It was already dark when Mycroft stepped into the living room of 221b Baker Street. He eyed the mess around the room, taking mental notes of what had changed since his last visit and storing them in a corner of his brain for later analysis. For now, he was more interested in what he was not seeing.

He thumped the tip on his umbrella on the floor twice.

"Is anybody home?" he called out, assuming his usual bored and smug tone.

"Depends," a voice resounded from the kitchen, "What do you want this time?"

Mycroft frowned. Who had spoken? He knew he should worry about the fact that it was getting harder for him to tell apart the occupants of 221b, but he couldn't dwell on that just now.

"Can't one visit his brother without ulterior motives?"

Mycroft went to look out of the window, both hands clasped around the handle of his umbrella, behind his back. Some deep recess of his brain noticed that the glass needed cleaning. He should talk to Mrs. Hudson about that.

Footsteps made their way out of the kitchen, and a second later Mycroft could just make out the reflection of an oatmeal-coloured jumper in the window. John.

"One can. But you don't."

Mycroft couldn't fight the smile that grew on his face. He liked John. He would never admit it of course, almost hated himself for it, but he did. Over the last couple of years, John had somehow managed to make these visits a little bit easier. With Sherlock around, it was no small feat.

He was always so resentful.

"And where, dare I ask, is my brother?" Mycroft spun around to face John, who had taken a seat in his armchair.

"Out."

"Out?"

"Out."

Feeling rather silly standing there when John was sitting, Mycroft made his slow way to Sherlock's armchair and sat delicately.

"I see. He must have left recently, as Inspector Lestrade told me he had talked to him this morning."

The corner of John's mouth curled up just a tad. "Inspector Lestrade told you, did he?"

"Yes, we just ran into each other."

"Is that how they're calling it these days?"

Now, that side of John, Mycroft wasn't sure he liked.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Doctor Watson."

John snorted at the dignified remark, but left it at that. "What's this about, then, Mycroft?"

Of course. Straight to the point. No-nonsense Captain Watson. Mycroft took a deep breath - and the second cup of tea John had put on the coffee table - and sat back.

"I worry about Sherlock."

Constantly.

And it just sat there, in the middle of the room, as both men considered the heaviness of that statement. Aware that his hands had suddenly started shaking, Mycroft took a quick sip and set his cup back onto the table. John, for his part, fidgeted his feet and plucked at an imaginary loose string on his sleeve.

"Right. The whole... Eurus business." The ex-soldier ran a hand over his face. "It... It did a number on him, I'll admit it. On all of us."

Mycroft nodded almost mechanically. John didn't need to remind him exactly what "all of us" entailed.

"I never expected her to resurface," he mused. "What she did, what she said... I don't think there's any forgetting that, is there?"

John shook his head and focused on his tea for a moment. Silence stretched, settled, and then Mycroft could see himself jumping across the coffee table, grabbing John's cup and smashing it against a wall. He imagined grabbing hold of his stupid jumper and shaking him him. Screaming at this man who had taken his little brother away from him.

After all, it all had started with John, hadn't it? One moment it was just the Holmes brothers - not a friendly relationship, of course, but still a functioning one - and then Mycroft blinked and suddenly John was there. John and his temper. John and his kindness. John and his friendship. John, John, John.

"Mycroft?"

The doctor was peering at Mycroft curiously, concern carved into his features. Mycroft did his best to reign himself in, noticing too late that he had been gripping the handle of his umbrella so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

He cleared his throat. "Forgive me, I was miles away."

John's scrutiny made him lower his eyes. Laying his umbrella on the ground, Mycroft reached for his tea cup once more and took a large gulp of it, the scalding heat of it dragging his brain back to reality.

"It did a number on you too, didn't it?"

Mycroft had to close his eyes and remind himself to take another breath. He had heard of an illness that made people forget to breathe. They had to consciously remember to inhale and exhale, or die of asphyxiation. What was it called, again? Ah, yes, congenital central hypoventilation syndrome. He almost smiled at the fact that his brain was still sharp and alert enough to inform him of its own slow decline.

"Well, she's my sister too, isn't she?"

It had come out a bit too defensive, but John didn't seem to mind. In fact he seemed to relax at that, sinking a little deeper into his chair and sipping pensively at his own tea. He had probably made a deduction of his own.

Mycroft would later curse himself for speaking just then, and breaking the moment. He would later hate himself for bringing that up, but he couldn't help his racing thought. He never could.

"Is there..." he trailed off, choosing his words carefully, "Is there any news on Moriarty, these days?"

John tried to hide it, he really did, but the tremor in his left hand couldn't be mistaken, even as he passed his cup into his right.

