Sherlock arrives at the hotel nearest the airport and asks the receptionist for the room under Holmes. With a deep breath he knocks on the door for the room they gave him. Mycroft groans on the other side. "Share! Didn't you put the do not disturb sign up?" Sherlock looks down at the handle. He had indeed.

"Yes." Sherrinford responds.

"Then tell whoever that is to piss off!"

Sherrinford opens the door and stares, dumbfounded, at Sherlock. Quietly, so as to not alert Mycroft, "What are you…"

"I need to see Mye."

"You sure that's wise? He's not happy with you."

"If he's going to slap me, I won't fight back, but I need to see him."

Sherrinford glances back. "Throw you out the window more likely."

"Who is it Share?" Mycroft asks from within.

"Just an old friend. I'm handling it. Stay where you are." Sherrinford waves Mycroft back, then turns back to Sherlock. "You need to leave. Seeing you would be no good for him right now."

"Who are you to say what's good or bad? You haven't seen him in over 30 years." Sherlock shoulders his way past Sherrinford.

"Sherlock. No!"

Mycroft sits up. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock raises his hands. "Before you do anything, just know-"

"What in God's bloody hell is wrong with you?" Mycroft jumps up from the bed and advances on Sherlock. "I told you to get out! I told you to leave the bomb alone! And you-"

Sherlock interrupts, "You know that I had to-"

Mycroft shoves Sherlock's shoulders. "You didn't have to do anything! The bloody airport would have exploded regardless! I thought you were dead!"

Sherlock throws Mycroft an experimental smile, "But I'm not."

Mycroft pushes Sherlock again, knocking him into the wall. "Bloody hell you're not! What stunt did you pull this time? Helicopter out through a second story window?"

"No, I just-"

"Why didn't you listen to me?" Angry tears brim in Mycroft's eyes. "Why do you never listen? And who's left to deal with the aftermath? Me. Because my idiot little brother doesn't want to follow clear instructions."

"It's been less than 24 hours. I-"

"You didn't even call! You called John, but did it not occur to you to call me and let me know you weren't dead?!"

"My phone was fried. I had to get a new one. I only just got a hold of John a couple hours ago."

"But not me? Instead, you drop by my hotel room, unannounced, and expect me to be okay with the fact that you're standing here?" Mycroft turns, hands perched on his head, clearly holding himself back.

"Mycro, calm down." Sherrinford pipes in from his perch on the bed.

"Calm down? Share, you saw firsthand how this twat's- " Mycroft turns and punches Sherlock in the gut, "'death' affected me!"

Sherlock stumbles back, clutching at his middle. "I deserved that. But you could probably use a little train-" Mycroft throws another punch, this time hitting him in the face. Blood begins pouring from his nose. "Fuck. Sherri, can you get me a towel? Thanks." Sherlock walks into the bathroom pinching the bridge to quell the bleeding. "Mycroft, I- if I could have done anything different, I would have."

"There were about a hundred things you could have done differently. It wouldn't have changed the outcome." Mycroft takes a seat on the edge of the bed, extending his arms out to his knees.

Sherrinford hands Sherlock the towel who uses it to clean up his hands and face before speaking again. "I had the opportunity to stop the bomb from exploding at all. I absolutely had to try. Yes, I failed to stop the airport exploding, but at least I made an effort."

"You risked my daughter's life. You chose to try to stop the airport exploding knowing full well that it could start up the bomb on the plane." Mycroft could feel his blood beginning to boil again. "And what if you hadn't stopped the plane? What if your carelessness had killed Caroline?"

"Do you think I didn't consider that? It would have killed John too!"

"If you ever thought about anything except being the goddamned hero, maybe you'd find, and use, your brain once in a while!"

Sherlock walks out of the bathroom, towel pressed to his face, and stands in front of Mycroft. "I wasn't trying to be the hero."

"Like hell you weren't." Mycroft stands suddenly and Sherlock stumbles back in surprise, ramming his injured arm into the corner of the doorway to the bathroom.

