Haven't they spoken enough?

John stared at him quietly with curious eyes. "I can't believe you tried to murder yourself. Even hired someone to make sure to finish the job. You've really lost your mind—"

"You wouldn't understand." Mycroft breathed heavily with eyebrows contorting.

"Yeah? Because the last time we were together you chose to save me. What—is that you also being you?"

Mycroft continued to speak through gritted teeth. "I didn't save you. I chose to die. You weren't paying attention when I told you it was my entire fault. My choice had nothing to do with you so you don't need to feel responsible in the slightest if that's what's bothering you."

John's eyes flashed dangerously as it would do when he and Sherlock were on an argument, "What's bothering me is that the brother of my best friend tried to kill himself, pure and simple."

Mycroft stared and inclined his head on one side with confused eyes at the angry doctor.

"Since when was I part of 'your sentiments' team?"

"Since you're Sherlock's brother. And my friend." The doctor shook his head when Mycroft gave a derisive chuckle. John glared at the man, undaunted. "That's what you do isn't it? You make others dislike you. You make no attachments, you're cold as ice. I thought you're just being difficult that's why I really didn't get you."

"You don't have to, by mental capacity itself—there's a vast difference—"

"Just—Mycroft just—stop. Stop acting tough."

"I'm not acting." Both his eyebrows rose up as they both stared at each other.

The silence that followed only put much emphasis on the statement as the two men watched each other quietly. Mycroft knew what John wanted to get from him but it wasn't something he was willing to share to anyone. So if the doctor thinks he could crack this code, then by all means… just that the idea was disturbing him.

And pray, what does John mean they were friends? The gesture was polite, but not at all acceptable. As far as he was concerned they were only collaborator. And so Mycroft clenched his jaw and curt his eyebrows at how his brother's best friend was looking at him. It was then to his mild surprise when the doctor rummage his pockets for something and when he pulled out, Mycroft saw it to be his black notebook where the doctor most likely keeps his notes for his further blogging. John opened the page in the middle section and then began—

"There's always a reason for a people becoming who they are and I quote, 'Memories can resurface—"

"Dear lord—" Mycroft pressed his eyes closed as he stepped back towards the bed and sat there feeling the reeling on his head just as the doctor continued—

"—wounds can reopen." John slightly raised an eyebrow, "The roads we walk have demons beneath. And yours have been waiting for a very long time." The doctor looked up to find Mycroft already looking at him with a flat stare, clearly unimpressed. "You said those words."

"I didn't think you were taking down notes of me." Mycroft threw scathingly at him.

"You'd be surprised of the volume I have allotted just for you. I mean, Sherlock's not the only one—there're two of you."

Mycroft glowered, "I'm afraid I'm going to have those confiscated— and you incarcerated—"

But John ignored him and looked down his notes again. "Every choice you ever made, every path you've ever taken the man you are today is your memory of Eurus."

"Do you honestly need your notes to remember a simple thing like that?" His eyebrows threatened the height of heaven by this time.

"You said those words to Sherlock." The doctor snapped his notes shut, eyes now on the older Holmes. "Why did it only occur to me that you were also referring it to yourself?"

"I don't remember disclaiming it."

"So you know your sister's hold on you? And you never told anyone about her?"

Mycroft glared. "Your point?"

"My point is— she made you, Mycroft. She made both you and Sherlock the way you are now. If the reason you feel so compelled to take your own life is because you feel guilty of your sister's actions then think that this isn't a one way road. Your every lie—your unfriendliness—who you are—"

"So now you're an expert?"

"I'm an expert. How many therapists do you think I've had?" The doctor cleared his throat. "And now I see the act, it seems I can understand a little— that you were always so good at watching people but you never look after yourself."

"Sounds good." Mycroft admitted but his hands have already formed fists. "I suppose you're going to say next that I am being noble?"

"Not in the slightest." John shook his head, making the older Holmes to roll his eyes. "Sherlock did though. You should hear him ramble about you."

A long pause, and Mycroft glanced at the doctor's direction with face slightly put off and he had to flex his hands and looked away for a second. For Sherlock to be speaking of him…

"You know your brother can be very extreme? Words, actions, decisions…"

"I know my brother."

"Not as well as you think with feelings, you reject the thought—"

"I told you…" Mycroft suddenly felt his legs give away and he sat back at the edge of the bed with hands on his knees, eyes avoiding the doctor. "I may not know the depth of his emotions but he's always been an emotional child."

"Who just found out he's a got a dead childhood friend he can't remember, a sister who's incarcerated in her own mind, and a brother who's been lying to him all these years?"

"He clearly understands why I needed to do it." He flashed John a look of reproach. "I don't think he blames me anymore than you do."

"No we don't." John cleared his throat again, eyes transfixed at Mycroft, "You know, your brother and I have been through a lot—"

"Believe me, I know." Mycroft met John's eyes for a second, before getting lost in a space again. "I'm always watching."

"Yes, you are. So you know how we struggled with people close to us dying around us." His voice cracked and Mycroft had to press his lips shut or he would have lectured John his ideals about how people's death is commonplace. This wasn't the right place for that and clearly not the right man. Not with the memory of Mary Watson so fresh in mind. "And then you had to ask your brother to shoot you like it was fine. Like it was nothing."

The last piece came out disapprovingly that made Mycroft shot the doctor a look. John didn't look so happy too.

"Which part of that didn't you understand as being 'soldiers'?" the older Holmes narrowed his eyes and intended for the point to be taken as is without further interpretation. "You said it so yourself."

