Disclaimer: I own nothing.

...

When their father dies, Mycroft is crushed. He wasn't particularly close to their father, but the man was always there for him, always proud of the man he'd become. He passes away suddenly – septic shock due to liver failure, the doctors say, brought on by years of drinking. Mycroft is shocked, to say the least. He'd always been aware of his father's drinking habits, but he'd never stopped to consider how excessive his imbibing had become. He blames himself, thinking he should have paid more attention, should have realized just how alone their father was once Mummy left and he and Sherlock had gone. He wishes he could have been there for him. He might have been able to prevent this.

But if there's one thing Mycroft knows, it's that wishing does not achieve anything. So, like the responsible man he has come to be, he places his feelings aside and puts on a stoic face, carrying on in the midst of his grief.

The first person he calls is Mummy. He reasons that, even after everything, she deserves to know that her ex-husband is dead. She takes the news quietly and calmly, saying she's not surprised, that she knew something like this would happen sooner or later. She asks if he is all right and Mycroft assures her that he's fine. He doesn't really want to talk about it and, truthfully, Mycroft doesn't quite know how to respond to her sudden surge of maternal concern. He's learned to live without it and doesn't see why he should seek out her affection now. He'll manage just as he's always done.

The next call he makes is to Sherlock. He thinks it would probably be best if he is the one to tell him the news. Even if they haven't spoken in far too long, Mycroft reasons that Sherlock will still listen to what he has to say. At least, he hopes so.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft dials the phone and waits, listens as it rings, and breathes a soft sigh of relief when Sherlock actually answers. It's no surprise to him that Sherlock remains removed from the conversation. All he wants are the cold hard facts, asking how and when and where. Mycroft answers as best he can, but he doesn't want to talk about it, especially not in the detached, emotionless way that Sherlock is going about this.

"The man was our father, for God's sake! Doesn't that mean anything to you?!"

Mycroft quickly regrets his harsh tone, apologizing instantly. Sherlock doesn't say a word, and Mycroft wonders what's going on in that head of his. He apologizes again and says he'll call him later in the week once he knows when and where the funeral will be. Sherlock hums in acknowledgement. The conversation ends awkwardly, with hesitant goodbyes and unspoken assurances.

…

On the day of the service, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Mycroft checks his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Though Sherlock was not involved in the planning of the funeral, Mycroft made sure to let him know when and where it was being held. He'd never spoken to Sherlock directly, but left several messages on his answerphone. He assumed his brother would get the messages, but he must have assumed wrong.

Stepping to the back of the room, Mycroft dials Sherlock's number once more. Nothing. He's called at least a dozen times in the past hour, but all of them have been directed to a voice mail box. He cannot imagine where his brother is and isn't quite sure he wants to. Ever since that fateful afternoon Mycroft caught him using, things haven't been the same between the two of them. Mycroft had found himself growing more and more suspicious of his brother as Sherlock grew more and more secretive.

The last time he had seen Sherlock was just after his graduation from university. Apparently, he had been doing well, having taken up a job doing lab analysis for Scotland Yard at St. Barts, putting his minors in biology and chemistry to good use, and moved into a flat with a mate from uni. Yet as well as he'd said he was, Mycroft wasn't sure that was the truth. The facts of Sherlock's story didn't seem to quite add up – his brother? Working for law enforcement? Even in a minor way? And at a hospital? Solving medical puzzles using techniques a child could master? It didn't seem right. Any of it. That, plus his outward appearance made Mycroft skeptical. Sherlock looked simply awful, worse than Mycroft had ever seen him. Frustrated, he'd had asked if he was using again, but the question was superfluous. The answer was already clear in his sunken, red eyes, and his clammy, twitching fingers.

That was almost a year and a half ago. The next time they spoke was when Mycroft called to tell him of their father's death. So it's no surprise that Sherlock is refusing to answer his phone now.

Yet just minutes before the service is about to begin, Mycroft's phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. It's Sherlock. Mycroft ducks out into the lobby of the funeral home, hissing into the phone.

"Where are you? You need to be here! This is our father's funeral. Sherlock Holmes, you need to be here!"

Sherlock, on the other side of the phone, sounds hazy and disconnected. "I'm busy."

Mycroft is livid. "Busy?! Too busy to come to your own father's funeral?!"

Sherlock sighs. "Sorry, brother, but I can't. I just can't. You wouldn't understand."

"What? What wouldn't I understand? Tell me. Tell me, Sherlock. Make me understand."

A silence, then, "I can't. You never listen."

He hangs up the phone with a sharp click and leaves Mycroft stunned. At that moment, Mycroft realizes just how little Sherlock cares for their father, for him. He knows Sherlock was never fond of their father, but this… this is a step too far. He is infuriated and hurt, but he has a funeral to attend, so he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and carries on.

