The month was May, but you'd never have known. A chilly breeze swept through the air, ruffling what little hair the man had left, but he wasn't cold. He was wrapped up in his usual black woollen trenchcoat, his stiff collar and tightly knotted tie pressing against his neck, his umbrella leaning comfortably against his leg and his shirt stretching uncomfortably across his stomach. Mycroft could practically hear his brother taunting him; "Oh dear, Mycroft," Sherlock would sneer, "Diet going badly again?" But those days were over now. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, and even if he was traceable, he'd hardly be in the mood for humour.
Mycroft would be lying if he even attempted to claim that he didn't feel guilty about his brother's fall from grace. After all, he practically WAS the British government; it was within his power to plant bombs, force a Prime Minister to resign, even to influence exactly when the next series of a popular television series should be released… And yet, despite all of that, despite of everything that he could have done to save his brother from Moriarty's clutches, Mycroft had failed. Sherlock had survived, admittedly, a ploy that Mycroft had been able to assist; but to say that he was living was a stretch of the imagination. The truth was, Sherlock was lost without his blogger; and if it wasn't for Mycroft's stupidity and ignorance, the two might never have been separated. Even if Sherlock had constantly pushed his brother away, ignoring his calls and refusing his help, Mycroft had never lost his protectiveness over his younger brother. After their mother had died, it had been his job to protect Sherlock, and he had failed; failed his mother, failed his brother, and failed himself. The guilt was oppressive; it worked like an anchor, dragging Mycroft down until eventually, he began to drown in his own misery.
This was why he had come here, to the Peak District, when he had been instructed to take time off to deal with his "loss". He had managed two and a half years of keeping a straight face whenever Sherlock's name had been mentioned; however, eventually it had become too much, and the guilt had consumed him. Even though his brother wasn't actually dead, Mycroft knew that he might as well be, so he knew that he needed to get away for a while, far away enough from London to escape the hustle, the bustle, and the constant reminder of his failure. He spent his days strolling through fields or scaling rocky hills, huffing and puffing as he went, usually completely unaware of his surroundings.
The once organised man had lost track of how long he'd been staying there- two, three months perhaps. Each day passed in a blur, often three or four hours would pass and he wouldn't know it, until slowly days had added up to weeks- weeks that had done nothing but push Mycroft further and further back into his own mind, until he found himself completely immersed in his own thoughts. He could be slowly trudging down a country path, when the dirt below him would morph into pavement, and he'd be back in London, watching helplessly as his brother faked his own death; he could be making small-talk with a bartender at a pub, when the man's features would slowly blur, and in front of him would be the melancholy mask of John Watson, his eyes dull and his mouth permanently downturned in a sad smile. It had always been clear that Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson weren't just friends; the even the formerly emotionless Sherlock had allowed his love for John to shine through his piercing green eyes. But now John was alone, just as Mycroft had always been, and it was his fault entirely.
And so Mycroft carried on, losing track of reality; urgent calls would come in from London, but he would leave the phone to ring, glad that something was breaking the perpetual silence. He would read his newspaper, go for his walks, occasionally bring himself to talk to the owner of the inn that he was staying in, and then retreat to his room, waiting for the day to sink into darkness and the moon to light up the hillsides. Every day was the same; nothing ever seemed to change, and as Mycroft stood on top of his highest hill yet on that unnaturally chilly May morning, he didn't expect anything out of the ordinary to occur. Panting slightly due to the exertion of the climb, he stood gazing at the view below him; the peaks of other hills shrouded by mist, the green fields that seemed to roll eternally wherever he turned, the people scurrying on roads and pathways like frenzied ants. The drop from the hill was sheer; hundreds of metres off the ground, the world stretched like a map below. Jagged rocks pointed skywards, protruding out of the earth like a stiff claw, ready to crush anybody that fell into their clutches.
So this is what it must have felt like just before Sherlock made that jump.
Stomach fluttering. Pulse thudding with the rhythm of a drum. But Mycroft had one advantage that Sherlock had not possessed; the knowledge that the jump would be the end. Sherlock would have to spend the rest of his life agonising over what might have been if Moriarty hadn't got bored, hadn't decided to relish in the destruction of his enemy. At least Mycroft could take the coward's way out. Not that he would dare, of course. He would have to go back to his job someday; he couldn't hide out here forever. But for now, he relished his solitude; nobody could possibly disturb him here.
"Honestly Mycroft, the diet can't be going THAT badly…"
The sound of his brother's voice nearly sent Mycroft cascading off the hillside; luckily, his utter dumbfounded shock kept his feet rooted firmly to the ground.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft screeched incredulously. "Why are you here?"
"Why, to keep an eye on you, of course. It's been nearly three years, I needed to check that you hadn't done anything drastic." He peered over the face of the ledge that they were stood on. "Looks like I got here just in time…"
"I wasn't actually going to do it!" Mycroft snapped, "And since when do you care about me, anyway? Why are you so bothered?"
Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "Because… Because I need your help, Mycroft," he said quietly.
The entire of Great Britain could have imploded and Mycroft would have been less shocked than he was in that moment. His brother, ask him for help? Sherlock, admit that he couldn't achieve everything by himself?
"What…" Mycroft stammered, unsuccessfully trying to hide his shock, "What do you need?"
Pain clouded the younger brother's eyes. "I need to go back. I need to go back to John."
So this was it. Sherlock could no longer take the solitude. Mycroft had never taken his brother to be a particularly sentimental being; but then again, he had never expected his brother to fall in love. Placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, he simply stated, "I know." This was Mycroft's chance; his chance to redeem himself, make up for his failure, finally do what he should have done years ago. He could finally protect Sherlock; protect him from loneliness. So, as the brothers silently descended from the hilltop, Mycroft Holmes felt the strange sensation of a lifting in his chest- the lifting of guilt. Finally, he could be the man he had always strove to be. Finally, he could make it all right. And finally, he could be the good brother.