"Yet at the end of the day, Sherlock still loses his brother." John's eyes were piercing, a glint so fiery could be seen on his passive face, "How do you think would that go for him?"

Mycroft gave another pause, and really had to shrug. "I don't understand your logic—"

"It's not logic, Mycroft! It's how your brother would feel after he loses his brother!" John practically shouted at the startled older Holmes, "I don't know how thick you really were when you tried to kill yourself but did you never realized why I tried to stop him shooting you? Because I know him—your brother would be a wreck after everything and no simple drug abuse or—or mysterious cases or other obsessions would help him recover from that! You know why?"

Mycroft had put both hands on his head and if only he could cover his ears—

"Because you're his brother." John sighed finally with his voice getting softer though his eyes still flickered. "Before I came, before anyone of us even knew him you were already there, Mycroft. He's been relying on you heavily from the start. Now I don't have any say on how you treated him now that I know what you've also been through with your family, but I can say this—you were there for him when no one else was. Losing you would be like losing a piece of himself. So don't you dare believe your life is your own, Mycroft. You just mean too much to him."

Mycroft knew that day would come.

The clear blue sky and the ocean boasted of splendor as a helicopter cut in with its deafening rumbling sound that could be heard to far distance. And then an island.

Mycroft saw Sherrinford on sight of the window as he sat quietly on the aircraft with eyes somber. He was wearing his usual dark blue three-piece suit, tie and red handkerchief by his chest, a headset was covering his ears from the thundering machinery that gave him all the time he needed to ponder on his thoughts before meeting his sister.

Three days had passed since his suicide attempt and three days since the last report sighting of his assassin. The Secret Service surveillance had since been on the work together with the alert status of his security personnel and even the Scotland Yard. Not to mention, Sherlock seemed to make it his life's purpose at the moment—hunting down a loose professional who was after his brother. In fairness to him, Mycroft had tried contacting the unknown man he only came to know upon close track records of all possible threat to the country. He found his man— a man by description who was faithful to the job that a withdrawal of order seemed unthinkable. That was how Mycroft would describe a professional.

Of course, he didn't tell Sherlock that.

And more of course, Sherlock seemed to guess it already.

There was a brief talk of him going under protection program that Mycroft dismissed. Because by protection program Sherlock meant he stay with them in 221B Baker Street. The very idea was not appealing so Mycroft had to put his foot down.

"If you want me to live longer, brother dear, then keep me as far away as possible from your home." Mycroft remembered the argument the night after the incident and Sherlock was in his room with a very daunting expression that was never effective to the older Holmes.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the younger one snapped.

But it was as it is and it was decided that he, Mycroft, live to his safe office. He didn't mind. Security was of no question in that underground place and truthfully speaking, it was the only place next to his house he found comforting. From there he received regular updates not only from the progress of his brother and his flat mate but also Britain as a whole. It was a literal man behind the shadow that he liked playing. And there were less leg work as his secretary only needed to call him via mobile. For awhile, Mycroft lived in peace…

Until an assigned personnel called him from Sherrinford informing him—

His sister called for his name. Mycroft remembered freezing and utterly spaced out.

For Eurus to be calling to him now… did she know he wouldn't succeed? Mind like hers, sometimes Mycroft was afraid his sister was psychic with how her mind worked and it wasn't in supernatural sense, because Eurus was the case in point of a brilliant mind.

And off he got on his feet despite security measures and boarded the aircraft. There was nothing that could save him from this meeting; he knew sooner he had to meet his sister again. This time, however, he would have a hold of himself. This time his sister would not be able to go past his defense—his mind was at its brilliant too having to rest for days and contemplate of his actual purpose: it was to look after his siblings no matter what—and the whole Britain consequently—that had always been Mycroft Holmes.

So he came out of the helicopter and arranged his tie, met the new governor—all the staff of the fortress were changed and briefed of the previous events to inspire them of what happens to those who do not follow the bidding—and was led to Eurus Holmes' room.

Mycroft braced himself as he walk the cold building again with eyes surveying every little movement, every little mishap and all the detail of the renewed fort. Everything seemed to be in order. Then came the last door to her cell and Mycroft had to stand still even after the door was opened.

"Sir?" said the man escorting him.

"I can take it from here." Mycroft said with a brief nod at the governor and stepped inside the room. He heard the door slide close behind him and had to close his eyes too as he felt the coldness of the room even though the temperature was moderate: it must've been the brick walls, he told himself. He opened his eyes finally with a sigh.

Eurus was there, seated by her bed. Watching her, the older Holmes stepped up slowly, and stood by the glasses. She made no indication that she recognized his presence for a second. The funny thing was he saw her in act of taking her violin from the bed and then stopped when he reached closer. He understood the gesture.

"Sherlock's not here." He said quietly, his eyes only on her. "It's just…. you and me, sister."

Mycroft put both hands inside his pants' pockets and waited. There was no other response.

"I'm sorry I could not do it, your request." He went on with eyebrows furrowed and then slowly looked down the floor. "Sherlock still needs me, sister. And until the day he ceased to show such obvious gesture, I'm afraid… I cannot grant you your wish. Forgive me."

He looked up and there she was, staring at him. Mycroft tried his best to manage his disconcertment and closed his fist, his thumb hitting his index again. No… she understands…

"I know you can hear me," he went on after clearing his throat, her gaze too transfixed he was having a hard time keeping up for she was still too dark. He could read all of that from just one look she was giving him. Her intent was as is. "I know what it is you want… but for the last time, sister… I ask for your forgiveness and salvation."

