Thank God. A cloudy day with no storms, no bright sunlight; nothing to cause little Sherlock anymore discomfort. Mycroft closed his eyes against the gentle breeze flowing through the room from the open window. Sherlock sat by his side, also enjoying the cool breeze.

"Are you seeing your boyfriend today?" Sherlock whispered, smirking. There was the Sherlock Mycroft knew.

"A little later on," Mycroft whispered softly, "I can cancel if you want, though."

"Don't be ridiculous. I like Gavin," Sherlock whispered again. The brothers would probably speak in whispers all day to avoid making Sherlock feel worse. A few cloudy days were what they needed.

"His name is Gregory, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled. His brother only shrugged. "We might be able to finish that story today. I know it's only seven pm, but you can get ready, I'll finish the story and you can have an early night. It will be best for you to get as much sleep as possible…"

Mycroft looked over to the chair Sherlock had been sitting in. It was now vacated and Mycroft heard a door slam – accompanied by a grimace, of course – from upstairs. Sherlock had obviously sprinted to his room to get ready at the word 'story'.

Mycroft chuckled at his, often eccentric, little brother. He was quite pleased with his first attempt at writing a story for Sherlock; it had actually managed to hold his interest.

Five minutes later, Mycroft decided Sherlock should be dressed by then and headed to the little boy's room.

The brothers found themselves in the same situation as the six previous evenings. Sherlock was slightly more relaxed than he had been – which was good.

"Ready for the last chapter?" Mycroft smiled. Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft was in bed. He was rather weary after his visit to the crime scene and was taking the advice that Greg so often gave him – he was going to 'take it easy'.

An urgent knock on the door followed by Lestrade, John and Anderson barging into his room surprised him; his surprise soon turned to shock as he saw Lestrade's eye. "Gregory? What happened –?"

"I'm afraid we don't have time, Myc. Sherlock's…" Lestrade took a breath.

"Sherlock's been abducted…" John interjected. Mycroft sat bolt upright, shocked.

"What?"

"It was all my fault, Mr Holmes! He wouldn't have ignored his deductions if it wasn't for me!" Anderson panicked.

"So you're the worthless man who has made my brother ignore deductions? The one who taunts him." Mycroft's eyes narrowed to knife-edge sharpness.

"Yes." Came the simple reply.

"It is people like you who do not deserve help from my brother. I, in all honesty, cannot understand why he takes the abuse. But we have more urgent matters to attend. If someone could pass me my laptop, which is just on the desk; I'm afraid I have, somewhat, over-exerted myself today…"

"Oh, Myc." Lestrade sighed.

"I'm fine, Gregory. But I do require my laptop if I am to help you find my dear brother."

"Here you go, Mycroft," John stated plainly as he handed over the device filled with military secrets.

"Now… If I can pull up the CCTV for that area, we might be able to track the perpetrator to Sherlock's current location…" Mycroft muttered to no one in particular.

After a minute or two, which felt like lifetimes, Mycroft found the footage he was looking for and surveyed it carefully. "I have it. Sherlock was dragged into an unmarked police car; I'm tracking it through CCTV now."

"So you actually are the British Government!" Anderson gasped.

"I only occupy a minor –"

"Let's focus our priorities, Mycroft. No need to waste time on this idiot…"John interrupted.

"Hey!"

"Oh, shut up, Anderson," Lestrade sighed.

"There we are… An abandoned factory building on the outskirts of London; ten minutes' drive away. I will send you the address."

"Come on, let's go!" John called from the door before he ran to the police car which had brought them.

"He's picking up some bad habits from your brother, Myc. I'll see you tomorrow." Lestrade sighed before running after John with Anderson in tow.

"Make sure he's safe Gregory; his loss would break my heart…" Mycroft whispered to the empty room.

"Do you really think that, Myc.?" Sherlock questioned.

"Of course I do, brother mine. We are like the only humans in a world of goldfish; I'd be left all on my own, for a start."

"Good thing you aren't going to lose my then, isn't it," Sherlock smiled slightly.

"A very fortunate thing indeed, Sherlock."

"Who's there?!" Sherlock questioned, hearing footsteps echo through the damp room.

"Just me. I'm bored… I want something to do…" Moriarty answered from the shadows.

"Don't you have your thug… Moran, is it? To annoy?"

"He's an idiot. You are smarter than him by a long shot. I get so… lonely sometimes. So bored. No one I know is as intelligent as I am, Sherlock. That's part of the reason why I was so anxious to meet you; you understand the loneliness…"

"I'm not lonely, though. I have never been lonely."

"We both know that's not quite true. You did have Mycroft; but then he stopped talking to you because he didn't care –"

"That isn't true! I thought it was, but it isn't! He was ill! He was dying!"

"He was ill and he only told his brother when he was on his death bed? Doesn't sound very caring to me…"

"He did care! He always made sure I was alright!"

"He watched you so he could tear you down. Make you feel like nothing. Pick up on your smallest mistakes so he could parade them in front of you for fun."

