"Good" Sherlock said. The fire of the chase lit again in his eyes as he snapped back into the investigation. "The Woman. She pointed us to Tracey Wilhelm, risked her life by giving us the clue. Specifically that woman, not her employer, not the company, her. Why? What did I miss, what is so special about that woman?" Sherlock asked, pacing through the room. "No social contacts, never left the house, kept to herself at work, sees her family on Christmas and birthdays, played the informant for Mycroft. Do we know what exactly her position was? What sort of information could she give you?" His brother shrugged. "Places her boss went, papers from the Bit's and Pieces company, transfers, customers, that sort of thing."
Hands clenched into the pockets of his suit, Sherlock turned around on the spot, staring into the distance, his mind racing. "None of the papers we have here are of any interest, there is no reason to kill her over- Arrgh YES stupid me!" The Detective shouted. "Papers! There were papers missing, when we visited the office! They weren't on her when the body was found and if she had been serving as informant for a while she would be smart enough to hide them somewhere! Oh we've been following the wrong trail!" He dug his thin hands in his hair, tugging at it in frustration. "We need to see her flat! They might still be there, if we are very very lucky!"

John gave Rosie to Mrs Hudson, Greg called for a policeman to bring the keys and Mycroft organized a car. Twenty minutes later they were in a fancy sports car, racing to Tracy Wilhelm's flat. The receptionist's room had already been searched by the Yard, though very roughly. Tearing down the yellow crime scene tape, Sherlock rushed in, hunting through the small home like a bloodhound on a trail. The group split up, looking desperately for any files that could be worth killing for.
The rooms looked nothing out of the ordinary. The living room showed the result of excessive movie marathons, empty popcorn boxes and soda cans littering the floor and the couch was worn and covered in cat hair. John searched the kitchen, finding it shockingly empty aside from a suspiciously green looking leftover pasta and some IKEA items. He joined Sherlock in looking through the bedroom, discovering nothing but the traces of a lonely single life, which caused the Detective to retreat quickly. Mycroft called the group into the study, a scarcely furnished room with dusty bookshelves lining the walls and unpaid bills pinned to a cardboard. "Ms Wilhelm was sitting at her desk when her killer entered the room." He reported. "She heard or saw him coming but she didn't run, she wrote something down first. Her attacker grabbed her from behind, there was a struggle and she was taken from the flat. Wasn't killed here though." "How on earth do you know that?" Greg asked, staring at the perfectly quiet room. His partner looked at him in surprise. "The chair left marks on the floor, of course. First a very deep scratch, only a centimetre or so long, where she pushed it back forcefully, in fright of the intruder. She didn't move it enough to get up, only a frightened movement, the first instinct of flight. Her pen is still open, the ink spilled, the tip bend, she wrote something in a hurry and was then stopped." He held up a yellow notepad, a few small drops of ink staining the first sheets. "Then there's lighter and longer scratches on the ground, the colour of the exposed wood is an obvious sign that it's quite recent, the chair was forcefully dragged backwards. Mark of colour on the shelf over there show that the chair eventually fell against it. Her nails left a few scratches on the tapestry behind you so she fought but there is no blood anywhere, she wasn't killed here." He smiled proudly.

"Very well deduced, brother mine." Sherlock remarked "However, you forgot to address the obvious question: What was important enough to write down to risk her life for? A pencil, please, and the notepad, Mycroft." The Detective took the notepad from his brother and began lightly sketching on it, his face tense with concentration. Tracey had, it seemed, copied a few keywords from whatever documents she had stolen. Though the original sheet of paper had been torn off, Sherlock carefully reconstructed the writing, an imprint becoming more and more visible under the thin layer of pencil. The handwriting was messy and hard to read, as though it was written in a hurry. In some places the paper had been pierced by the force of rushed writing. "Hotel Dumort, 21, 1 floor, 3 door on the right" Sherlock read. "I've heard of the Hotel, it's been closed for a few decades, destroyed by a fire, restoration would be incredibly expensive so no one ever cared to buy it. I'm guessing the 21 is referring to a date, could be tonight then. It's the best we've got, I suggest we take a look."
"Can we be sure they haven't rescheduled?" Mycroft asked. His brother shook his head. "No, we can't, but there's a chance they think taking the original note threw us off track. We don't really have any other trace to follow, do we?" There was a sigh from the other corner of the room, where John was scanning a shelf full of classic literature. "That means waiting in a creepy Hotel all night, hoping that maybe if we are lucky someone will show up and solve the case, doesn't it?" An excited grin spread on his partner's face, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Elementary, my dear Watson."
"Sherlock, what the hell?"
"That sounds cool, I should remember that."
"You're such a Drama Queen."
"You love me, though!"