He stepped closer, unmindful of the three-feet warning he himself imposed and put his right palm on the glass. She reacted instantly at that and without moving her eyes, she stood up. Mycroft clenched his jaw. She was watching his every move.

Alas, Mycroft had to close his eyes as memories interrupted in the silence and the little girl under his care was calling out not to him but to the little brother. There was never closeness between them and it had nothing to do with the age gap; it was because Mycroft saw what she was becoming with great disturbance that every time he would talk to her, he would always tell her she was wrong. Thus his identification of what is right had began from her exclusively. As a result of course, she became less fond of him and fixated on Sherlock.

But she was very lonely. He saw that. She was brilliantly terrible.

"If you cannot control your mental faculties and act not rationally but of impulse, what does that make you? A destruction." Mycroft remembered quoting to his secretary once when she asked why Sherlock Holmes must be under surveillance all the time. This was his answer but he was mostly thinking about her too. Both his siblings, really.

He sighed and reprimanded himself a little for the distraction when clearly it would not be to his advantage if it meant having contact with her again. But then to manage the whirling memories of Eurus that had escaped from its vaults when she was mere feet from him seemed pointless—he only needed to look at her and remember.

Trauma, Sherlock said but Mycroft couldn't agree more. He doubted his previous engagement had anything to do with Eurus speaking to him inside her cell when she caught them in her web—no. They had always had those kinds of conversations from as long as Mycroft could remember— except that she became too physical this time, so it wasn't that. He always remembered and never had that reaction…

So when did the memories begin frightening him?

Normally he could tell this within seconds but knowing the damage in his inept mind at the moment, Mycroft licked his dried lips and looked up—to find Eurus already in front of him with her hand plastered opposite to his. Mycroft pulled and stepped back a little looking taken a back. Eurus was on him and her dark eyes were the same—

"Why are you alive?" she whispered delicately. Mycroft opened his mouth but before he could speak things began escalating as Eurus began—so hard and intense it was—to bang her forehead on the glass wall with blood everywhere. Mycroft had thrown himself on the window glass too before he knew what he was doing and was shouting in horror—

"No—no! Don't do that—please! STOP IT! STOP HER!" he glanced at the camera around and his ears were pierced by the alarm and red beams of light but he didn't care—the blood on the glass was enough to make him lose his wits— she wouldn't stop and her eyes were still on him. "Eurus! PLEASE! ENOUGH!" and then she was there on the floor with a tranquilizer on her arm and back. It was over with only the ringing of the siren.

Mycroft slid down weakly on the floor in deep breathes his watery eyes on her motionless body. He leaned his forehead on the glass too and was silent for long moments till he whispered quite stricken voice—

"Do you really want me to die that badly?"

He closed his eyes and wished he was— but then—

"That's enough."

A firm grip on his right shoulder made Mycroft look sideways to find, in his utter surprise, was Sherlock again, standing over him with a grim look in his face and sweat on his brow. How his brother got there and why he was even there, it didn't matter. It seemed that Sherlock did some running too but Mycroft didn't care as he was pulled to his feet just as medical personnel came into the room to look after their sister.

Mycroft watched them take her with his hands over his mouth with Sherlock still holding firmly on his shoulder. He wouldn't let go but Mycroft barely noticed him anymore after finding the blood stain of her sister on the glass again. He later found out his brother had just arrived at the ground of Sherrinford after finding him gone from his office when the alarm was raised and he came running towards where he thought would find the source.

And found his siblings in such a state. Mycroft pressed his eyes closed.

He had enough pain to last his life.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked with his voice coming from somewhere far. The older Holmes had to exhale before shaking his head finally.

"No." he transfixed his eyes on the blood on the glass again and then down his hands. "I don't think I am." He looked at his brother with his lips trembling but he still managed a smile.

A pause, and then Sherlock was stirring him out of the room with a hand on his older brother's back, his eyes dismal and heavy were his features.

"Let's go." He whispered and Mycroft obliged.

*The Almost End*

A/N: Sorry! Really, the paragraphs for the ending didn't make the cut!

But for all reader's sake I give you my word the next one is our LAST!

Conclusion and resolutions! THE EPILOGUE!

THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE CHANCE TO SHARE THIS STORY :D

You're all awesome! ^_^ I wish it didn't have to end but yeah... :')

See you on the Epilogue :)

THANKS FOR READING!

Chapter Text

*Blud On My Hands*

~WhiteGloves~

-There goes the Ending-

T_T *Warning for heavy angst* T_T

Part 6 (End)

Eurus' blood trickled on the glasses… then he remembered… when it rains 'blood'… it pours.

Uncle Rudi did tell them it wouldn't stop. Uncle Rudi knew what was going on when the first tragedy struck the Holmes family one mid autumn—of Victor disappearing and only Eurus chanting her self-made song. Young Mycroft had caught the sinister meaning of the words with the little 'deep down below' and 'brother, under we go' pieces and had concluded it must've been a burial place—a crypt of some sort. His first impression was the cellar of the house and even went as far as searching the floor believing there must be an underground beneath an underground. He knew old houses had those and never retired till everybody was begging her to tell Victor's whereabouts.

She didn't. Days passed and then she began telling them how Drowned Redbeard must be so cold by now. Didn't Mycroft go out of his way to search the river side for any sign of Victor for days? Wasn't the boy also under his care when his sister snatched him right under his nose? He was looking after them— he was the eldest of the four. His parents had often told him it was his responsibility to begin with.

First blood.

