"Mr Holmes, how are you feeling?" asked Anthea as he entered the room, smoothing his hair and hoping he didn't look ridiculous.

"Better, thank you," he said, eyes examining her and noting the small changes to her hair and makeup in the last five years since he had seen her—or remembered that he had. "I hope things haven't been too hectic for you in my absence?"

She smiled, looking relieved. "Now, Mr Holmes, you know I do most of the work for you. You're just a figurehead."

He smiled back. This he remembered, this old, private running joke between the two of them. "True, but if the figurehead is missing, people do tend to notice the gaping hole in the prow."

"Which is why you're needed back as soon as possible. Tomorrow?"

Involuntarily, Mycroft looked at Sherlock. "I'm not sure."

Anthea was far too professional to let anything show on her face, and just said, "You mustn't rush, of course. We can manage for a few days if we have to. I couldn't believe when Justin told me you'd been attacked."

"Justin?"

"Your driver," she said, a small crease between her brows.

"Of course," he said, covering, "I just thought you might have heard from security."

"Justin used his emergency alarm, so I knew as soon as they did, but I was in Dublin yesterday, as you know. I caught the first flight I could, but it wasn't until I was at the hospital that I heard the details." She looked at him, a shadow of concern on her face. "You were unconscious, of course, so you wouldn't remember."

"No," he said, voice catching a bit. "I don't remember that, though I appreciate your bringing me a change of clothes this morning."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but Sherlock interrupted, bringing them up to speed on his investigation that day. "I think the key is ultimately whatever you were carrying in your pocket, but without knowing what it was…"

Mycroft looked at Anthea. "I know Sherlock told you my memory of yesterday is unclear. From what he's discovered, apparently I had something stolen, but we are unsure what it was—and therefore how important it is."

For a moment, her face was even more still than usual. "I wasn't here. I was in Dublin."

"So you have no idea what it might have been?" Mycroft asked. What had she been doing in Dublin instead of here when he needed her? Though that was unfair, he thought. She no doubt had been there doing something for him. It wasn't her fault she'd been out of the country when he'd been attacked.

Or, he hoped it wasn't. His memory of Anthea was of someone entirely trustworthy. He couldn't imagine that that might have changed, but … wasit suspicious that she'd been physically out of touch? Her body language had seemed … off … since he entered the room, but nothing that seemed out of place for an employee confronted with an ill boss. Right?

Meanwhile, she had shaken her head. "No, sir. You rarely ever carry anything outside your briefcase—or, not to my knowledge. If that changed yesterday…? I have no way of knowing."

He nodded, trying to ignore the throbbing behind his ear. "Of course. What can you tell me about what you've brought? Anything I need to know before I start reading?"

Anthea was watching him calmly, her eyes measuring. "I don't think we should tackle that until you've eaten something, sir. And taken your pain medication."

Mycroft blinked. Why did it seem out of place for her to look after him? Or did it? He could see John looking amused (?) out of the corner of his eye, but refused to look at Sherlock, not wanting to know what expression was on his face. His assistant looked determined, though, so he nodded. "I'll eat, but would rather not take any more of those pills. I don't need any more sleep this evening."

"Paracetamol, then," she said, "And you'll take your prescription when you go to bed."

"Deal," he said. "Assuming Sherlock brought food with him as was requested?"

"Ordered, you mean," Sherlock said. "One of the drawbacks I've found in having an ex-army doctor for a friend."

"Like you ever follow orders unless you're hurt," John told him. "At least the medical degree has come in handy."

"And the marksman skills," Sherlock agreed.

"Idiot," John told him, "You're just happy because you got to see Mycroft taking orders for a change."

"True. Having Anthea around is obviously good for him."

Mycroft just shook his head as he watched the two. He still couldn't get over Sherlock's entire demeanour as he bantered with his friend.

It was still early, but they all agreed it was best to eat while the food was hot. Apparently Sherlock and John had asked Anthea to join them as she'd refused to pass over any work files until she'd seen Mycroft eat.

Really, it was exceedingly odd, being cared for this way.

But not unpleasant.

#

After dinner, Mycroft and Anthea retreated to his study with tea and the stack of files she'd brought with her. Mycroft was pleased to see that this had not changed. As much as he enjoyed the convenience of digital files (something which had become even more common since 2006), there was something satisfying seeing a pile of paperwork getting smaller.

Anthea seemed particularly considerate, as well. She never raised her voice on a normal day, but tonight she had modulated it to a soothing tone that eased the ache in his head, even as she gave him a brief background of each file as she handed it to him, a useful crutch to his faulty memory.

