This is the chapter that served as a spark for the whole story, I loved writing Mycroft so much in this episode I decided it deserved a proper story, he will be making more appearances before this story ends I'm sure. Please let me know what you think.

Three hours later and Sherlock had skimmed through all of John's medical texts on cancer and innumerable articles online and he could still not decide on a perfect cause of action. He was feeling jumpy like he needed a fix and he knew John really would not like that so he did the dreaded thing, he texted his brother.

I need your help to find the world's best oncologist, fast. SH

What happened, do you feel ill? MH

Of course not stop hovering. SH

John has cancer SH

I can't figure out what to do SH

Your punctuation is slipping, I'm coming over. MH

Punctuation is boring, just advice re oncologist SH

Punctuation is indicative. I will advise you when I get there. Where is John? MH

Locked in his room. SH

He left SH

There were no more texts after that but ten minutes later Mycroft came stomping up the stairs with his umbrella as always clicking a rhythm beside him. How he had managed to open the door Sherlock didn't know until he heard Mrs Hudson's steps on the stairs along with his brother and remembered that he had disabled the alarm again.

That at least meant that he didn't have to get up and let Mycroft in Mrs Hudson would do that and so he remained rooted to his chair, engrossed in his research. He has already looked into all the details of different kinds of bone cancer and their risks and problems that John had left out of his explanation. Now he is researching the possibility of the transfer of psychosomatic ailments between individuals.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was a little higher than usual as he walked into the room and straight over to where Sherlock was sitting by the window. "What are you doing Sherlock?" Mycroft asked in his usual detached voice but there was a hint of sternness there as well.

"I'm researching if it is possible for John's psychosomatic pain to transfer to my chest as a result of his actual cancerous illness. I have found no precedent so far" Sherlock states with his eyes still fixed on the screen.

Mycroft sat down opposite him and leaned his umbrella against the table. "Sherlock, stop it." He ordered. "You are both hurting, because he might die and that has you both scared and upset, it is not hard to understand…" Mycroft hesitated for a second… "Ah, well yes, I know it is for you but… John's probably in pain, and he's scared, that makes you scared because you might loosed him but you have to put that aside because he needs you."

Sherlock shook his head. "Emotional drivel, you don't believe in sentiment, and I don't get scared, or upset, at least not without chemical induction." Sherlock's voice was more convincing than Mycroft had really expected, but then he was Sherlock.

"That is not true, I never said I didn't believe in sentiment, merely that it isn't an advantage because it means people get hurt, hearts are broken. I believe I also told you it happens to everyone"

Mycroft could see Sherlock replaying this thought in his head and still he pushed forward because he felt that getting his brothers head into focus was paramount since his heart clearly was not.

"And you do get scared and upset… remember when you were four and you came home from school crying and proclaiming that you would never go back because the teachers were stupid because they wouldn't let you play with the chemistry equipment and the kids were cruel because they called you a freak because you were smarter than them and why had I always told you that you were stupid. I'm not sure who you were upset with, me, the kids or the teachers or our parents for putting you there in the first place but you were upset." Mycroft looked at his brother hesitantly.

"I was four years old" was Sherlock's only answer.

"Do I need to say more than Redbeard, you were ten then" Mycroft felt only the teeniest bit of guilt for bringing it up.

"Yes I was ten, and I may have been angry at myself for making a mistake and letting him play in the road but I wasn't upset. It was mummy who wanted to bury him in the back garden, not me" Sherlock retorted and there was something slightly petulant in his voice, actually reminiscent of his own ten year old self.

"You cried for weeks" Mycroft's voice was soft now.

"No I didn't" Sherlock snapped sounding angry now.

"Yes you did, just as you did when you were fifteen and you came home limping with a bruised cheek and you refused to tell any of us what had happened…"

"I didn't, Mycroft stop making things up." Sherlock shouted but there was a hint of panic in his voice that was so very unusual in the great detective.

"Sherlock, you delete it…" Mycroft sounded tired and not quite like himself as he stared across the table at his petulant brother. "Whenever something horrible happens to you, you delete it. Don't delete John Watson, he deserves better. You deserve better."

Sherlock shook his head vehemently making his long curls slap across his forehead, "I would never delete John, how can you even say that?" There was fury in his voice instead of petulance now.

In a rare moment of genuine sentiment which only happened with a very few people Mycroft felt genuinely guilty when he pulled his brother's heartstrings like those of a marionette puppet.

"Because you are down here researching excuses for your own pain while he is locked in his bedroom aggravating his illness by drinking himself into a stupor which will make his condition worse whether or not he is in fact taking pain medication which might combine with the alcohol to kill him or not. I know you care, but you are too self-absorbed to understand that if it was you who were sick John would be up there with you. He would hold your hand and feed you tea and do all the things that normal humans do, but more than anything he would make sure you didn't drink yourself to death or spent the whole night crying because your best friend prefers to do research on his computer instead of taking care of you."

Mycroft didn't know if he had gone too far. His heart was beating hard in his chest and he knew that in this moment when he was supposed to take care of two of the most important men in his life he had let sentiment get the better of him and he had rambled in anger.

When he looked at his brother, properly looked again, Sherlock had tears in his eyes, actual tears and Mycroft forced himself to retain his cool and retrace his steps to make things better again.

"I will make tea, you go and pick the lock, you are better at that than me." It was offered as an unspoken apology but he didn't know if Sherlock understood or cared and he couldn't help himself when he added "…and for gods sake get the alcohol away from him." Before he turned toward the kitchen to find the kettle and the teabags. He had never made tea in this kitchen before, John always did it when he came over, this was going to be a long night.