Mycroft Holmes was dying, and brunch was being served in the sitting room.
Mycroft's younger brother Sherlock stared blankly at the mimosa that someone had thrust into his hand. Despite having spent the majority of his life around human beings, he would never understand the species' uncanny habit of celebrating whenever one of the group kicked off. Death and food, he decided, should not go together.
Mycroft's room, by contrast, was dim and quiet. The deathbed sat like a watchful god from hell in the corner. Sherlock regarded it silently, somehow unable to bring himself to observe the person who actually lay there.
He could hear laughter emanating from down the hall.
Lip curling upward in distaste, he looked around, locating a potted plant conveniently situated under a window. Checking quickly that no one was watching, Sherlock dumped his mimosa into the leaves, leaving his glass behind on the windowsill. One of his brother's hired help would pick it up soon enough, no doubt.
"Must you kill my African violets?" a weak voice asked from the bed on the other side of the room.
Sherlock Holmes studied his brother for a moment before looking out the window.
"Is it going to matter in a few hours?"
Mycroft let out a rattling breath that ended in a cough. Sherlock frowned. He hoped John would be in to check on him soon. Another bout of laughter rose from the other room.
"It is important-" the elder Holmes gasped, "-to take care of things that are beautiful."
Sherlock's features curled in disdain. "Christ, Mycroft. Don't waste your last words on a plant."
His older sibling shook his head weakly. Sherlock, it seemed, was missing the point.
"When I'm gone," Mycroft said, "you will not have many people… to protect you. You will have to be cautious… and cognizant… of your relationships… with them." His voice was little more than a rasp. He paused often, drawing laborious breaths between words. "I will not be..." he broke off into a fit of coughing.
Sherlock's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "Hush," he said, hovering a hand over his brother's shoulder for a long moment before finally allowing it to brush against his shoulder. Sherlock's palm met with fabric, but his fingertips brushed the cool, moist skin of Mycroft's neck, and he almost tore his hand away again.
Mycroft's coughing quieted slowly. He was shaking – whether from fear or physical weakness, Sherlock could not know.
"Can I get you a glass of water?" the younger brother ventured, not really sure what else to say.
Mycroft shook his head, his jaw set sternly. "Love, Sherlock," he ground out in a painful voice. "You must allow yourself to love."
Their eyes met for a brief moment. Sherlock was silent, confused.
"But… why?" he asked.
"Love… as I have loved… you," Mycroft breathed. He held Sherlock's gaze for a defiant moment before finally allowing himself to sink into the pillows.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock hissed. He grabbed his brother's arm, shaking it gently. "Mycroft!" There was no response. He waited for a few seconds.
Sherlock felt a pang of something that might have been panic. He let go of the arm quickly, realizing what had happened. He had to go, had to leave before anyone else could see him in this state. He looked around desperately – there was the African violet, there was the discarded mimosa glass - before his gaze settled back onto his brother's still face.
Oh god, he was dead.
Where was John? Distantly, he could hear someone calling out for a doctor. Someone must have seen what had happened from the hallway. Surely they would see that Sherlock was fine, and let him return to 221b. Surely someone would let him return home.
Then John burst into the room and, oh dear, he seemed so much taller than usual, and Sherlock realized that he had in fact fallen to his knees. It was his own voice that he had heard calling for John.
"Why?" he heard himself ask brokenly, the question ripped from his throat with wire. But Mycroft was gone. Mycroft could no longer answer.
John knelt beside his best friend, gathering him into his arms. He didn't say a word – he didn't have to. Sherlock clung back with fervor, realizing all at once that if John were to let go, if he were to move even an inch, Sherlock would shatter into a thousand shards, never to be repaired.
"Love," Mycroft's voice echoed in the back of his brain as he burrowed into John's oatmeal jumper with the ugly, awful knit. As he breathed in the smell of soap and sweat and this morning's toast.
"Love, Sherlock."