Finally, closing the last file, he thanked her. "It's late. You're welcome to stay here tonight, if you like."

She hesitated, hands pausing as she gathered up the scattered folders. "That's kind of you, but I should get home. Will you be in the office tomorrow?"

"I think that depends on what my doctor says." His hand brushed hers as he gathered the paperwork nearest him, and the silk of her warm skin made his breath hitch in an entirely unprofessional way. Cursing himself for a fool—it was bad enough his injury had stolen his memory away, but he refused to let it take his dignity and self-control as well—he pulled back, hoping she had not noticed anything amiss.

"Are you all right, sir?" Her voice was hesitant, and it took Mycroft a moment to realize he'd leaned back in his chair and was rubbing his forehead. He'd forgotten (well, of course he had) how to act around her, and his sudden rush of longing had taken him by surprise. He had always found her attractive, and the fact that she was still here, five years on, suggested that he had managed to keep their relationship purely professional, but he was at a loss, not knowing how he was supposed to treat her now, if their manners had relaxed at all when it was just the two of them.

"Just tired," he told her, eyes still closed.

"You won't forget to take your medicine before you go to bed?" Her voice was crisp and soothing, like fresh, clean sheets that were both comforting and cool against the skin … and he chastised himself for the analogy. She was his assistant, he reminded himself, not his lover. No matter how much he might appreciate her beauty, things had obviously remained professional or she would not still be here.

He suspected she was the closest thing he had to a friend, and remembering the way John and Sherlock had bantered throughout dinner, he suddenly, bewilderingly, felt bereft.

"Sir?"

"Yes, I'll take my medicine," he said, rallying his reserves enough to look up to see the concern on her face. "Thank you for your help."

"Of course."

He heard the hesitation in her voice, but didn't say anything else, just sat quietly while she finished gathering the papers and left the room.

What a disaster, he thought. What had he made of his life that left him with no-one he could talk to? No human contact. No friends, just an assistant and a brother with whom he had never gotten along—or not since they were children.

It surprised him, this feeling of isolation, almost abandonment. He had never been the kind of man who required things like friends. He had been too busy learning things, learning how to adapt and manoeuvre, to control … Sentiment was a weakness he had never indulged.

Well, other than his vain attempts to watch after Sherlock, and there he had been helpless, watching his brother fall into the life of a drug addict despite his best efforts—efforts which had only served to alienate his brother from him. The harder he had tried to help, the further he had pushed him away. The one thing Mycroft had always striven for—Sherlock's well-being—had been the one thing he could not make happen.

Oh, his brother was clean now. Healthy. Successful. Everything he should be, but it didn't appear that Mycroft could take any credit for it.

Really, other than five years' worth of now-lost political knowledge and leverage, what had he really gained since his most recent memory of 2006? No matter how successful he might be professionally, his personal life was as empty as ever … emptier, even, if one considered Sherlock's friendship with John. His brother didn't need him anymore … if he ever had.

He was unsure how long he sat there, head in his hands, when he felt hands on his shoulders. "Mycroft? Are you all right?"

He pried his eyes open, hoping they didn't look as moist as they felt. "Just tired," he said, responding to John's concerned face. He submitted to the man's questions, allowed him to shine a light in his aching eyes, but refused to get embroiled in a conversation. He was just too tired, and what was the point?

"Right. It's time for you to go to bed," John finally said, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet. Mycroft just nodded and headed for the stairs, ignoring the concern that followed him out of the room.

Moving carefully out of respect for the pounding that had begun again in his head, he brushed his teeth and changed into his pyjamas and then headed toward his bed.

"You forgot your pills." Sherlock's smooth baritone was hushed, thoughtfully lowered like the lights in the room.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, hesitating in the middle of the room. He couldn't remember Sherlock ever being in his bedroom before, not since he had left for school when they were boys.

Sherlock, though, was matter-of-factly pulling back the bed linens, and then waited almost patiently until Mycroft crossed the rest of the floor and climbed in. He handed him a glass of water and his pills and then took the glass. "You worried John," he finally said.

Mycroft leaned his head against the headboard. "And we mustn't worry John?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "It might not have just been John."

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"No, Mycroft, you're not," his brother said. "You're handling this all very well, mind you, but you're not fine."

"Perhaps not," Mycroft said with a sigh, closing his eyes. "But there's nothing you can do about that, is there? Nothing but wait to see if my memory comes back, if that will even matter."

Sherlock's forehead creased. "What do you mean by that?" Mycroft shrugged, digging his shoulders further back into the soft pillows. He felt the mattress shift as Sherlock sat down at the foot of the bed, leaning against the post and stretching his legs out. "Mycroft?"

