This features character death, if you're not pleased or interested with the subject, you may as well leave now.

Mycroft grieves Sherlock's death and leaves a letter on his casket, tucked under his hands.

I don't know how to start this. I don't even know why I'm writing this in the first place.

I think I should start with the earliest memory of the two of us. You don't remember it because the first thing I remember about you is the day you were born. I remember I called you a "squishy and tiny thing" and I was very upset because you didn't do anything but crying. I said to Mummy and Daddy that I didn't want you until you started growing up.

I got my first heart grip because of you when I was nine, and all because of me. You were just a toddler, two of age, fascinated, eyes sparkling with excitement and curiosity as I was reading to you. Daddy was feeding you in the high chair and I was sitting in before you until Daddy got up to get a bib to put on you and you leaned forward to reach me. I leaned back, sticking my tongue out, you giggled and tried to get to me again. You stretched forward again, the high chair wagged and you tumbled. I got up really fast and leaned back on the kitchen counter; I still listen to my chair hitting on the floor. I was shocked as you cried, trapped on the chair. You fractured two ribs because fell over the tray and in your forehead grew a big swelling.

You were five when I first helped you with a project. Silkworms. Oh Mummy loved that experiment of ours and Daddy did too, chasing after fifteen moths in the house for about three weeks. In that moment I realized you just needed the stimuli. You'd sit for hours, staring at those caterpillars. I teased you on a daily basis because you didn't appear to be as smart as I was. When you started school I told you I could read a page in half time than you and immediately you wanted to learn how to read. One day then you arrived home and said that nobody else in the class could read but you. In that moment you understood what I had told you about living in a tank of golden fishes. It's hard being smarter than the others isn't it?

I remember when Redbeard was put down. It shook you really bad. All you did for days was cry; you didn't even want to eat. I recall going to your bedroom, trying to cheer you up, carrying a plate with food Mummy had made, and pull you to my lap, feeding you as you were melancholic and still asking me why did Redbeard had to die. You broke my heart in that day too. You were about ten, and no matter how smart, strong and cold you appeared, you were hurt and you always managed to soak my shirts with your tears. And when Mummy would come to check on you, you were sleeping on my arms, head rested on my chest, sobbing in your sleep every once in a while.

When you turned twelve I was enrolled on a college far from home. Again you shattered me to pieces. Mummy, Daddy and you made sure to drive me to the college on a three hours trip. We played deductions all the way to the university. Mummy was crying, hugging me tightly when she had to leave me behind and then walked to the car, wiping her tears. Daddy hugged me strongly too and told me to be good. And then you stood still in front of me, looking at me without saying a word. I ducked and you wrapped your arms around my neck and didn't let go. You said you were going to miss me and then mended saying that you were going to knock down the walls between our bedrooms and get yourself a gigantic bedroom. I said I'd miss you too and then we promised never to talk about those things again.

You were fifteen when we shared our first cigarette. I gave it to you myself. I made you promise that you wouldn't any harm to your health. I could understand that you had some craving for heavy drugs. I bought you coke, LSD and some heroine, but it'd be a onetime thing. You got really high and you said it made yourself feel free, so I felt in the need of telling you the exact quantities you could have without getting yourself harmed. Mummy and Daddy never got to know, ever. I told you to only do those things on extremely rare occasions, and I assured I'd provide you cigarettes; we reached an agreement.

You, Sherlock, have always been my pressure and only weak point. I never found anyone else worth protecting than my little brother. I'm sorry but you never grew up before my eyes. I do not mean to bash Mummy and Daddy's exceptional work in raising us, but I feel like I was your parent instead of your brother. We've always been kind of a world apart and nobody else ever seemed to understand us. Today you manage to put me beyond my breaking point.

I did say your loss would break my heart.

I've always been a piranha in a tank of golden fishes, but it doesn't mean I do not understand or have feelings. After all, I'm just a mediocre human being who will one day or another meet his end too. I've never actually been alone; sentiment isn't something that unthinkable for me, and brother dear, you've always knew that. We can be the most warming people, but when dared, we can turn into devils. We both have a heart that works to more than just pump blood (mine still does that though). We just never had the need to express so; we made a promise, long ago to never speak those words again.

I still remember every word of our promise. "No matter whatever happens, no matter what circumstances come in between us, we will always be brothers and friends, who'll miss, love and protect each other. But we'll never have to say it again in future times. We'll just know it, as we always did." I was twelve, you were only five.

Stay well, brother dear. Perhaps we'll meet some other time,

Henry Mycroft Martin Holmes.

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