I always wondered what might have run through Mycroft Holmes's mind when he had more time to process the Reichencbach Fall. Here's the result. (I don't own, please don't sue.)

The fire crackled merrily in the warm grate, its light washing over the solitary man sitting near its hearth. Pale fingers folded against themselves as a brilliant mind began to race.

"Have you looked at your brother's address book lately? Two numbers—yours and mine…"

He sighed. Though he knew that wasn't entirely true (certainly there was at least a morgue and a certain DI on speed dial), the sentiment still stood: there were only two people in the world that his brother would turn to for help should the need arise.

"…and they didn't get this out of me."

Dark shadows played against the night-filled walls, the fire the only beacon of light available. It had been stupid, utterly stupid to think that a man such as Moriarty could be pacified with a few seemingly trivial anecdotes. Had he simply just not wanted to see?

He could hear his brother now: "You saw, but you didn't observe. And they let you run the world?"

The unchortled snicker in an unspoken voice drove deep. A pain flared near the man's chest; only conventional wisdom told him that he was not, in fact, having a heart attack.

The burning log crumbled loudly, causing the smoldering wood to spit glowing ash forward into the room. The tiny sparkles flutter like stars, extinguishing before they reach the marble tile.

He recalls a scene: two men at breakfast, both in dressing gowns, their landlady manning the stove. Simple, tranquil, domestic. Never mind the scattered clutter, the frozen parts in the fridge or the discussion of CIA-trained operatives that had nearly killed them.

It is not a scene he ever thought he'd see. Domestic never works. Not for them.

And then he hears the old landlady, as though it were yesterday: "Family is all we have in the end…"

One simple observation. And from it, lines were drawn. The sight of his brother—eyes glaring, chest slightly extended, jaw rigidly set—told him precisely where his loyalties lied.

So strange.

He can hear the voice again: "…your own brother…"

The man who had spoken knew nothing of the unique relationship to which he silently referred. It was, at best, always complicated, always trying, always at odds.

But he knew a lot about him. Knew more than the files and official documents said.

How he would run all over the country, keeping time with a certifiable consulting genius.

How he had taken his strange and distant brother and helped turn him into something good.

He thinks about those last moments, just before his brother decided to experiment on whether or not humankind can actually fly. What might have been said? What could have been going through his mind?

A sigh escaped constricted lungs. He thinks he knows. But he will never be sure.

The train of thought is so lost that he fails to hear the creak of a door. It is not yet dawn; his time and thoughts are his alone.

"Still haven't figured it out, have you? Pity. I sincerely doubt you ever could."

Words from a voice that should not speak. In seconds, he is out of his chair, laying eyes on a man who should not be standing in front of him.

"You? But…"

It is the first time he has ever been genuinely surprised.

"This was a last resort. My usual contacts are lost to me for the moment."

And then it hits. He was the second choice.

A small smile flutters on the man's lips. "To save your friends? Your family, Sherlock?"

"Well, when you say family…"

And Mycroft knows exactly what he means.