"Oh for god's sake, get out!" Sherlock snarled as he stepped into the flat, already quite aware that Mycroft Holmes was seated in John's old armchair.

That simple act felt… annoying.

He had no right to sit there.

Sherlock kept his eyes focused everywhere but on Mycroft, determined not to give him any more attention than was absolutely necessary as he crossed the room to the kitchen and tore the scarf from around his throat, next moving on to rip off his gloves and attack the buttons of his coat. He hadn't spoken to his brother since that little… incident on the plane, since Sherlock's sudden return from exile, and the disjointed conversation that had occurred there.

It had been almost a week since then, and Sherlock was not going to humour his brother by speaking to him any more than he had to.

"I said get out!" Sherlock finally looked up again, baring his teeth like a threatened wolf.

But Mycroft remained seated, quietly gazing down at the umbrella leaning against his knee. At last he sighed. "You really are a liar, little brother…"

"Only when it benefits me!" Sherlock spat back.

Mycroft lifted his eyes to look at him, calm, but distinctly troubled.

Oh no…

Sherlock remembered that look…

"You were not reading John's blog because it 'helped you to see yourself from his perspective.'" Mycroft didn't look away. "You were reading the story of how you first met."

"I told you, it's—"

"Sentiment."

Sherlock's scowl darkened, and he took a single step toward his brother, as if warning him to stop.

Stop talking.

Don't say it.

Mycroft leaned forward in John's chair, still staring at him. "You never intended to survive that flight, did you?"

"Shut up, don't be absurd—" Sherlock turned away, aware that his body was trembling slightly, but managed to keep it in line.

"I'm not the one being absurd, little brother. You overdosed… and you knew it."

"If I'd wanted to kill myself I'd be dead right now!"

"Even you can miscalculate. Your tolerance has become quite high, over time… Believe me, I know, I've read your lists…"

"Shut up." Sherlock growled through clenched teeth. "I don't need to hear this from you. This isn't important anymore."

"On the contrary…" Mycroft heaved another sigh. "It's very important."

"Even if I'd meant to—even if that was an attempt—it's all okay now. The Game is on again. I'm back. And that's all that matters."

Mycroft just looked at him for a very long time… an uncomfortably long time… And when at last he spoke, his voice sounded much too loud in the otherwise soundless flat.

"Like I said… I'm here for you. I will always be here for you."

"I don't need your help—"

"You attempted suicide barely a week ago. Do not attempt to fool me, and do not expect me to give up so easily. I am your brother."

"That was conditional! I had no choice! It was… the best option I had left…"

"And yet it speaks volumes about your present psychological state." Mycroft set his jaw, trapping his brother in his pointed stare. "I repeat… I will always be here for you."