"Why would there be?" he enunciated slowly, and that should have cued Mycroft to stop. But he didn't.

"It's just that, with everything that's been going on..." Mycroft made a helpless gesture, letting the rest of his sentence hang in the air between them.

"Right." John said, almost slamming his cup on the coffee table. "Because we don't have enough on our plate already."

"I'm just wondering if..."

"I think you should leave, Mycroft."

There it was. The line had been crossed. Mycroft could almost here the sound of a gavel hitting a desk as John's words resonated in the small flat. And yet, he didn't move.

"How is your daughter, doctor Watson?"

A desperate attempt. A plea not to reject him.

But, Mycroft realised, the Holmes hadn't been the only ones affected by the case of the Musgrave Ritual - as John referred to it. The Good Doctor had been as much of a victim of it as they had.

John stays.

This is family.

That's why he stays!

Mycroft suspected that John still held him responsible for the whole Eurus debacle. Had he told Sherlock about her, had he not lied to him for years, a lot of hurt could have been avoided. Sherlock had been getting better, even slowly learning to cope without John. And now... it was back to square one. Back to Sherlock's erratic behaviour, back to John's resentment, back to Moriarty's ghost looming over all of them. It was hard to keep track, sometimes.

John didn't grace him with an answer. Instead he stood up, pulling his jumper over his head and throwing it to the sofa. He ran a hand through his hair, fighting back the words he wanted to say but would regret.

And that is when Sherlock decided to make his entrance.

"Oh. You're here."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. He asked himself, not for the first time, how long he could keep this up.

"The warmth of your welcome is truly touching, brother mine."

Sherlock snarled. "It started raining twelve minutes ago yet your umbrella is bone dry, so you can't have been in here for long. And yet, you still managed to piss off John in that small window of opportunity. I wouldn't moan about social skills too much if I were you. Oh, and you're in my seat."

The detective shrugged off his coat and made a show of standing next to the door, looking expectantly at his brother. The message couldn't have been clearer. Mycroft sighed, picked up the aforementioned umbrella and slowly made his way to the door, one hand in his pocket.

"You'll say goodbye to John for me. I didn't even see him leave."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and his brother took it as his cue to leave. The second his feet his the stairs, the first weeping notes of the Stradivarius filled the small house. Shaking his head to himself, Mycroft made his way down the stairs. Only when he reached the landing did he realise his hands were still shaking, his steps slightly unsteady. Shaking himself as a dog would after a bath, he forced his body to obey him as he walked to the door.

"It's not getting much better, is it?"

He paused at the concerned, feminine voice. "Not really, Mrs. Hudson, no."

The old lady frowned. "You just can't go on like this, Mycroft. It's too much."

"I know."

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, feather-light, and for the first time in years Mycroft felt like a child. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and accept the embrace he knew Mrs. Hudson would give him. He wanted her to tell him that everything was going to be alright. He wanted to pretend that the future wasn't as grim as it seemed, with her. He wanted for his mind to stop and for time to still, just for a heartbeat.

But his mind rebelled at stagnation, and time waits for no one. So Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded back at Mrs. Hudson over his shoulder.

"Molly will be here tomorrow morning."

The hand on his shoulder gave a soft, sad squeeze and let go. "I know."

"Goodbye Mrs. Hudson."

He reached for the door handle but as he pulled the door opened just a little too hard, the voice behind him rang once more, thick with unshed tears.

"You're killing yourself, you know." A sharp intake of breath, almost a sob. "Pretending nothing is wrong isn't helping anybody."

He had no energy to answer, so he didn't.

He slipped out of the house and under the rain. His black car was there, waiting for him, as it always seemed to be. He rushed into it, welcoming the sensation of safety and warmth the back-seat provided. Above his head, he could just make out his brother's silhouette at the window. He had stopped playing, violin and bow held loosely in his hands, and was watching him.

It was unbearable.

"Home. Quick."

Mycroft's phone rang like a strange echo to his barked order. He considered not picking up for a split second, but then he looked at the caller ID and knew he had to.

"Yes?"

"Why, hello there, Big Brother! Long time no stalking!"

Mycroft closed his eyes. He was tempted to pretend not to know who it was, but that Irish lilt was unmistakable, and its possessor knew it very well.

"Mister Moriarty, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

A chuckle. "Ooh, I love it when you try to sound pleasant. Much more fun than insults. Do you know why it's more fun?"

"I'm sure you'll regale me with your explanation whether I like it or not."

"Because insults mean you hate me. But pleasantries..." Moriarty made an obscene sound that reminded Mycroft of Irene Adler. "Pleasantries mean you hate yourself."

