Based on the poem Brother by Andrew Forster

Brothers

Mother always insisted that I be responsible for you, that I took you with me when I went out and that I would be there if you needed help. I resented it, resented you. I blame you for everything.

When you followed me to London I was forced to watch out for you, to make sure that you didn't do anything too stupid as you always do little brother.

I would have been on top of the world, or at least on top of Britain. My career kept me busy but we men must do what we have to, to keep the country going strong without any complaint.

You always had opinions about that, butting in where you weren't wanted with daft predictions of which way countries would vote and so on. You didn't care that nobody ever asked for your views on the Falkland's or on Russia.

I tried to busy myself with political nonsense and government policy but you were there all the time, crying out for attention like a small child. You always tried to copy what I did, you even tried to get a job as a civil servant but you weren't like me.

It was bearable though, and Mother made sure I was compensated for my troubles. The burden of silly little Sherly was nothing more than an inconvenience to be dealt with and then ignored until you made too much noise.

Then you got into the wrong crowd. You started drinking, then taking drugs. I would get phone calls from you when you were high and calling me 'Mycy'. Each time I would find you face down in a pile of God knows what, high as a kite and looking as though you hadn't eaten for a week.

I did my part; I told Mother and gave her a list of the best rehab programs across the world. She loved you too much though and she was too soft on you. She never could stand to see either of us unhappy could she?

I put your problems behind me and focused on my own future. I was mature and dignified where you were young and foolish. I was superior and people began to utile my intelligence. I stopped paying any attention to you, I closed the door.

You called me one night, just after a particularly session of cabinet. I declined the call and continued with the paperwork at my desk. That seemed more pressing.

Another three calls came but I ignored them each time, I had a role in the British government and no time for whinging little brothers.

I didn't know, I didn't think.

They told me later that you were under a bridge, homeless and starving. The drugs were bought with money you scammed or stole from tourists.

They told me that you called me for help as they took you away in the ambulance, crimson blood seeping from your wrists.

The detective who found you kept me up to date on your condition. He refused money but he stayed with you and helped you when you needed it. He was a better brother to you than I was, a better friend.

I could have saved you; I should have saved you. I should have listened to your pleas for help .It was not your fault, it was mine. You tried to reach out to me but I kept moving further.

I'm stood here now, looking at your headstone and I can't stop thinking about that night. I can't shake the feeling that I haven't learnt my lesson, that I should have seen the signs.

In a few days time you will pop up in my living room and tell me that you faked your death. I will put this behind e once again.

Now it just hurts. I pushed you away when you needed it the most.

Mother trusted me, you trusted me but I failed you.

I'm sorry Sherlock, I am so very sorry.