Mycroft remembered how upset he was upon concluding Victor's fate, but it was nothing compared to Sherlock's agony. He cried all night with tears drying on his cheeks, begging for his best friend back. Eurus watched him with curiosity in her eyes while no plead, no lecture, no reprimands and not even threats from their parents could make her speak.

Victor was lost.

It was such a dreadful week.

Then came second tragedy— the fire.

The red dancing flames that engulfed their ancestral home that night still haunted Mycroft on his every waking moment; each fireside was like a reminder of a past burned in his memory yet he never ceases to light them. He was never good at forgetting so he might as well let the memory keep burning.

But the fire was not the reason his sister was taken by 'them'. His parents had been very protective of her believing it was an accident. Mycroft knew better. Mycroft could also remember how Uncle Rudi had been crystal-clear to Mycroft's parents of what he thinks Eurus needed which only always ended up in a row. Mummy was not pleased nor was his ever calm father. Uncle Rudi heard the most awful things that day; even Mycroft was embarrassed for him. But alas, Mycroft knew Uncle Rudi was telling truth for he had watched his sister closely since Victor's incident. Never had he left his younger brother's side after Victor was gone. And never had he seen Eurus so fixated on Sherlock.

Mycroft was no fool as a kid. He knew something was bound to happen.

It did and it came in one singular object— the noose.

Mycroft didn't know where Eurus got it but one day it was hanging on her shoulder, even placing it on her head. Mycroft was quick to alert their mother who immediately confiscated the rope. She tried talking to her little girl, tried asking what it was for but Eurus wouldn't cooperate. Mummy was very concerned and Mycroft was sure she was crying over it on dinner. Eurus hated him for that and never once spoken a word—but she would always talk to Sherlock.

It didn't take long when what Mycroft had been anticipating happened—and it came as he saw Sherlock coming out of the drawer room carrying the noose. When confronted by Mycroft and his parents, the little boy told them his sister asked for it because they would play on the beech tree.

Her special hair band she called it.

The events that followed were nothing short of heart break with his parents crying as they held each other. Uncle Rudi was there. They took her away. Mycroft watched as her sister was ushered out of the room. Sherlock was asleep, he tucked him in. He watched as they went, and seen last of his sister looking at him—just him.

She knew what was happening, Mycroft concluded. She knew… and he was not helping her at all.

He remembered Victor, he remembered the fire… he remembered Sherlock and the noose. He couldn't possibly help her. He could only hope that wherever they were taking her, they would make her better.

Deep inside him, he never believed that.

And then next was the fire on the institution she was taken—

Lots of blood spilled there they said and Uncle Rudi showed up in his school and the events that followed after was like watching a film flash before his eyes. Again and again. Till there was more blood.

Watching Eurus slam her forehead on the glass while trying to break it was like a horror film gone wrong. It was one of those nightmares that would make him sit up at night with sweat covering his face except that this time—the dream was real. There was just blood—lots of blood. Mycroft was rattled to the core. He had tried his best to calm the thunderous hammering of his heart but it proved to be quite futile. Even when it was over, his heart was disbelieving it. Nothing was ever over, not for him unless—

He closed his eyes and wished he really was heartless. It didn't help that his mind kept playing and playing the awful episode of his sister beating her head on the glass wall— making him swallow with eyes shut. It stirred more unpleasant memories of nothing but crimson and fire and it was unhinging him— driving him insane—

Alarms went on his head, warning him of the destruction he was making to himself. He could always tell those, having a mind like his, but somehow this was different than his previous encounters. Eurus had always tried talking him to his death, it never worked before. He had learnt to steel himself from her influence and that was a good thing for he lasted the battle no one ever knew.

Until this day. Until something inside him broke.

Was it his heart?

Balderdash. He's learned to control that organ. For many times.

His reasoning?

That was the only thing he had… and if lost too then what?

What were the risks of losing himself?

Mycroft gritted his teeth and cursed himself. Another wave of Eurus with blood on her face nearly made him cry out— he let out a low whimper. If insanity was the only cure…

Don't… don't feel…

Mycroft gulped, the pressure of his hand by his eyes was already making him feel the pain. His mind was playing him, it was no good. Wasn't that why he kept repeating his catch phrase 'caring is not an advantage?' Because whenever he does, this would happen: lost in his thoughts, tragically going over the past, remembering his sentiments. With emotions and his brain working together the effect on him was exponential. How was one supposed to help oneself when the battle was lost already?

Eurus' childhood image haunted him. The agony.

Don't feel.

He suddenly had a mental picture of John Watson's reprimanding face: What made you?

She made you.

But John was wrong. Eurus or without Eurus, this was him making a choice.

Caring is and will never be an advantage. Not to him, it isn't. That was when Mycroft started calming down. His mind applauded the smart choice. Don't feel.

He began taking in deep breaths with eyes still close. Then he began feeling his environment and remembered he was in the governor's office in Sherrinford with one hand covering his eyes, the other set on the table into a fist, unmoving. He could not remember how long he had been sitting there only— he wasn't alone.

"You shouldn't have gone here on your own." Sherlock's voice was deep as he said this tersely.

Mycroft jolted his memory as he tried to remember how Sherlock got there and saw flashes of his brother standing beside him when the unconscious Eurus was taken. Mycroft removed his hand from his eyes and lowered it to the table. He looked at his brother quietly and saw him standing there by the monitor. He saw Eurus on the screen too that caused his eyes to flicker. She was getting medical treatment and glad was he that her cell was designed with those tranquilizers at disposal. It had been one of his neat tricks to subside her.

"How is she?" he managed to ask.

"She's fine. She'll live."

