Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

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Brothers, after all


In the second night at Holmes Manor, my nightmares return with a vengeance.

This time, three snipers are positioned on the roof, all trained on me, and John shouts up from below. A thunderstorm sends black clouds and lightning over London. In the heavy rain, Moriarty raises his arms in triumph, as he watches me step onto the ledge, trembling. I jump and I fall, aware of my certain death, raindrops hitting me like bullets. Then John is there, holding a gun to his head. His lips form the word "goodbye" and he fires. I cry out in awe. His blood lashes out in hot, red flames. They hit me, and I ignite with the heat of John´s rage. I try to fight the fire and thrash out hopelessly, whimpering John´s name, tossing in search of evidence that he hasn´t left me, when I hear a soothing voice speaking to me and feel strong hands gripping my shoulders.

Fully awake now, I sense the presence of my brother. The darkness is broken by the light of the bedside lamp. Mycroft touches my forehead and frowns. "You are burning," he says.

A fever. My body, it seems, has taken over and crashed after months of denying myself, of boredom and danger and my final escape through a river and the woods of Oxfordshire.

Mycroft leans back. "You had a bad dream. You were screaming, actually," he says and I can read the question in his statement even though he doesn´t ask openly. He looks away, folding his hands on his chest, radiating unease. This situation is not new to both of us, only that my condition was far more serious the last time he nursed me. He shifts uneasily, cocking an eyebrow, and I sigh.

"Get back to bed, Mycroft. I have been coping with these dreams for the past eight months."

"You dream of dying," he states and, again, it is not a question.

"I dream of losing the game."

"So far, you haven´t lost. The blow on Moriarty´s network was very efficient. And Moriarty is dead. Sleep now."

Sinking back into the cushions, I close my eyes and nod. He will not learn from me that I am worried sick for John, even for Mycroft, that I frequently doubt my own existence because my actions bring danger to those I love.

He stands and flicks me a smile. "I wish I could make them cease," he says.

"It´s more important to set an end to the web´s activities," I answer. "Goodnight, Mycroft."

He leaves without another word.

In the morning I wake with a chill, and Mycroft insist on my staying in bed. He brings a light breakfast and medicine and I take the pills without any predictable rant on why he would want to drug me on purpose. It is rather funny, though, to observe him following every bite I take with hawk´s eyes.

"I´m off my feed," I tell him. "Don´t fuss more than John, would you?."

Later, he leaves for London, and in my dreams I go with him, running through familiar streets on just another chase, absorbing the smells and sounds of my hometown, feeling invincible.

In the evening, the fever has receded, and I desperately wish for my violin. While pursuing Morbier, it was too dangerous to display my musical skill even at my Paris flat, since Sigerson was not the musical type. Now that I am myself again the longing for my instrument gets stronger by the minute. Stripped of its presence, I am left to practising the fingering of my favourite pieces. Unrest is building up in my chest, an unhealthy kind of nervousness, the one which shreds my mind to pieces and leaves me stripped of any trace of patience with the world and its inhabitants.

This is why I snap at Mycroft upon his return, threatening to leave and pursue the hunt for Moriarty´s followers on my own. It needs only one look by him, eyebrows cocked, for me to falter and hunch down on one of the kitchen chairs, silenced by his unspoken request.

He knows I am close to breaking point and wonders about the consequences.

"Your violin is still at the flat", he says, finding the correct link. "John wouldn´t talk to me and I didn´t have the time to persuade him."

How could I forget? John must have been mad at Mycroft, when my brother confessed that he fed Moriarty information about me. Obviously, I am not the only person who might not be forgiven his treachery.

Mycroft shifts, retrieving several heavy manila folders. "You need a distraction. This is what we have learned about Moriarty´s organization recently."

"An awful lot of paperwork. I take it that the passports and visa need some time?"

"Ten to twelve days the shortest." He pauses. "If you prefer to stay somewhere else than our family´s home…"

There are several options available, most with the Secret Service, but I shake my head. "No, Mycroft. I´m fine. And don´t pretend you have considered it a possibility that I would want to leave. You have filled the fridge with provisions for a fortnight."

He smiles. "I was certain you have outgrown your resentment to the Holmes manor by now."

Resentment I nurtured ever since I fled from the estate on a stormy October night, never to return during the past nine years, balancing my existence between the intellectual challenge of my studies and dosages of several stimulants.

He is right. For the first time in a long while I feel I belong here – if probably only because circumstances forbid my return to my real home.