Mycroft felt as though he might faint, a strange uncomfortable dizziness spreading in his stomach as he watched his brother plan the oncoming vigil in an animated conversation with his partner. He had made his decision. He envied Sherlock, so seemingly unafraid, comfortable with showing his affection for John, his eyes warm with unconditional love. Noticing the look of insecurity in his secret lover's eyes, Greg moved closer, touching his hand slightly, careful not to let Sherlock see. "You're thinking about talking to him, aren't you?" He asked quietly. "I have to." Mycroft said. "Sherlock is more alive and much happier than I have seen him since he was a little child. You… We deserve to feel like that, I think. And besides, there are things I should have said years ago but never did. After everything that happened, it might be time for change." His boyfriend nodded softly, smiling encouragingly. He wrapped his fingers around the shaking hands for a moment, then backed away, busying himself with a phone call to the Yard.

Sherlock had finished making his plans for the approaching adventure and John got out his phone, leaving the room to find a babysitter for his daughter.
Taking the chance, Mycroft approached his brother, trying hard to keep his hands from shaking. "Sherlock." He turned around, immediately concerned by the serious tone. "Can we talk?" "We are talking already." "I'm serious, Sherlock, please." He nodded, narrowing his eyes in suspicion and followed him into the small kitchen. Worry washed over him, filling his insides with icy stones. Mycroft wanting a private word with him had never meant good news. The brothers stood close, looking into each other's eyes, both tense with anxiety. There was a heavy weight on Mycroft's chest, making it hard to breath, increasing the feeling of dizziness. "I…" It was as though something was blocking his throat, cutting off the words. "You're never at loss of words, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked, an edge of panic in his voice. "Nothing is wrong." he answered. "Not like that." Mycroft swallowed hard, taking a deep, quivering breath. "I am sorry. For the lies I told you, for making you feel inferior and, at times, worthless." "We were just kids, Mycroft, that's what children do." Sherlock answered softly, reaching out to touch his brother's shoulder.
"I know" he answered "but I didn't really stop when we got older, did I? Not until it was too late. Until I had forgotten how to be a big brother."
"We're not like other people. That never bothered you before. What changed?"
"Thinking I would lose you." Mycroft said, pain in his voice.
"In Sherrinford?" Sherlock asked. "You would have sacrificed yourself, for me, for John. I never..." He said thoughtfully, his eyes darkening with the memory.
"Your loss would break my heart, little brother. And losing John would have killed you." He answered, feeling himself relax a bit more. "I truly am sorry, Sherlock. I keep wondering if things would've been different had I been a better brother to you."
Shaking his head, Sherlock whispered softly, "You did your best. You did what had to be done." He took a deep breath. "I was mad at you, at first, for lying to me about our past. I was very hurt and confused. But I understand, Mycroft." He looked into his brother's eyes, full of warmth and compassion. "I forgive you, it's okay."

