Author's Note: I decided to jump ahead in time a little. I figured not everyone would want to read every single thing that goes on during this time. This story covers a lot, and I felt like I needed a chapter to move the story forward some. But if this bothers anyone let me know. Believe it or not, I do pay attention to what people say in reviews!

His heart was beating so rapidly that he was certain his brother could hear it. Maybe that was why Sherlock hadn't so much as glanced towards him since leaving the holding room in the government facility. Mycroft constantly stole glances towards his younger brother, only to find him staring out the window, his hands collapsed in his lap and folded into fists. When he looked closer, he saw that they were shaking.

Mycroft drew in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The silence was agonizing. He was convinced that he should say something, though he knew it would be useless. In fact, any conversation started with his brother was guaranteed to make things worse. But the silence was killing him, and the thought of not seeing his brother again for at least another few months was suffocating.

"Sherlock-"

"Do we have to do this?"

He winced a little at his brother's deep, raspy, voice. Sherlock sounded different, even more miserable than he remembered from just a couple of years ago.

"We've discussed this."

"No," Sherlock shot, "the talking."

Once again Mycroft tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Up ahead the rehab facility was coming into view; he could see the panic rising in his brother's eyes, though he remained silent.

"It's going to be alright," Mycroft stated quietly.

"Saying that never makes anyone feel better."

"It'll just be a few months-"

Cold laughter interrupted his brother, and a small sarcastic smile appeared at the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

"What if someone told you that you would be spending just a few months of your life in a white room with no windows and walls?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, and yet it didn't matter to you to spend years of your life living on the streets."

"That was easy."

"Easy!" Mycroft exclaimed. "I'll never understand what goes on inside your mind, Sherlock. You're brilliant; you and I both know that. Someday you're going to look back at this time in your life and wonder how you could waste so much time."

"It wasn't wasted."

"Then explain to me-"

"I won't!" Sherlock shouted. His brother let out a few heavy breaths as he ran his hand through his hair, which was still as unkempt as it was the night the police found him. He was still wearing the same clothes: the same torn jeans, thin jacket, and worn shoes that he had been wearing for god only knew how long. "You wouldn't understand."

"You keep saying that!" Mycroft pointed out. "But I will-I want to understand."

"No you don't," Sherlock mumbled, "you want some doctors to take a look at me and figure out which meds will work best."

"If you won't talk to me then I want to find someone who you will talk to," Mycroft admitted, "I just want…I want what's best for you."

"Yeah, you've been saying that for almost ten years now," Sherlock shot, "mummy and daddy disappear out of the picture and suddenly you think it's your job to fix everything."

"No, I think it's my job to be the only family you care to have."

"I don't care to have you. I thought you'd figure that out by now."

"Dammit, Sherlock!"

They both lurched forward a bit as Mycroft slammed on the brakes. He turned to his brother, fighting to catch his breath. Their eyes met for the first time since speaking in the government facility, and he was disturbed to see the sincere hatred that was still in them. He was also disturbed to see how tired his brother looked, how drained of life he appeared with the permanent bags that were etched into the skin beneath his eyes.

"This is for your own good," Mycroft said softly, "one day, you'll understand."

"And one day you'll understand why I don't care. You don't impress me."

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, choosing his words carefully as he knew they would be the last he would say to him for a long time.

But when the passenger side door slammed Mycroft opened his eyes to find that Sherlock was already leaning against the car, waiting for him. The parking lot was nearly empty for the early morning shift, and Mycroft couldn't help but to be grateful for this as he stepped out and led his brother in silence into the rehab facility.

December 25th, 2012

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly, ashamed at the tears that threatened to seep through. Before his brother faked his death, the last time Mycroft remembered driving an automobile was the day he took Sherlock to the rehab facility. Six years of time seemed to crawl by slowly, and the change in his brother was obvious.

Every day he had to convince himself the changes were good. He had to look past the condescending, the attitude, the darkness, and remember who his brother was six years ago.

And now he had to wonder what all of that was for. He poured himself another drink and leaned against the doorframe as he stared at the empty room before him.

"The ones you lose around Christmas are the hardest."

He jumped at the voice that suddenly pierced the silence of his empty house. Spinning around, Mycroft's heart leapt as a lamp turned on to reveal Irene Adler.

"Every year you get to remember…" her eyes trailed to the room he was standing by, "I truly am sorry for your loss, Mr. Holmes."

A sad smile briefly crossed his face as he stared down at his glass.

"Does Sherlock know?" She asked as she stood up.

He watched as she began to wonder around the room, admiring the odds and ends on the shelves.

"How did you get in here, Miss Adler?"

"You haven't spoken to him in three months," Irene said, ignoring him as she picked up a picture of a seven year old Sherlock and fourteen year old Mycroft. She smiled to herself, and Mycroft couldn't help but to remember how his brother seemed to actually care for Irene Adler, which only increased his anger towards her. "You have no idea where he is or what he's doing. And it terrifies you."

Mycroft's eyes fell to the floor as each sleepless night he had since he last saw his brother passed before them. Day in and day out dozens of horrific ideas crossed his mind, and as the days drew closer to the new year the idea that his brother might never return to London became real.

"Why are you here?" He demanded.

"Did you really think he would kill me?" Irene asked.

She turned towards him, arms crossed over her chest. In the light he could see that she was dressed as elegantly as ever, in a midnight blue ballroom gown and a tired hairdo that suggested it had already been a long night for her. Mycroft smirked.

