*The Day My Brother*

by: WhiteGloves

"There are some things we can never assign to oblivion,

memories we can never rub away" -HM

The awaited encounter!

Thank you for reading another chapter of

The Day My Brother...

3: Disappeared

It was characteristically cold in London again with the night finally reaching its peak, and the hour of when any proper people were least on the street

Sherlock Holmes never shy away from the hour, still walking on the dark side street, both hands jammed inside the thick pocket of his black coat, his bundle of scarf covering most of his neck; his eyes as sharp as they can be with a silent dark glint that appeared most intimidating to those who saw him. Though he may have been like that on some occasions, tonight was different. It was clear detective was out on a very serious scent, for why else would he look so grave and solemn as if the whole world was against him?

The detective paved his way to the 221B locked door and didn't bother with anyone till he was on his own doorstep. He took his keys from his pocket with a silent curt of eyebrows, pushed the black door opened and shut it after his back.

Going up the stairs, he quickly ascended to his rooms and didn't even wonder why the doors were left open as he reached the top. But he did slow his pace, suddenly becoming aware of the aroma of tea and lights coming from the living room where the television was also still on.

Obviously, someone else was waiting at home to monitor him finally, and to reprimand him.

Because apparently his older brother could not. Sherlock shrugged the thought and doubled his pace in going up the stairs. As expected, John stirred from his chair as Sherlock came and both did not say a word as the detective removed his coat and scarf, and then put it on the rack. Seconds next, the telly was turned off as John stood up awkwardly and gestured at the kitchen table.

"Mrs. Hudson left you something on the counter. She said you're to eat it while it's hot, but you've no complaints about cold food before, right?"

Sherlock nodded without meeting his best friend's eyes. Silence.

John's eyebrow contracted. "Bitter cold outside? In June?"

Sherlock shook his dark suit next, leaving only his white shirt.

"Interesting case?" the doctor prompted now sounding on the edge.

Sherlock threw away the suit on the couch and unbuttoned his sleeves, still not answering. John also didn't move from the spot, his eyes boring on the detective. When it was apparent there was no exchange of words going to happen, John heaved a sigh and turned his heels with a shake of head—but then he turned around again, his eyes now hard.

"I forgot to tell you," it was with a most patient tone, "your brother's in the hospital with amnesia— it has been two days and you haven't even the decency to go visit him—" John's voice rose, "for godsake Sherlock—stop ignoring the man!" John's voice trembled as he spoke, his jaw lines set and teeth clenched.

"I'm not ignoring him." Sherlock said quite passively as he moved around the room to put his phone down the table near the window, "And he's not going anywhere."

"He can't go anywhere because he doesn't even know who he is! He needs you, Sherlock!"

"You say that but either me or anyone, it's as broad as it's long."

"What—?"

"All he needs is someone to tell him who he is," Sherlock abruptly replied, taking a side glance at his friend with his sharp eyes, "You've called our parents, you know him—give him his file, let him read. I'm certain the Secret Service will only be too eager to provide information." John stared at Sherlock with such disbelief, the detective had to lean down the chair between them and grip its back—why can't they understand—? He saw John breathe something like curse and was forced to continue, "Mycroft is a thinking machine. Give him all the information he needs, he'll absorb it and he'll figure it all out."

"That—that's not—" John tried as he saw something behind the detective's dark eyes that made him pull himself and heave a sigh again, a hand passing through his face, "The doctor said his memory could improve if we talk to him—he's calmed down, now Sherlock and he's trying to understand! He will remember if only you—"

Sherlock straightened with such a force and turned his back and face the window side, his hands on his waist. The next time he turned, his face was flushed in strain with eyes flashing—

"Do you know how to read an MRI because clearly you're lacking some basic brain pathology skills. It showed his brain's damaged on the temporal lobe— he not only won't remember who he is, he will have remotely no idea of whose around him—so it doesn't matter if he sees me or not—not even another blow in the head can save him—this isn't your telly dramas—he won't remember!"

"But at least visit him—try, Sherlock!"

"I've no interest in him when he's got no wits to display—" he threw harshly—

John's hand formed fists. "Damn it, if you were my brother I would have punched you in the face—"

"Why are you defending him?"

"He's sick, Jesus!"

"Like half the world, you mean?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"The matter is I don't need you telling me when I know what I'm doing!"

"Exactly what are you doing?"

"Boys!"

Both men glanced fiercely at the landlady's direction who came up in their room in her bathrobe with a perplexed look on her face.

"The neighbors are still asleep, what are you two rowing about?"

