So Reichenbach was on earlier but you all know that already. Anyway, this is a super short one-shot of Mycroft's response to his brother's 'death' based on that little bit just before the end.


Mycroft stared at the newspaper pages, trying so hard to make the words go away until the pages practically fell out of his tired, numb hands. As he folded it up neatly, trying not to allow anyone to see his weakness, an overwhelming wave of grief crashed into him and not for the first time that day.

His face was frozen again. He was lost. How? How could this be possible.

He made this possible, that's how.

What could he have thought he'd gain from that absolute psychopath? He'd given up his only family for useless, outdated information.

His mind flashed back to the conversation with John Watson. That accusing tone in his voice. That look on the doctor's face.

And that was when Mycroft knew what he'd done. He acknowledged, for probably the first time in his career, he'd done wrong. Really wrong.

He'd always been blinded by those ambitions. Always trying so hard to claw himself to the top with blind faith in himself, not caring who he hurt along the way.

Eventually it had killed his only link to the real world.

He'd betrayed his younger brother so many times. It hadn't mattered at the time, his own well being had been the only important thing. He'd let his own brother die without so much as an apology. Without letting Sherlock know that what he'd done to him was so, so wrong. Sherlock always had to be right and even those accusations he'd made in the heat of arguments had turned out correctly.

So here he was, the unknown ruler of the United Kingdom, broken and so completely alone in a room containing people he suddenly found he despised. Mycroft had seen hundreds of people in similar attacks of emotion and scoffed at their lack of control. He'd always thought he was immune to such feelings. Really, he was no different to anyone else out there. It appeared that no-one was truly invincible, no matter how well contained they thought they were.

Exhaustion overcame him, both mentally and directed out towards the world he controlled. He steepled his fingers, slowly letting his head fall to rest on them, eyes closing involuntarily.

He raised his head slightly and uttered a silent prayer. A prayer that there was a god out there, one that could take better care of Sherlock than he had.