"Shit," Sherlock gasps, dropping the towel in order to cradle his now throbbing arm. The bleeding from his nose had thankfully suppressed a bit, but there was still some blood dripping down his face.

"Sherrinford mentioned you'd gotten yourself shot." Mycroft stood and reached out to inspect the wound, but Sherlock instinctively pulled back. "Let me see."

"No. It's nothing." Sherlock let his arm go and bent down to pick up the towel, but his arm still throbbed.

"Don't lie to me." Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's arm forcefully and gripped it tighter when Sherlock tried to pull away.

Sherlock winces. "Let me go."

"Admit you were wrong, and I'll let you go." Mycroft's grip tightened slightly on the stitches.

Sherlock grits his teeth against the pain. "I can't admit that. I'd be lying." He sinks to the floor to try and break free of Mycroft's grasp. "Goddamn it Mye! Your monster is fine!"

Something dark snaps in Mycroft's eyes at Sherlock's words and he drops the arm, only to press down on it with his foot. "She's not a goddamn monster." There was signs of red on the hand, indicating he'd reopened the wound. "Admit that what you did was stupid, and you won't ever do something to threaten the life of my wife and daughter again."

"Stop. Please," Sherlock begs, but Mycroft only presses down harder. "Sherri, make-make him…Mye!" The feeling in Sherlock's fingers was beginning to fade, and tears were seeping from his eyes as the pain and pressure gradually increased. He paws weakly at Mycroft's foot, but can't get leverage without increasing the pain.

Mycroft digs his foot in harder, and screams, "Admit it!" He knew how much he was hurting his brother and he knew he should stop, but he couldn't make himself. He had to follow through. His anger demanded it.

"Mycroft! Stop! I'm begging you." Sherlock sobs.

"I won't stop Sherlock. I will continue until you pass out or admit you were wrong."

"Mycroft… What I did… what I did was right. I don't see-" Lights were beginning to flash in his eyesight as his body started to shut the pain off. "You're hurting me Mye. Stop. Please. You're acting like D-dad."

"Shut up!" Mycroft grit his teeth, but tears were also streaming from his face. "Don't say that! I'm not Father!" He twists his foot into the wound, blood pooling out from under the coat. Sherrinford finally stands and pulls Mycroft off Sherlock, his strong arms pinning Mycroft's to his side. "Put me down!"

Sherlock curls inward on himself, clutching his arm and sobbing weakly. "Maybe I should have let your daughter die."

Mycroft's heart dropped as the adrenaline of the moment faded in an instant. He fell limp and Sherrinford released his grip. "I…" He sinks onto the bed and stares blankly at the floor. "What have I done?" He pulls his feet up and lays back, holding his knees close to his chest.

Sherlock carefully stands and stumbles into the bathroom. He peels his jacket away from his arm and winces as it lifts the skin. Sherrinford helps him out of his shirt, which now shines crimson, but Sherlock shrugs him off when he tries to help clean up the blood. "I probably deserved it. Go check on him." Sherlock ties a rag above the bleeding wound and does his best to clean up the bloody messes, giving up on the floor after a few dabs with his soiled shirt. He feels weak but he still steps up to the bed beside Mycroft. "I… Mycroft. I never intended my actions to hurt you. I just really felt I was doing the right thing." Mycroft doesn't react. Sherlock sits and whispers, "I'm sorry I said you were like Dad."

"Yeah. Whatever." Mycroft chokes out. He'd been silently crying. "I hurt you Sherly. Just like when we were kids." His words were broken, like a child who couldn't catch his breath. "I was acting exactly like Father." Mycroft turns his head and stares up at Sherlock with puffy red eyes. "Did I break it?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No." He puts a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "I'll live." Mycroft flips over and curls into Sherlock's lap like a child searching for comfort.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I had no right." Mycroft breaks into a new fit of sobs. "I could have killed you!"

"Not likely." Sherlock runs a hand over Mycroft's head. "Let's just forget about it. I'm still in pain and I have a brother who doesn't need any more reminders at the moment."

