26 Years Old

Mycroft slammed his hand down on Sherlock's as he tapped the letter opener on his knuckle looking absentmindedly around the pictures in the office. He stared at his brother for a moment before putting the letter opener down where he had found it.

"Would you behave?" He hissed. "You're looking at a formal suspension!"

"Yes, point out the obvious Mycroft." Sherlock replied drily. "Yes, my biographers would be interested but I'm rather not."

"Be quiet."

"But if I am, then how am I to apologise for all the nasty stuff I've done?" Sherlock asked insincerely.

"I'd rather wish you'd hurry up and apologise for the crap that you put us through," Mycroft muttered.

The Dean, Professor Farrow sat opposite the brothers his face stuck in a file. A moment of silence passed before Mycroft leaned forward. "Excuse me, but I'm on a strict schedule. "

"You will wait, Mycroft, like the rest of the world." Said the old man not looking up.

Sherlock sat there stunned. He had never seen his brother be pushed around. Mycroft was one of those people who could get what they wanted by whatever means and it was strange seeing him be told to wait. Mycroft obviously didn't like it either. He leaned back, pursing his fat lips. He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and stared at the ticking dial. Farrow removed his thin specs and ran his long scary fingers through his hair. Finally after a long moment, he dropped the file and turned to face the brothers.

"Mr. S. Holmes," He said, his voice hoarse. "You should thank your brother for getting you into such a prestigious school. He has done a lot to benefit this institution. And it remains only fair that we repay such action."

Sherlock gave a small smirk and an inwardly twinge of happiness. Thank you Mycroft and your big fat wad of money.

"However," Farrow said.

This hit Sherlock. Not again. God not again.

Farrow sighed and opened a book. He pulled out several pieces of paper and handed them over to Mycroft who took them and stared downheartedly at it.

"This was a gift," Mycroft said.

"It was a bribe to keep your brother here." Farrow said. "No arguing with me. You know it is true." He pulled forward the file. "Mr. S. Holmes has committed a number of violent actions and inexcusable breaches of the university."

"Then it must be a different Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft spat.

"Arson, stealing from the other students, cheating during exams, using the professors secrets to blackmail them, does any of this sound familiar, Mr Holmes?" Farrow asked. "Legally, I have enough to press charges."

Sherlock stared at the dean, his mouth twitching. Mycroft grabbed the file and read over it. He stopped and began to fume in a way that Sherlock had never witnessed before. He stood up and threw the file back at the Dean. He grabbed Sherlock and pulled him up from the chair.

"Sorry to have wasted your time," He said trying to be courteous, but unable to hide the anger in his voice. He leaned forward and shook Farrow's hand, before marching his brother out of the room.

"I thought you were meant to defend me," Sherlock snapped as soon as the door shut.

Mycroft said nothing as he began to pace, his hands on his hips, shaking his head sadly.

"Mycroft, speech has never been your strong point but I'd rather you use the language that the Neanderthals blessed you with and not the grunting and impaired language that your brother apes gave you."

Mycroft looked up, staring at his younger brother. A smile began to play across his face.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "Mycroft what are you laughing at?"

Mycroft turned on his heel, before speaking. "It's funny you know."

Sherlock sighed. "Alright, I'll humour you," He said. "What's funny?"

"You said to me that you wanted to get your life straightened out. So, we made you detox, gave you new suits, I even got the Dean of this university to accept you back on grounds that I give him donations to buy new equipment. There was no Irene so theoretically there should be no reason that you fall back into destructive patterns. So what do you do?" He began to laugh again. "You still fall into the same routine that destroyed you in the first place."

"What can I say?" Sherlock asked, sitting down. "People bore me."

"That's not an excuse, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "Do you not think that people bore me too?"

Sherlock said nothing. Mycroft's mobile began to buzz. He sighed and checked the caller ID. "It's mum." He said shocked.

Sherlock looked up. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know genius," Mycroft said answering the phone. "Mother?" He asked wandering away casually from his brother. Sherlock stood up and focused on the picture hanging opposite. It was of the rowing team in the 1970's.

Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe it was time to grow up properly. He was already half way there. Plenty of brilliant people had to deal with boring predictable situations.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said shutting the phone. "father's been taken to hospital,"

"I think you mean the vet's." Sherlock replied bitterly.

"He's had a major cardiac arrest." Mycroft said. "The doctors who examined him say that he is riddled with cancer."

Sherlock sat stunned. "Cancer?" He asked.

"Yes. Lung cancer to be specific. It's spread to his heart constricting blood flow. Years of drinking has shut down his liver, so that's failing too. He's not eligible for transplants."

"Where are they?" Sherlock asked.

"Charing Cross," Mycroft said. "He has about a day. Come on, lets go,"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want to."

"Are we going to have to fight about this too?" Mycroft snapped. "He's our father. I don't care how much you hate him. We're going to the hospital."

Sherlock stared at his brother's tired broken face for a moment then nodded. "You're right," He said.

"I am?" Mycroft asked, shocked to get this much support from Sherlock. "Yes, I am. Come on,"