Mycroft wandered off on his own a few days later when Sherlock had been forbidden from leaving the flat by John after a fiasco at Tesco's. Mycroft was alright with wandering London by himself, he just wasn't sure where he wanted to go. He left early in the morning and just wandered, letting his feet lead him away.

He found that no matter where he went, he wasn't happy. He wanted his job, his office, people afraid of him, his amazing secretary. His clean, organized flat that he hadn't set foot in since this had all started. God, the government was probably dissolving into chaos without him.

Somehow, he wound up in front of his old office, just standing there and staring. He knew he didn't dare to go inside in case someone saw him. When people he recognized started to file out of the building he sighed and turned around, heading back towards the flat.

If he was lucky, maybe John might actually be able to cheer him up for a bit.

Anthea had apparently called in his absence, and John explained the situation to him very carefully. Mycroft pulled away from his brother and John then, heaving giant breathes as he tried to control his temper. He knew he had one, that's why he always strived for complete control, detachment, as an adult. But these hormones, these feelings, this blinding anger. It took over and dulled his thought process, made him an illiterate idiot for hours at a time until he took control again.

Just to pick up the broken pieces he had left behind him.

But he couldn't really care about that right now. Now, all that flashed through his brain was a fire red anger and all the injustices he felt towards himself. All the slights, all the hate, the sneers and snickering behind his back.

"It isn't fair!" he shouted, whirling and glaring at his brother and John. "I've never been happy in this life, because of him, and now I have to re-live the hardest part of it just because of him! 'Protect Sherlock, watch out for Sherlock, make sure he doesn't get into trouble, Mycroft!'" he shouted in a mock-regal tone. Sherlock flinched, looking down at his feet. Mycroft switched tones and continued on. "'I don't care if you don't want to, young man! I don't care if you need to study, your brother needs to be watched and I'm too damned drunk to do it. I don't care about your friends or your studies or the fact that you're trying to make a decent life for yourself! Just, watch Sherlock!'"

Mycroft glared at his little brother, his face a snarl of anger and pain. "This is all your fault, Sherlock. Everything. I wish that I had just left you alone when you were at Uni like you asked. I wish I had!"

John looked down, confused. "What happened at Uni?" he asked the little boy, and Sherlock took a steadying breath before he muttered, "I almost died. Drugs."

John threw his head back and sighed. Why? Why did he have to have two boys with such massive intellects and the emotional awareness of twigs?

"Mycroft, apologize to your brother and then go to your room. Cool off." That just seemed to send Mycroft further off the cliff.

"Oh, God. It's happening again. Already! Do I not get to have any rest in this life? Any peace at all? Is it so much to fucking ask to be first priority for just a little while? Just once?"

Mycroft turned on his heel and stormed down the stairs, out the door, and down the street. John called after him but Mycroft ignored him, quite elegantly replying with a harsh, "PISS OFF!" And then they were at the window, watching him stalk away, kicking at the pavement, his hands flying to his face and then back to his pockets and then back to his face.

As they pulled away from the window, John realized Sherlock was now crying as well, though attempting to hide it. Crouching down, John cleaned Sherlock's face off and gave him a world-weary sigh. "Alright, Sherlock. He was just angry, it's understandable. You remember being sixteen, right?" Sherlock's eyes widened and he nodded, looking sick. "Well, he just feels a little unloved right now. Scared. He'll come back when he's cooled off and then we can show him just how wrong he is. Why he doesn't need to be afraid. Agreed?"

Sherlock nodded, though he still didn't look too happy about his brother screaming and storming away. The rain pouring down outside didn't help his worry any, either. He took up a perch at the window, waiting for his brother to come back, even set out a clock beside him to see just how long he would try to stay away.

He forgot his umbrella, Sherlock thought sullenly as he stared at the grey street below.

He watched the scene play out through the CCTV cameras. Watched with glee as Mycroft stormed away, crying angry tears. Then he saw Sherlock's worried little face appear in the window and watch his brother storm away.

Employing that doctor had been his best idea yet. Though the scenario hadn't been expected, the result was absolutely brilliant.

This was just perfect. Only a little more time for them to stew in their mutual resentments, and his plan would resolve itself.

He was simply ecstatic.

No, the Holmes boys would never forget about him again.