"Help me, please, someone help me!" Sherlock looked down the well helplessly. He was tied up next to the well, watching his best friend flailing about in the ever increasing water. "I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry..." he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. He heard a barking sound from the well, and glanced down to find a red haired dog sticking his head out next to John. "I found Redbeard, Sherlock," John called. "Help us both! We're drowning!"
"Pass them a rope, please, Eurus!" he turned to his sister, only to find a pigtailed little girl skipping about with a toy airplane. She was humming a tune, one that he had come to dread. "The puzzle, brother, have you figured out the puzzle?"
"Help me save my best friend, please!" he begged, sobbing. "Which one, dear brother?" she smirked. "Which one do you choose?"
"Help me, please!" came a new voice from the well. Sherlock looked down, and saw little Victor Trevor standing next to John, crying. The dog had disappeared. "Choose one, brother dear," his sister's voice intoned. "The old one, or the new one? You only get to keep one. "Just say the words, and then you can get out. That's not too difficult, is it?"
"Please help me!" He was suddenly back in Sherrinford, standing over a coffin. Molly Hooper was inside, screaming. He banging desperately on the glass, trying to break it, to let Molly escape. "It's just a game, Molly," Eurus said indifferently. "
"I hate you, Sherlock!" Molly screamed, as the lid of the coffin opened with a bang. She was suddenly standing before him, furiously slapping him, again and again. "You bas***! How could you!"
"Please Molly," he begged. "I didn't mean to hurt you...please..." She slapped him again, tears running down her cheeks, screaming, "I hate you!" again and again.
"I hate you, Sherlock," It was Mycroft's voice now. "You were always the slow one," he sneered. "Now shoot me in the heart, like a good little brother." He was pointing the gun at his brother's heart, unable to bring himself to pull the trigger. Finally, he made his decision. "Not on my watch," he declared resolutely, placing the tip of the weapon under his chin. "No, no, Sherlock! You can't!" Eurus screamed.
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I can help," Jim grinned from the screen, before he inexplicably stepped out and was standing before Sherlock in the flesh. He grabbed the gun from his hands and shot the elder brother. Mycroft fell down, crimson blood spurting from his heart. "What did you do!" Sherlock demanded of Moriarty.
"You made your choice, sexy," Jim sang. "I was just helping you finish the job. Don't worry, you'll get another one."
"He was mybrother! Sherlock screamed, grabbing Jim and shaking him. "My only brother!"
"Family is merely a sentimental title people attach to those who most closely share their genetic material," Eurus droned in the background.
"It is what it is," said John. "You need to move on."
"Don't fuss so," came a hollow voice from the body on the floor, it's blue lips moving grotesquely. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
3:00 AM read the clock by Mycroft's bedside. He had woken from a restless sleep by a vibrating alarm, set to go off upon sensing a very specific intruder. He groaned a bit, pondering whether to go for confrontation or roll over and (try to) fall back asleep. He was certain that Sherlock was aware of the alert system he had recently installed (after the first time he had broken in with his buddies). If he stayed in bed, chances were good that he would experience an unpleasant wake-up call. He decided against taking a chance.
Mycroft was somewhat surprised to find his brother leaning against the counter, dark circles under his reddened eyes and a brooding expression on his face. In the past few weeks, he had experienced two such 'break-ins', and had arrived both times to a disaster in the kitchen. Sherlock had expressed his culinary skills by making himself sandwiches, using different cuts of meat and expensive cheeses Mycroft kept on hand, as well as a few more exotic ingredients. He never took more than a few bites, and didn't lift a finger to clean up his mess, but Mycroft was glad that he felt comfortable enough to make himself at home. This time, his appearance and expression sent a shiver of dread down Mycroft's spine.
"Brother mine," Sherlock greeted him, his tone lifeless. "It is a pleasure to see your face again."
"Are you alright, Sherlock?" the elder brother asked, more than a little concern in his voice.