"Good." He reached his fingers to his forehead.

Sherlock whirled around him. "How about you? How are you?"

Mycroft, who was massaging the bridge of his nose, looked up in mild indifference, his face impassive.

"I'm fine." He saw Sherlock glared and had to raise his eyebrows too, "Are you expecting another answer?"

"You're not fine—not after what she did in front of you."

Mycroft travelled his eyes on the screen again and nodded. "I suppose. That was quite a scenario. Too messy, really…"

A short pause came as the detective continued frowning at him. "Mycroft—are you sure you're alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" he frowned at his younger brother who was also scowling at him for some reason. "Anyway, Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

The detective ogled at him for a second, and put the remote he was holding down the chair then answered, "You left your office without any message—why didn't you? I had to wrestle it out of your Secret Service for crying out loud."

"You didn't." Mycroft pressed a disbelieving smile.

"Not really. I had your secretary tell me directly."

"That must've been some trouble." Mycroft thought of it for awhile, and then blinked at his younger brother again. "Why were you tracking me again?"

He saw Sherlock's jaw clenched and received the most penetrating look. "Your assassin is still at large and might still be after you. How can you even forget that?"

"Oh. I didn't." Mycroft shrugged and then travelled his eyes back at the monitor towards his sister. "I just don't have infinite supply of 'care'." His view of his sister getting treated was suddenly blocked by Sherlock in his dark suit when the detective sauntered towards him without a word. Then he was standing in front of his big brother.

"Mycroft." his voice was soft and slow.

"What?" why was his younger brother acting strange?

"What's wrong with you?"

Mycroft stared, and then plastered his smile. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock was looking at him furtively like he had not seen anything so remarkable. Or was his little brother in awe? Both ways, Mycroft knew he himself always had that effect on people to the point that it was no longer amusing. Gold fishes swimming about… even his little brother seemed to be turning into one.

"Eurus is fine…" came Sherlock's voice.

"I can see that." Mycroft's eyes glinted as he recalled indistinctly how she banged her head on the glass. "She has been prone to outburst of… self harm ever since a child. That is why we all tried to keep her from sharp objects—because she always had the tendency to make use of them in anyway creative." He looked back at Sherlock with a matter-of-fact look. "Of course you wouldn't remember, whatever modification you did with your memory wouldn't allow you to. You're still just catching up, brothermine."

"What about you?" Sherlock threw at him sharply all of a sudden.

Mycroft looked slightly interested. "Me?"

"What have you done to yourself?"

"What?" he frowned.

"You… something's wrong with you."

"Are you being sarcastic or are you making a point?"

Sherlock stood still and the brothers exchange quiet looks for awhile. Mycroft had sat comfortably on the governor's chair like he was back in his office in London. Sherlock continued giving him that odd look that was somehow reaching a disturbing point so the older Holmes had to put his foot down—

"Is this a staring contest—?"

Sherlock hesitated, as if fighting the urge to say something and not saying it at all. The latter thought seemed to win as he then slowly turned towards one of the chair where his thick dark coat was hanging.

"Let's head back… there's something I want to confirm."

"Good lord knows how much I needed the environment of my home."Mycroft was about to stand up with eyes already blinking round. "This chair, while so much comfortable, is not nearly as appealing as the ones I have back at home."

"If you can call that drag a home—"

"You speaking of your flat?"

"Yes. We're heading there."

"Why?" there was no response as the older Holmes watched his brother go before looking back at the monitor. "She's still unconscious. Can't it wait until she's out of danger?"

Sherlock gave a swift glance at the screen, before looking at his brother. "It can't. This is top priority."

Mycroft considered and then slowly, resumed his position on the governor's chair.

"Must we do it together?" Mycroft followed his brother with his eyes looking disapprovingly. "Can't we do the usual parting of the ways?" he smiled again, making his brother sigh deeply. Parting of the ways was one of Mycroft's favourite games just to get rid of his brother on special occasions—per se.

"You're still under surveillance."

"There seemed to be limited things I can do with you hovering around me." The older Holmes said with an attempt of sarcasm but Sherlock only gave him a dark look.

"You know your killer is still out there—"

"Hmm… he's kind of doing a poor job, isn't he?"

"No reason for you to make it easy for him now."

"How about a bet?"

"I'd win."

"Indeed. Unless you consider this also an appointment in Samara."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cut in plain reproach and Mycroft just had to shake his head at how easily his brother would jump on word play traps these days. He knew where his brother was coming from and frankly he was touched by the gesture but to some extremes, his younger brother seemed to make it a habit of making him look helpless when he is not.

But well, he does always humour him.

"Fine. Sorry."

Sherlock looked unconvinced as he wore his coat and flashed his brother another glare. "You don't look it. You look dead!"

"Thank you." Just some real compliments keep on coming.

"Only you would appreciate that— you never had feelings about death." Sherlock seemed more irritated than usual, "Oh, I know—one reason why you tried killing yourself!"

"I thought that's water under the bridge?" Mycroft looked genuinely surprised.

"You thought."

"If you're asking if anyone's got problem, Sherlock, between you and me—"Mycroft raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Why do I sense some hostility every time you hint with this kind of dialogue?"

"Forget it—we're going." The detective strode towards the door again which only made Mycroft shake his head.

"For god's sake, our sister's still in her death bed!"

"Come on, Mycroft." Sherlock called as he turned towards the glass door with one eye at his older brother. "You don't get to worry about her when you're like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've got brain! Figure it out!" was the snappish answer as Sherlock strode to the door. "Because believe it or not, something is off with you!"

