Mycroft:
The building that houses Sherlock's flat on Montague is squalid and smells vaguely of curry and cigarette smoke. I take the steps up to his door slowly, not wanting to touch the railing even with my gloved hand (which, considering these gloves cost more than the building itself would, makes sense). On the landing outside his flat I withdraw the key from my pocket and slip it carefully into the lock. He never gave me a key, of course, but I doubt he'll be surprised to find I have one. I open the door.
Sherlock is draped across a couch that looks as though he found it in the street (knowing Sherlock, this is probably exactly what happened) and thumbing through a textbook. He's surrounded by loose papers, pens, books, and cigarette butts. He doesn't look up as I close the door behind me, and he pays me no mind as I poke around the room, examining his things.
Eventually he says, with a hint of a yawn in his voice, "You could have brought me a coffee. I'm sure your surveillance detail informed you that I was doing schoolwork."
They had. "Sherlock. How have you been?" He looks well, now that he's mostly clean (only the most occasional hiccup) and resumed working towards his degree in chemistry. I suspect he might even be eating again, though it's probably still a rarity.
"I'm sure you know, so I won't waste my breath." Five years has passed, but nothing's changed. Not really. He's still the same infuriating boy I've always known. "You're not much for legwork, Mycroft, so I presume there's some actual reason you're here in person."
"Mummy's dying," I say. No need to circle the point.
"She's always dying." Sherlock licks his finger, turns a page. "She's been dying for nearly sixteen years. What's different about this time?"
"This time," I say softly, "the doctors agree."
When Sherlock looks up at me, his eyes are as pale and ethereal as the most impenetrable fog.
Sherlock:
"What do you expect me to do about it?" I snap, hoping for a little more malice than I'm able to muster. Mycroft isn't fooled, not that I really expected him to be; we know each other too well for that.
"Nothing," Mycroft smiles, holding his hands out before pressing his palms together in front of him. "I only thought you would like to know."
I scan his face for a long, silent moment. Finally I say, "I'm not coming home."
The word "home" seems to make him wince; good. "I don't expect you to. If you'd like to visit Mummy, you're free to do, naturally, but it will make little difference either way. She's on an astonishing array of prescription pharmaceuticals at the moment so I hardly expect she will recognize you." He doesn't voice the fear that hangs around him like a visible aura: he worries she will think I'm Daddy, and that it will hurt her more than if I didn't come at all.
"No." I turn back to my book, staring at the words but not seeing them. "No, I don't need to see her. I imagine you'll send me something to wear to the funeral. And a car. I haven't any money for the train."
"Very well." As if he hadn't been planning those things already. He sets something down on the windowsill nearest me- a small moleskin notebook, writing on the first several pages but blank the rest of the way through; a billfold, containing a thousand quid in small bills; a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches- and makes for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "I understand you've been doing some minor consulting work for the Scotland Yard."
"Very minor," I admit. "They won't let me do much until I'm finished with uni."
I can sense, rather than see, Mycroft smiling. "I hoped you might do some work of a rather more classified nature for me, and for the Country. I've left you the pertinent information."
"Not interested," I say automatically, even though I'm already itching for him to leave so I can pour over the contents of that moleskin notebook.
Mycroft plays along. "Do, at least, consider it. Farewell, my brother, and do please try to stay out of trouble." I make a rude gesture at the door just as it closes before leaping up and skidding to the window in my stocking-feet, my hand closing around the notebook.
I skim the pages- something to do with a double agent, foreign crime, leaked information; ho hum- before looking out the window just as Mycroft leaves the building. His car appears from down the street almost immediately, easing to a stop just in front of him, and as he reaches for the door handle he looks up at me, meets my eyes, and smiles sadly. I can feel the echo of that smile on my own face. We're brothers after all, Mycroft and I. Brothers to the last.