I really am terrible. I should be updating my other stories, but this one-shot popped into mind and just wouldn't let me alone until I typed it all out. I had a thought some time ago, about why Sir Arthur Conan Doyle didn't have our beloved detective take on one of the most enigmatic cases of all time: that of Jack the Ripper. Of course, I realize in film portrayals (and even in comic form, I believe) it has been done... but I wanted a twist. So, I decided to take my theory on the matter and apply it here as perhaps a bit of an explanation.

So, here we'll be running with the theory that jack the Ripper was not one person, but three. Those three being the royal physician Sir William Gull, the artist Walter Sickert, and the cabby John Netley. So, making it a government conspiracy type, we of course have to involve Mycroft. I have no doubt that Holmes would have worked out the case, and I can therefore only imagine what it must be like to bear that kind of secret.

And stuff.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Mycroft Holmes, nor any of the other people (fictional or otherwise) mentioned within. Any theories involving Jack the Ripper are solely of my own ideas and are in no way meant to imply that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or other related parties share my views. Wow, that sounded official.

Viva Regina, Viva Britannia

I would normally be sleeping at this hour. I should be sleeping at this hour. Even as I settle into my favorite armchair, waiting for my late-night (or rather early morning) visitor, I can feel my eyelids droop as I am coaxed to sleep by the warmth of the roaring fire which crackles merrily beside me. Yet, I know I must remain awake. For him, I must remain awake. Across the room, the old grandfather clock groans out the time.

I hear my maid, who I have asked to remain awake to see my visitor in, at the door and I know he has arrived. I hear slow, deliberate footfalls upon my stairs. They halt outside the door. I cannot help but smile ever-so slightly as I encourage him with a brisk,

"Come in, Sherlock."

The door swings open, and for a moment, it seems as though he's regained his usual momentum; until I turn to meet his gaze. Although I had prepared myself for the inevitable conversation that would no doubt shortly commence, I had not thought of how the problem itself would effect him. He stands in the doorway, regarding me through doleful red-rimmed eyes, hands red and raw from the biting winter wind. His normally meticulously combed black hair is tousled and he is a shade of white that was unnatural even for one of his pallor. He had walked, the fool! He offers me a somewhat lopsided smile.

"Why, Brother Mycroft if I did not know any better, I would say you had been expecting me," he comments airily.

I frown.

"Sit."

He does so without question, without comment; so very unlike him. Dr. Watson had always been very correct in saying that my younger brother was a very masterful human being. Things simply must be as he desires them. Perhaps that is what makes this situation so difficult for him. He sits directly across from me and, despite the bitter cold he had endured to walk here, he makes no move to warm himself by the fire. I wonder now if he can feel it at all.

"I warned you Sherlock," I hear myself say.

I instantly regret the statement. He seems to shrink within himself, and though his eyes never leave mine, he adopts the appearance of a dog that's just been kicked. I remind myself that it is not the time to point out the obvious.

"How long have you known?" I ask next.

His brow knits, a pained look crosses his face. "...over a week."

"I'm surprised you have kept it to yourself all this time," I inform him. "No doubt your behavior has your good doctor atwitter with worry."

A half-hearted chuckle as he rubs a hand over his face.

"Yes, good old Watson," he says, unable to hide the hint of fondness in his voice from my trained ears. "It really is unfair to the poor fellow. For all the world he must think I am suffering from the blackest of depressions."

"I do not think he would be so very wrong in that assumption," I comment.

He sits with his face in his hands and does not answer me. Though as brothers we do care for each other deeply, one would not know it from observing us. Neither of us have been very keen on any sort of open display of affection, aside from our usual intellectual banter. And so I sit in respectful silence, allowing him to gather his thoughts and, if possible, compose himself slightly.

"Why, Mycroft?" he groans at length.

"You know very well, why," I retort.

"Sir William Gull... No doubt you've dispensed of him as well?" he bites back, an accusatory note in his voice.

"He has been... seen to, yes," I answer coolly.

He snorts, disgust evident on his features as he rises from his chair; though whether it's with himself or another party is difficult to say. He turns on me, his eyes suddenly alight with passion.

"And you could think of no other way to handle the situation?" he growls, throwing his hands in the air. "Tell me, dear brother, how you handled this to the best of your abilities!"

I wait a moment before answering. He has every right to be upset, after all.

