Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.

Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological hero's, while trying to keep each other safe.

Filia – Chapter 4

The knock on the door of his house was frantic and immediately followed by panicked banging on the windows. Mycroft's phone was in his hand at once, ready to dial his head of security, as he leaped up from his chair in front of the fireplace and made his way to the door. He checked the peephole first, then, with a sigh, opened up.

"Sherlock."

"You have to let me in!"

Mycroft was careful to only keep the door slightly ajar, preventing Sherlock from brushing past him.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock anxiously looked over his shoulder. He was out of breath and the collar of his coat was dishevelled.

"Why your hurry then?"

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "Come on, let me in!"

Mycroft held his brother's gaze. "Did you take anything?"

"No!"

He knew all of Sherlock's faces and this was not a lie. Whatever else his brother had been up to, it didn't include substance abuse this time and for Mycroft, that was a big relief. "Come in."

Sherlock gratefully slipped past him, threw his coat and scarf on the hat stand and made his way into the living room to sit in Mycroft's chair. Mycroft chose not to sit, but placed himself in front of Sherlock, folding his arms across his chest. "Why is Lestrade after you?"

"He thinks I've taken something."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed irritably. "It's been a long case. Involved some drug dealers." He cast a filthy look at Mycroft. "As if you don't know all about it. I'm sure you've had me followed since the start of it. Anyway, I didn't take anything." He held out a shaking hand to gesture with. "Lestrade is just paranoid."

"Yet you're trembling," Mycroft pointed out. "Are you ill?"

"Like I said: it was a long case. John's at his sister's." Sherlock looked slightly bashful for a moment. "You know."

A flicker of amusement crossed Mycroft's face. "Ah. So because of dear Dr Watson's regrettable absence, you have taken to starving and depriving yourself of sleep during your work. Just like the old days?"

Sherlock didn't deign his caustic words with a reply and moodily stared into the fireplace.

"And Detective Inspector Lestrade took the physical effects of your mistreatment of yourself as symptoms of substance abuse."

"Obviously. He wanted to test me."

"And why, pray tell me, little brother, did you not oblige him? According to you, you were in the right."

"I am in the right," Sherlock hissed. "But he has no right or reason to question me."

"He has every right and every reason, as you well know," Mycroft pointed out sternly.

"He would've called John."

"So?"

"I don't want…" Sherlocked hesitated. "He shouldn't … I don't want him to come back for me."

"You don't want him to come back to take care of you," Mycroft corrected, studying his brother. "You don't want him to give you medical assistance or see you weakened."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I remember you once told me that heroes didn't exist. Why are you determined to make yourself into one for his benefit?"

Sherlock bristled and got unsteadily to his feet. "If you're just going to be your unbearable self, I'll see myself out."

"You wouldn't make it to the door," Mycroft said calmly. "You've solved your case and you've used your last reserve of energy and adrenaline to evade Lestrade and come here. So sit down and stop being so childish."

Sherlock obeyed the first, but not the second order. He crossed his arms and all but pouted. "I'm not weak."

"How many days haven't you eaten?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. Counted. "Seven, eight. Depends on your definition of eat, I suppose."

"And how long since you've slept?"

"Had to wait for a lab test five days ago. Dozed off for a few hours."

Mycroft sighed. "Move to the cough. I'll get the medical supplies."

Sherlock scowled at him. "I don't need an IV."

"Your other options are to either eat a complete meal right now or go to the hospital. And if you don't wish to comply with any of these suggestions," he placed a menacing emphasis on that last word, "I can always call Dr Watson to hear his medical opinion."

"You wouldn't!"

"Try me."

There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock attempted to stare his brother down, but he was proven unsuccessful. With some effort, he reluctantly got to his feet and deposited himself a few feet further on Mycroft's couch, taking extra care to make sure his shoes touched the expensive leather.

Mycroft's position in various branches of the Secret Service had required him to have medical skills and his first aid kit had been mostly used on his younger brother over the years. Sherlock's dangerous habits of starving himself during cases had led to fainting spells several times, followed by head injuries because of the falls. Previous efforts to make Sherlock eat after his metabolism had been idle for about a week had caused violent vomiting up of any food that made its way to his stomach, followed by hours of dry-heaving that even Mycroft didn't wish on his younger brother in order to teach him about proper nutrition habits. An IV was the most comfortable option.

