A bit of angst, inspired by an RP. Originaly from the prompt: Mycroft wears his mother's ring.

Written for IWasHereMomentsAgo. Who is excellent. CHECK OUT HER FICS.

Is Sherlock's thoughts

Is Mycroft's thoughts.

Don't own these beautiful characters.

Denial only goes so far.

And then it just hurts.

Mycroft insisted it was madness when she'd been diagnosed, knew it was a fluke. Their CAT scanner evidently wasn't up to much. She was admitted into hospital – doctors these days, far too overprotective. He'd been by her side as he saw the last of her life disappear from her eyes and heard the irregular beeping of the heart monitor flatten out into one long, high-pitched drone, and he knew that the equipment was faulty and his eyes were deceiving him – not enough sleep and too much hospital coffee.

Now, standing by her grave, he knows he's been lying to himself, and it hurts. At least Sherlock was a realist – told him from the off she would die. He hadn't listened, of course, why would he? Why listen to your brother telling you day in, day out that your mother's going to die and there's nothing you can do except sit and watch when you can go inside your head and pretend it's all a nightmare? He is asked to stand up and say a few words. They sound unconvincing, not really there, hollow and empty and pain-filled, like he does. Halfway through, he stops: his breath is sticking uncomfortably in his throat and his eyes are stinging with unshed tears. As sick as it sounds, he doesn't want the funeral to end – at least there they have to be silent, and he can ignore the sympathetic glances and words whispered behind hands.

A hand catches his shoulder as they walk out of the church. Sherlock. He walks faster. Go away. I'm not going to go away, brother, we need to talk. Well, I don't wish to. What you want is irrelevant. Sit down. Leave me alone, Sherlock. What, like you left me? Mycroft winces. Underhand, Sherlock. Yes, but true. Sit. Down. Reluctantly, Mycroft takes a seat, still looking away from his brother.

'I've seen you cry before, you know.' Sherlock's voice startles him. It's low and rough, as if he's been crying almost as much as Mycroft. 'You don't need to hide it from me.'

'That was different, a lifetime ago. Things have changed. Now tell me what you wanted to talk about.' His reply is short, to the point, as emotionless as he can make it. He can't start talking in front of Sherlock, not properly, or he'll break down completely. His brother seems surprised by the sharp reply and pauses before continuing.

'I got it altered.' Mycroft immediately knows what 'it' is.

'And why would that concern me?'

'She wanted you to have it. First-born son, always making her proud. No wonder.' There's a slight malice to his tone and Mycroft finally turns to look at him, to glare.

'Now it not the time, Sherlock.' He holds out his hand and tries it on. A perfect fit, hardly surprising. He simeltaneously is comforted by it and hates it – he still has a tangible piece of her, but also a constant reminder of the woman he let down. Constant, because even now he knows he'll never take it off. 'Thank you,' he murmurs quietly, and then 'are we finished?'

'One more thing.' Sherlock's tone has almost changed – it's almost apologetic. 'You didn't read her medical records.'

'No. Should I have?'

'The disease that took her. I – it is hereditary. I took a genetic sample. Your genes closely atch hers in that area.' He stands up, and says quietly 'sorry.'

Mycroft sits there for hours, it feels like, the ring unfamiliar and cold on his finger, her final gift to him, and something darker brewing inside him, her first gift to him. When the sky darkens, he stands. There's nothing wrong with him.

Denial only goes so far.

And then you die.