"Why would that be any concern of yours?" Sherlock asked in the same flat tone he used before.
"I would assume that would be obvious," Mycroft said, in a hurt tone.
"Yes, it is. And that's why I am letting you know that you don't need to do that anymore."
"I don't understand," Mycroft sputtered
"Let me explain it to you then. I have wondered, for a very long time, about your behavior towards me. You have saved me from quite a few messes, many of my own making. Your level of concern is uncommon, even for family. You go so far as to have me watched, so you can save me even before I get into trouble. You do not get any compensation for this task, nor any appreciation. To keep on doing this, all your life, with no external motivation, you would need to be either a saint or you would actually need to care. You are not the former, I have plenty of evidence on that count. So then it must be the latter. The problem is, the evidence does not support that claim in a consistent manner."
"What are you on about, Sherlock," Mycroft exclaimed, bewildered. "Of course I care about you!"
"Kindly let me finish before you interrupt," Sherlock said abruptly. "I have concluded that you care for some reason, but regret that you do. After all, it was you who warned me about getting involved emotionally. How many times have you told me that caring is not an advantage? How many times have you cautioned me about losing myself to sentiment and becoming vulnerable? Conclusion: you view caring as a weakness. Yet you have somehow fallen into the trap, but for some reason haven't yet.
"A pattern emerges when you observe the evidence. There were situations where your assistance was required, and you were aware of it, yet you stayed away. Those situations mostly required emotional involvement, and you weren't ready to give it. Examples: After Mary Watson was killed, you stayed away. You had the entire British surveillance system watching me, yet you couldn't bother to come in person to check up on me. So many other times, when I was sick or hurt, you instructed John or someone else to take care of me.
"You rescued me when my life was in danger, and you helped me with my drug addictions. You couldn't, however, be bothered with any niceties, such as ever giving me any praise or even acknowledgement for the progress I made. When we were younger, you helped me hone my gifts and taught me how to survive with it, yet you made me feel like an idiot while doing it. Your behavior has been contradictory all along." Mycroft stood, pale faced, his eyes wide in shock, as Sherlock held his gaze.
"You have an obvious need to rescue me, but mostly to save my life. Emotional involvement is something you avoid, and you are quite indifferent to me if there is no real danger. You can mean and spiteful, and you deride me at every opportunity. So, I would say there is something you care about, but that's not me, not as a person.
"You might care for our parents' sake, so they don't lose another child. Perhaps you care about family loyalty, and you feel it is your duty to protect your brother. Perhaps you care out of guilt, believing yourself responsible for some of my problems. Whatever the reason, it is a burden that you bear, honorably but reluctantly. Never fear, brother mine, I have come to relieve you of your burden.
"Our parents believe me to be a grownup, therefore they don't expect you to keep watch anymore. If there is any guilt you feel, I hereby absolve you from it. As for family loyalty, don't bother yourself. I myself have never cared about that, as you well know. I will give you farewell now, and you can start a new life, unburdened and unfettered from your constant concern. I thank you for all you have done for me until now. It has been a pleasure, Mycroft Holmes." Sherlock turned towards the door and began walking towards it, his steps stiff and robotic.
For a long moment, Mycroft remained frozen in his position, before he snapped out of it and ran to block the doorway.
"Enough!" he shouted. "You are not alright now, and I won't let you leave like this! Sit down!" he attempted to push his brother towards a kitchen chair, but Sherlock grabbed his hands. He then spun him around and pushed his face into the wall. Mycroft was unpleasantly reminded of a similar position he found himself in once when Sherlock was high, but was absolutely positive his brother hadn't used now. He frantically tried to figure out what had brought this sudden onset of animosity.
"You will let me go, Mr. Holmes, your days as my keeper are over, understood?" Sherlock hissed. He let go of Mycroft's shoulder and wandered into the sitting room on his way to the front entrance. Mycroft ran after him and grabbed him by the sleeve of his Belstaff coat. "Please don't do this, Sherlock. We were doing so well. We can work out whatever is bothering you. I promise to be a better brother," he begged, his voice breaking.