Mycroft's free hand clenched into a fist as he reminded himself that no amount of reasoning, threatening or pleading would do any good. This nightmare of a man could not be stopped.

"Fascinating," he said, hoping he had conveyed the laziness/smugness he was aiming for. "Now if you don't mind getting to the point of your call, I have a rather busy schedule."

Moriarty laughed again, and Mycroft's phone made a cracking noise as his fingers tightened over it.

"Liar, liar, liar," the voice sing-songed. "You're not busy at all! All you do these days is eat, sleep, and make sure precious little Sherlock doesn't fall apart. Oh, and of course you keep pretending I'm not there."

Mycroft wanted to end the call. He wanted it so much it was almost painful. But he found himself sitting there, helpless, while the high-pitched voice buzzed in his ear.

"You can never get rid of me, Mycroft dear. Oh your brother tries, he tries so hard, but I'm always there. Every time you think I'm gone, I'll come back stronger. Don't you get it yet? I'm the Babadook, baby. And your brother let me in."

From the sound of it, Moriarty had brought the phone close to his mouth. Mycroft could hear his every breath as he dropped his voice to a staged whisper.

"So close your eyes and count to ten, better hope you don't wake up again. 'Cause if it's in a word, or if it's in a book, you can't get rid of the Babadook." Mycroft had to yank the phone away from his ear as Moriarty broke into demented laughter. "Ba-ba-ba-dook-dook-dook!" the man yelled gleefully.

The chill running down his spine was enough to snap Mycroft out of his stupor. He ended the call and threw the phone onto the seat next to him, taking a twisted pleasure when it bounced on the seat and slammed into the door. For the second time that day, he had to remind himself to breathe and, head in hands, he focused on inhaling (One, two, three, four) and exhaling (five, six, seven, eight), again and again until the car stopped.

Later, he wouldn't remember getting out of the car and into the house. He wouldn't remember taking off his coat and shoes, and putting his umbrella in the rack. And he definitely wouldn't remember going to pour himself a glass of scotch, downing it in one gulp, and pouring another one.

"You drink too much."

Mycroft really must be getting old. He hadn't heard him coming.

"So do you, sometimes."

Greg crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft felt his husband's chin rest on his shoulder, and suddenly the weight there seemed to lighten just a fraction.

"Touché."

"Do you suppose," he asked, staring at the amber liquid in his glass, "That I could be the one losing my mind?"

Mycroft felt Greg's chest expand against his back before hearing him release a heavy sigh.

"I guess it's a possibility."

Mycroft emitted a sound that could either have been a laugh or a suppressed sob. He hadn't decided.

"But," Greg went on, "I would think it means that we are all going crazy. You, me, Mrs. H., Molly. I mean, we've all witnessed it."

"Yes..."

Mycroft took another sip. Yes, they had. The way Sherlock seemed to disappear more and more into himself. The way he fancied himself this extraordinary detective who ran around London solving crimes. The drugs, the fits of rage, the depression.

And then one day, John appeared. Speaking of which...

"I talked to John today."

Greg's shoulders sagged a little, but he didn't seem surprised. "We've been seeing more of him, lately."

"Yes. I guess..." Mycroft sighed and brought the glass to his lips. "I guess Sherlock still needed him. Also..." he took a long sip to brace himself for what came next. "I got a call from Moriarty."

Greg cursed under his breath as he tightened his hold. Silence settled between them as they leaned on each other, neither knowing who was supporting who.

When Greg broke the silence, his voice was tentative.

"Do you think we should try again? Show him again?"

Mycroft shook his head. He knew his husband meant well, but Sherlock's screams from last time still haunted his dreams. He had cursed him, shrieked at him, and would probably have hurt him if Molly hadn't been there with a sedative at hand. Mycroft and Greg hadn't talked about the incident ever since, both of them being too shocked to put words on it.

The next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened. As if Sherlock had never set foot in that cemetery. As if he had never seen the tombstone.

John Hamish Watson

1971-2008

To this day, Mycroft had no idea why Sherlock had become obsessed with that man. He supposed his brother had somehow read his obituary in the papers, or maybe Watson's name had come up in one of Sherlock's Internet research. But why Sherlock had felt the need to research John Watson and learn everything he could about him was beyond Mycroft. Maybe there was no real reason. Maybe Sherlock just happened to remember that name. Maybe it could have been anyone.

But it was John Watson. A good and caring man. A man of action. A hero of war.

A man who died before Sherlock ever had the chance to meet him.

Just like the other man lying in another plot miles from there, with a luxurious tombstone and an obnoxious Voltaire quote.

James Ian Moriarty

1976-2009

Man is free at the moment he wishes to be