When I wrote this scene in Fragile, I debated adding the dialogue of the phone call between Sherlock and Mycroft, but I decided it would be better to leave it out. Instead, I put it here. I might have to say that brotherly banter might be my favorite thing to write :)

Chapter 2: The Call

Against all odds, Sherlock had beaten leukaemia. After that first close call, Mycroft threw himself deeper into his work to avoid thinking about the worst. Even once the immediate danger had passed and Sherlock began to recover, Mycroft found he didn't want to watch his little brother suffer any more than he already had. He was more comfortable receiving information only, without having to witness how drastically Sherlock's life was forever changed. Mycroft felt safer when he was behind the scenes pulling strings, not out in the real world doing 'leg-work' as he often called it.

He'd told John to let him know if his presence was required; he preferred to stay removed, but if he was actually needed he wouldn't hesitate to storm in with the cavalry and seize control of the situation. So it wasn't an empty offer, but as he typed that text he secretly hoped that he wouldn't be summoned. Evidently, John could handle it on his own because he never contacted him. Mycroft's assistants gave him twice-daily updates on his brother's progress, and he could barely conceal his elation when he was told that Sherlock was to be discharged.

It was a massive step in the right direction, and Mycroft hoped Sherlock would never look back. He himself would certainly try his hardest to erase the worst of the memories, but even his brain lacked such precision. He'd be forever haunted by the emotional trauma, but his scars would pale in comparison to Sherlock's.

Just a few hours after Sherlock was scheduled to leave, Mycroft found himself in the middle of a video conference with the Prime Minister and the President of the United States. He didn't remember the details of their interaction, since they were relatively inconsequential, but he did remember vividly the sound of his phone interrupting the Prime Minister. If it was just any call, he would have silenced it and handled it later, but he recognised the tone instantly. His phone had exactly three ringtones: one for work, one for his parents, and one for Sherlock.

Sherlock never called. But there was no other plausible reason for his phone to be making that noise. It had rung three times before he realised he'd been staring blankly at his computer screen while his fellow callers attempted to get his attention.

"I'm sorry," he managed to stutter. "I really must take this call, it's a family emergency." Abruptly, he exited from the video conference and snatched up his mobile from the nearby table. Sure enough, the caller ID read 'Sherlock.' However, he knew his little brother always texted, so Mycroft immediately began running through deductions. Maybe John had lost or broken his phone and had been forced to use Sherlock's to alert Mycroft to a developing emergency. Or Sherlock was somehow incapacitated and unable to text, so had resorted to calling in order to contact Mycroft.

Mycroft answered the phone to learn the real reason for the unprecedented phone call.

"Hello Mycroft," Sherlock's voice greeted. So the John calling theory was ruled out.

"Brother dear, so unexpected of you to call," Mycroft stated. He had to admit he was a little shaky with concern over the reason for this call, and he tried to hide it by sounding mildly annoyed. Sherlock had actually interrupted an important meeting, so Mycroft had every right to be annoyed. But more than anything he was curious. What was this all about?

"Yes, well John was pestering me and this was the only way I could get him to shut up and leave me alone. He said that you'd want to hear from me now that I'm home, but I assume you're about to contradict that statement by castigating me for interrupting one of your little séances."

So John was behind this; he'd instructed Sherlock to call Mycroft to let him know he'd been discharged? But John knew him well enough by now to expect him to know everything even before he did. Mycroft did know that Sherlock was home, but did he also want to hear from his brother's own mouth how things were going? As much as he loathed to admit it, he did. Listening to Sherlock pettily insult him was immensely reassuring.

"First of all, never once have I participated in anything that could be considered a séance. And secondly, John was correct: I'm enjoying this little conversation we're having."

"It's a lot easier to lie over the phone than in person," Sherlock stated, suggesting that Mycroft's previous statement was false.

"It's also equally difficult to tell the truth in either situation."

"Why are you suddenly going all philosophical? I just got out of hospital, my brain can't handle such rhetorical nonsense."

"Sherlock, your brain is in perfect working order. Well, by that I mean it's no worse than it used to be. Stop trying to change the subject."

"I didn't change the subject. And while I appreciate the insult—really, some of your best work—I'd love to get this over with so I can return to scraping my life back together."

"Get what over with?" Mycroft questioned.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "What do people typically do in these situations?"

"Based on the minimal knowledge I possess on this topic, I'm going to begin by asking you how you're feeling."

"That's the best you've got? That's ridiculous."

"Okay, how about I tell you that I'm happy for you."

"What? Did I win an award?"

"No, but I assume your liberation must feel somewhat like obtaining a prize."

"You're correct. I haven't felt so relieved to leave a place since I left our house for university."

"Mummy and Dad aren't that bad," Mycroft said, already doubting his statement a little bit.

"That's debatable."

"You do have a point. After all, their combined genes created you."

"And you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Fair enough. Anyways, remind me again why you called in the first place? Arguing with you tends to wipe out my short-term memory." This was a lie, but Mycroft knew John had wanted him to call so they could have some sentimental, brotherly heart-to-heart. While he would usually scorn the very suggestion, today he felt like he needed some catharsis.

"John made me."

"And why do you think he did such a thing?"

"He's probably sick of my company."

"No."

"He wanted me out of the room so he could watch some stupid show without me commentating."