"John's having a row." Sherlock turned his back from the two and slipped inside his room while John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged looks. Few minutes later, the detective came out again now wearing a purple shirt he was fixing the collar from the back. He walked past the two towards the couch where he took his black suit and wore it again.

"They're going to take him tomorrow." Came John's voice next. Sherlock paused for a moment as he pulled the suit around his chest. When he still didn't say anything, John went on more calmly, "The Secret Service—The Cabinet won't have it. Lady Smallwood already made arrangements. They couldn't get a hold of you so she spoke to me. Your parents think its best too, or at least, they were personally contacted by someone higher than the Cabinet… to explain the situation. It's a national risk, so if you want to have a say about it, you better do it quick."

"Oh, I have a say about it." Sherlock turned to the hanger and slid himself on his dark coat, eyes now traveling to John he continued, "They better do something about their security in the first place." He gave the doctor a meaningful look, before trudging past him again, out of the room onto the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson quickly glanced at the doctor, before running after Sherlock already disappearing on the first landing. "Sherlock— where are you going?"

"Out." He opened the door—

"At this hour?" she called but he slammed the door shut, "But it's midnight!"

The last he saw Mycroft was when his brother woke up after the surgery. He watched Mycroft become aware of his consciousness and before the nurses could ask if he knew who he was, Mycroft was already unstoppable with words—

"What are we doing here? Where am I? Where's my umbrella?" every after five minutes before Sherlock fled the scene.

Then John said it was bad after that. Sherlock couldn't know. He didn't come visit for a good two days. But the good doctor reported, albeit gingerly, how Mycroft had perfected asking so many questions and staying silent at the same time. The doctors evaluated the severity of his amnesia and out of ten, he got two. He got Princess Diana's name correctly and the date of her death but not who his husband was. Mycroft didn't remember who he was, nor five hours later, nor the next day. That was when the doctors told everyone to prepare for the worst.

But a day after, Mycroft had calmed down after speaking with his parents. And he asked questions. How he was seamlessly putting things together but never say out loud what he thought of it. And his migraine was worse.

And he not only not remembered the events prior to the explosion, but the very essence of his M. John tried explaining to him the nature of the explosion when asked but Mycroft had looked so horrified that the doctor decided against continuing. He then urged Sherlock to go and explain because no other person was suited for the job but the younger Holmes refused to come.

He refused to meet his injured brother who for the life of him, Sherlock was sure never missed him. Visits to patients with amnesia seems to be pointless. More so to a man he's known all his life. Of course, John was angry, Sherlock was also angry and his parents were concerned. The only person seemed unaffected was after all, Mycroft.

Still, there was a mystery of finding himself inside the patient's room that night, when he couldn't shake it off his head anymore and let his impulsiveness govern his stubbornness. He was Sherlock Holmes, even he was unaware of the surprises he could make. The guards made no attempt to stop him and he was sure to criticize them later when his eyes fell on his wounded brother and everything else on the outside world was forgotten.

Here he was, the spoils of the game.

Mycroft Holmes slept peacefully on the white bed with his white sheet, his face ashen with long, dried red gashes on his face, his whole forehead covered with bandage and his lips dry. There were some beads of sweat on the side of his eyes and his right arm was still wrapped in blue cast around his neck but apart from that he looked comfortable.

And he was breathing easily. The man slept soundly, and he remained undisturbed for a length of time, his body requiring such rest after the strenuous days of ordeal.

Sherlock stood on the farthest, darkest corner of the room in case the man suddenly woke up from his well-earned slumber and get alarmed. He didn't want to disturb his older brother than he already was. So, he stayed there, silent. For hours he did without fail. Thinking…

Then his brother's eyes fluttered open without warning sometime past midnight, the grey eyes stared straight into the ceiling for good ten seconds before it blinked, then the head moved as the eyes gathered the semidarkness surrounding it—searching— till it stopped on one spot mechanically, as if he sensing someone was also there.

Sherlock watched his every move, until Mycroft looked his way in the next beat, and just stared at him as if he was some object of interest pinned on the wall with arms crossed; his grey features not showing recognition or alarm. Sherlock stared back at him, wondering, till he figured the man had no sense to speak first at all. So unlike Mycroft who'd be ranting incessantly of all his protocols and security locks and controls. This comparison didn't make his mood any better and made him sigh.

"Brothermine." Sherlock broke the serenity of the silence, his eyes ever watchful of the changes on his amnesiac brother. Mycroft managed to blink once, eyes boring on the younger Holmes.

"Brother?" he managed to croak in the ringing silence that followed, almost as if surprised at the notion and this made things harder for Sherlock to swallow as he tightened his crossed arms. "Oh… I see."

