I wanted something about Sherlock and Mycroft dealing with the aftermath of Sherlock pointing gun at Mycroft.

A morning after a long nightmare

After seeing a person putting their life for someone else, you will never see them the same again.

And after Eurus – after learning about horrible truth, after all the mind games his wicked sister put them through, after all the deaths and tragedy that they witnessed – Sherlock was, obviously, shaken. His life was rather unique as of late. He had to put up with not one, not two, not even three, but four psychopaths. Moriarty, Magnussen, Culverton Smith, and now Eurus… they wanted to play with him, his close ones and everyone around. Encounter with even one of those monsters could leave you traumatized for life, so what he could say?

He felt so tired, sitting alone in his blown-up apartment. John came back home to hug his infant daughter. Sherlock didn't blame him for looking for any sign of goodness in this world after the night they've had. When his friend asked him if he would be alright, the detective assured him that yes, he will be fine, he just needed some time alone, that's all. But in the solitude of the Baker Street's ruins, he couldn't stop thinking about all the things that happened. The memories of Eurus' mocking voice, of the governor committing suicide to a lost cause, of Molly Hooper being hurt over the phone, of the realization that his dog was actually a little boy killed in a well… they were playing, on and on, in his head.

But his mind seemed to go back mostly to one memory. He was standing with a gun in his hand. And he was about to shoot his brother.

Oh, Mycroft was as composed as usual. He was ready to die, he was talking about aiming for his heart, and about flowers at his funeral. He was actually doing everything so Sherlock would shoot him, instead of John. And one would think that the detective would pull the trigger. He never liked Mycroft anyway, and he valued doctor Watson so much, the choice seemed so simple…

Holmes kills Holmes – Moriarty's mocking voice echoed in his head.

There was always something poetic about fratricide. Whenever it was in literature or in history, there had to be at least one story about brother killing brother. For power, for a woman, for revenge. But the thing is – Sherlock didn't want to kill Mycroft and Mycroft was so terribly aware of what Sherlock had to do, he was willing to sacrifice himself, and make his little brother hate him even more than he hated him to this moment.

Except, Sherlock never hated Mycroft. More like, he was annoyed by him. And for sure, he didn't want him to die.

And now he couldn't shake off the image of smiling Mycroft preparing to be killed by his little brother, the one person he was always protecting from harm… And now Sherlock knew what was the immediate catalysis for this protectiveness that seemed to be an overkill at times.

Sherlock already lost a best friend once. Mycroft was willing to die, so his baby brother wouldn't lose another; so he wouldn't lose John Watson.

Another detail about this moment. John himself wanted Sherlock not to do it. The good doctor knew what a horrible thing it would be – brother killing brother. Sherlock had heard him perfectly clear and his mind was screaming to him to put the gun down, to stop this nonsense. He wasn't going to kill Mycroft, right? This was ridiculous!

But the goddess demanded blood. She demanded blood for an opportunity to save a plane. Someone in this room had to die.

So Sherlock put the gun under his chin.

In retrospect, this scene had to be horrible to watch, for both his best friend and his older brother. They both cared about him deeply. But in the light of everything he had learnt, and everything he had witness, Sherlock's mind couldn't stop focusing on what Mycroft had to feel, seeing him trying to commit suicide. In one moment all his hard work, all his care and attempts in protecting Sherlock could be rendered useless. Mycroft – the British Government himself, the Iceman – had to be so horrified of what was going to happen…

And Sherlock betrayed him so many times, caused him so much trouble, disappoint him and probably hurt him through all those years in more ways than one.

It's strange how one moment, one small gesture can change the way you perceived someone. Never in his whole life had Sherlock Holmes felt like a such an ungrateful bastard, like after the aftermath of those few horrible minutes holding a gun against Mycroft.

Yes, it was his fault too. He let Moriarty into Eurus' cell, so they would talk. Someone could even argue that if Eurus got proper treatment and wasn't locked inside a fortress, she wouldn't turn out to be as messed up. But the more Sherlock was thinking about Mycroft's position in government, he realized that his brother had to make some hard choices. Politics is basically an art of compromises and blurred morality. Sometimes you had to do something you would regret tomorrow, so the world won't fall apart today.

The sun went through the broken windows, announcing the official beginning of a new day.

Lestrade said that Eurus just put Mycroft in her old cell; that Mycroft was just a bit shaken, but other than that – he was fine. Of course, he seemed fine. He was an Iceman, after all. He learned to look emotionless. But it was obvious that Sherlock's older brother was far from fine. And for once the detective felt like he should be the one protecting Mycroft.