"It's nothing, Sherlock. I was just thinking about how little seems to have changed in my life in the last five years. Does it really matter if I remember them?"

An exasperated noise from Sherlock. Well, that at least was familiar, he thought as Sherlock said, "Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. The brother I know would be furious at losing as much as a minute—and so would I. In that one way, we are alike, brother mine. So, why this fatalistic resignation?"

"Just trying to be realistic. There's no guarantee my memory will come back, and you know how I hate to be disappointed."

"Being disappointed is the story of our entire relationship, Mycroft," Sherlock said with a breath of a laugh, "But being disappointed in me is entirely different than being disappointed in yourself."

"Well, that will make a change then," Mycroft said. There was silence for a few minutes while he could practically feel Sherlock trying to find the right thing to say next. Before he could, though, Mycroft said, "I tried calling Mummy before."

The texture of the silence changed, sharpened, and Mycroft opened his eyes to see Sherlock's brow crease, changing the shadows on his face. "I'm sorry, My. She died two years ago of a heart attack. There was no warning."

At this confirmation of something he'd been afraid to consider, Mycroft shut his eyes again. "I suspected," was all he said.

"Talk to me, Mycroft."

Now Mycroft let out a disbelieving laugh. "That's not the brother I know."

"Well, no," Sherlock said, a smile in his voice. "But right now, neither are you."

"Do I gather by that that we don't usually have warm, brotherly chats these days?"

"When have we ever?" Sherlock asked. "But then … you've never needed to before."

Mycroft couldn't think what to say to that, but finally managed, "You're wrong. As embarrassing as it is to admit it, Sherlock. You're my only brother. Who else would I need?"

He opened his eyes, grateful for the dim light, but even so, he could see the surprise on his brother's face. "I never thought about it."

If he were a different person, if they were both different people, Mycroft would have reached out to touch Sherlock's hand then, to reassure him with the warm, physical contact that normal people appreciated so much.

But they weren't normal, and never had been, and so he just said, "There's no reason you would have."

Mycroft thought back to the years of animosity between them—almost entirely driven, gusted, from Sherlock's direction, obscuring any brotherly affection that had survived their upbringing, causing Mycroft to eternally lean squinting into the wind of Sherlock's determination not to have anything to do with his brother.

"I didn't mind, you know," Mycroft ventured into the silence after a moment, the long habit of watching over Sherlock overcoming his fatigue. "I only ever wanted you to be well, Sherlock. I just never was able to stand back and let you manage on your own. You're obviously doing better without me."

Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper as he said, "I know you've forgotten the last five years, Mycroft, but … how can you even think that?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "What else am I to think? You're healthier than I've seen you since you were fourteen and are obviously well looked after by John—that's certainly more than I ever managed."

"And how do you think I got this far?" Sherlock leaned forward, his face unearthly in the moonlight streaming in the window. "You said your last memory was of January 10th … we both know what happened that day, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded. "We do. I failed you, and you nearly died."

"No, I nearly died because of my own stupidity," Sherlock corrected him fiercely. "You saved me."

"I had you committed, and you hated me for it." Mycroft couldn't remember when he had felt more exhausted.

"I did, it's true. For a while," Sherlock said quietly. "Maybe even still, a little. But Mycroft … that doesn't mean it was the wrong decision. I would have been dead, and all in all, I prefer to be alive."

Another nod. "I knew you would hate me for it, but it was better than…"

"Better than what?"

"Having you alive and hating me was still better…"

"Better than what?" Sherlock asked, his voice persistent.

"Better than being alone," Mycroft said, and then snapped his mouth shut, appalled. He had meant to say it was better than Sherlock being dead, but … good heavens, what kind of pills were these? It was like he had no barriers at all.

He could see the shock on his brother's face. He had never meant to say that, had never ever intended to tell Sherlock how much he meant to him. That sort of thing was never spoken in the Holmes family. If he wasn't careful, next thing he'd be saying was that he loved him, and that would be truly mortifying. A Holmes wasn't supposed to care about human frailty, wasn't supposed to admit that they cared, or that they might need … anything. He might as well have just stripped naked in front of his brother and danced a fandango.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock's voice was ragged. "You … You can't possibly believe…" He paused, face tight with something that almost resembled anguish. "It's true that I hated your interference then. It's true that … that we don't have the best relationship now, because yes, I've held a grudge."

