Mycroft Holmes walked along the halls of his childhood home. Every inch of them had a memory. He entered the sitting room where his father already had a fire going. His mind instantly flashed back to when he was thirteen and Sherlock was six, they sat with their father in front of the fire. Even though he was older and reading much more advanced books, he loved listening to his father read The Hobbit. It was the only thing that bonded the three of them. He let his face slip into a frown and softened his eyes.
"I never took you for a sentimental man, Mycroft Holmes." A feminine voice declared behind him. He turned to look at the shorter blonde woman. His heart split in two. He smirked and looked at her.
"You are, as always, correct," he took a pause, trying to decide what to call her. With sad voice he decided "Mrs. Watson."
She wave her hand dismissively at him as she slowly sat down. Mycroft looked at her. She seemed, no, she was, broken. She sighed heavily and stared ahead with a grin. "Happy Christmas, love." Mycroft looked back at her in shock. He walked forward towards her, leaned forward, and pressed a lingering kiss on her head. "Merry Christmas, Addison." He felt her release a sob at her name. "Love. No crying."
"I'm losing everything all over again." She whispered, hoping that their former friendship was still there.
"You left." He replied coldly.
"Why must you always be so cold? You were a pleasant person when we worked together." She growled in between sobs.
"You shot my brother." He dead panned.
Mary scoffed and stared ahead. Mycroft rolled his eyes and stepped away from her, glaring as he walked until he could lean back on the mantle of the fireplace.
"Addison. You know he means more to me than anything else. He was off limits. You knew I would help you in the matter, if you kept him safe and out of it!" He yelled.
"Oh, he's fine. He's not even mad! And yet you stand there and yell at me!" She screamed back.
Mycroft grunted and turned to go to the kitchen.
"Mycroft. You always protected me. You were always there. Why can't you be there for me now?"
Mycroft stopped.
"You made your choice. I offered you security. Protection. A life. You went off to ruin the chance at a decent life. What's happening with you and your husband is all the consequence of what you chose to do. That life has now harmed my brother, and I can't ever forgive you for that."
There was a long silence. Mary was breathing heavily, tears streaming down her cheeks. Mycroft straightened his body, and steeled his gaze. He turned to leave again.
"You were my brother." A hushed voice whispered.
"Well. Outbursts of brotherly compassion isn't really my division. Looked what happened the last time."