Mycroft Holmes was at the Diogenes Club yet again, reading the newspaper in his favourite chair. He didn't much care for most of the stories in the paper, the silly articles about celebrity deaths, films, and sports. But he felt obligated to read every section, just to be assured that there was nothing pertaining to his job. He knew that if something important happened he would be alerted immediately, but sometimes his subordinates missed the simplest things. Mycroft found himself thinking of one occasion when it was pointed out to him that a woman he had been tracking for months was in the background of a picture advertising a museum in Leeds, something that his entire department had failed to notice.
Mycroft found himself thinking of his brother, who had spotted the picture of the woman three weeks before he killed himself.
Of course Mycroft did not voice his opinion, but he was quite sure that Sherlock had not in fact commit suicide. He was almost positive that James Moriarty had murdered him, but it was considered general knowledge that Moriarty was a fake and he couldn't go accusing his colleagues of lying, could he? Certainly not. So he never did.
But sometimes Mycroft played out situations in his head in which it was revealed that Moriarty had drugged Sherlock, or forced him to jump or pushed him or something, anythingthat would clear his brother's name. More than that, Mycroft wished his that his brother was not dead.
Deciding that he had had enough of silence, Mycroft put down his newspaper and stood up to leave the Club. He had to pause, however, as Sherlock was blocking the doorway.
Sherlock looked far thinner than he had the last time Mycroft had seen him. He used to not eat while working on a case; Mycroft had to wonder if his brother had stopped eating altogether. Other than that he looked the same—same turned-up coat collar and blue scarf, same neutral expression on his face.
Mycroft did not say a word, nor did Sherlock. As a high-ranking official he could not dream of breaking the quiet in the Diogenes Club, and no doubt he would not be invited back. He wondered why his brother was not speaking as he was never one for rules, and allowed himself to consider that maybe for once in his life Sherlock wanted to make his brother happy. It was all he could do after not telling Mycroft he was still alive, after all.
Sherlock walked toward Mycroft. The brothers stared at each other before embracing tightly. Sherlock pulled away, looked at his brother once more, and left. Mycroft sat back down in his chair. Sometimes good things happen in silence.