Then a blank expression clouded his face, something unfamiliar and frightening that left Sherlock looking down the floor, uncertain.

The old Mycroft would have raged at being attacked in the middle of the night, but this man here seemed unable to distinguish between night and day, let alone, recognize his own brother. He did see Mycroft's scans and the readings didn't do well to appease his troubled mind. Of all things to happen… to merely forget was an irony to them brothers, and now this.

But Sherlock looked up again, unwilling to give in. Mycroft was there. He had to believe it. So he pushed himself away from the wall and took steps towards the bed where the harmless patient laid idly by, waiting for the visitor to evaporate it seemed. At that respect, Mycroft was the same.

"How are you feeling?" he asked once upon him and was able to attract his older brother's attention. The older Holmes seemed to decide how he was going to respond or have any ideas of the matter at all so he shook his head quietly. Sherlock pressed his lips and nodded.

"You're not quite the chatter box I saw the other day."

That seemed to fuel something in the man's eyes as the events of his awakening juggled fresh memories.

"So you were there? I thought I remember seeing you… I don't know, everything is in a blur."

"That's alright." Sherlock paused again, "Everything will be in its proper state soon. Don't stress on it."

"I feel the same." Mycroft seemed ready to sleep again as he gave out a long sigh, "My mind is in a haze… it lacks a lot of things… but it knows how to calm." He opened his eyes and up to Sherlock. "So you are my brother? I am sorry, I'm saying it a lot, but what's your name?"

Sherlock nodded slowly as everything felt surreal. "I'm Sherlock. Seven years your junior."

"Oh?" he blinked, surprised, "I thought it was a girl's name. I thought it was weird the way they say it. I gathered I have a younger sister and a brother from the way they—parents— named Sherlock and Eurus… I thought perhaps she… and she hasn't visited. Perhaps we are not on good terms?" he sounded doubtful, even a little troubled that Sherlock was compelled to answer quickly.

"It's not the case."

"Then I hope nothing bad has happened to her?"

Sherlock stood there, struck for reply. "She's fine."

Mycroft averted his glassy eyes to the ceiling, "That is good… it's enough of me as one tragedy in the family." He smiled at the disconcerted younger brother. "On closer inspection, you couldn't be anything but my brother."

"Really?"

"I've looked myself in the mirror many times today and noticed we have the same jawline, eyes and cheekbones so I assumed…" he looked up not for confirmation of his little deduction but with apologetic eyes Sherlock was surprised to see. "… I'm sorry, I'm always like this… I notice everything." He sighed heavily.

But Sherlock was too overwhelmed—and couldn't take it—the apologies, the way he spoke—a different person as a whole— but his mind, his brilliant mind was there—as was his soul—

"You're capable of so much more." Sherlock insisted, his throat stricken.

"I see. So it does run in the family?" Mycroft nodded slowly too, expressionless. "Our parents said something about you being… a detective of some sort. That's why you didn't come. I assumed also we weren't very close." he said it in a matter of fact tone and Sherlock became worried that his mygdalae—that which governs the emotions in the brain—was also damaged. Not that Mycroft had some use of it before. Then he remembered his brother's heartfelt expression of apologies and this made him sigh inwardly. Mycroft struggled with his ribs as he tried to sit but Sherlock put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and turned towards the nearest chair.

"What makes you say so?" the younger Holmes quietly pulled the chair towards the bed and sat there with interest in his eyes forming. There was no reason to worry the patient… because it seems Mycroft could still tell what was on his mind. He was still excellent in reading people.

"Your absence this morning despite your older brother's condition." Mycroft said simply, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's who never broke away. He wanted to know more of the depths his brother had lost and retained. "It is a given. I did wonder why my siblings were never present."

The younger Holmes pressed a tight smile than turned upside down as he gazed at his older brother. He couldn't remember Eurus at all, the way he couldn't remember everything else. Was that why he was a sight to behold then? He looked so light, so unburdened… and so empty.

"You don't remember anything at all?" he asked kindlier.

"Retrograde amnesia…. Doctor said." Mycroft explained as if reading from a book, "somewhere in my cerebral cortex, my temporal lobe has been damaged, rendering my inability to access my own autobiography… but I do remember an umbrella before a loud explosion. I assumed I had a terrible accident."

"It was terrible…" Sherlock looked down Mycroft's broken arm. "I am sorry. I've been trying to follow their tracks… to wherever it leads."

"Who?"

"Your attacker."

Mycroft considered again, remembering he was talking to a brother whose supposed job was to be a detective. In the end, he nodded his head.

"Well, I'm sure you will do a great job."

