Sherlock had never been less inclined to be polite or courteous to his brother than he was at this very moment. He stomped about the flat, muttering under his breath various curses and obscenities. He violently placed the tea cups and saucers on his rickety coffee table, spilling half of the cups' contents all over the scattered magazines. Unfazed, Sherlock hastily retreated to the hard metal folding chair he had placed on the extreme far wall of his miniscule flat. He sat with his arms crossed defiantly, refusing to bother to look in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft was more than familiar with his brother's wayward attitude. He adjusted uncomfortably on Sherlock's well-worn sofa, which groaned in protest against the movement. He deftly cleared his throat to edge off the awkward silence that was permeating the small room.

"Sherlock. Why are you this upset? You yourself have claimed I am the British government. How could you possibly think you could live in London without me knowing?"

Sherlock harrumphed and turned profile to Mycroft. He hoisted his nose in protest to his brother's questions. He detested the thought of Mycroft spying on him. How did you think you were going to outsmart Mycroft anyway? The man is the government condensed in one body...

"I don't know, bother dearest. I suppose I had hoped you thought I was dead, and would discontinue using your powers to spy on such lowly beings as bookkeepers."

"Christ Sherlock, so glad you think so highly of me."

Sherlock snorted into his tea. Actually brother, I had hoped you would have started keeping an eye on the good Doctor Watson.

"Well, if you must know, I kept surveillance on John Watson, and your flat, for about four months after your little stunt. I was concerned the poor chap might off himself in a similar fashion. But that landlady, Mrs. Hudson, she's been quite attentive to him. Greg's been by to see him, brought him out a few times to the bars and whatnot..."

Mycroft slowed his delivery to give Sherlock time to process the information. Sherlock, however, had wandered over to the grimy window. He was standing, staring pensively out at the empty street below, fingers peaked under his nose. He seemed to have noticed the lack of noise emanating from Mycroft, and he looked expectant. Mycroft continued.

"Yes, well, John seems to be surviving. After those four months, I decided to stop the surveillance on Baker Street. All seemed quiet. Until Sargent Donovan told me she saw you. Well she convinced Director Inspector Lestrade that she had seen you at some coffee shop, and Lestrade called me about a hundred times until I answered. Damn nosy bastards, those friends of yours Sherlock."

"I have one friend. Rather I had one friend."

"Please Sherlock, how can you not see... Oh never mind, you always were a spiteful bastard! Lestrade apparently believed Sgt. Donovan. He felt that I needed to be aware of the possibility you might be alive. I tried to calm him down, explained that John Watson saw you jump, watched you, well, you don't need the gory details from all the others' accounts. Regardless of my doubt of Sgt. Donovan's complete sanity, I began searching. CCTV is not a foreign medium for me. How quickly you forgot that dear brother."

Mycroft stood to stretch his stiff legs, the sofa providing very little support for his frame. He gazed wearily at his little brother. He had hoped finding Sherlock would not mean losing him again as well. It was a double-edged sword that Mycroft had been trying to avoid with this confrontation. If Sherlock just realized, just took a moment to rationalize that he had people who mourned him, who cared about him, who missed him. He tentatively crossed the breadth of the room and placed a hand on Sherlock's hunched shoulder.

Sherlock moved with such swift dexterity that Mycroft hardly had a moment to stabilize himself on the back of the folding chair.

Sherlock whipped around to face his brother, his pale skin inflamed with emotion.

"Mycroft you are as infuriating as ever! Are you enjoying yourself? Squawking at me about how you kept tabs on all my little pawns. How you all missed me oh so much. I used all of you, don't you see?! Can't you all stop being petulant children about your feelings? I SAVED YOU ALL. Christ, Mycroft. You run the damn British government. Where were you when I needed saving? Where..."