…

He doesn't hear from Sherlock, but he worries about him constantly. Mycroft doesn't know if he's still got that flat or that mate from university. He doesn't know if he still has that job with Scotland Yard. He doesn't know if he's seeing anyone – has a girlfriend. Boyfriend. He doesn't know if he's getting enough to eat or if he's sleeping properly. If he's happy or if he's safe. If he's clean. If he's using. If he's shooting up high enough to quiet his strange and brilliant mind. If he's poisoning his body little by little, day by day, getting one step closer to death each time he sticks that needle in his arm.

He doesn't know. He just doesn't know.

Mycroft worries, but it's futile to worry about everything all the time. Especially the things that are out of his control.

…

A few months later, Mycroft is awakened in the night by the ring of the telephone. With a glance at the clock and a heavy sigh, he picks up, mumbling a hello. It's Sherlock. He's loud and incoherent and it takes Mycroft all of two seconds to realize that Sherlock is under the influence. He doesn't have time for this. He has to be up in three hours to catch a flight to Switzerland. He hasn't heard from Sherlock since their father's funeral nearly a year ago and he doesn't want to talk to him now, of all times.

"Mycroft… Mycroft, please… Please. Please come get me."

Sherlock's voice is high and tight and he sounds absolutely unearthly, but Mycroft doesn't care. He's tired and frustrated and angry still, so angry.

"Please, Mycroft… please. I'm in trouble. I messed up… Mycroft. I did something bad… I need help."

Mycroft sighs. He doesn't want to play this game, doesn't want to buy into this, doesn't want to be a pawn in Sherlock's games anymore. So he strikes with the intent to wound.

"I'm busy," Mycroft says, his voice sharp as ice.

Sherlock wails and begins babbling into the telephone, saying he's sorry, he's sorry, he's so sorry but he needs someone right now, someone to come get him. Mycroft isn't listening. He's still angry and wants to hurt Sherlock the way he hurt him. He knows it's petty, but he can't help the words that come out of his mouth.

"Sherlock, no. I can't. I just can't. I'm busy. I'm sure you understand."

There is a silence, presumably as Sherlock realizes what he's doing. Good. Serves him right. Mycroft waits, but he can't hear anything. He's about to hang up when all of a sudden Sherlock is talking again, saying things, horrible things. Things about their father, how he used to drink and get angry and beat him. How their mother never knew. How it got worse when Mycroft went to school because there was no one to protect him. How he never said anything because Father always said that Mycroft would be upset with him, wouldn't believe him, would say that he must have deserved it because he was always such a naughty and odd little boy. How it got worse as he got older, as their father drank more and more and more. How Father just got so angry and how he wasn't afraid to use his fists and belt and bottles to show it. How he was finally big enough to fight back, but he was never able to overpower their father's rage. How he thought it was over when he escaped to university, but he nightmares kept coming. How he couldn't go to the funeral because their father used to beat him and he hates him hates him hates him hates him hates him. How he hates him and he's sorry. He's sorry he couldn't be at the funeral with him, sorry he made Mycroft stand there all alone, but he couldn't, he just couldn't. How he's so sorry but please… please, he's in trouble… please, he needs him now… needs his help… needs his brother.

"Please… Please, Mycroft, please… Mycroft? Mycroft?"

Mycroft can't say a word. He's stunned. This has to be a story, has to be a lie concocted by the drugs Sherlock has so obviously taken. He knows their father wasn't fond of Sherlock, but he'd never blamed him. Their father was a distant man and Sherlock isn't an easy person to be close to. No one knew that better than Mycroft. But despite any sort of estrangement between them, Mycroft had never even imagined the possibility that his father's aversion to Sherlock could have run so deep as to cause him to lay hands on his youngest son.

But it can't be true… it just can't. If any of what Sherlock says is the truth, then it's Mycroft's fault – his fault because he never protected Sherlock, his fault because he never saw the signs, his fault because he's been too damned busy to realize his brother was in pain.

No. It isn't true. It isn't. It's a trick. A cruel trick. Just another Sherlock trick to get him to do what he wants. It has to be a trick.

Mycroft sighs and tells Sherlock he's sorry, but he can't come. He tells him that whatever he's taken is making him say things that aren't true and he just needs to drink a glass of water and go to bed. He won't remember having said any of this in the morning.

Nearing hysteria, Sherlock begins a fresh round of apologies and swears he's not making it up, that he's telling the truth, the honest-to-a-God-he-doesn't-believe-in truth. Mycroft calmly tells him he's going to hang up now. Sherlock screams, begging him not to go, but Mycroft pulls the phone away from his ear and ends the call.

Mycroft lies back down. He doesn't sleep the rest of the night, Sherlock's screams and sobs echoing in the corridors of his mind. He wonders if he made the right decision, but worries that he's just made a grave mistake he will live to regret.

…