Okay okay I know I said I wouldn't post any new stories until after I completed the ones I have going now, but I couldn't focus and I found myself on the livejournal prompt section and well this happened. No real regrets on my part in all honesty. I actually had an alternate ending for this that was a lot more... depressing, but I'm a sucker for a happy ending plus I don't know how good I am at writing angsty sadness. Hope you enjoy it.

On to the story!

Sherlock entered 221b. It had been a long night of chasing down criminals, made even longer by Lestrade's insistence that they fill out the proper paperwork. Now the night nearing an end. He had dropped his colleague John was back at his little domesticated apartment with his wife Mary, and Sherlock was looking forward to a snack and maybe even an actual nap.

A creaking of the floorboards above his head immediately alerted Sherlock of another's presence. He was reaching for a nearby box cutter when he realized there was something familiar about the footsteps, something... smug.

"I'm not in the mood for you today, Mycro- what have you done to my home!" Sherlock stared around in shock. His case folders were colour coordinated and neatly stacked, the rubbish picked up, chairs straightened, windows washed. Who the Hell did Mycroft think he was? He had no right to come in here and, and... clean!

"Ah Sherlock, home at last."

Sherlock followed his brother's voice into the kitchen. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to decide if I want to organize your spices by alphabet, or by size." Mycroft replied, not bothering to look up from his contemplative staring contest with Sherlock's paprika.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"I suppose I could do both. Yes that's good, I'll do that." He began separating the containers by size, but paused. "Although, maybe I should take colour into account as well. Hmmm."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mycroft, why are you in my house? And worse, why are you touching my things?"

"Don't be so alarmed Sherlock. I simply arrived to find you out, and decided to tidy while I waited for your return. You're house was in desperate need of it. I don't know how you live like this Sherlock; don't you remember what Mummy used to say?"

"Of course I do. If you're tidy from your head to your toes, what you can accomplish, nobody knows. That was never an invitation for you to micromanage my life. Now tell me why you're here, so you can leave."

Mycroft rubbed at his eye. "Perhaps I only came to visit."

Sherlock scoffed. "Why?"

"Because we're brothers and that's what brothers do."

"We don't and I'd prefer it if we didn't start. What's the real reason? I doubt it was because of sibling sentiment, or to wash my windows." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother's surprised expression.

Mycroft leaned past Sherlock to take in the shining windows. "Of course I- of course I washed them, they were filthy. Could barely see out of them." He began to rise from his chair. "Obviously my attempt at familial bonding was in vain. I'll be on my way." Mycroft turned and immediately grabbed the table for support.

Sherlock tensed with an unwanted twinge of surprise and fear. "Mycroft?"

"I'm fine. Just stood up too fast." He let go of the table and took a tentative step forward, only to latch back onto it seconds later as his legs gave out for a second time. Sherlock was instantly at his side. Mycroft tried to wave him off, but his brother held firm. "I'm fine, Sherlock."

"No you're not." Sherlock led them over to the couch and helped Mycroft sit before taking a seat beside him. "How long have you been having these symptoms?"

"I don't have any symptoms."

"One pupil is dilated more than the other, the way you're holding your head indicates a headache, you can barely stand, and the way you reacted when I mentioned the windows says memory loss."

Mycroft gave him a small smile. "Sometimes I think you're too observant for your own good."

"Well I did learn from the best. How long?"

Mycroft sighed. "Not long."

"You know for a minor government official you're a terrible liar."

"Sherlock..."

"How long, Mycroft?"

The politician let out another sigh. "A few weeks maybe, but it's fine. It's just stress, works been hectic lately."

"And you have this on authority from an actual doctor?" Sherlock asked.

"Well no. I told you, work's been hectic. Otherwise I would of course have gone."

Sherlock stood. "Well you're obviously not busy right now. Let's go."

"Sherlock, I am fine!"

"No you clearly are not. Now stop being stubborn, grab your umbrella, and I'll fetch us a cab."

Mycroft crossed his arms. "I'm not going."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Yes I am."

"No you- I'm not falling for that again Mycroft. Why are you acting like this?"

"Because!" Mycroft buried his face in his hands. "Because, I know how sick I am. There have been days where I can't stand up from my desk, where I can't feel my arms, or see out my eye. I forget dates, people I've met, things I've done, I don't even know how I got here! I know what the doctors will say and I can't do it. I can't sit there and listen to them tell me what I already know! I just can't, Sherlock."

Sherlock sank back down beside his brother. For a moment neither one spoke. "Cleaning my flat won't make this go away you know."

Mycroft chuckled. "I had to at least try didn't I?" Sherlock smirked, and fell silent. "You still want me to go don't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sherlock mulled over the question for a moment. "Because if something happens to you, who would there be to squabble with, or fight me for the last of the Christmas pudding?"

John entered the waiting room reserved for those with people in surgery and made his way to the one lone figure sitting in the plastic chairs. Sherlock sat with fingers steepled under his chin. A rerun of Batman Returns played on an overhead television, Sherlock seemed fascinated.
John settled beside his friend. "How long has he been in?"

Sherlock glanced at a nearby clock and groaned. "Seven hours."

John nodded. "Has anyone come to talk to you."

"Yes. Few hours ago, told me everything was going fine."

"Good, okay. Have you eaten?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not hungry, I have coffee."

John bit down the remark about the dangers of drinking coffee on an empty stomach and instead asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock gave his head another shake. "Nothing to talk about. My brother was an idiot, and now he's paying the consequences."

John frowned, and placed a hand on the detective's shoulder. He could feel him shaking beneath it. "Sherlock. It's only me here, and he's your brother." It was all the invitation Sherlock needed. His whole body collapsed in on itself as he buried his face in his hands. John kept his hand on his friends shoulder, feeling his breathing become more erratic.

"Why John? Why didn't the pompous git go the minute the symptoms started up? This would already be done and over with. Now there's a higher chance of complications, of it being cancerous, of him..." Sherlock fell silent for a moment. "He's supposed to be the smart one. I need him to be okay, he can't..." They lapsed back into silence. Finally as the credits were just beginning to roll the door was pushed open, and a nurse in surgical scrubs came in. "Mr. Holmes?

The younger Holmes leapt out of his chair. "Yes that's me. Yes?"

She gave him a smile. "The surgery was a complete success. We were able to remove all traces of the tumour tissue and they've been sent off for further testing, but at this point we are very confident that the tumor was benign. He'll be waking in about an hour; if you like I can come get you and your husband when he does."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes thank you, that would be good."

"We're not- oh what's the point?" John sighed. Some things never changed.

"I don't see why you have to stay here." Sherlock glowered at his brother over their chess game.

"Because I'm recovering from brain surgery Sherlock, and because the doctors said I should stay with family during my recovery." Mycroft replied smoothly.

"I imagine they meant stay with family that actually wants you around. I took you the hospital, my works done." Sherlock paused in the taking of Mycroft's rook when his brother touched the side of his head. "What is it? Headache?"

"Only a minor one."

Sherlock stood from the game. "I'll get you medicine. Don't you dare try to cheat."

John watched his friend walk to the kitchen over the top of his paper. A small smile tugged at the blogger's lips. Despite their many differences, no one would ever convince John the Holmes brothers didn't care.

"MYCROFT! What did you do to my mayonnaise experiment?"

"It was starting to grow its own colony, Sherlock. I threw it out."

"You did what? Oh I knew I should have just left you to suffer!"

Not that they'd ever admit it.