"I hate you."
The words are not screamed, as I had expected them to be, but nor are they whispered. Instead, I watch as my brother comes to the solid realisation that, yes, he does truly hate me. Or, at least he thinks he does.
I don't need to say anything, everything worth saying has already been said. It was only a matter of time until this moment came along, and I have been counting the days for years. I have always done my best to keep him safe. I tried to let him keep his ambitions and dreams, but in the real world, little boys from England don't really become pirates. Nine year olds can't solve murders, and dogs don't live forever. Reality is a horrible place, but it is the only place for people like us.
"Sherlock, you can't be serious! You're throwing away so much potent-"
"I'm throwing away nothing! I don't have to do anything you tell me to, Mycroft! I'm an adult, and I can make my own decisions." The cold glare marring my brothers youthful features almost makes that believable. Still, I scoff. I do because that is part of my role. Sherlock has always wanted to be the hero. He has always had the dream to be the person people looked up to, that children dreamed of becoming. But there can't be a hero without a villain. I suppose that role falls to me.
"And what will our parents think? Their son, too busy galavanting to make something worthwhile of himself?!"
"I am making something worthwhile of myself! You may be happy simply watching the world from behind your cameras, Mycroft, but I am not!" He turns away from me, the hard set of his shoulders singing his resolve. He's right, I am happy behind my cameras. I could watch years go by from the safety of my office without a thought of doing otherwise. But my brother could not.
I have already seen the repercussions of Sherlock's boredom. The drugs, the danger, the constant state of worry my mother lives in. That I live in. Any day we could receive a call saying my brother has been found laying face down in a ditch, dead with a needle in his arm. For someone so smart, he truly is stupid.
"I understand that, but a consulting detective isn't a thing! Why not join the police, or-"
"Or the government? Like you, brother dearest? I'd rather have half of my brain removed than work under you! And the police are all idiots, you know that. I could outsmart them in primary school!" Sherlock glowered, peering over his shoulder scathingly at me. "I refuse to work with imbeciles."
I swallow. I have spent the entirety of Sherlock's life trying to protect him. I have fought tooth and nail to give him the best chance at life, to make sure he is looked after and safe. For a normal person, this would have been a relatively easy job. But nothing is easy when you're dealing with my brother. He is stubborn, selfish, demanding and rude. He refuses to convert to social norms, using the guise of a 'highly functioning sociopath' to cover his tracks. He has told that lie so many times now, I feel he has actually started to believe it... But he is wrong. Sherlock can feel, and he can think, and though he may be socially inept, he is most certainly not a sociopath! Trust me, I would know.
So, with as much pride as I can muster, I straighten my spine, taking one final look at the boy-turned-man my brother has become. He keeps his face turned away, pride keeping him still, as I slowly make my way to the door. I will surrender for now, there is always next time. I tell myself this in the hopes that some day I can believe it with certainty.
"Well then, brother mine, I suppose we will see how well you do on your own." I say as I pull open the heavy wooden door of his dank little flat. Sherlock starts towards his violin, a source of comfort he often seeks out in moments of stress.
"I am always alone, Mycroft. Goodbye."
I pause, fighting the words in the back of my throat. Eventually, my will runs out, and I hear my voice echo through the bare, beaten room.
"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you, Sherlock?"
I don't give him the time to reply, the snarky tone something he can save for another day. I leave the flat, sliding into the back of my car with a defeated sigh. Maybe one day, one day soon, my brother will see sense. Maybe he'll realise how right I was, and how I was acting in his best interests! Or maybe he won't.
Regardless, I will still try again. I will still fight for my brothers happiness, even if it's not what he wants. Because Sherlock Holmes is a lot of things, but alone is not one of them.