The room was silent for a few minutes before Sherrinford speaks up from his spot in the corner. "Was that really how Dad was after I left?"

"Worse." Sherlock said. "I think that part of him was always there, it just manifested itself after he lost his oldest son." He felt faint and he closed his eyes, but that just made the spinning worse.

Mycroft pulls himself away from Sherlock as he felt something wet on his back, and looks down at the bed, on which a pool of blood had formed. "Share, can you come take a look at Sherlock's arm?"

"Sure." Sherrinford stands and gingerly takes it up.

"Is it badly damaged?"

"Not that can't be repaired, but he's lost a lot of blood."

"Damn it! I'm so sorry Sherlock. I lost my head. I…"

Sherlock interrupts weakly. "I'll be alright. Promise. Just need to sleep." His face had gone deathly white.

"You look white as a sheet. Most of your blood is spilled on the floor. It's become one of your crime scenes in here," Sherrinford jokes lightly.

"Blame Mycroft."

"I've already taken the blame."

"I was teasing Mye."

Mycroft shoots Sherlock a sad smile. "I know."

"Sherri, can you fix it? I feel faint." Sherlock's vision swims and he can no longer focus his eyesight on anything.

"You mean stitch it? I can try, but I think it'd be best if we got you to an emergency room."

"No! I'm supposed to be dead. I can't go to a hospital. They'd ask too many questions. And what if your people found out I was alive?"

"Yes. Of course." Sherrinford collects his small suture kit again. "Never thought I'd use this. Now I'm using it twice in the same day." He pulls out a needle and thread. "Can you make it to the armchair?"

"Maybe." Sherlock shakily stands and stumbles to the armchair where he rests his head back.

Sherrinford nods approvingly. "Mycro, can you get me a bottle of vodka?"

"What's the vodka for?" Sherlock asks, watching Mycroft pull a bottle from the cabinet.

"To sterilize the wound."

"You mean I don't get to drink it?" When Sherrinford doesn't answer, Sherlock speaks again. "Why didn't you step in sooner?"

"I've watched people being tortured for 30 years. Old habit to not interfere or risk being tortured myself." Sherrinford finishes sterilizing the needle and hands the bottle to Sherlock, who takes a swig before passing it to Mycroft. "Ready?"

Sherlock nods. "Sure."

Mycroft watches like a hawk as Sherrinford finishes each stitch. "You're doing better than with the bullet."

"How would you know?" Sherlock shoots back.

Mycroft laughs. "Just what I heard, but maybe I was wrong." Sherlock glares at Mycroft. "I'll order some food. You need to eat."

"I don't eat on a case!"

"He's right." Sherrinford cuts off the stitch and strings up the last. "Mycroft I mean. You lost a lot of blood and exerted a shit ton of energy. Unless you eat, you're not going to be doing anything with any case."

"I'm fine. Just try and stop me. Are you finished yet?" He growls angrily at Sherrinford who is finishing tying the last stitch.

"Just about. Mycro, hand me the bottle and something to clean this with?" Mycroft hands over the vodka and a washcloth from the bathroom. "Thanks." Sherlock grabs Mycroft's hand instinctively and squeezes, trying to hold back a scream as the alcohol stings the wound. Mycroft winces but squeezes back, comfortingly. "All done." Sherrinford zips his kit closed and hands the bottle back to Sherlock who drinks from it deeply.

"God. This shit burns." He looks at the label but can't focus his eyesight enough to read it. "I need my phone. Or yours, Mye. I'm going to contact Lestrade. Find out where Jim Moriarty is." He tries to stand but falls back into the chair. His arms and legs are shaking. "You don't have to hold me like a lifeline."

Mycroft looks down at his hand which is still gripping Sherlock's as though if he let go, Sherlock would slip away. "Yes, of course. I knew that." He lets go and picks up his phone from the bedside table, takes a second to compose himself and dials Lestrade before returning and handing the phone to Sherlock. "Here."

