A/N: This story is a sequel to "A Sociopath's Fears" and "The Evolution of Fear" but you don't need to have read those stories to understand this one. As always, I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do.

Quia Peccavi

[For I Have Sinned]

Mycroft Holmes is finishing up his twelfth hour at the office. That isn't unusual for him; he's always been a diligent worker who never cared for a personal life. However, the events of the past week have been extremely unusual: his younger brother committed suicide three days ago. A bachelor with no other siblings and his parents long deceased, Mycroft is truly alone in the world.

Most people would think that a man in his situation would take some time away from work, if nothing else to sort out his brother's affairs, but Mycroft has not changed his schedule one iota. His colleagues have gently inquired as to whether he feels he should be at work and Mycroft politely but firmly shuts down that line of conversation.

"Your concern is touching, but it is not helping us resolve this issue," he often says with his typical not-quite-a-smile.

Just before 8 PM, his assistant knocks on the door. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Sir, I just finished the reports on the situation in Honduras. Do you require anything else this evening?"

"No, Anthea, that shall be all. See you in the morning."

The young woman hesitates on her way out of the office. "Mr. Holmes… are you sure you don't need anything else? If you need some time away, I can take care of things."

Mycroft's face is professional, but his eyes give Anthea a thousand-yard stare and his words are forced. "While I have every confidence in your ability to handle any situation that may arise, I do not need to be out of the office."

Anthea gazes at him sorrowfully. She thought that after all her years of working for him, she was the one person who could read Mycroft Holmes. For the last three days, she's looked at him and seen nothing and the lack of emotion is eerie, even for him. People are beginning to talk and she wonders how long it will be before a second Holmes falls.

"As you wish, sir. Good night."

After Anthea departs, Mycroft finishes up the report he's working on, then glances at his watch. He reluctantly gathers up his things and calls his car. Time to go home and try to get some rest while the memories assault him from all sides. Sherlock is always the last thing he sees before he falls asleep, but he never sees present-day Sherlock, always the ghosts of Sherlocks past. He sees three-year-old Sherlock with a spider bite, or school age Sherlock deducing the party guests with him, or twenty-two-year-old Sherlock returning from America. Sometimes he'll see teenage Sherlock, infuriated that everyone lied to him about Mummy. As awful as angry teenage Sherlock makes him feel, there's one other Sherlock that's positively unbearable: eight-year-old Sherlock resting on his shoulder one Christmas night.

That night, Mycroft told his brother, "Even if no one else on Earth worries about you, I will."

"You will?"

"Always."

Mycroft buries his face in his hands. (Always, until I gambled with your life and lost.)

In a posh neighbourhood a few miles away, a tall man hobbles down the streets, leaning on a woman for support. She's a foot shorter than he, which makes for awkward progress. A hooded jumper obscures the man's features. He can't run the risk of being noticed, and in this neighbourhood, the chances of discovery are great. Anyone in London would recognize Sherlock Holmes, the discredited detective who jumped off of St. Bart's three days ago. Residents of this neighbourhood might also recall Sherlock as the boy who used to play pirate in the tree house behind Holmes Manor. The woman wears no disguise; nobody recognizes her anywhere, and tonight, Molly Hooper is grateful to be unknown.

After several minutes of fumbling, they reach the side door. Sherlock studies the keypad of the alarm system for a moment while rummaging through his pockets. Molly grunts softly under his weight.

She asks, "Shouldn't we knock?"

Sherlock snorts and holds up his keys. "This is my house too. Besides, Mycroft won't have changed the security code yet – sentiment. He hasn't accepted that I'm dead."

Molly is about to remind him that he isn't dead. Then she remembers how ridiculous that sounds and keeps quiet.

Sherlock punches in the code to the alarm system and opens the door; as he predicted, the code and the locks are still the same. He chuckles under his breath. If anyone found out how important Mycroft actually is, he'd be a sitting duck for assassins. Luckily, his brother has found the best protection of all: convincing everyone that he isn't worth their notice. Sherlock opens the door and he and Molly stumble inside. They find themselves in a gloomy storage room that Sherlock notices is almost identical to when he was a child. When the boys played hide and go seek, this was one of his favourite places to hide. Later, he obtained materials for his experiments from this room. He suspects that some of the same cans and boxes that were present then are still here. (Mycroft never could throw anything away.)

The two make their way through the storage room to the darkened kitchen. Mycroft is, as always, at work. (Of course. He barely took a day off after Mummy died; why should my death be any different?) Sherlock flips on the lights and indicates the direction of the living room. After more limping and grumbling, Molly eases him onto the couch. She sits in a stiff armchair by the fireplace and asks him what they should do now.

"Unless he's out of the country – and he won't be since he has to see to my estate and plan my funeral – Mycroft never stays out past nine. Early to rise and early to bed; he's very predictable. Could you make us some tea?"

Molly rolls her eyes. "Just remember I'm not Mrs. Hudson."