Disclaimer - not mine, blah blah blah…
Sitting in the chair, in a room of absolute silence was not the best place for forgetting. The papers being read around him all had one face stating at him. The black eyes and chiseled features of his little brother. Failure was bitter taste Mycroft Holmes had rarely experienced, but with Sherlock's bloody and beaten face staring back at him he could taste nothing but defeat.
Mycroft had been mother and father to Sherlock, he had been responsible, and in turn, was responsible for his death. The ache of loss brought to mind his words "Caring is not an advantage." No it definitely was not, but predominantly it was unavoidable. Mycroft- despite outward appearances, loved his little brother. Sherlock was his family, his only family.
His parents had left him to be Sherlock's guardian, parent, mentor and confidant. They had died tragically when he was 18. Sherlock had been 8, and irreversibly damaged. Mycroft recalled the morning vividly. The officers had told him it had been a murder, that they were following a irate former staff. Mycroft had told his brother it had been an accident, but even at 8 brilliant little Sherlock had discovered the truth and never forgave his brother for lying.
It was dropping out of Uni to care for Sherlock that led Mycroft to his current position of power. He had been studying in London pursuing economics when he had been called home. He had returned to the country estate where Sherlock was busy being a clueless yet brilliant child. Sherlock was the pampered child - nannies and maids at his beck and call. Ever the petulant child. He had been responsible, he had been the mature one who left London to care for his little brother. He had returned to the estate in the middle of nowhere and pursued other interests - the government. Leading him to be one of the most powerful men in all of the United Kingdom.
Thanks to Sherlock, he wasn't some dullard working in the Bank of England, thanks to Sherlock he was THE Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft sighed inaudibly and folded his paper, setting it beside him and rising to leave, "The Prime Minister for you sir-" one of the elegantly dressed attendants purred.
"Not now," Mycroft said flatly, "He can manage without me wiping his sniveling nose for a few hours."
"Very well sir." the attendant handed him his umbrella and Mycroft stepped into the rain, unaware of the black shrouded man watching him enter the sleek town car.
The man who wanted to call Mycroft an idiot for his moping, for his mourning. But mostly the man in the shadows wanted to apologise to his brother, and thank him, for everything.