And so Sherlock stood up, left the Baker Street and called a taxi.

Mycroft hadn't slept at all. Who could sleep after this long nightmare he, Sherlock and Watson went through? Sure they won, but it didn't seem like victory. He wished to erase this horrible night from his memory. It opened too many wounds, caused too much distress and made the world too dark to live in. For now, the morning has broken, and Mycroft was just sitting in his living room and drinking whiskey in hopes of some kind of oblivion.

For a couple of horrible minutes (hours?) he had no idea what was happening to Sherlock and doctor Watson. He didn't know if they were dead or alive, or what kind of tricks Eurus was pulling on them. He felt so helpless and lost, and afraid. He not only couldn't do anything to save them, but the last image of his little brother was that of Sherlock trying to kill himself after they both agreed to sacrifice him, Mycroft.

This image was haunting him even when he was rescued and assured that Sherlock and Watson were safe and sound too. How could this idiot do this to him? After he was happy to die? After he was ready to do this? It could be the last noble thing in his life. The only way to make things right. How could Sherlock try to commit suicide instead? Why he thought that this was a good third option?

Mycroft knew everything was alright now. Sherlock had won. He saved everybody who could be saved. They should be celebrating and be happy. The nightmare was technically over, but still, it left scars. In Sherlock, John, Molly, even in him. It certainly qualified as a Pyrrhic victory. Nothing was going to be the same.

Someone knocked to his door. For a moment Mycroft was sitting in his armchair. He felt so tired, so horribly tired… He didn't want to go anywhere, he just wished to stay in his house and be left alone until the world would end. The knocking, however, grew more insistent and more annoying with every moment, so finally Mycroft stood up reluctantly and came to his door. He looked through the peephole and was surprised to see his little brother on his porch.

Mycroft opened the door and greeted his guest with:

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

"I…" The younger man started sheepishly, but then cut in.

"Please, come in." Mycroft said suddenly and let him in.

Sherlock did as he was told and soon they were both standing in the hall. There was a moment of awkward silence between the two, when the detective was observing his brother carefully, like he was looking for clues, before he finally was able to voice what he came here with.

"How are you doing?"

"Can't you tell?" Mycroft smiled.

"Let's see… You stink of alcohol, so you were drinking, but not for long. It's only your third glass of whiskey. You've tried to fall asleep, but you couldn't, so you decided to distract yourself with work, but it didn't help, so around five am, you opened a whiskey in hopes of losing consciousness."

"As you can see, I will be fine, don't worry." Mycroft smiled again, but then his smile weakened. "You didn't fall asleep either. Come on." He directed towards his living room, adding: "At least have a drink too."

For a moment Sherlock was just standing in a hall and observing his brother's back, before he finally called after him:

"Did you want to die?"

Mycroft stopped and slowly turned to him, raising his eyebrows with surprise.

"Back then, when Eurus made me choose. Did you want to die?" Sherlock explained.

His older brother didn't respond, at first. He was just observing his guest with mixture of sadness and concern. In the solitude of Mycroft's house and after the horrors of previous day, both Holmes brothers were too tired to pretend they had no emotions.

"It wasn't important what I wanted." Mycroft finally spoke, still looking at Sherlock. "We were soldiers. Soldiers are meant to be sacrificed. I did, however," He smiled again. "tried to reduce drama to minimum."

"It would be fratricide. You can't be more dramatic than that." Sherlock tried to make it sound like a witty remark, but something about the atmosphere made it hard. Mycroft replied with a forced chuckle.

Another moment of silence. While both brothers were standing in the hall and staring at each other, Sherlock remembered once again how he was pointing a gun at Mycroft. He remembered how Mycroft was trying to provoke him to pull the trigger, being completely reconciled with his fate. He remembered how he couldn't pull himself to do so, because he realized that he was going to shoot his brother.

Holmes kills Holmes.

And so Sherlock did something that surprised both of them. He came closer to Mycroft and pulled him into a hug, a first one since they were little. Before he knew it, his brother was hugging him back.

"I… didn't want to die." Mycroft whispered in Sherlock's ear. "But it would be for the best, if I was the one who would ended up dying."

"It wouldn't." Sherlock replied. "Not in the slightest."

They were standing like this for a long time. Both of them didn't want to break this embrace. It took a nightmare for them to be able to hug each other; and for Sherlock to finally sense any kind of familiarity towards Mycroft.

"Your loss would break my heart." He said to his brother.

It took his crazy sister forcing him to choose between Mycroft and John, to finally realize that.