"Do tell what?" Mycroft snapped finally, already tired of his brother.

"You're you!" Sherlock shouted back in the same manner. "Something's wrong with you!"

"There's nothing wrong with me!"

If Mycroft had said it once, he had said it many times as he found himself back in Baker Street after few hours and is seated once again on the same chair he had occupied before their sister excitedly sent them a grenade to blow the place up. Now it felt like nothing was the same. Or was Mycroft the only one who felt that given the slight difference in the place even though they tried hard to replicate it?

Because there was a baby on the carpet floor.

Mycroft stared at it and then up to John and Sherlock who were both on their respective chairs, just as he remembered them before the drone flew in. If he could will it, he would just let this be the next part of his memory and skip the part about Sherrinford. Alas, however, he wasn't like Sherlock to rewrite it. Too essential to forget.

Still, he wanted things to be quick as the baby Watson was ogling at him too. He glared at the men.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Sherlock." He said darkly, as he watched his brother walk back to his black chair after staring out of the window. "I already told you I am perfectly fine—better than I ever was so don't make me sit here again like some common—I'm not a client!" he snapped as the two just watched him and then added, "Do you remember what you told me when I last came here?" Mycroft stood up. "You told me to 'get out'. I'd gladly take the offer now—" he was just about to step away from the chair—

"Sit. Down." It was an order heavily given, one that made Mycroft to shoot his brother a flabbergasted look. The way Sherlock was looking at him was enough for him to gape awhile, then pressed his thin lips closed and sat back on the chair quietly with arms crossed. He graced them his coldest look that can turn normal people to ice.

"Is he still suicidal?" John began abruptly, making Mycroft roll his eyes.

"He is suicidal." Sherlock replied aptly.

"I'm not suicidal!" Mycroft indignantly said—

"And after all the things I already told you…I thought I made it perfectly clear." John whispered with meaningful eyes at the older Holmes who pressed a sigh as he too remembered how John was his sentry while Sherlock hunt as the cavalry.

"I made things perfectly clear too, he just doesn't accept them." Sherlock grimaced and the older Holmes had to put his face on his palm. "One of which includes telling him I don't want him to die which he still doubts."

"Oh."

"Jesus." Mycroft shook his head.

John frowned and then turned to his best friend."You said something's 'wrong with him… but he's mostly the way he is." he glanced back at Mycroft who raised his eyebrows. "Yep. Still the same."

"No, something's wrong with him." Sherlock insisted with a heavy frown, "Something's…"

There was a short pause, broken only by Mycroft sighing. "Am I supposed to sit here while you two observe me like I'm some species undiscovered?"

"Yes, you are." Sherlock turned to John darkly. "You didn't see him after Eurus tried to break the glass. Tell me this isn't a normal reaction of somebody already traumatized."

"I'm not—" Mycroft began but was ignored—

"Oh, you mean—" John caught his best friend's eyes and there was something mutual between them there. Sherlock nodded and the two stared at the perplexed older Holmes. The doctor blinked. "Right. He's supposed to be much more affected than—hang on, isn't that just him being him?"

"Exactly." Sherlock and Mycroft eyed each other. "Which makes it all wrong for me."

"Yes, certainly, talk as if I am not even around." The older Holmes clapped his hands together with gritted teeth. "If you want to say something to me then heavens— be direct! I don't want to be treated like a fool, Sherlock."

"Sure—like how you would infiltrate my house to figure out what's on my head when all you can do is ask!"

"That's beside the point—I'm here, ask me!"

He gave his brother a critical gaze and Sherlock swung his arms at the back of his chair with his body in a slanting position. "Fine, then answer me this: are you still worried about our sister?"

The questioned earned a dark look from Mycroft.

"What sort of question—?"

"Answer!"

The older Holmes paused, obviously now confused. What was his brother up to?

"Of course I am."

"Why?"

Gritting his teeth, Mycroft wanted to tell Sherlock to go knock his head somewhere as obvious questions always tick him the most, always want to make him explode. But it seemed too important to his brother—why?

"She is still a threat not only to herself but to those around her." He raised an eyebrow at that but when his brother did not say anything, he went on. "She is also incapable of looking after herself so yes, I worry…"

"And your feelings?"

"What feelings?"

"How do you feel about everything?"

"Why should I feel anything about everything?"

Sherlock glanced at John as if trying to make a point and by this time, even the doctor was looking strangely at Mycroft. Narrowing his eyes at the two, the older Holmes straightened a little again.

"Is this how you two play deductions games? Figuring out people's emotions? I thought you're detectives, not psychologists." he asked them testily that made his younger brother flash him a look of annoyance. But then, Sherlock's eyes averted to John and for a second Mycroft thought he saw it softened. It made him even more confuse when John began shaking his head.

"Oh, Mycroft…"

Mycroft didn't like that. He never liked anything that starts with 'Oh, Mycroft' at all.

"This is how he's been coping with everything." Sherlock sighed with a look at his brother full of wonder. "Always the cold one, always with the reasoning… then one splash of emotional threat… and here he is back to his factory reset…"

Mycroft fell silent.

"Isn't…" John began with a slight glance at the detective, "Isn't that a good thing? I mean having witnessed all those things that happened… I mean—you rewrote your memory— what do you expect your brother to do?"

"What he already did." Sherlock responded full eyes on his older brother. "Just him being Mycroft."

"You knew he'd shut his emotions? How can he do that?"

"Practice. Brain."