"No. Myc cares!" Myc. The childhood nickname had not been uttered in years.

"He said it himself Sherlock; caring is not an advantage."

"The illness is proof. He worries about me constantly. I caused that illness by being the reckless person I am and being so distant. I know he cares really."

"Are you sure? Then how come he hasn't found you yet? Come to think about it… Shouldn't John have come by now? No. How utterly stupid of me… He doesn't care either, not really. You're just an adrenaline source for him, nothing more. After all… who could love the freak?"

Sherlock launched himself at the criminal. Moriarty laughed manically; eyes dead and emotionless as Sherlock pinned him against the cold, cement ground. "People do get so sentimental about their pets."

"Shut up! Just shut up! John is not my pet, we're equals!"

"Are you, though? Are you really? We both know that's not quite true. He's your sidekick."

"No! He isn't!"

"He seems to think so… You treat him as such…"

"Shut up!"

"Tut, tut, Sherlock. All this emotion. I thought you were a sociopath? You always hid your emotions… Unless it's to do with that brother of yours, Mycroft. You punched the DI pretty hard when you found out about their personal lives… John Watson's spoiled you, hasn't he? He made you feel."

"And I thank him for it –"

"No. No, you don't. You think you should be grateful; but you hate it, I can tell. He ruined you. You were perfect."

"No I wasn't! I was a broken, unfeeling machine!"

"Perfection is in imperfection. You were perfect to me."

"No, I was missing a vital cog in my machinery… A heart, I dare say."

"What is it with you and that 'machine' analogy?"

"I assume I find so much favour with it because it has been the constant theme of scathing remarks and abuse spat at me all these years. It must be written into my hard-drive." The detective smirked. He could almost reach the gun in Moriarty's pocket…

"Oh that's clever. That's very clever. Awfully clever. But, tell me Sherlock… Where is your heart now? John isn't coming…"

That was all the motivation Sherlock needed. He forced his arm down on Moriarty's throat. "He is coming!"

"No he's not," Moriarty managed to choke out.

The next movement had to be fluid. Sherlock body slammed down onto Moriarty, reaching the gun and removing it from his pocket like Excalibur from its stone. Pushing to his feet, he aimed at Moriarty. If no one came soon, he'd be forced to pull the trigger. "It would be better for you if they did come right about now…" Sherlock snarled.

Moriarty let out an insane cackle. "Well, you'd be able to walk out of here, Moran and my other little underlings are out for the night; but you don't want it to come to murder, do you? And besides; staying alive; it's so boring! Just… Staying…"

"You're insane."

"Just getting that now?"

At that moment, the door burst open. A swarm of government agents and Scotland Yard filled the room. "Impeccable timing, Gavin, Mycroft. I thought I might actually have to kill him for a minute there…"

"Put the gun down, brother mine…" Mycroft sighed, leaning heavily against Lestrade.

"And it's Greg, for the last time!" Lestrade added.

Sherlock laid the gun on the floor and stepped towards John; who at that precise moment was being dragged off Moriarty, having already caused some damage judging by the blood Moriarty was coughing up.

"Calm down, John. My brother will… dispose of him…" Sherlock smiled.

"Didn't want to let him have all the fun," John smirked.

"Dinner?"

"Starving."

And that is how they left the scene in search of a restaurant. A few minutes later, residents of that area reported a single gunshot being heard; only to change their minds an hour later, saying it must have been the television next door, or some equally weak excuse. And Mycroft and Lestrade were seen entering a church for a few hours on Monday morning; Goodness knows why. If asked, the minister would swear blind it was a confessional; but even men of God can be persuaded to lie.

The end.

"Well… Not a great work of literature, I'm sure you'll agree, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed as he closed his notebook.

"I liked it! It was interesting!" Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, Myc."

"That's quite alright, Sherlock. Get some rest, you'll need to recover by Sunday because mummy and father are coming home and they're bringing…" Mycroft mockingly shuddered, "Guests…"

Sherlock made a noise that vaguely resembled an annoyed growl crossed with a grimace. "Why?"

"Business." Sherlock only sighed in response, shuffling further into his bed.

As his eyes drifted shut, Sherlock whispered, "Goodnight, Myc."

"Goodnight Sherlock," Mycroft smiled slightly as he pressed a small kiss into his brother's dark curls.

A few minutes passed of Mycroft silently watching his brother sleep. "I worry about you," Mycroft barely whispered, "Constantly."

When Mycroft was safely out of Sherlock's bedroom, he braced himself on the wall; hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion, which had become a quite frequent occurrence in the last few days. A terrible coughing fit shock the whole of his body as he slid down the wall; head lolling from side to side. "It's just a cough," Mycroft thought to himself, "It's a cough, that is all it is."

~The end~


Hey guys! Ooh, Mycroft! Is it just a cough? Is it more? I know, I'm an evil writer! Mwahahahaha! *Clears throat* Sorry about that.

Please review! This story is completely finished now, so it'd be nice to know what you think.

Until next time. :)