Sherlock hesitated, "If I had this wouldn't have happened."

"You can't control everything. This could have happened to anyone."

"Yes, but not on my watch."

Mycroft then gave him one of his penetrating gazes, one that examines, reads and sees through another that Sherlock was sure Mycroft was just about to remember everything—but he didn't.

"Your source of guilt has no basis for me." He offered kindly, "I don't remember anything. I suggest you do it too, Sherlock. Only then can we both moved on."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before chuckling quietly.

"Why are you the one comforting me?" he asked.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the younger brother.

"Isn't that what I do?"

An abundance of memory came flooding Sherlock then and for a moment he was lost in his mind palace: of the memory of his older brother always there when needed, as a child when Eurus deteriorated, as a teenager when the two of them only understood each other and insulted the majority for mediocrity of brain, to adulthood with his addiction that left him a danger to himself, up to the present as a man working his own keep—wasn't Mycroft always…

But then again, Sherlock always knew.

Mycroft couldn't.

And this made the night heavier as he placed a hand on his older sibling and tapped him gently.

"Yes. That's what you do, and memory or not, that's one thing you don't need to doubt about yourself."

Perhaps a glimmer of something familiar awoke inside Mycroft's eyes. Or perhaps it was the trick of the light. But the older Holmes smiled in gratitude, something Sherlock had never seen before, or perhaps because he wasn't looking. Or perhaps because he hasn't done anything in Mycroft's life time that made his brother appreciate him, he couldn't be sure. But it was there.

"That is nice. Thank you."

Sherlock prodded his tired brother to sleep and spent the rest of the night seated beside his bed, back flat on the chair, left hand covering half his face and wondering, why he didn't want to go in the first place. Mycroft would never be a stranger to him, that now much was clear. He, Sherlock, would be.

So in this respect, who actually had the bigger lost? What actually was the string that disappeared?

Sherlock disappeared the whole morning the next day nor was he there when John was called by Mycroft's secretary to see him off. As what he had told the detective last night, it had been decided where Mycroft was staying for his safety and the safety of everyone around him.

John couldn't believe Sherlock was fine with everything, though in retrospect, Sherlock would really not have a chance seeing as he has no guardianship rights being a well-known security concern on his own. The consulting detective knew that of course and made no attempt whatsoever to pull anything—he knew what was best for his brother. But still, this act of not caring was already getting on his nerves.

He was already inside the moving sedan after a short goodbye to his baby girl when Anthea's phone rang. Whatever was said on the other end didn't bid good news. It took her seconds to inform John that Mycroft had disappeared in the vicinity of the hospital, clearly after being briefed of where he was going to be transferred.

He was just there seated perfectly well on his bed talking to his doctor when I left to check security, the representative from the Secret Service insisted.

John was quick to dial Sherlock's number as the car drove all the way to the hospital. That was one of the reasons why he also wanted Sherlock involved, for things to be secured. Now it was too late.

"Sherlock, do you have Mycroft?" was the first thing he said when the consulting detective answered.

"What's happened?" was the urgent respond and Sherlock sounded so alarmed John didn't have to doubt him, "I'm in Bart's, about to come out now—what's happened?"

John pressed a hand on his temple. "He was just inside his room, prepared for the transport and then he began asking his men questions—that's what the man there said—"

"What sort of questions?"

"Uh… about where they were going and why he couldn't stay with any family member. The person clearly had no idea who he's dealing with and told Mycroft of safety and national security and all that—"

"Dammit." Sherlock's voice was harsh, "That's why I told you about security concerns! Those idiots! I have Wiggins and the others surveying the area too, they must've seen something. I'll get in touch—inform me if anything else happens—"

"Where are you headed now?"

"You know the answer to that."

And Sherlock hung up, leaving John wondering just what was running in both the Holmes' brother's mind. He was so absorbed by his own thoughts that it took him a moment to realize that Anthea was calling him. When he did look up, a concerned secretary was looking at him.

"What?" he thought he couldn't sound more alarmed than Sherlock.

"We should not rule out abduction." She said with a strained tone. "We've been receiving threats since the explosion, Dr. Watson. That's why we were in a hurry to transfer Mr. Holmes…"

John gave the lady a hard look, before dialing Sherlock's number again and cursing under his breath. His friend wanted developments, not late news.

"Shit…"

-To be Continued-

A/N: Sherlock hasn't realized it yet, but soon he will!

Things couldn't get any interesting! Mycroft gone rouge!

Sherlock on the scent! We never should stop the chasing!

*screams for Season 5*

Apologies for lateness! I got caught up with things!

Will update... soon ^^''

Thank you for Reading!