"But—"

"Enough." Mycroft glared at the two residents of 221B with his voice full of contempt as they both looked back at him. "I told you I don't quite enjoy being an audience to a case in point conversation. Now be good gentlemen and stop the idle chitchat—I am needed elsewhere." He began standing up.

"The only place you're ever going to be is here." Sherlock snapped hotly, "Someone wants you dead, you want yourself dead, and you act dead — for heaven's sake stay put where I can see you."

"Sentiments, brother dear. But then that has become you, hasn't it?" a forced smile appeared on his face.

"And it hasn't you?" Sherlock threw at him, "After everything at Sherrinford, with Eurus and me—you can't just ignore them—you can't just tell me you don't care—" he stopped after seeing his older brother's face paled.

Inside his head, the smear of blood on the glass suddenly cracked inside his memory sharply—as if he was back there standing by the glasses. It made him close his eyes. It was threatening.

"Not to my advantage, brothermine." He whispered, closing his fists.

"Lacking emotions is neither."

"Then…" Mycroft had looked up pointedly, "Would you rather me incapable of thinking? Because what I have, Sherlock…" he pointed at his head. "Just as it was with her… Is just about enough to drive one mad."

Mycroft was serious. His darkest moment with their sister was nothing Sherlock could ever imagine; her memories with him accumulated inside his head be it as a child and as a grown up. Especially upon growing up. Her taunts, her tricks, her open expression of loving to see him die and how she thinks he, Mycroft, would also enjoy see himself die.

I can help you. She said.

"I can help you." Sherlock's voice rang in his ears that only made Mycroft give a wry smile.

"No, you can't," he sighed quietly, he eyed John too. "Neither of you can. I'm beyond anyone's help. Only I can help myself." He turned his eyes back to his brother and suppressed another smile. "You don't need to be so upset about it."

For Sherlock was making that face—a mixture of crestfallen and anger put one with gloom.

"I'm not upset—I'm pass upset." The detective replied fiercely as he stood up, "I'm offended! You're still thinking of that getaway to heaven just because you can't manage it? If you're not a bag of—"

"Watch it." Mycroft's eyes flashed in his direction.

"Then just out of curiosity," Sherlock said, "didn't it ever occur to you to tell me about our sister whenever you bother me on my flat with simple cases of the queen and company? Not even during those times we have those 'deduction games'?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows to heaven.

"How tempted do you think I was to tell my brother of our ghost sister he can't even remember and that might possibly trigger some negative response that cannot guarantee me if my brother would be the same? Truthfully speaking, I never did think you capable of handling the matter at that time what with your sporadic behavior and constant distressing, serious occasions with your flat mate—no offense." He looked at John and then saw Sherlock look away and had to press his lips for a moment before continuing, "It was a sensitive topic for you, Sherlock, one that require you prepared both mentally and emotionally. I couldn't have told you that earlier than this."

"I don't think that's what you call being 'heartless'." John pointed out. "You never were, Mycroft. You just had a funny way of showing it."

"You're being kind." Mycroft hinted with sarcasm. "I was just thinking of the trouble it would cause with his personality too unstable—"

"He's right you know." The doctor piped with a look on his best friend's direction. Sherlock gave him a flat stare.

"Of course I am." Mycroft said.

"This is not about me." Sherlock said.

"Rosie's hungry." John said when the baby began crying and he picked her up on the floor and went to the kitchen for awhile, leaving the brothers staring at each other with renewed blades in their eyes. The detective looked so dissatisfied.

"You had no plans of revealing all of this to me, were you?"

"I was monitoring you whether you were apt to the task of knowing. You didn't make it easy, Sherlock."

"I didn't know about her."

"Does it make a difference now that you know?" Mycroft smiled feebly

Sherlock fell silent again, his frown ever there. "You tell me." He was ever quiet too.

The brothers continued exchanging looks till there was a hysterical sound—more like a wail—of a woman's voice from the doorway. Both looking, Sherlock and Mycroft saw Mrs. Hudson standing there looking as if she had seen a ghost, her eyes on the older Holmes.

"Mycroft Holmes!" she called with every bit of concern in her voice as she moved towards him.

"Yes?" Mycroft's eyebrow jumped up automatically upon seeing her but was thunderstruck when she gave him an affectionate tap on the shoulder, and even went as far as sliding her arms around him. Mycroft was baffled. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, how could you think of doing something frightful like that! Suicide indeed, Mr. Holmes!" she began scolding him but her grip on his shoulder not diminishing, "What would I do with your brother if he gets all uncontrollable again and I had to take extreme measures that will get the police or media's attention? Then what? Who will help me fix things in this house?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock who was fighting the impulse not to burst into laughter.

"Mrs. Hudson, I assure you—"

"Hang on, I'll get you tea." And with one final squeeze on his shoulder, she disappeared into the doorway with one glance at John. "I heard her cry, do you need help, doctor?

"I'm fine."

And then she was gone. Mycroft was already giving his brother a knowing death glare.

"You told her." He muttered flatly.

"Someone older ought to know since you don't act like one."

"For heaven's sake!" he breathed as he watched his younger brother cross the room towards the window again. Mycroft closed his eyes. "Please tell me you didn't inform our parents— I'd be very upset if I find them by your threshold with open arms."

Sherlock smirked and looked back at him. "This doesn't change anything, brother. I'm still on to you."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"You didn't leave me—"

Mycroft threw a scathingly look at him as he rummaged for his phone. "I can just imagine you barging in one of my cabinet meetings just to check if my heart's still functioning."

"I can do that."

