Author's note: Let's go back in time for a while. Shall we? This happens right at the beginning before Mycroft has a chance to speak with Mary, if you are wondering. This one is a bit sentimental (again, how disgusting) but some action will follow soon. Promised.

Chapter 4: To Loneliness I Follow You

Day One after the shooting

It has been years ago that Mycroft Holmes out of a mood had watched "The Green Mile", the movie with a name taken from the long way prisoners sentenced to death had to walk between their cell and their last minutes in life. Mycroft had not enjoyed it. Far too sentimental. But now, walking down the corridor to the lonely cell at its end, he felt like one of these doomed men.

Iceman. Fuck the shit. While he pretended he was without feelings Mycroft clearly was not. And it was disgusting: Physical pain caused by emotion – whoever had invented that should be stoned to death.

He took a last deep breath before motioning the guard to open the door. Prepared for anything: Fury. Anger. Mocking. Even Tears. But not the loneliness that was seeping out of the darkened cell.

"Don't linger outside, Mycroft. What do you want?"

The words meant to be spoken in spite sounded hollow and empty, like a robot stripped of his former humanity.

"Brother dear." Mycroft stepped into the cell, whishing for his umbrella to steady himself. But he had to leave that at the door. Even he was not allowed to carry a potential weapon into a prison.

Sherlock was dressed like he had been the evening before, only shoes, coat and belt were missing. His face was far too pale and the way he hugged his own body spoke of the exhaustion and devastation his brother was feeling. Unlike Mycroft Sherlock had never been able to hide his feelings. He was like an open book for those who knew him even though he could fool anyone else.

"If you have come to scold me: Spare yourself. I don't want to hear it."

Mycroft sat next to his brother. The cell was empty, only a hard bed was in it and a hole in the floor to be used as urinal. Nothing was there for a prisoner to harm himself. Good. That was one thing he had never trusted his brother with, Sherlock had a tendency to be a danger to himself. The drugs had only been one way to destroy the younger man. Now Sherlock had proven his tendency of self-harm again – and this time properly. Mycroft felt his brother's eyes on him, dark orbs above hollow cheeks, blue circles were under Sherlock's eyes and every spark had left them.

"You ask yourself why I did what I did. One thing you can't deduce about me, never could: I am a killer." Sherlock laughed but again sounded hollow.

"No, you are not."

"I have shot a man."

"You regret it now."

Again Sherlock laughed. This time he sounded more sincere. "No Mycroft. There might be many things I regret, but this is not one of them. I did what I did intentionally. I chose to do it. I decided and I knew the consequences."

"Did you, now?" Mycroft felt a knot in his throat and he had to swallow hard. How he longed to cry. But he could not allow himself any weakness. The brain mattered more than the heart, his brain he had to use not his feelings for his stupid little...

"Don't deny me the right to say the truth Mycroft. You know I chose it. I had to protect them: My friends and even you. Magnussen would have used everything he knew to destroy us, everyone bit by bit."

"Whom? He would have destroyed whom exactly?" Mycroft tried to find his inner strength again, needed to focus. The brain mattered, only the brain.

"It does no longer matter, brother mine. I knew the price, now I am willing to pay. What is your decision? Prison or the MI6 mission?" Did Sherlock sound frightened or was it just his own fear Mycroft heard in his brother's voice?

"It is no longer my decision. I can do nothing..." And suddenly Mycroft's eyes burned. Shit. The cell seemed darker than it already was. Mycroft tried to concentrate on the pale dust reflecting in the light of one single lamp far above the door.

"We better say farewell then." Sherlock stood up, bringing himself into a pose of clear dismissal. A forced smile was on his lips. "Even if 'fare well' might be the wrong term in my case. Don't look like that. I know I'm going to die. I never expected to leave Magnussen's house alive. Not after I pulled the gun and... It... It is alright now. Everyone is safe. It is fine. I am fine."

"Sherlock..."

With forced strides Sherlock walked to the door and started banging against it until the guard opened the heavy steel trapping them inside. "My brother intends to go!"

"Mister Holmes?" The guard looked insecurely from one brother to another.

"All right... all right..." Mycroft knew when he was defeated by his brother. "If you would have only let me help..."

"Just go."

His feet felt heavy as he walked towards the door, away from his brother not sure if he would ever be able to speak to him alone again. His position was in danger and so was every possibility he had ever had to safe his brother. And Mycroft felt like marionette entangled in his own strings. There was no longer a way to deny it. Stupid. Stupid. And always because of Sherlock.

"Oh and Mycroft: Please tell mummy I try to phone more often from now on."

Mycroft nodded, it was the closest Sherlock would ever get to tell their parents how much he loved them. And somehow this was even sadder than the facts themselves: Sherlock was a cold blooded murderer and he would die because of that. His brother would die fighting on a mission or using drugs, it was easy to get them in prison even high security ones. And was there really a difference between these two when you have failed the only person that had ever mattered? Mycroft had to steady his strides.

It was time for the meeting and Mycroft dreaded every second that would pass till then. Death or death? He would try to buy some more time, to investigate, to speak with the Watsons, with his parents. But in the end he would have to decide. Death or death? Mycroft would have to speak the sentence over his brother. Or fall himself. What kind of choice was that?