"I couldn't say, Sherlock. Being that they neglected to consult me on the matter until it was too late to reverse," I say to him, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from my tone.

His eyes widen in bewilderment.

"They did not consult you? Preposterous! Mycroft you are the greatest mind they have at their disposal. To proceed with such a plan without your advice is just... ludicrous," he says quietly, suddenly appearing very out of breath.

I watch him closely as he leans heavily against the mantle, and I rise in anticipation. Just as I suspected, he suddenly finds his legs unable to support him, and I allow him to lean against me. I hear his breath in my ear; quick, broken and almost frantic. Gently, with slight assistance on my part, he seats himself on the rug, his back propped against the side of my armchair, which I resume my seat in. I know very well the state he has reduced himself to. No doubt he has not eaten since before he discovered this terrible truth. We sit in silence for several moments.

"...to think," he moans softly. "That they should go to such extremes... such extremes, Mycroft... for a situation that could have easily been dealt with in so many other ways. That our government could commit such a diabolical act..."

"It is all in the name of preservation," I remind him. "Man himself is an imperfect thing, so you cannot possibly expect an establishment run by such imperfects to be without flaw. It is an utter impossibility."

I see him nod, if only slightly. His sense of pride as a detective, and even more importantly, his sense of faith and patriotism in our great country has been severely trodden upon. Rare is the occasion when I have seen him so terribly distraught.

"And what of Mister Sickert and Mister Netley?" he inquires suddenly.

"Handled in similar, though completely separate, manners," I respond.

"Of course," he says.

Another period of silence. The fire is beginning to die down now, perhaps also with my brother's temper. Although frustrated by his outburst, I know that it is only natural. It would seem that sometimes, the most difficult case is the one that has already been solved. One that he is unable to justify. At the mercy of his own great intellect, he suffers the weight of the truth. It is a secret that could cost him his life should it ever slip past his lips, and he knows this. I cannot help but feel some sense of pity for him. For a man who so frequently pursues Justice, this knowledge must be an unbearable abuse upon his conscience.

"You needn't worry, brother mine," he says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. "I have told no one of the conclusions I have reached, nor do I intend to. This case... I will take with me to my grave."

I shake my head. I had never doubted him on that point. I rest a hand on his head, rumpling his already wind-tousled black hair. It is something I have not done since we were children, and I believe he understands its implications instantly. I give his a head a slight pat with something as close to affection as I could possibly achieve before speaking.

"I will see what I may do to clean up after their mess," I inform him.

"See what you can do for that Abberline fellow as well," he mumbles. "I do believe he came as close to the truth as anyone could have. And I don't suppose that will go without notice."

"No. Though, I do believe this will have been his last case," I say, rising with some effort. "Now, out you go."

He tilts his head back, regarding me suspiciously.

"I think you have caused Dr. Watson enough grief. Not to mention Inspector Lestrade and your unfortunate landlady," I comment, watching him rise as well. "Go home, Sherlock."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I should," he says, more to himself than anything else. "Better to put this whole mess behind me."

"And I shall try to do the same," I say, resuming my seat as he heads for the door.

I sit, watching the embers die in the grate, knowing that he is still in my doorway. Though I cannot see him from this angle, I can picture his tall lean figure, standing perhaps a bit straighter than when he arrived, hand on the doorknob as struggles for words.

"Mycroft, I—"

"Good-night, Sherlock."

Silence.

"...Good-night, Mycroft."

The door closes with a quiet click. Across the room, the clock groans out the time.

Baw, I'm such a sucker for brotherly relationships. Really, I am. It's probably complete rubbish, but it's just something I had to get out there. That being said, I'll probably go back and sit in my corner now, wondering why I wrote this. So thanks for reading it anyway!

A/N: Perhaps I should have been a bit clearer... *scratches head* It seems as though I've offended some people, though I can say with all honesty that this was not my intention. Yes, I realize Sir William Gull suffered a stroke around the time of the Ripper murders; I've done my research. I'm in no way attempting to insinuate that Jack the Ripper was a government agent. It is simply a theory, much in the same way that people have theories that Lewis Carrol was the Ripper. A "What if...?" sort of fanfiction, if you will. Aside from this, I can't think of much else to say on the matter aside from apologizing once more if I've offended any readers. It was really more meant to be focused on Holmes and Mycroft, but, well... *shrug* It is what it is, I suppose.