The tension between the brothers had lifted and they looked at each other with trust and understanding. Mycroft felt the pressure fade from his chest. He straightened his chest, gathering his strength and courage. "There is… another thing that I wanted to talk to you about." He said carefully. Sherlock looked at him openly, curiosity and worry sparking in his eyes.
"I have a boyfriend." Mycroft said slowly, feeling the weight lift from his chest as he spoke the words. A quiver ran through his body as he anxiously awaited a response. The seconds of silence that followed felt agonizingly long, as Sherlock stared, taking the information in. Then, he smiled a warm, affectionate smile. "That is very surprising. I'm happy for you." He cocked his head to the side. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? You knew that I'm gay, too, quite possibly before I did."
"I was afraid." Mycroft confessed. "I am not the man I thought I was, not who I wanted you to see in me. It terrifies me."
"I know." Sherlock said. "Me too." He chuckled softly at his brother's confused expression. "We are so alike, brother mine. Has it never occurred to you that I might be just as scared as you are? It took me a long time to accept I had feelings for John. Then, I had to accept they would not be reciprocated." He made a sound of amusement. "And now everything is so very new and I am also very terrified. A relationship, raising a child together, I have no idea how to be a boyfriend, much less how to be a father. And I don't know who I am, not really. Do sociopaths fall in love? Can they raise children? Or am I just more human than I thought I was? I am very confused and very scared and that is something I don't recall ever having felt before."
"How do you cope with that, then?" Mycroft asked. "You look like a natural in all of this."
Sherlock grinned. "Because I love John. And I love Rosamund. In the end, that's all that matters." He looked at his brother, words never spoken on the tip of his tongue, unsure if he should say them. There was something so vulnerable about the way Mycroft looked at him, seeking for guidance, helplessly lost in this new world of emotions and honesty. He couldn't recall ever seeing him like that.
"When we were kids" Sherlock said softly, "I was afraid of the dark and I would come into your room at night, climbing into your bed. You were so annoyed that I disturbed your sleep." He laughed quietly. "But you always took me in your arms, told me stories until I fell asleep."
Mycroft smiled, closing his eyes, memories drifting through his mind. "Yes, I remember that. I told you about the bravest pirates on the seven seas." He chuckled. "At first I looked them up and memorized them from books but then I started making them up, the most ridiculous stories."
"Sometimes I wasn't even scared." Sherlock admitted. "Sometimes I just wanted to hear the stories."

They laughed quietly, an intimacy between them that they hadn't felt for many years. "I am always there if you need me, Mycroft. No matter when or what." Sherlock said seriously.
Relieved and overwhelmed with emotions, Mycroft pulled him into a tight embrace, his hands on the slim, bony shoulders, as he had done all these years ago. "I love you, little brother." He whispered. "Love you too, big bro." Sherlock laughed hoarsely.
They stood for a couple of minutes, lost in memories and feelings they had neglected for such a long time. For just this moment, they were not the famous detective and the cold-hearted man from the government. For just his moment, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were just two brothers hiding from the dark, telling stories to make the nightmares go away.

When they had calmed their racing hearts and swirling minds, the brothers pulled apart, grinning awkwardly.

"Who is he, then?" Sherlock asked. "The man who melted the heart of ice." Mycroft arched his brow. "Do try harder, brother mine. Can't the master detective deduce such a little, and frankly obvious, thing?" The older brother teased, his eyes moving to the other room, deliberately suggestive. He watched in amusement as the dots connected in Sherlock's brain and the penny dropped with a very visible effect of shock. "How- Since- Why- Him?" The detective's gaze darted from Mycroft to the other room and back. He blinked at him in utter astonishment, then, nodding to himself slowly, took the information in. "He's a good guy… Good- A great choice… uhm… You're official and all?"
Biting his lip nervously, Mycroft answered "Yeah, we are, ehrr, openly dating, I guess."
"Good, good, that's great. I'm really happy for you guys, I am just- a bit surprised. Especially because it was obvious. How didn't I see it? Idiot, I-" He stopped. "John knows, doesn't he?"
"He figured it out quite quickly." Mycroft said. "Gregory made him promise not to tell. Our parents know too, though that was rather an accident." "They're unbearable sometimes, aren't they? You'd think I'm a teenager the way they worry about my private life." They laughed in gleeful agreement.

Both feeling much more safe and light, they left the tiny kitchen and joined their partners in the room next door, who gallantly pretended not to have overheard the conversation through the cheap, thin walls. John put his arm around Sherlock and Greg took Mycroft's hand.