"No."

"Sentiment?"

"Warmer."

"Brotherly bonding?"

"Even warmer, but I'm going to butt in here or we'll be here all day." Mycroft took a deep breath and braced himself for the confession he was about to make. "Sherlock, it's a great relief for me to know that you're home and healthy. Hearing your voice right now is much preferred to reading a text message."

"Well, I can't exactly type very quickly or accurately in my current state."

"Understandable." Mycroft had almost forgotten about Sherlock's scarred fingers and the simple things he wouldn't be able to do or would have to relearn. "You're probably laughing at me right now for giving in to emotional mushiness, but I meant what I said earlier."

"Which part? You talk an awful lot."

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. He'd made his intentions quite clear, and Sherlock was clearly trying to steer him away from the topic. They never talked like this, and neither of them was used to it. Mycroft felt like he'd had his skin stripped away, leaving him dangerously unprotected.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I'm attempting to express my happiness regarding your homecoming, and you're resolutely denying me the opportunity."

"Yes, you must be glad to finally be unburdened of an infirm little brother and able to return to ruling the world full-time. I won't be bothering you by almost dying anytime soon. You're welcome."

"Dammit Sherlock! Why won't you just let me tell you that I love you?!"

Mycroft's train of thought stopped in its tracks, and he stood silently clutching the phone to his ear, panting. What the hell did he just say? Mycroft hadn't said those words to anybody since he was a young boy and his parents had practically demanded it from him. Did he really feel this way? How long had he been holding back those words? He didn't know. But now that he'd said it, he felt a weight lifted from his chest.

There was no other word to describe his feelings towards his little brother. Sherlock would always be his to protect and shield from the horrors of the outside world. Just because Mycroft had been miserably defeated in this duty once didn't mean he'd ever stop trying. The two of them had spent essentially their entire lives together and had endured thick and thin. Mycroft and Sherlock were bound not only by shared genes, but by experience and hardship. So maybe they constantly bickered and insulted each other, it was just a silly game they played. Knowing he had Sherlock offered consolation in Mycroft's often desolate life. Sherlock was a crucial piece of Mycroft's life that he wasn't sure he could ever live without. By all definitions of the word, that was love.

"Sherlock, are you still there?" Mycroft asked, the phone having gone silent after his confession a few moments ago.

"Yes."

"While my delivery was a tad brash, I meant what I said."

"I'm... touched." Sherlock hesitated, but Mycroft knew he struggled with admitting his feelings just as much, if not more, than Mycroft did. The fact that he'd said so much as that was incredibly meaningful.

"This is usually the part where you would say, 'I love you too,' but I understand if you're not willing to go that far. I can be quite the irksome prick, and you've no obligation to reciprocate my confession."

"I think I've just overdosed on sentimentality. I'm going to hang up before I pass out."

"Okay, Sherlock. Please listen to John; you'll still be recovering for quite a while, and his medical experience is unsurpassed by any of your other immediate acquaintances."

"John is much more than an acquaintance, he's my friend," Sherlock defended. Mycroft himself didn't have many of either, so the distinction was inconsequential. But John was definitely the best friend Sherlock could ever hope for; they were very lucky to have found each other.

"Of course. Get well soon."

Mycroft hung up after his somewhat cliché well-wishing. That was undoubtedly the first time he'd ever been so open with his little brother. Thinking about it now that it was over, they'd been missing out. Sometimes Mycroft felt so bottled-up with stress, he felt like his head would pop off like a champagne cork. Meaningful conversation such as this was a way to let the strife seep out in a much more controlled manner. It certainly beat drowning his sorrows in cake and whiskey.

Mycroft returned to his desk and sat down. He really should return to his video conference and apologise for the interruption, but his heart wasn't in it. His professional colleagues were unaware of the specifics of Sherlock's condition, just that Mycroft had taken the occasional day's leave because of illness in the family. They probably assumed it was an ailing mother or father on death's door. The truth would surely make them even more sympathetic, but Mycroft didn't want their pity. If he was honest with himself, what he really wanted was to march over to Baker Street to share in the joy of Sherlock's return. But he and John deserved this day to be alone together without literal Big Brother watching them. He knew when he wouldn't be welcome, and wouldn't let his selfishness get in the way of two best friends revelling in their newfound freedom.

Instead, he stood and made his way to his bedroom. In the back of his bedside table, hidden beneath a clutter of worthless papers, he'd hidden a family photo album. If anyone knew he kept this so close, his reputation for stoicism and anti-sentimentality would be ruined. He perched on the side of the bed and caressed the cover, on which lay a picture of a seven-year-old Mycroft clutching a bundle of blankets. He smiled, remembering fondly the day that had changed his life forever. He idly flipped through the pages, recalling all the nonsense that had gone on in the Holmes household. Sherlock had been such an innocent but troublesome little boy, and Mycroft his stern minder from day one.

He wished he could go back in time to when things were so much simpler. To an era before Sherlock's life had been irreversibly ruined. Despite all the power Mycroft possessed, things slipped through his defences. However desperately he wanted to stop them, some demons were simply beyond his reach. But one silver lining shone through the masses of darkness: this ordeal finally allowed him to break down the walls that stood between him and Sherlock. It cemented their brotherhood.