"Other boys collected stamps or rocks," Mycroft murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, "And the grudge against you has always been the prize of my collection. But, Mycroft… it's the prize because it means the most. Acrimonious or not, my relationship with you is … Damn this amnesia … You've always been there for me, Mycroft, even when I haven't wanted you to be. Especially when I haven't wanted you. But you're the one constant in my life … don't underestimate your importance."

He acknowledged this with another nod. "I know. I'm just tired."

"Mycroft." Something in his brother's voice made him look up. "I'm sorry I'm not a better brother, but that doesn't mean you're alone."

Damn his tongue, thought Mycroft, letting slip such a weakness. "Just tired, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock disagreed. "You're looking at the clues of your current life and not seeing a purpose. Your office managed without you—for today, at least—and you've spent the day with John, one of the warmest yet not irritatingly suffocating men I know. In your fragile state, it's only natural that you would look at the evidence of your daily life and see emptiness." Sherlock's voice gained strength as his deductions rolled from his tongue, reaching out to Mycroft like a verbal hug. "What you failed to see was the honest concern at your office today, with your employees truly concerned for you—this was your first day out of the office since Mother's funeral, by the way. You didn't see Anthea's worry, or the way she watched you throughout dinner. And, we don't get on, but … don't ever underestimate your importance to me."

"John told me you thought of me as your archenemy."

Sherlock made a scoffing noise. "No, you told him that when you kidnapped him that first night. Instead of telling him you were my brother, you told him you were my archenemy and then tried to bribe him to give you information about me—and when he refused that, you quoted his therapist's private notes to him which, as you can imagine, did nothing to win him over." He gave a reminiscent laugh. "He came back to the flat not protesting your having abducted him off the street, but that people just didn't have archenemies in this day and age."

Mycroft smiled, feeling better now they were moving away from his personal failings. "How did you actually meet him, anyway?"

He laughed outright as Sherlock told him about the chance meeting at the lab, the chase across rooftops, and about the cabby. "An ex-army doctor with a gun and an adrenalin addiction," he said in disbelief. "He's a walking contradiction."

"Oh, I know," Sherlock agreed. "It makes him endlessly fascinating. Next to you, he's the best thing that ever happened to me."

Mycroft just blinked, absorbing that remarkable statement, and then said, "What are we going to do tomorrow? I can't stay here indefinitely."

Sherlock accepted the topic change. "You need to go to work. The key to your attack is whatever was stolen, and you're the one most likely to figure out what that was."

"I don't even remember who the Prime Minister is, Sherlock, how can I get through a day's work?"

"Don't be silly," Sherlock said with a smile. "I don't know who the Prime Minister is, and it's never made a difference at all. Don't worry, Mycroft. You're still the smartest man I know, and you've been out-bluffing all and sundry for as long as I can remember. Today's self-doubts are just driven by the headache and fatigue, but I know you well enough to know that won't bother you long. Your brain's made of steel, Mycroft. Nothing's going to keep you from doing what you need to do—goodness knows nothing ever has, despite my best efforts. You'll be fine."

He stood up. "For now, though, you need to sleep. Like I said, John was concerned."

Hearing the affection in his brother's voice, Mycroft nodded. "Thank John for me, would you?"

Sherlock nodded back, reaching for the light switch. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a full day."

"Oh?"

"Definitely. Tomorrow's the day we catch the person who did this to you. We'll show him it takes more than a bump on the head to stop a Holmes."

And with a rustle of the duvet, Mycroft nestled down into his pillow and, feeling comforted, fell asleep.

#

"He asleep?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, turning to pull the door closed behind him.

"He looked overwhelmed," John said. "Frankly, it was almost a relief to see it. He's handled all this almost too well."

"Coping is a bad thing?"

"No, but there's such a thing as denial, and losing such a large chunk of memory … I know you Holmeses are geniuses and avoid sentiment and all that, but Mycroft is still human. Frankly, I'd be more worried i he handled all this perfectly."

Sherlock had crossed to the bar and was pouring himself a drink. "Do you think I'm a bad brother, John?"

Oh, Christ, thought John. This was a worse minefield than anything he'd seen in Afghanistan. "No worse than I am," he said after a moment. Sherlock made a noise of disbelief, but John said, "No, really. You deduced it the first day we met, remember? I don't get on with my sister, but that doesn't mean I don't care—or that I don't drop what I'm doing when she needs me. Just like you did yesterday."

