Prompt: From Chapter 1 of SIGN, the infamous watch bit and the introduction of the Doctor's late brother. Why didn't Holmes find out about it before (you'll have to address the lack of mourning clothes issue here) and what was his reaction to finding out why Watson didn't tell him?

A/N: This was extremely difficult to write. I had the basic idea in my head from speculating on the point before, but I had trouble putting it together in a coherent fashion. The lateness of the update is more due to procrastination than writer's block, as I knew that it would be hard to answer. It was quite difficult to keep Watson IC in this.

It was soon after the untimely death of my father that the most drastic change in my brother Henry became apparent. We had all known of the man's weak heart, and were, sadly, unsurprised when he finally left this world. Henry had been withdrawn, distant from us, for some time, but upon our father's death he was further from us than ever. He had begun drinking heavily, more satisfied with the hazy, indistinct world presented to him by the contents of too many bottles than with the reality which life had presented to him.

My poor mother, sickened with grief at her husband's passing, looked to her sons for comfort. She needed all the support she could get--I gave her what I could, but Henry's coldness was painful to her. Ever since he had discovered the realm of drunkeness he had become more and more detatched from us. He continued to distance himself, choosing instead the company of a variety of bottles and women, neither of which made for long term satisfaction, apparently. His attitude towards the rest of the world, even his own mother, was indifferent.

I remember my mother, near to tears, pleading with him to realize what his life had become--his family, who loved him still, was barely a part of his life, while he spent his time delving into all the sins of man. He did not heed her words, instead laughing scornfully at her attempts to bring back her eldest son. I in turn did my best to reason with him, but became so disgusted at his continued indifference and despicable behavior. that I angrily shut him out just as much as he did me. I wonder, now, whether his method of pushing us away was used as a defense against something--the memory of our father, perhaps, or the traditional responsibilities of an eldest son, or the support that our mother needed but which he, for whatever reason, would not or could not give her.

I had almost finished school when my mother passed away. She had been terribly ill--a fever, the sort that rises inexorably, too fast and too high. Her brow was burning, searing to touch until the cool hand of death closed around her. It was during her illness that I saw the true extent to which she was grieved by Henry's abandonment. Delerious, she called me by his name, asking me why I'd hurt her and my brother by pushing us away, by taking to the bottle. Why did he leave us, she would ask, in her rare lucid moments. I never knew what to tell her.

I sent for my brother, when I was certain she would not make it. He never came. To be honest, I expected him not to. I did not expect him to come to her funeral, either, but that he did, in a completely drunken state. Halfway through the service he began singing loudly; I would have escorted him forcefully away but he went himself, wandering out of the place as though he hadn't a care in the world, which it is quite possible that he didn't.

It was soon after that that I realized I had lost my brother.

I had already mourned when I heard of his death, and had already dealt with my grief, and so felt no compulsion to mourn him again. I carried his watch, however, though I felt I needed no reminder of him. Perhaps it was a last vestige of a family tie, the last amount of forgiveness I could muster for my unhappy brother. Perhaps it was to remind me of my father, and a time before Henry was lost to us. Or perhaps it serves as a reminder of a man who chose the easy path away from grief and responsibility, but found the price too high to pay.

In any case, the watch held memories for me that were important, but painful. I carried the watch, but I carried it for days on end without looking at it, without thinking of the means by which I had come by it.

It was without thinking that I handed the watch to my friend Sherlock Holmes, the day he learned of my brother's existance. It was sued purely as a means of distraction on the spur of the moment, to present him with some problem which I though would not only prove difficult, but would also bend his mind away from the drug in which he found such stimulation. He proceeded to deduce the particulars of my brother's life--the relationship, the finances, the drink, the death. And it startled me, to hear him summarized so succinctly, so briefly. To see how much of my brother was in that watch, and to see how little of my brother there was.

I had mourned, long ago, for the loss of my brother, as it had affected me, but now I unexpectedly mourned for the loss of the man my brother was, and the man he might have been. Who knows what might have happened, had he made some other choice? Perhaps he would have been successful, perhaps he would have been happy. Perhaps he would not have relied on the bottle. Perhaps his entire life, by the end, could not have fit so easily into a pocket watch. The realization was difficult, but liberating, in a way. The resentment I had felt for my brother dissipated, in time.

Holmes was good enough not to question me further on my brother--I think he understood that our relationship had been far from a happy one. It was much later in our friendship that the subject came up again--I mentioned my brother, offhand, and there was no more bitterness in his name. He did not ask me anything directly, but through the conversation I told him about Henry, and his unfortunate life. Holmes was sympathetic, in his own quiet way, and I think he understood that I had come to terms with my relationship with my brother. For all the times that he can be self-centered and careless, he can be remarkably attuned to the feelings of others.

"Did you ever wonder," I asked him on a whim, "why I never told you of my brother?"

"I did," my friend admitted. "But I assumed you had your reasons."

A/N: Hmmmm...
Rather an odd place to stop, I know, but that was the spot where it stopped coming, so I guess that's the end :P
Part of the reason this was so hard to write was that I was trying to find a balance in Henry--I didn't want to just make him a horrible person, but I wanted Watson to have a very good reason to resent his brother. I think I hit somewhere close to the middle of the spectrum, but if it sounds wishy-washy, that's why :)