"Then just tell me one thing. Why. Do. You. Care." Sherlock demanded, not turning around.
Mycroft faltered, letting go of the sleeve. He was silent for a moment, besides for his heavy breathing. "Because I do." He answered finally. "I just do."
"Why," Sherlock insisted, his voice quieter and softer now.
"Sometimes, there is no reason. I only know that I have cared about you since before you were born, and ever since. The fact that you are my brother has contributed, I'm sure. All the time I spent caring for you, helping you, it just made me care more. What I want you to understand is that I don't want stop caring. If I lose you..." Mycroft swallowed. "If I lose you, I honestly don't know how I can go on living. Don't you understand, Sherlock?"
The younger brother walked over to the sofa, and Mycroft noted that his steps were somewhat unsteady. Sherlock sat down, shoulders hunched over. Mycroft remained standing, gazing at his little brother with concern. "I am so sorry that I haven't always been there for you. I promised you that, and I didn't keep my promise. I was a coward, too afraid too deal with uncomfortable emotions, too weak to be the brother I should have been."
"No." Sherlock spoke up, exhaustion and despair coloring his voice. "No. I'm the one who should apologize. I didn't really mean all that I said, you know. I know very well that I was the one who pushed you away most of the time, and I was the one who wouldn't accept the affection you tried to give me. My behavior was just as mean and spiteful as yours, and on occasion exceeded it. I am as complicit as you in our 'strained relationship', as you call it.
"I just needed to know. I have been lied to and manipulated all my life, as I recently found out. I barely know who I am anymore. I needed you to be honest with me, to tell me if you really care, or our relationship is a lie."
Mycroft sat down on the sofa next to his brother and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "All that, only to force me to utter some sentimental expressions?" he joked weakly. "Is there anything else you would like me to say? Do tell, I'd like to get it all over in one shot."
"It's not funny, Mycroft. I was actually trying to do more than that. I wanted to give you a way out. You know, in case you were tired of taking care of me. Goodness knows, I never deserved any of your concern. I take and take and only give abuse in return. Mycroft, what kind of monster am I?"
"You're not a monster, Sherlock," Mycroft protested.
"I am. It's not only you. There are other people of whom I took advantage, used them, and hurt them deeply and I didn't even realize! What kind of person does that make me?"
" I'm assuming you're mostly referring to Miss Hooper?" Mycroft inquired. His brother nodded. Mycroft sighed. "You were never one to hurt others for enjoyment. You just paid less attention. I'm sure you can patch it up with her. I think you're finally growing up, brother mine."
"I need to tell you about the-" a yawn interrupted Sherlock's words. "I'm sorry, I want to-" he couldn't get past the next huge yawn.
Mycroft observed him carefully. "You have hardly slept a wink since our visit to Mummy's four days ago, drank little, and hardly ate a thing. We will continue this conversation another time. I will prepare some tea and biscuits, and then you will go to sleep in the bedroom I have set aside for you. Luckily for me, it's right next to mine in case you fancy another nighttime chat. Wait but a moment, little brother." He went to prepare the tea.
"Thanks, Mycroft," his brother replied. They finished their snack in silence, (Mycroft had gotten hungry) and headed upstairs. Mycroft helped his unsteady brother into bed and tucked him in. He observed his woebegone expression, and whispered, "We'll be fine, brother mine. We have each other."
Sherlock pulled at his hand. "Mycroft," he slurred. "Don't ever, ever die. Need you too much. Love you."
Mycroft squeezed his hand, then bent down and placed a kiss on his baby brother's forehead. "I love you too, Sherlock," he whispered. "And I do hope you're drowsy enough not to remember this in the morning."
A/N: Hope the angst wasn't too heavy, and that the brothers stayed in character. Thank you to all those who reviewed. For questions or comments, just press the review button!