Sherlock looked helplessly around the room, blank eyes searching for a bit of sense. His panic had settled into a deep-seated knot in his chest, one he tried to rub away with his fist. He softly sat down on the edge of his sofa. In a dire attempt to collect his thoughts, he took a mouthful of hot tea. It burnt his tongue, the sensation bringing his flighty thoughts crashing down around his feet. He was aware something was happening to the right of his body, yet he had no energy to give it attention.

In reality, Mycroft had sat beside his frantic little brother on the sofa. There was no contact between them, just a crackle of tension, and body heat. Mycroft had little experience with scared Sherlock. He could handle angry Sherlock, egocentric Sherlock, drugged Sherlock, even the rare happy Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't presented signs of fear since he was a child. Mycroft preferred not to remember those pieces of their childhood. He shuddered slightly, and wrapped his thin jacket tighter around himself. He cautiously spoke the next words with an escape already planned in the case of an unfavorable reaction.

"You can come back, Sherlock. It's over. It's all over."

The proclamation hung in the air with a pregnant pause. Sherlock shifted awkwardly, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin. With a great heaving sigh, he hung his head in his hands as if it had suddenly become far too heavy for his neck to hold. He mumbled incoherent words down toward the floorboards, to no one in particular.

"Sherlock, I can't... What are you saying? Are you... Fuck Sherlock. Are you a'right?"

"Yes, dammit Mycroft I'm fine. Exceptional. Astounding. Jolly good. Okay?"

"No, not okay. I'm just making sure. Christ, you're going to send me to an early grave."

"Already beat you to that, brother dearest. Ain't all its cracked up to be. Very dark."

Sherlock's sly smile had Mycroft on his feet.

"Bloody arse you are, little brother. Dammit." Mycroft ran a hand through his hair with extreme exasperation. Fraught with nerves and conflicting emotions about Sherlock's potential return to his already busy life, Mycroft took steady hold of Sherlock's shoulder. Escape was not going to be an option this time.

"Listen Sherlock. You've fucked up everyone. You're living in this shite flat that wouldn't even put up our 'Most Wanted'. Go back to Baker Street. Go back to being an annoying, brilliant ass. Tell John it's going to be alright, if that's what you want. Leave this foolishness behind. No one will miss Ben Moffat."

Sherlock hadn't been effective in shaking Mycroft's steely grasp, forced to sit before his older brother with nothing resembling dignity. He briefly considered headbutting Mycroft in the groin, but acquiesced to feign listening. Mycroft seemed to have gone quiet. Sherlock ventured to speak.

"When? When does this master plan happen, to reinsert myself into their lives? Because God, Mycroft, if it had been that easy I wouldn't have spent two years hiding in plain sight. They want me gone. Obvious. John saw me one day. He looked for me about as ardently as a small child looks for vegetables at the dinner table. What am I supposed to do? Walk up to Baker Street and knock? 'Ta John, how're you? Jolly good, I'll take the upstairs room.' John Watson won't be taken for a fool, brother."

"You... You've not gone back because you're worried John Watson won't take you back?" Mycroft couldn't keep the scathing remark to himself. "Sherlock, good God. Go home, you prat. Make John some bloody tea, play your violin, do whatever it is you two do when you're not running around greater London causing problems. I'm not an idiot, I see you two. I just... Shit, you're not fooling anyone. Go. Understand? Go!"

With a steel hold, Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's shoulder once, then walked out the door. Sherlock attempted to reorient himself with the spinning room around him. He had spent eighteen months ignoring this day. Eighteen months pretending it wouldn't happen. Eighteen months desperately yearning for home. Eighteen months clawing at the box he had buried himself in. Eighteen months.

And finally, through the tiny holes beginning to form in the fragile fabric of his life, he could see the sunlight.


A/N: Mycroft touching Sherlock seems slightly OOC. However, I've always felt Mycroft to be the softer brother. I think he regards Sherlock shrewdly because of Sherlock's nature. I used the touch here to signify authority, but also brotherly love. Sherlock is his little brother, and Mycroft is letting his little brother know that he's got Sherlock's back now when he's failed Sherlock in the past.