Note: Many thanks to Beverly and Jolie Black for britpicking and betareading.

I normally don't see the point of visiting graveyards. I never really understood the need to visit earth, grass and stones with names on them, while the invisible remains below don't even resemble the person one once loved. Today, I just made an exception. The pointlessness of the ritual isn't important if one just wants to say goodbye. As long as there is a ritual. And as long as there is truthfulness. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I've got a secret to share with you. I killed my brother.

Having a detective brother around is a mixed blessing, depending entirely on what he might be detecting. Sherlock always had a tendency to understand too much but he didn't understand enough. He didn't understand how difficult it is to stand up to your own blood and do the ultimate deed. And now he never will. I can't deny that never seeing Sherlock again is a strange thought. However, reality will wear off the novelty in due time. Let me tell you what led to the death of my brother and that disastrous last New Year's Eve.

It was January 2015 and the Watsons had had their baby. Of course, these events are always accompanied with pointless celebrations, as if at some point, bringing a child into this world has become an accomplishment.

I helped to prevent a WWIII, something you've never heard of, that's because it was prevented, in case you wondered. Yet they expect me to congratulate people for being able to act on their biological urges. This world is stranger than most people think it is.

But you're not here to listen to my musings on the fairness of our universe, charming as the thing might seem to some. It just so happened that, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I was invited. Of course Sherlock, attentive brother that he is (and quite aware of my dislike of these types of events) insisted on my presence. Going to this would probably increase my chances of getting away with missing something else. Therefore, I had my PA buy an appropriate present, which, for reasons unknown to mankind, turned out to be a teething ring.

There I was, giving this thing to the woman who once almost killed my brother, basically out of politeness. They accepted it politely and then the whole polite ritual had come to a close. I was quite relieved. Unfortunately, one is also expected to make conversation and be generally charming, even when there is no ultimate purpose. I silently congratulated myself for belonging to a club where no one is allowed to talk.

She smiled at me kindly. 'Thank you, Mycroft, so nice of you to drop by.'

I'm not doing that again. I might as well have transmitted that thought telepathically to my brother, who smirked at me just outside Mary's view. Without Sherlock and me ever needing to talk about it, I know she shot him and he knows I know. I don't hold any grudges against her. I'm not concerned with childish endeavours like anger and revenge, I only care for reality. I know things about her Sherlock doesn't. She has made sacrifices no one else can make. Even if that means killing your loved ones. She's a guardian.

John looked at Sherlock. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

I knew exactly why. Due to Johns new obligations, they hadn't seen each other in a while and John felt a bit guilty about it all.

'So, what have you been up to all this time?' he finally asked.

Sherlock took this opportunity to be as dramatic as possible. 'Cold case file from 1987. Something impossible happened.'

He then waited for John to ask the inevitable question, which John duly did.

'Something impossible?'

'The miraculous Christmas deaths. Five Balliol men died a few hours of each other and no one knows why. They were friends'

'Balliol men? Like in Balliol, the Oxford college?'

'The very same. I went there too, we all went there.'

'So it was about five students. Was it a car crash? Drunk driving? Unbelievable as it sounds, students do those sort of things.'

'Pay attention John, it's Christmas.'

'Hit by a giant Christmas tree? Food poisoning from Christmas?'

'No John, it's Christmas, what do people do at Christmas?'

'Work. At least if they're you.' He gave me a look as to not to exclude me. 'Or if they're you of course.' He shrugged. 'Others might visit their families.'

'Exactly,' said Sherlock, 'they were visiting their families. They lived all over the country. Yet, at that one Christmas day, they all died within an hour of each other.'

'How?'

'Natural causes. Epileptic seizure, heart attack, food poisoning, a car crash and one suicide.'

'That's impossible.'

'Well, it's certainly implausible.'

Implausible, that single little word that would always get my little brother in great trouble. I didn't say anything. If I protested, he'd only be encouraged and I didn't want that. I didn't want that at all.

I was hoping that he would get bored after a while and focus his attention on other things. But a week later I noticed that he was still on the cold case. So naturally, to encourage those other things, I met up with DI Lestrade. I invited him for lunch in a small cafe near the Thames. No, it wasn't a date, as some people here so keenly seem to desire. Although I'd rather have had Sherlock draw that conclusion than find out what we actually spoke about.

'Is it gonna rain?' he said with a look at my umbrella.

I ignored the attempt at humour. 'You know why we're here,' I said.

'Sherlock.' Lestrade sighed. 'What has he done this time?'

'Nothing,' I paused and looked him directly in the eyes. 'Yet.'

He rolled his eyes. I must give it to him that he wasn't overly impressed. 'What do you want?'

'You've given him a cold case. Five students.'

He visibly relaxed. 'Oh, that thing, yeah that's a bit fishy. Thought it'd give him something to do.'

'I'd rather have you give him something else to do.'

He gave me a puzzled look. He had become curious. 'Why? It's pretty old.'

I looked at him evenly. 'None of your concern.'

When I met Lestrade the next time he told me Sherlock was no longer pursuing the case. I wasn't exactly reassured. Lestrade has his qualities but subtlety isn't really his greatest virtue. It wouldn't surprise me if he were pushing things a little too obviously, with disastrous consequences. Or that he just told him that I didn't want him to pursue the case. So I did what all good brothers do. I broke into his house when he was away. This time the ratio between body parts and furniture was relatively fortunate so I just considered myself lucky. You must know that when you're in his house, what he's working on isn't a great mystery. It's usually on the table, or the sofa, under the microscope, in the fridge and most likely also spread out on the floor.

This time it was the coffee table. On it was a big file, spread out over the surface, covered with post it notes. I took one look at the file and I knew I was in big trouble. This would have to stop, one way or the other. When he came home I used my last line of defence. Sarcasm.

'Christmas murders, Sherlock? Honestly? Were all the interesting cases taken?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Five young friends dying at the same time of natural causes. What do you think?'

'Coincidence.' I lied.

'That seems very unlikely.'

I shrugged, as casually as I could. 'Improbable things happen all the time, due to the sheer number of general things happening.'

I saw him looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. The problem with those eyes is that they tend not to miss anything.

'Since when do you care?' he asked suspiciously and I knew my act had failed. There was only one way out.

I shrugged. 'I don't,' I said and started to talk about something else. He joined in, but all the time the blue eyes were alert. I knew I just cemented his determination. He was now on the case and no one would be able to make him let go.