"Shut up. Now." The older Holmes pressed a button and put the phone back inside his chest pocket, eyes meeting his brother's. "We've had enough sentiments flying about in three months, don't you think it's about time to stop it before it becomes a hobby?"

"About time you practice it." Sherlock watched as his older brother stood up from the chair with look daggers in his eyes. "Sooner or later you're going to have to tell me everything you remember about our sister."

"I doubt that."

"I'll make you."

"Is that a threat?"

"A challenge, brother dear."

Mycroft gave his brother one lasting look, before finally smirking and heading towards the door. He caught up with John about to come out of the kitchen door but merely gave him a raised of an eyebrow before heading down the flight of the stairs. He met Mrs. Hudson along the way too, who was carrying a tray of tea. Mycroft raised one hand and walked passed her, giving her at least one singular awkward smile that was new to him, took his umbrella by the door side and then opened the doors of 221B to the outside world.

One thing was proven by this meeting, he thought as he walked towards his sedan parked in front of the flat—that Sherlock was better than him. With better company. All he had were politicians, and agents and secretaries and secret societies—which all were just fine by him. He would never be move by anyone save his brother most like, and maybe a bit of a friend in John's presence but aside from that, he doubted he would ever truly enjoy others' company.

Others' company? The thought itself was dreadful.

Mycroft clambered his car and sat inside, giving an exasperated look at the window towards his younger brother's flat.

Sherlock needed those kinds of people. He doesn't. His brother wouldn't understand that—not anymore after experiencing relationships. Mycroft was different. Sometimes solitude is the best answer for people who, like him, have too much secret not willing to be spilled.

Eurus was just one of those secrets, though she might be the biggest and one of the darkest. One of those darkest that sometimes always lead to one road. Mycroft humorously remembered Sherlock's most detested story.

Appointment in Samara.

Seconds passed, and Mycroft frowned for the sedan has not yet moved. He shot his driver a look— one look—it just took him one look to identify that this man was not his driver. How wouldn't he notice when he spends his days looking at that man's back even from a far. The difference flashed in his mind—

"Who are you?" he asked sharply, his hands automatic on his umbrella but things happen and when they do it was hard to fight them—especially when a gun was already pointed in your direction. The fake driver who turned out to be his most awaited assassin had turned around in one quick move with his handgun pointed and unstoppable.

Mycroft smiled wryly, his thoughts on his brother as he closed his eyes simply. A flash of Sherlock pointing a gun at him in Sherrinford but not pulling the trigger and instead pointing it on himself just to save his brother came— then image of Sherlock appearing on his doorstep the night Mycroft planned to kill himself just to stop him—and the second time Sherlock came back to help him with the beta plan—

And when he came out of nowhere to stand by him in Sherrinford when their sister nearly broke the glasses and watched over him until now.

You can't always save me, brothermine. Though you tried.

The trigger was pulled and a loud bang filled the air.

-THE END-

A/N:

Mycroft is just... ;(

Thank you for reading! We all know that was bound to happen.

Hopefully there will be more Sherlock in the future. They can't just stop there.

Also if you are inclined with this story, please also ready Spare Holmes and The Hidden Holmes

(both of which already different from the canon considering season 4)

THANKS FOR READING!

And now...

Epilogue

A loud sound—the car's window crashed into pieces—and Mycroft watched as an elbow struck the driver on the head, and then a pair of hands coming from the outside wrestling him, banging it on the driver's window, and then to the steering wheel—and Sherlock Holmes continued slamming the man's head on the car's front panel—unmindful of the fragments of the glasses on his own arm, beating him till the driver's face was bloody.

Then the driver's door was opened—and the man was pulled out grudgingly. Loud sound of sirens of police car filled Mycroft's ears as the next thing he did, he opened the car door on his side to come out and see the progress, his head still light headed and still in disbelief at his narrow escape of death once again.

Sherlock was there, standing over the unconscious man while around them, police car were already filling and Detective Inspector Lestrade came in the view and nod at the brothers while his men tackle the hired assassin and check for other weapons.

"I'll take this chap now." He said briskly with an eye at the consultant detective, "He's taken much of our time already." Turning to Mycroft's questioning stare, he answered. "We've been here all day, your brother requested it. Said His Highness has descended to 221B and needs back up in case."

Mycroft blinked and turned to Sherlock who merely nodded at the police and the criminal.

"Make sure he doesn't come out."

"Yeah, I got it." He waved for an ambulance to come near.

The place was still ringing with police sirens, and Mycroft was still just watching his brother. People from the café had all started coming out in interest, though most of them don't look surprise at all. That was the meaning of Baker Street to most of them. Mrs. Hudson was at the entrance of 221B too while John stood just about inside with his child on his arms. Mycroft took in the situation with his brain already telling him to act—to call people—to let his power flow—

But his body won't move as he just watched his younger brother.

Sherlock glanced in his direction quietly. "You alright?"

Mycroft nodded once.

"Still feel like dying?" Sherlock shrugged with a press of his lips as he walked closer to the silent man who looked down the ground and sighed. "Be honest, you thought I couldn't save you this time, didn't you? Forget it, I'm dragging you to Sumatra whether you like it or not."

Mycroft didn't know where to start. He didn't know what to say. So he just stood there, leaning one hand on his umbrella, till he felt his phone ring once, twice, inside his coat pocket. Taking it all out he saw Pollock and Love had called his number.

How news fly.

"Seems like I'm not the only one watching you." Sherlock smirked as he saw the names when he stepped closer.

Mycroft turned his mobile and put it back inside his coat and with one final sigh, he glanced at Sherlock.

"I think I'll take that tea now, please."

END :)