After his brother's funeral, Mycroft found himself sitting alone in his office, staring at his desk-full of work to be done and feeling rather like throwing it all in the fireplace to let the flames consume it.

He stood from his desk and strode to the window, catching a final glimpse of the sun before it retired for the day. He watched as the world slowly darkened before him and he felt, from somewhere deep within, a new kind of worry for his brother – a pang of some emotion he'd long forgotten. Was it empathy?

When he stood on that rooftop, had Sherlock felt as Myrcroft did now? Did his heart sink as he watched darkness engulf his life?

A migraine hatched itself at Mycroft's temple and he self-prescribed a swig from the flask hidden behind a row of books on his mantelpiece. With one last look at the setting sun, he turned toward the fireplace, and quickly had to suppress a cry; a man leaned against the fireplace before him, looking precisely like his younger, dead, brother and holding Mycroft's flask.

"My," the man said, sounding just as Sherlock had sounded, "you are distracted."

Mycroft shuffled through the memories of the past week, all of them concluding Sherlock was, indeed, dead: the phone calls, the testimonies, the funeral, the autopsy. As Mycroft deciphered Sherlock's resurrection, the younger Holmes took a swig from the flask in his hand.

"Mycroft, it is with great displeasure that I must ask for your assistance."

"By God, Sherlock," Mycroft croaked, finally finding his voice. "It's been a week!"

"Yes, well, climbing out of the grave takes longer than you'd think," Sherlock cracked, and it was then that Mycroft noticed that Sherlock was leaning purposefully on his right side so as to alleviate pressure on his left. Mycroft saw the bruising on his brother's face and the stitches on his neck.

Sherlock continued, "Moriarty is dead but his web is still intact – weaker now without a leader, though. I'll need your help if I'm going to take full advantage of my death."

"What do you need?" Mycroft asked, exasperated.

"Before all else, increased protection for John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. The rest I will put down in writing before morning. I expect to leave by tomorrow night."

"Molly Hooper? The mortician at the hospital?"

"Yes, my accomplice. She's the only other person aware of my situation."

"Then I suppose you were with Miss Hooper this week, then?"

"Don't be jealous, Mycroft, it's very unbecoming."

Mycroft sighed and, without a comeback, said, "Certainly there are other ways to deal with this that don't involve such a…charade."

Sherlock was losing his patience. "Do you really believe I wouldn't avoid pseudo-suicide if I didn't need to?" he spat.

"You do like to show off."

"Please know I was quite content with my work – with my life – before you befriended Jim. You sold me so you could destroy him; now finish what you've started, brother."

His final word was acidic and it burned Mycroft's throat.

Between them, the brothers shared a painful silence – one aching for the life he'd stolen and the other aching for the life he'd lost, but neither admitted it.

"Then we mustn't waste any time in resurrecting you," Mycroft said, finally.

"No," Sherlock agreed, "we mustn't."