Sherlock had sat in the chair by the fire now, and sipped his scotch. John watched him, noting the unusual signs of stress, the way he gripped the glass as he stared at the fire. Whether Sherlock chose to admit to having emotions or not, it made sense that it would be hard for him, seeing his brother like this. Oh, except for a bruise on his head, he looked well enough, was mobile and talking rationally, but there was a vulnerability in Mycroft's eyes that shouldn't be there. As much as Sherlock liked (needed?) to rebel against his brother, this was probably the first time he had ever seen a crack in Mycroft's façade. Even John was finding it painful to watch him trying to find his footing, how hard must it be for his little brother? Sherlock might not consciously rely on Mycroft's strength, but that didn't mean the need wasn't there.

The fact that Mycroft's injury was to his memory—that just made it harder. Both Sherlock and his brother relied more on their brains than anything else. He was quite sure that Sherlock would happily agree to having his brain removed and kept in a jar so he could dispense with the messy "transport" issues like sleeping and eating—anything so that his intellect could continue unimpaired, untrammelled by physical limitations. But a brain injury that could diminish his brilliance, even in the smallest measure? A nightmare for anyone, but especially a Holmes.

Mycroft was fortunate, of course, that his basic intellect was untouched. His long-term memory was impaired (at least for now), but his ability to think, reason, and make new memories was untouched, but that didn't make this any easier—for him, or for his little brother.

John looked at Sherlock, trying to decide if his friend wanted conversation or not. "What makes you ask?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "He said … no, never mind."

"Did he actually say you were a bad brother?" John asked, trying to imagine Mycroft ever saying such a thing.

"No, of course not," Sherlock said. "But he said … he implied that…"

Sherlock Holmes and emotions, thought John. They really didn't mix well. "You know, when I was talking with him today, all he was really interested in was you. I mean, he probably knew I couldn't answer questions about his work, but he was fascinated by what you'd been doing the last five years—and really fascinated by our friendship, for some reason."

"Of course he was. He's never seen me with a friend before. Never had one of his own, either, so far as I can tell."

"Really? Never?" John wasn't surprised to hear this about Sherlock, but Mycroft? Though, he supposed it made a certain amount of sense. Mycroft had manners and a veneer of gentility, but he was still a Holmes. He still had that penetrating intelligence that saw through everything—useful in an acquaintance, but not necessarily what you want in a mate at the pub after work. He wondered what Mycroft did for fun, anyway. Not that he had pried into the closets, but other than books there seemed to be nothing in this house that could be considered recreational, unless Mycroft had an Angry Birds obsession on his phone.

"What would you expect, John? It can't come as a surprise that neither of us is very good at relationships."

"I suppose not," John said, as he sat down with his own drink, taking care to pick the right words. "That's why it's good you have each other. Even if you drive each other crazy like every other pair of siblings in the universe, you still understand each other better than the rest of us. Nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors; that's why siblings both understand each other and get under each other's skin so easily. In this one way, Sherlock, you and your brother are just like everybody else—you drive each other crazy, but at the same time you need each other."

He braced himself, expecting to be blasted by the "I don't need anyone" speech, but Sherlock just nodded absently, mind presumably delving in the back rooms of his mind palace.

"So, what did you tell him?" John asked eventually.

"What I needed to say to get him to go to the office tomorrow," Sherlock said. "The key to the attack is there, somewhere, and he's the one who has to find it."

"But … with a five year gap in his memory…."

"He's still more than capable," Sherlock said, the merest edge to his voice. "This accident may have affected his memory, but not his abilities … and it cannot be allowed to affect his self-confidence. He'll be fine."

"As long as his headache isn't worse," John finally said, "I'm fine with that. It will be good for him to have something to do, and Anthea will look after him."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just that she was watching him particularly carefully during supper tonight. She was worried about him just before she left, too. All I'm saying is that if he pushes too hard tomorrow, she'll spot it and make sure he doesn't."

"It's not that easy to make Mycroft do what you want, John. Believe me, I've tried."

John just smiled, and when Sherlock snapped, "What?" responded, "She seemed to manage just fine from what I could see. You like bees, Sherlock, surely you've heard the old saying about catching more flies with honey than vinegar?"

It was all he could do to not laugh at Sherlock's scandalized expression. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm just saying, maybe you'd have better luck with him if you tried being nice to him once in a while. Maybe if you weren't so busy pushing him away all the time, he'd be a little more willing to play nice."

John drained the rest of his glass. "Right. I'm off to bed. If either of you needs me during the night, I'll be in the guest room … or one of them, anyway. If he seems okay in the morning, I'll let him go to work."

"He's not a child, John," Sherlock told him. "You can't treat him like one."

"Nonsense, Sherlock. When they're sick, everyone's a child. Even you. Goodnight."

And, leaving his flatmate staring into the flames, John closed the door and went to bed.

#