A/N: For some reason, lots of people wish death upon Molly. I happen to love her and want her to be around for as long as the programme is around. So I wrote this piece to counter all the negativity around our favourite pathologist. I love you, Molly! (And you too, Mycroft!) xx

Not Dead

It took all of Mycroft's patience not to do two things. The first was, of course, not to let anything slip. State secrets were, after all, secret. The second was to refrain from smacking Sherlock on the head with the top of his umbrella.

"How long have you been like this?" asked Mycroft, settling into an armchair as his gaze fell upon the horizontal, near corpse-like figure of his brother. Sherlock lay on the sofa, his face pale and his eyes staring emptily at the ceiling above.

"I don't know," Sherlock mumbled, "You're the clever one. You do the counting."

Mycroft sighed and drummed his fingers lightly against his knee.

"It wasn't your fault, Sher—"
"Of course it was." snapped the detective, sitting up suddenly.

Mycroft sighed again, then kept quiet. At least his little brother was talking now. Talking was good, it meant he was getting better.

"It is always my fault," Sherlock continued bitterly, "Everything that happened, was because of me."
"You solved the case, Sherlock," Mycroft interjected.
"So what?" huffed the younger Holmes, slamming himself back down on the sofa.
"She would have wanted that. You saved all those children." said Mycroft calmly.

There was another sigh, but this time it was from Sherlock. He sat up again slowly and turned to sit properly, facing his brother across the coffee table.

"Yes, she would have," he muttered fiercely. "She would have died all over again for them…"
"She's a remarkable woman, Sherlock," Mycroft said gently, "It was our privilege to have known her."
"Hah. Known her…" said Sherlock resentfully, "I loved her, Mycroft."

The elder of the Holmes brothers could not help it, but the corner of his lips lifted just ever so slightly. He quickly suppressed the half smile, but it was too late. Sherlock had caught it.

"What?" asked Sherlock, leaning forward and eyeing his brother intensely.

Since Sherlock had caught it, Mycroft did not hold back anymore and smiled, shaking his head.

"Well, if I could do it for you…"

There was a pause as Sherlock calculated the depth of what Mycroft was not saying.

"Then you could…do it for her too…" Sherlock remarked, his eyes widening.
"Of course," Mycroft nodded, smirking.
"But why?" asked Sherlock, frowning.
"Because I know you love her." answered Mycroft
"Why would you care about that?" Sherlock scoffed.
"I simply do."
"Caring is not an advantage. Your own words, brother."
"Yes. But not in this case."

Mycroft stood up and adjusted his coat. His brother seemed better which brought him much relief.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to."

Sherlock remained silent and thoughtful as his brother turned to head for the door.

"Mycroft?"

The elder brother paused and turned his head around slightly.

"Not dead?" asked Sherlock.

It felt good to say it without saying it. Mycroft chuckled quietly to himself.

"No, Sherlock. Not dead." said Mycroft, before turning back to resume his exit from 221B Baker Street.

END