A/N: Yes, it's me again. It feels so good to put something out again. I know many of you are waiting for me to continue my other works, which I hope I'll be able to do now on a more regular basis. It's been a hard few months for me, but I'm hoping that things will get easier now. Thank you for your patience, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Sherlock had intended to come back. He really had. And yet, six days had passed since his last conversation with Mycroft, and Sherlock still hadn't gone back to see his elder brother. Since there was absolutely nothing that could have stopped Sherlock from attempting to do what he wished, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn. Sherlock, deep inside his subconscious, did not truly wish to go.
Sherlock was therefore somewhat relieved when Anthea rang him, forcing him to confront the issue he had thus far avoided. (It hurt less to think about Mycroft as an issue, rather than his brother. Issues couldn't erase him from their memories, and if they did, it didn't really count.) Sherlock would have preferred, however, that Anthea get straight to the point, instead of uncharacteristically hemming and hawing.
"What exactly do you mean by a 'situation,' Anthea?" Sherlock snapped. "Be precise."
"Mr. Holmes," Anthea's voice came now in a very precise manner, indeed, "Your brother is holding a loaded pistol to his own forehead. I found him standing in this manner next to the Thames, and am doing all I can to convince him not to pull the trigger."
"Give me the coordinates," Sherlock ordered, while automatically going to grab his coat. "Tell him-" Sherlock paused. "Tell him that I'll follow his lead if he doesn't wait for me."
The detective frantically waved down a cab and barked his orders. He didn't bother paying. That's why Mycroft's men were surrounding the location there, surely. Sherlock rushed to the figure he spied leaning against the gate. He slowed his steps as he came ever closer, until he was standing mere feet from his brother.
In half of a torturously long moment, Sherlock assessed the situation. The remains of Mycroft's umbrella were lying on the concrete, while Mycroft himself held the gun he had removed from the brolly to his right temple. In the second half of the moment, Sherlock managed to catch his breath and then reach out to hold his brother's gaze.
Mycroft returned his gaze, his eyes holding no other emotion then resignation. Sherlock couldn't puzzle that out.
Sixty seconds later, Sherlock could no longer control himself.
"The Royal Society would be so disappointed," he murmured.
A slight twitch of the eyebrow was the only body language Mycroft communicated, as he answered languidly, "Yes, well, my brain is now officially considered damaged. And I'll have a cleaner shot."
"But really, the Thames?" Sherlock shot back.
"Easier cleanup," Mycroft shrugged.
Sherlock rubbed a hand to his own temple.
"Mycroft," he said slowly, gently, in a voice he had never used on anyone, let alone his elder brother. "You don't have to do this. Whatever Eurus has told you-"
"This was never about Eurus," Mycroft interrupted impatiently. "She is, as I had long ago determined, a lost cause. I'm sorry that you were so slow to catch up."
Sherlock did not miss the sting in those last words. "Yes, she is. I do know what this is about, though. What it was always about. But there's one thing I don't fully understand. How is your suicide supposed to accomplish your goal? How is leaving me all alone supposed to protect me?"
"Don't be thick, little brother," Mycroft chided scornfully. "Moriarty, Magnussen, Eurus. They would never have gone after you if it weren't for me."
"They would never have gotten to you if it weren't for me!" Sherlock burst out angrily. "They could only manipulate you by using your only weakness. Me. Protecting me."
"Then you do understand," Mycroft said softly. "Both of us, alive, isn't very practical. People will always find ways to use one of us against the 's what Eurus had clarified to me."
Sherlock stared. "Is that why you went into a coma?"
"That was the original plan. I would have stayed there, but you couldn't leave well enough alone."
"You both knew I never would. So, the next step was to simply cut me out of your life? To protect yourself?" Sherlock asked bitterly.
"No, foolish boy, to protect you. When word got around that I no longer acknowledged you as family, you wouldn't be ever again used as a pawn. In order to make that realistic, I had to let Eurus hypnotize me into forgetting. Forgetting you ever existed. In no other circumstances would I have managed to completely disengage from you."
"Oh, I see. I messed that up by forcing you to remember, didn't I?" Sherlock asked coolly.
"Hence Plan C," Mycroft nodded. "Everyone will benefit. You will be safe from at least my concerns, and my mistakes. I will finally no longer have to deal with the mundanities of existence, and Mummy and Dad will have a happy family, without their disappointment of an eldest."
Sherlock let his shoulders sag. He found no words to say, nothing that could refute the terrible leap of logic his brother had taken. He knew that if Mycroft was determined, even he couldn't prevent him from following through.
"I see," he choked out."I... see. But..." he added frantically, stalling for time, more time, any time that would keep his brother in this realm of existence. "But what about me?"
"What about you?" Mycroft questioned warily.
Sherlock looked down at his hands and had a sudden flashback to his fingers worrying his beloved instrument. He began humming wordlessly, the opening bars of a song they both knew too well. Then he put his face inches from his brother's. "I that am lost... who will find me when I'm lost? Huh? How can you leave me like this, lost and with no one to find me? What kind of big brother does that?"
Sherlock observed Mycroft's gun-holding hand tremble ever so slightly. "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know what to do anymore." Sherlock watched as resignation gave way to confusion, then exhaustion, and realized he had an opportunity.
"Let me help you with that," he said gently. He cautiously removed the pistol from unresisting fingers. "You need to stop taking responsibility for things you can't help. You need to let others worry and care for you once in a while. That's what family and friends are for, after all."
He put a firm hand on his brother's shoulder and guided him to a waiting black car. "Come home with me, we'll get you sorted out," Sherlock coaxed, glancing at Anthea, who nodded her head in agreement. "Just follow my lead for now."
While Sherlock and Anthea were helping a pliant British Government get up to Sherlock's flat, thoughts were racing through the detective's mind. He would need to take his brother away for awhile, and get him to experience a real holiday. He would have to work out a support system, to have Mycroft surrounded by people who loved and cared about him, not only what he could do. For now, however, there was only one thing his brother needed urgently.
Sherlock helped Mycroft into a pair of pajamas, and tucked him into his bed. "Sweet dreams, Mycroft. Give yourself a rest."
Sherlock watched Mycroft dociley close his eyes, and whispered, "Go to sleep, brother mine. Go to sleep."
