Mycroft Holmes sat in what had been John Watson's chair at 221 B Baker Street and studied his younger brother while they both sipped some very good scotch, which Mycroft, of course, had provided. He finally broke the silence. "Sherlock, you are not happy." This was met with a disdainful sniff and a studiously slow sip of whiskey.
"Sherlock, while I have come to almost enjoy these weekly tete-a-tetes we have been having since John married, I must point out that the conversations of late have been less than rewarding."
"Mycroft, our social skills are hardly finely honed."
"Speak for yourself, brother mine. I exist in a world where such skills are often required, and I work hard to maintain them. You, on the other hand, are slowly allowing what meager talents you may have acquired in that area to deteriorate rapidly."
Another sniff, another sip.
"Sherlock, you are lonely," Mycroft continued, "You miss John. I have long since reconciled myself to observing my 'goldfish' from a distance as they swim in their little bowls, but you have chosen to dive into the water with them. You're all wet, dear brother, and will never be completely dry again." His next comment caused Sherlock to glance at him with surprise. "I envy you," Mycroft said more quietly than before.
"Envy?"
"You of all people, brother, must know that things are not always what they seem. Moriarty referred to the Holmes boys as 'the iceman and the virgin' . We both know that this is true in neither case. I once told you that sentiment was weakness. You choose to ignore this weakness in yourself, locking it away to be dealt with at a later date. I choose to recognize this weakness, and deal with it accordingly. I find my way highly superior. I have days, granted they are rare, when I find myself positively wallowing in sentiment.- happy memories, perhaps dreams, et cetera. But your way will continue to isolate you from everything you hold dear, even as you deny that you do hold anything dear. I am content, but I am not happy. Believe it or not, your happiness matters to me. Not to mention Mummy and Daddy."
"And your point, Mycroft?"
"I have long since reconciled myself to dying alone. At this point in my life I seem to have no other option. I have found no one willing to tolerate me as I am, and no one who inspires me to change. If you look around, brother, I think there is a good possiblilty that this does not apply to you." Saying that, Mycroft drained his glass and lifted himself from the chair. "Don't make my mistake, Sherlock. Go out and risk making your own ."
And with that pronouncement, Mycroft left the flat. Sherlock was stunned, though the expression would not register on his face. Sometimes it seemed as if his elder brother could read him like a book, and he had to admit that lately this book would seem more like a morose volume of self-pity rather than the intelligent tome of mystery/adventure he always had pictured it to be. He hated to admit it, but his vanity often led him to picture himself as some sort of superhero, saving his world with his massive intellect and preternatural deductive skills. But he did recall that the comic books of his childhood always mentioned a weakness of some sort. And superheroes had companions - they never died alone. Perhaps Mycroft was right. He needed to give the matter some thought.