"Tough day at work?" He shot, and then admitted: "I was hoping he would see you for who you really are. Apparently I misjudged my brother's affection for you."

"Well I can assure you that I haven't spoken to your brother either," Irene said, "and I promise you, Mycroft Holmes, that I worry about him."

"I'm sure."

"You know what Moran is capable of," Irene said. His eyes narrowed, acknowledging that she was correct.

He took a careful step towards her. As he did she stepped back, taking a seat on the sofa.

"You were the first mistake I ever made while working for the government, Miss Adler," Mycroft admitted, "and I am sure that you are aware that I could have the entirety of my government agents here in an instant to arrest you. With that said, I have to ask you again, why are you here?"

Irene glanced down, and her moment of hesitation only made him more concerned that somehow, she was still playing him.

"I have made mistakes as well," Irene said, "I'm not proud of what I've become. There are very few people left in this world who truly care about me, and I've hurt every last one of them. It's time for a change of pace."

She noticed immediately his look of disbelief. Irene got to her feet and turned gracefully to reveal a thick, angry, scar that crawled down her shoulder.

"I assure you, I've already paid the price for my decision. I've come here to offer you information. I know what you and your brother have been doing, and regardless of the status of your relationship I know that you are concerned, and I know that you are still looking for these targets."

She opened a small pouch she had been carrying and revealed and sheet of paper. Irene stuffed the paper into his hands, and when he opened it he saw a list of some twenty-five names. He had to bite back a grin of satisfaction- he knew that if Irene Adler was involved, a move like this was too good to be true.

"What do you want from me?" Mycroft asked.

Irene simply shrugged.

"I ask nothing of you, Mr. Holmes," Irene replied, "and I'm sure that you will be delighted to know that this is the last time you will ever see me."

Mycroft glanced back down at the list of names, studying them as he tried to determine the legitimacy of her promise. He recognized a few of the names- some were simple con men, people he would have never guessed would be caught up with Moran and Moriarty.

When he looked up again, part of him wasn't even surprised to see that Irene Adler had disappeared. If it wasn't for the piece of paper in his hands he might have wondered if he imagined the conversation altogether.

His eyes were glued to the monitor as he sat in the hotel room alone. In the darkness a blue glow illuminated from the security camera footage he was watching on the laptop, showing him the whereabouts of his next target. Knowing that no one was watching, Sherlock gently massaged his wrist, where a burning pain was the only evidence that he had been anywhere near James Morton's flat that evening. Considering that a tumble down the fire escape was the only flaw in his plan, Sherlock couldn't help but to smile to himself with pride.

He knew the pain was simply a haunting from his old wound, from the fall off of St. Barts nearly a year ago. In the three months since he had last spoken to his brother he had tracked down three more targets.

At the sound of a door slamming his eyes drifted to the entrance of the room, where Irene Adler was carefully making sure the door was locked.

"I told you to put ice on that bloody wrist," she mumbled as she stormed into the room. Spinning around, hands on her hips, she glared at him, and it took exceptional effort to keep his eyes on the security footage and to not allow himself to be distracted. "That should be enough to keep your brother off your back for at least six months. Sherlock-"

Sherlock heard her words trail off to silence, but he never heard his name being called as the camera zoomed further into the picture.

"Sherlock!"

Slamming his good fist down onto the table, he closed his eyes to fight the urge to jump up from the table and shout at her.

"I'm working," he announced calmly.

"Yes, I can see that. Aren't you the least bit concerned of how your brother's doing?"

"If I was concerned then I wouldn't be taking such efforts to hide from him."

"He's desperately worried about you-"

"Tell me something new."

"This is none of my business-"

"And yet you keep talking."

"But don't you think you're being a bit unfair?" She finished.

Silence fell over the room. Sherlock knew he was one of the only people who could truly intimidate Irene Adler, and sure enough when he turned around in the chair she took a step back. Her arms crossed over her chest- a usual way that she attempted to protect herself.

"You're right, this is none of your business," Sherlock said. He turned back to the computer screen. Another moment of silence passed before he realized what she must really want to discuss with him. He stopped working once more and paused, hands hovering over the keyboard. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the worst as he asked: "How is she?"

"She died yesterday day morning."

Yesterday morning. Christmas Eve. No wonder Mycroft was so upset.

"I'm so sorry-"

"It's fine," he quickly lied.

The last thing he needed was Irene Adler trying to get him to discuss his mother's death. He closed his eyes, stealing a brief moment to push away the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.

Behind him, Irene cleared her throat.

"I didn't completely lie to him," she announced, "I am leaving. You have the information. You want to be alone. And I can't have any more to do with this."

He spun around and got to his feet, though he didn't know what to say. They stood in silence, staring at each other, each afraid to admit that deep down, neither wanted to be separated from the other. When Irene found him once more two months ago he had been tempted to treat her just as he had any other name on the list- every ounce of common sense told him not to trust her, to stay away. But she proved herself to be a useful ally, and having her company kept him saner than talking to walls. He stole a glance towards her shoulder, where the knife wound remained a reminder of the enemies that would still be looking for her.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered, "I can no longer be a part of this."

Sherlock felt as though he should say something- he felt owed her something. A goodbye, pleading words to convince her to stay- something.

Yet he stood there, in silence, and watched as she turned towards the doorway and disappeared.