"Thank you Mye." He lifts the phone to his ear. Voicemail. "Lestrade, call me back when you get the chance. I have a question for you. It's about Jim." He hangs up and hands the phone back to Mycroft. "If you're going to force me to eat, order me something light." He rests back into the chair and stares at the ceiling, trying to keep from vomiting.

Mycroft shares a look with Sherrinford who limps to the hotel phone and picks up the laminated menu. "What does he eat? Sushi? Chicken parmesan? Orange glazed kabobs?"

"Nothing?" Mycroft says tensely, failing at making a joke.

"I said light!" Sherlock says loudly, but then groans at the sound of his own voice as it makes his head pound.

"You're going to eat what I order you, no excuses." Sherrinford commands.

"Don't tell me what to do." Sherlock leans forward briefly but immediately falls back with a deep breath. "Just because you're my older brother doesn't mean…" He licks his chapped lips and takes another swig of the vodka. "Honestly, I don't think I could keep anything down if you ordered it. But do as you will." Mycroft stares at the bottle, realizing it was a bad idea to give it to Sherlock. "If you think it's that bad for me, take the damn thing away."

"I…" Mycroft stutters but Sherlock flourishes the bottle his way and he takes it reluctantly.

"What do you want to drink?" Sherrinford asks, referring to his order. Mycroft shrugs. "Okay. A lime water, a hydrolyte, and a Coke." He looks down at the menu again. "Could I also get a double chocolate cake?" He side glances Mycroft who grins sheepishly. "Thanks. Oh, could you also send up some extra sheets. Thank you. Goodnight." Sherrinford hangs up the phone and stretches. "Shit. I could sleep for a month."

"Then do it. I'm not going to eat anything that you ordered. Especially not the sheets." Sherlock's eyelids are drooping.

"I'll call John if you don't at least try."

"Really Mye? Threatening me with John? He won't even talk to me at the moment. Hey! I wouldn't walk on that if I were you." Sherlock looks up at Sherrinford who'd just stepped down on his foot at an awkward angle and winced loudly.

"Yeah. I'm settling." Sherrinford sits down on the sofa and gingerly cradles his foot. "I planned on getting a cast tomorrow."

"Sherlock. I don't care what's going on between you and John. But it's important that you eat." Mycroft brings the conversation back.

"Your guilt isn't going to make me change my mind." Sherlock grumbles, leaning back in the armchair again. "Ung. It feels like I'm going to be sick."

Mycroft groans with a frustrated laugh and runs a hand over his head. "You are so difficult. You know that right?"

"I aim to be predictable."

Mycroft chortles, "Sure. Let me put it this way, if you don't get some nutrients in you, you're going to be in a hospital for a month."

Sherlock's eyes blink open, slightly worried. "They'd kick me out."

"Not if I order them not to."

"Has that worked before?"

"Yes. But I'd rather not be forced to do that. You will eat tonight if it kills me."

"What kind of flowers would you like at your funeral?"

"Boys!" Sherrinford raises his voice commandingly. "Mycroft quit with the threats. And Sherlock quit fighting it. You know you have to eat."

"I really don't want to."

"At least try? Just a bite?" Mycroft pulls the sheets off the bed and bundles them in a pile in the corner.

"No," Sherlock grunts and the room falls silent. After a few minutes where no one speaks, there's finally a knock on the door.

"Share, can you get it? Take my wallet." Mycroft tosses Sherrinford his wallet who catches it and limps off.

"I need some air." Sherlock tries to stand and falls back. "Don't say a word," he warns and tries again, using the furniture to get out onto the balcony. He only just makes it out before he's on all fours, vomiting up the vodka. The chilly air helps a little to cool his burning skin and he struggles into one of the balcony chairs.

Mycroft appears, holding an orange bottle. "Drink this." He cracks open the seal and hands it to Sherlock who pushes it away.

"Mye, please."

Mycroft breathes in deeply from his nose. "Just this for now. I beg of you. Please."

