Bonus 221B drabble inspired by Broomclosetkink's art prompt on Tumblr: Mycroft bashing Sherlock about the head and shoulders with his umbrella when he finds out Sherlock only faked his death.
Upon receiving the call from the hospital, it took Mycroft Holmes three hours to realize that the reports of his brother's death had been greatly exaggerated. To be fair, the first half hour was spent reeling at the news, and the next two hours dealing with Mummy, John, and the body at the morgue. It took him about three minutes to deduce where he was hiding and another eighteen minutes to arrive at Molly Hooper's modest flat.
He knocked twice and gave a perfunctory greeting to the startled lab technician when she opened her front door. He paid no attention to her stammered questions as he quickly strode to the kitchen where Sherlock was currently situated, fingers steepled, eyes closed in concentration. Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tightened.
"Took you long eno-"
Thwack!
"Hey!"
"Mummy is devastated, Sherlock!"
Thwack! Thwack!
"Mycroooft!"
"Don't you realize the grief you've caused us all?!"
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
"Will you stop hitting me with your infernal umbrella!"
"I thought you were dead!"
Tirade finished, Mycroft dropped his abused umbrella, hauled the detective up from his chair, turned him around to face him, and then hugged him fiercely. Sherlock stiffened in shock at the rare display of sentimentality from the normally composed man.
"Why didn't you come to me for help? You had me so worried, Brother!"