The moment Sherlock stepped out of the building, the clock started ticking. He knew that Lisbeth would defy his orders and do as she pleased. Which at this point, Sherlock believed that it would go something like this:

She'd reveal his shortcomings to John. Such as the fact Lestrade had known about his wife and daughter, but not John.

She'd expose a few unnecessary secrets.

Even though it was her mother, Lisbeth would still solve the murder.

She would eventually pack. But would rely on Mycroft's money for clothing.

She would answer any and all of John's questions, and/or tell John Sherlock's life story.

Sherlock sighed as he mentally went over this list. He hailed a cab, and was off and down the street in seconds. Once settled he pulled out his phone and sent a message to his brother, Mycroft.

Baker St at once. Come in person. SH

Sliding his phone closed and stuffing it in his pocket, he tried not to think of what was coming up ahead. He sat there, hands meeting in his thinking pose, eyes shut, trying to block out all the surfacing feelings. Though Sherlock had always prided himself on locking his feelings away, he had always had them, just below the surface, threatening to become real. Hiding his emotions for so long did not prepare him for what would happen next.

Hoping out of the cab on Baker St, he was greeted by his brother, who once receiving Sherlock's text, had rushed over and was now patiently waiting outside the door to 221B. Exchanging a look, the climbed the stairs in silence. Sherlock led Mycroft to his room instead of the sitting area, and this caused Mycroft's brow to raise slightly in curiosity. Sitting on his bed, he motioned for his brother to join him.

Mycroft had only a moment to sit when he felt a weight against him. Sherlock had taken to leaning into his brother, before he began to cry. Mycroft was intrigued, but nevertheless, he opted to settle his teary brother's head in his lap, where he proceeded to stroke his hair lovingly. You see, even though the Holmes brothers were known for being at each other's throats, they were still brothers. Brothers who, even though they would hate to admit, love the other dearly.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound Sherlock's crying sobs. Mycroft was the first to speak.

"Brother dearest, what has happened to upset you to the point of tears?" his voice was surprisingly full of worry.

"Its Emily." Sherlock replied, minutes later.

Mycroft looked displeased. Of course it was that Emily girl. Ever sense Sherlock decided to marry her, things had gone south. And all Mycroft could do was sit and watch. He sighed.

"If you two have had a fight…"

"She's dead. Murdered."

Mycroft was taken aback at this.

"It was one of Moriarty's, I know it."

At that, Mycroft removed his hand from Sherlock's head.

He sighed. "Sherlock, there is no chance that it was one of Moriarty's men, they have all been eliminated. And Moriarty never knew you had had a wife in the first place. Did you see the body?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "For a second."

"Then how could you possibly be sure that it was one of his? Did you even solve the murder?"

"No, I let Lisbeth handle it."

Mycroft all but shoved Sherlock off of him when he heard that. Sherlock looked at him, with wide reddened eyes and tear stained cheeks.

"You let your daughter solve her mother's murder? That is cold, even for us." He all but spat in his brother's face. "Why couldn't you handle it yourself?"

"I didn't want them… to see me cry." He mumbled in response.

Mycroft's expression softened at the detective's sudden confession. "Oh, Sherlock." He whispered, before pulling his brother back into an embrace. Sherlock silently sobbed into Mycroft's jacket.

"I sense a disturbance"

"In the force?" John laughed wholeheartedly. Lisbeth's glare had him shut his mouth in seconds.

"This isn't a joke John, something's not right…" John could see her eyeing her peripheral vision. "There. One of Mycroft's cars. Across the street, around the corner. He wants to be known, but not quickly."

John started to turn- "Stop, don't acknowledge it."

She huffed. "This is worse than I thought. He thinks it's Moriarty, and now he's evolved his brother. Hopefully Mycroft can open his eyes." She looked over at John. "Come along, John."

Lisbeth swiftly opened the door and hurried up the stairs. John tried hard to keep up. Shoving her key in the lock, opening the door, she burst into the room. Turning, she stopped.

"Dad."

John barely made in time to see. Sherlock, cradled in his brother's arms, weeping. It was something John had never seen before, something he never could have dreamed of. Mycroft looked up at them and gave a curt smile. Gently nudging his brother and letting go, Mycroft stood. Sherlock looked up at him and gave a small sniffle. Mycroft pet the detective's head for a moment before whisking away, out the bedroom door and over to Lisbeth.

"Beth." He smiled, lying on hand on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly. Mycroft looked her straight in the eye, as if looking for something deep within her. He glanced at John in the doorway and nodded, sullenly. With that, he took his leave.

John felt a sudden urge to reach out to the crying detective, but before he could even think to do anything, Sherlock was up and moving. All traces of tears and red eyes vanished in an instant. Lisbeth looked displeased, but said nothing. John, if he weren't in his right mind, would have consoled with him and possibly held him like Mycroft had. John felt a pang of jealousy thinking back. He wished that Sherlock had confided with him instead of his brother.

"Angela." Lisbeth spoke softly.

Sherlock's head shot up at the name. He turned around. "The maid?"

She nodded. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. "The maid, the maid, the maid…" he muttered to himself over and over. Pacing back and forth trying to piece it together. "Thief." He said in realization. But his expression grew dark. "A petty thief murdered my wife for her jewels?" He spat, angry; horrified to even think his wife would perish that way.

Lisbeth walked over slowly and took his hand. "Suicide. She committed suicide, the grief of murdering another human being got to her."

Sherlock sighed. Without turning, he acknowledged her suitcase.

"Take my room, down the hall, to the left."

She nodded once, eyes never leaving the detective. Their conversation was over, for now.