"Alright fine but be gentle." Sherlock gives in, losing the strength to fight back. Mycroft releases the tension in his shoulders, relieved, and slowly tips the bottle against Sherlock's pale lips. He gets a few swallows in before he turns his head away. "No more. I'll just throw it up too." Mycroft closes the lid and sets it down. The two look out on the sleeping city for a few minutes. "Hey…" Sherlock says weakly, "I-I forgive you."

"Thanks. It's not necessary but I appreciate it nonetheless."

The glass door slides open and Sherrinford steps out. "Food's getting cold."

Mycroft nods and puts a hand around Sherlock's waist. "Come on. Let's get you in bed." Sherlock couldn't even fight it; he was so weak. No sooner does he reach the bedroom then he collapses onto it. Mycroft removes Sherlock's shoes.

"Careful how far you undress me. That's John's job." Sherlock cocks a peak at Mycroft to gauge his reaction.

"I'm just trying to make you more comfortable."

"Also John's job."

Mycroft glares. "Very funny. No stop. I can't breathe." Sherlock just smiles lightly. "I'll be right back. I'm going to get something to eat. You going to be okay?" Sherlock just nods briefly. Mycroft walks over to the trolley and lifts the lid on the plate of kabobs. He scarfs one down and then a second. Behind him, Sherlock groans.

"Mye…"

"What?" Mycroft says around a mouthful of food.

"I-I need a cup or something. I'm going to be sick." Mycroft brings him one of the lids which he sets on the pillow by his head. Sherlock grabs his hand as he turns to walk back to the living room area. "Stay? Please?" Mycroft sighs and finishes off the kabob, setting the stick on the table before sitting on the edge of the bed. Sleepily, Sherlock mumbles, "Stay."

"I won't leave you," Mycroft whispers quietly back. He gently strokes Sherlock's sweaty curls off his forehead. He could have been nothing but a child again with how small the taller man looked in this moment.

"Promise?" Sherlock yawns.

"Pinkie promise." Mycroft crawls into the bed and settles behind Sherlock, leveling his body and sliding one arm under Sherlock's head. "Please don't let me do that to you again."

"You won't."

"I hope not." Mycroft pulls Sherlock in close, careful to avoid bumping his injured arm. "Just go to sleep little brother." Sherlock breathes out and relaxes into Mycroft's warm body.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Sherrinford steps into the room. "A cuddle party and no one invited me?"

"The bed is large enough." Sherlock mumbles.

"The rest of the food is in the fridge." Sherrinford says to Mycroft before settling in behind the pair.

"Thank you Share." Mycroft shifts to allow Sherrinford some room.

"Is this how it should have been? The three Holmes brothers?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"It's how it could have been, were it not for Father, and Sherrinford's leaving." Mycroft replies.

"I'm sorry." Sherrinford places his strong arm over the pair, resting it atop Sherlock's elbow.

"Don't worry about it now. You're alive and on the right side."

"Only just barely. Sherlock spared my life. Sure, he's a pain but he can be heroic."

Sherlock sighs. "We wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me."

Mycroft hugs Sherlock tightly. "Well, try to listen every once in a while and you wouldn't be such a pain in my arse."

"Well, it's easy to prick it, since it's so tight." Sherlock bumps Mycroft with his leg teasingly.

"I could push you off this bed you know." Mycroft teases back.

"You wouldn't."

"No. Not tonight." Mycroft lets his eyelids fall, feeling very safe and comfortable, sandwiched between his two brothers. Sherlock's breathing slows as he falls into sleep.

"Is he always like this?" Sherrinford asks quietly so as to not disturb Sherlock. "Stubborn, annoying, antisocial?"

"Yeah. Pretty much." Mycroft chuckles.

"Is he worth it to you?"

Mycroft takes a deep breath in. "Yeah. He's my little brother. I worry about him. But it's worth it." He yawns.

"I feel the same way about you." Sherrinford says but Mycroft has already drifted off into sleep. He laughs. "Goodnight Mycro."

Song: Monster - Beth Crowley