In which John and Mycroft meet immediately following Sherlock's death, and John isn't happy about it.

He's not sure if he should be here.

The statement, the mere notion that Mycroft is unsure is one that many would scoff at. He's Mycroft Holmes. He's different from his brother in many ways, but not regarding confidence (or arrogance, for that matter). Mycroft isn't unsure.

Then again, Sherlock Holme's isn't dead, and he doesn't commit suicide.

He walks coolly through the block of noise and people, his aura exuding all the calm and assuming airs it's supposed to. The result of his actions reflect around him in grim expressions and flashing sirens. His own lips are pressed together in a line, perhaps more tighter than they might have usually been. It his only indicator of emotion.

When he sees John, his expression goes slack.

His eyes are red-rimmed; he's cried little, but he's been rubbing them, probably in an attempt to prevent more tears. Dark spots of blood on his trousers - right below the knees - and around the cuffs of his coat betray that he'd probably cradled Sherlock before being forced away. He's tired; his whole form his sagging, but his shoulders are also tense with whatever emotion is in his face: anxiety. Sadness. Bitterness. Fury-

He stops himself as John stares at him.

For once, the harsh, accusing eyes boring into him aren't Sherlock's. Mycroft meets them; he's nothing if not coldly diplomatic, but remorse floats just below the surface of his facade.

"Do you know what you've done?"

The statement isn't one that really needs an answer, so he doesn't give one. John does. He flicks his gaze at the chaos all around him, the paramedics and officials and general hordes of people. "This." The word is low and sharp, easily piercing the noise around them. He makes a vague movement with a hand. The gesture betrays an unusual amount of anger for the normally mild man. "All of this."

The raised arm moves wildly for a moment as he spits the words out, his tone raising and falling out of venom. It's gone after a moment. "Why? Why would you want to do this? Did you intend to humiliate him?"

When he doesn't respond, John barrels on.

"Don't tell me this was something petty," he snaps. His voice turns mocking. "'Oh, I haven't humiliated Sherlock in a while. Why don't I give information to most dangerous criminal in London and make him jump to his death!"

"You're wrong," he says calmly, keeping his face impassive despite the hot shame that cuts through his stomach.

John stops. He seems to have a moment of remorse for his comment, but it passes quickly and is replaced by a hard look. He blinks expectantly.

"I care about Sherlock," Mycroft begins.

Instantly, he knows by the furious transformation of John's face that it isn't the right thing to say.

"Cared?" John bursts out; he seems to be fighting between incredulousness, shock, and fury. "You- you think you- no." He shakes his head with disbelief. "No, you don't. You're supposed to be smart, Mr. British government-" Here he waves his hands mockingly, "-but you're really just a pathetic man with a petty sibling rivalry."

When he lays it out in bare terms like that, it sounds sadly accurate. He holds back a sigh and instead tilts his head down, vulnerably allowing some guilt and remorse to reach his eyes. "This has nothing to do with that," he says quietly.

"Oh, it has everything to do that."

"I do care-"

"No," John cuts him off forcefully, halving the distance between them in a swift, angry step. "Don't you dare. You don't-"

The bloodstains are alarmingly close, Mycroft notes with a barely repressed shiver. His brother's blood. Sherlock's.

Sherlock is dead. Dead. Sherlock. Dead. He is dead. Sherlock is dead. My brother.

The mantra begins droning in the back of subconscious, unable to be accepted by his present mind, and Mycroft has to forcibly shut it off.

John catches him looking. He raises his sleeve and puts it under Mycroft's nose. "This is what caring is." He lowers it and steps back again. He mutters something under his breath, probably profane, probably including Mycroft's name.

"I'm sorry."

John glances up sharply.

Mycroft's eyes are glistening. He waits, entirely expecting to get a punch in return or to be completely ignored.

But John nods icily. "Yeah. Well. So am I."

When he walks away, he doesn't glance back.