Sherlock glared at the needle, but did extend his hand to Mycroft. It was proof of the misery of his current condition that he was willing to be compliant. Or perhaps it was just proof that Mycroft's threats of alerting John had worked.

Mycroft deftly inserted the needle and Sherlock didn't even wince. He hung the IV bag on a spare hat stand that served as a standard, while Sherlock wearily laid back against the cushions.

"I'll call Lestrade tomorrow morning. I'm sure I can persuade him that this was a misunderstanding."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Still fighting my battles for me."

Mycroft smiled wryly, remembering the conversation they'd had years ago. "I wouldn't have to if you learned the art of diplomacy."

"At least I didn't get arrested this time."

"True," Mycroft conceded. "You are learning. John has been a good influence."

Sherlock gave a quick, genuine smile. He opened his eyes again and the smile turned into a grin. "He's my Helen, Mycroft."

Mycroft laughed. It was ages since they'd shared a common joke, any connection that wasn't forced or uncomfortable. "I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear that."

Sherlock chuckled, before turning serious. "I was wrong back then, you know." Mycroft waited and allowed his brother to finish, watching as Sherlock picked absentmindedly at the piece of tape that held the IV needle in its place. "You're not Agamemnon." He took a deep breath. "You're Hektor."

The silence rang through Mycroft's large home. Mycroft mentally ran through the final paces of the Iliad. Hektor. The noblest and best of his family, defender of his city, doomed to perish on the battle field. Braver than his brother, destined to die bloody.

"I am still the coward, Paris," Sherlock continued. "The one who ruins it for the family, so to speak. The black sheep. While you're the golden boy, the one who has to save Troy. And sometimes you can." He made eye-contact for the first time, but only for a moment. "Look at tonight. Saved me once again. And you'll continue doing that, because you've got those outdated notions of filia, arête or virtus on your mind. I won't be able to repay that and in the end, it'll ruin you. You can't control it, Mycroft."

And Mycroft was suddenly reminded of that prison cell that had housed Moriarty for weeks, while his men had done their utmost to break him and to provide Mycroft with that control he was desperate for. In the end, they'd had to let him go and perhaps their exchange of information would turn out to be a Trojan horse. Do not ever trust the Greeks, even if they come bearing gifts. And Moriarty was definitely Odysseus in this metaphor.

He shook his head and dispelled the thoughts from the current scene. Sherlock could not know this. He gently placed his hand on his brother's, stilling his fiddling with the IV. "You've got your Helen."

"It won't last."

"I'll make sure it will." Sherlock looked up at him and for a second, Mycroft saw the pure, adulated admiration that had characterized his younger brother's relation with him in the first few years of his life. Then it faded and was replaced by scepticism. Mycroft held up his hand. "You should get some rest, Sherlock. There's no need to be anxious at this moment. My security is infallible and I could send a surveillance team to keep an eye on John if you'd like."

Sherlock gave a curt nod and Mycroft excused himself to make the call. Sherlock, in the meantime, turned on his side, careful not to pull the IV line. He kicked off his shoes, drew up his legs and assumed the same foetal position he was used to taking at his own flat. Mycroft's house was deadly quiet, except for the crackling of the fire. It was oddly soothing and it didn't take long before Sherlock found his eyelids drooping shut.

Mycroft returned only once. He draped a blanket over his brother, who only awake partially and stared up at Mycroft in the blank confusion of those not fully conscious. When Mycroft tried his best to retreat, Sherlock suddenly and strongly grabbed his wrist. His gaze was wild and agitated. Mycroft was painfully reminded of the days his brother had still been an addict. "I wouldn't leave you outside the gates alone. Not like Deiphobos or Athena, who tricked Hektor, while Priam and Hekabe looked on. I wouldn't."

"I know you wouldn't," Mycroft told him calmly and clearly, carefully loosening Sherlock's grip on his wrist and placing his hand back on the couch. "And he won't get me. Or you. Or John."

But Sherlock's eyes had closed again and he'd dropped off to sleep. Mycroft straightened up slowly. He'd often wondered why Hektor had chosen to fight Achilles, even though he could've run. It was the supreme example of courage conquering fear. For the first time, he thought he might understand how Hektor wouldn't be able to live with himself if he'd gone back inside the citadel. Just like that, Mycroft realized he wouldn't be able to live with himself either if it was his mistake that would allow Moriarty to triumph over his brother.

TBC

A/N: Difficult chapter, this one. There'll probably be one more. Do you guys still like it?