1st August, 1914

A tall, gaunt man sporting a rather unbecoming goatee and one Mycroft Holmes were discussing the former's almost completed mission. After two years, the conclusion was drawing nearer than ever. The mission should prove to be a compete success.

"You did excellent work overseas, Sherlock," said Mycroft, praising the man who had sacrificed two years for the future of England.

Sherlock Holmes was fairly enthusiastic at the prospect of wrapping up the mission and reuniting with his dearest friend. "Now, all I need to do is wire Watson tomorrow, to ask him to help me-"

Holmes noticed his elder brother jerking slightly at the mention of Watson. Barely noticeable to anyone else's eyes. To him it was glaringly obvious. And not something that was foreign. Mycroft had looked much the same at the conclusion of his missions in 1894.

A sense of dread filled him. He saw a spark of contrition in his brother's eyes. Adding to the dread he felt were anger and disappointment. And suspicion.

Mycroft had not told Watson of his survival once both had been relatively save from the colonel after the Reichenbach disaster. He had insisted that he would reject any further missions if Watson would be kept in the dark ever again.

But Mycroft had conveyed to him in their correspondence that Watson had been kept informed. Not well informed by any means, but assured of his own good health...

…but Mycroft had also been glaringly reticent about the doctor, constantly reminding him to keep his mind on the mission at hand.

"You have not told me anything specific about Watson, not even when I asked explictly for information concerning his well being. You have avoided my gaze when I mentioned contacting him just now. You sat back ever so slightly into your chair, subconsciously creating more of a distance even though your desk is between us. This leads me to believe that you have kept more from me than I thought, considering my adamant demands concerning information about Watson. You assured me that there was nothing to tell. Obviously - and don't pretend that this is not the case - you have mislead me, knowing my opinion of your behavior twenty years ago. It is barely noticeable, but the guilt - yes guilt - in your eyes betray you, brother.

"What is it that you have kept from me?" the last question was asked with a calmness Holmes did not feel.

Mycroft recognised the accuracy of his brother's deductions. If he wanted him to cooperate further - and his cooperation was still required - he had to answer. But maybe he did not need to disclose anything immediately. The chances were slim, but existent.

"It will not be possible for Doctor Watson to aid you in the completion of your mission."

"Why?" this one word resembled a demand rather than a question. Holmes wished to know more, even as he feared the answer. It was the way his mind functioned, craving information no matter the cost.

Mycroft considered not answering, knowing he had to eventually.

"He is…indisposed."

"In what way? Do come out with it, Mycroft," he shot his brother a look that, had it been a weapon, would have cut the larger man in half.

Mycroft drew himself up straight in his chair, or as straight as a man with his considerable bulk was able to. In a way, he had wanted to spare his brother, but since he was back home in England it was impossible to keep this from him.

"Dr. Watson has contracted an illness that leaves him unable to be of any help to you."

Holmes needed to know more, even as dread filled him. Since Mycroft had not been forthcoming in the two years previous, it could not have been a recent development. Meaning that this illness had been present for some amount of time. He choose to ask another question.

He feared to know what illness had befallen his dear friend.

"Will he be regaining his health in a foreseeable amount of time?"

His dread proved to be valid.

"No," the answer of his brother felt more like the blow of a heavyweight champion neatly hitting his solar plexus.

An illness, having been contracted quite some time before his return, leaving Watson unable to be of any help to him. Not an injury, an illness. Watson was a doctor and had still been practicing when he had left. Illness due to infection was a likely possibility.

And it had lasted for some time, certainly during the larger part of his mission overseas. And Watson would not improve.

Holmes was no fool. He looked beseechingly at his brother, for once unashamed of showing his desperate wish to be wrong, as he had so often been when they had been but youngsters and deduction had merely been a game to pass the time.

"Tell me, Mycroft."

"He has been diagnosed with tuberculosis, as I believe you have been suspecting."

Sherlock Holmes felt his whole world crumble to dust around him.

tbc