Mycroft sat back in the armchair, watching his brother for a moment.
He hadn't seen this much emotion from Sherlock in...a long time.
Before Mycroft had left, they had been quite close.
Sure, Sherlock had been the golden child. All curly hair and dimples, small and cute and angelic.
Mycroft had been the opposite; ginger and chubby and freckled and pale.
But when they had been children, it hadn't mattered.
Sherlock had been favoured, that was undeniable, but their parents had been cruel to them both.
Mycroft would often take Sherlock out of the house on the bad days. They lived close to the beach and they would spend hours there.
Sherlock would smile and splash around and his laughter would warm Mycroft's heart.
He had been an emotional kid.
School had been rough and home was no less terrible.
He would cry, sob and scream, his wails piercing the walls.
Mycroft wasn't sure when that had changed.
Well that was a lie, he had changed early into his teens, but Mycroft had been at university by then.
He blamed himself.
He blamed himself for a lot of things.
But now they were adults and Sherlock was watching him with sad eyes and Mycroft wasn't sure how to handle that.
But even more than the look, was the name. The nickname that he hadn't heard for...probably over two decades.
"Sherlock, this wasn't your responsibility." Mycroft drained the god awful tea and set the mug on the table.
He swiftly swiped through his work phone before standing.
Sherlock stood too, brows pulled together. "You can't leave."
"I have work, brother mine, this isn't something I can put off." He'd only come to drop off those files, he'd been in Baker Street far longer than he intended already.
His phone was full of messages and Anthea was already waiting outside with his car.
"No, you're not well, you're not leaving." Sherlock's chin jutted in that defiant, slightly childish way and his arms crossed over his chest.
Mycroft just managed to stifle a sigh; he had some decorum left.
"I have work to do." He repeated evenly, taking a couple steps towards the door.
Sherlock's eyes darkened as he moved too, sliding in front of him as he reached the door.
Mycroft was growing frustrated. He was not a child anymore. And he was the oldest, dammit, not Sherlock.
"If it is really that important to you, I will call when I am finished." Mycroft reached for the door handle, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as Sherlock got in the way.
"Not good enough." Sherlock pushed the door shut again, and Mycroft pulled it open once more.
"Mycroft, this is important. Not just to me. Watching you leave, knowing you could die before I see you, that you're so sick you just passed out in my home."
Mycroft swallowed. "Yes, it's hell isn't it, Lock?" His gaze was pointed.
Sherlock immediately understood, blush creeping up his neck and cheeks.
"That was different." He muttered.
"How was it? I watched you leave doss-hole after doss-hole. Sometimes you didn't come back." Mycroft said, even and calm.
Sherlock looked down, pale hands wringing together.
"Well then you know how I feel about letting you leave." He looked up.
Mycroft stood at the door for a good minute before nodding. "I do. But I also could never control you, you did it anyway and I'm afraid we are not that young any more. I have a job that needs doing."
He pulled the door and this time Sherlock didn't stop him.
But someone else did.
At the bottom of the stairs, Greg stood. "Sorry, 'fraid I can't let you go just yet."
"Were you listening?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"No, of course not. But John isn't here yet and you need to get checked over." Greg raised an eyebrow too.
The eldest Holmes' hummed. "Well then, Gregory, it would appear we are at an impasse."
"Yeah, I guess we are."
A tiny smile from Mycroft and the man nodded, turning at the top of the stairs and heading back into the flat.
He missed the brilliant smile on Greg's face as he followed him.