*Eyepatch in the Suit*

by: Whitegloves

Sink or Swim: Epilogue

I that am lost, oh who will find me…? Deep down below…

Help succor me now the East Winds blow Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go.

Minutes before the great plunge…

It was a sensation Mycroft hadn't felt before. Like his head was being ripped from all corners and expanding—stretching wildly into a space he couldn't control. And the agony was so much it was enough to make him cry out, only that he couldn't make heads or tails of what to feel first. He had to blink several times for his eyes were in pain, god his eyes were burning. He couldn't access in his mind palace too—his only sanctuary for answers—for whatever reason it would not open for him, blocked and denied. His fear rose higher even when he realized how he could not make a reason of things— nothing made sense—something was not right. He had to open his eyes.

When he did, he had to double take as he found himself standing on the edge of what appeared to be a ship railing and below were feet of darkness in space like a mantle cloth with wrinkles as its waves. Mycroft felt himself stumble and grabbed on the railing for support. How he managed to stand before his death, he had no idea, he could not even remember how he got there. A tugging feeling that someone was behind him made him slowly looked back and there he found his younger brother, Sherlock.

Relief washed Mycroft's features to see a familiar face, much more his younger brother. If anyone could help him with something he could not understand, it was surely his detective genius. Mycroft wanted to tell Sherlock to come over at least for he could not feel his legs. Why they were even on a ship, he could not recall; it could be one of those bad dreams were Sherlock would be nagging him about being a pirate only for everything to spiral down and his dream would end with Sherlock in his tiny little voice calling out to Redbeard. His dreams always had a touch of the Gothic. Mycroft stood there, waiting for the young man to come but when Sherlock didn't move a muscle but simply stared at him with his forbidding dark eyes, Mycroft had to stop.

For those forbidding dark eyes looked so similar to another one and to see it on Sherlock's features was making Mycroft hesitate. Why those dark eyes belonged to Eurus, and to identify that one was like the other was a fear the older Holmes had always buried deep in his subconscious.

Before he knew what was happening, he found Sherlock standing before him; Mycroft opened his lips, then felt Sherlock's firm hand on his chest, holding him on an arm length distance, pushing him not to come back. Confused, Mycroft looked and searched the young man's face only to find his dead pan expression—much like of that with their younger sister—staring back at him with equal nonchalance.

"Sherlock?" he whispered with dead silence following his voice.

And it happened as quick as lightning and he staggered backwards till he left the railings on to the end—and falling he was—the sensation of the wind had not caught up with him fully when he felt his body hit the solid-like mass of water that knocked the air out of him as coldness seeped to his very skin and there was nothing.

One thing played on his mind before everything else shut down however: Sherlock pushed him.

But why?

The water was cold, it was an endless pit… he was sinking. Did Sherlock push him?

No, he didn't.

He wouldn't. Not ever.

"Mycroft…" he was still sinking. Down… down…

Sherlock Holmes was a lot of things but he would never turn against you.

"Mycroft… swim…!"

He did on so many occasions…

He never pulled the trigger and he never pushed you…

"Mycroft…"

So, what happened? Why was he…

If it doesn't make sense, what do you think? Your brother would never kill you.

But I spent the rest of my life thinking he would.

Eurus' game proved he couldn't.

He wouldn't. Not anymore.

"Mycroft…!" the familiar voice shouted on his ear and it destroyed the remaining veil of unconsciousness—

An inhale—and a full pang of pain on his head— and his whole body shook so excruciatingly he didn't know where the initial pain was coming from. He coughed and coughed— and his whole body shook. There was a first few moments where someone was telling him to concentrate on breathing—followed by a firm instruction not to move. But there was nothing on his ears except the drumming of his chest—like it had suddenly remembered how to function after nearly forgetting it. When he tried opening his eyes, his whole world swirled and he had to focus on breathing on his mouth and sucked much air and was reduced to crying in pain after another second.

The pain was coming from everywhere; it was from his arms, his ribs, it was his head—the numbness was not a word his head could fully register. Everything was raw, everything was right there and no aid was there to come except that voice that was constantly holding on to his consciousness as he sunk deeper and deeper.

"Breathe, Mycroft… breathe!"

It was Sherlock.

And wanting more than anything to see his brother—the one who was insisting that he live rather than the other form who pushed him on his doom—Mycroft opened his weary eyes.

There was his younger brother, staring at him from the dark veil of the night sky. His face was pale and damp, his usually unruly dark hair was dripping wet and plastered on his face. His whole clothes were soaking wet like he had just emerged from a storm or even the ocean.

The ocean.

Mycroft blinked several times before he could feel that he himself was soaked, and moreover, he was freezing. He was lying on his back on what he realized to be a boat—a small boat that was swaying to and from with his younger brother balancing right above him. With another cough and a sputter of water from his mouth, his instincts to discover what was going on motivated him to try and sit up but Sherlock put a firm hand on his chest.

"No, don't move." Sherlock warned and there was an expression of relief on his tone that set Mycroft staring at him despite the confusing circumstances he found them in. "You might've cracked a rib or two, I don't know. But the rescuers are coming in a minute…" he looked up distractedly as if expecting people to come running in towards them.

Mycroft only stared at his brother's face. It was the only thing that was making sense.

"Wha…t?" he managed to utter but the pain on his chest was too much he didn't try again.

Sherlock took one look at him, and sensing that his older brother needed to understand for it had always been mutual to them, the younger Holmes settled beside him in his dripping garment and let out a long, heavy and arduous sigh. Mycroft watched him, though moving his neck every now and then was painful too but he managed.

"S'rong?" he hoped he could utter what's wrong any clearer.

Sherlock had dropped his head on his arms and stayed like that. But after a second, as if realizing more important things to do, he looked right back at Mycroft whose eyes never left him.

"Are you feeling alright? Any pain? Broken bones?"

Mycroft didn't reply and Sherlock nodded and mainly scanned his brother's body under the moonlight.

"Rescuers are coming, I promise," he repeated, looking far ahead, "they're just… busy." He looked ahead of him as if seeing something Mycroft could not. "Your men… the Navy's already surrounded the Black Ship. There's six fleet of them. Negotiations are on-going, if not I think war will break out. But we're out of there, it's up to them. It's been five minutes since you fell in."

Fell in?

Mycroft mustered all his strength to remember but there was nothing there. He wanted to ask Sherlock but his brother had now transfixed his eyes beyond what he could see. On to the Black Ship?

And just like that—like something popped on his head—everything came surging back in. Of Davy Jones, the pirates, Jones himself, the spy, Sherlock's final conclusion of his subconscious and falling down on to the great water— with his own brother pushing him.

Mycroft felt rattled and his hand automatically grabbed Sherlock's arm. The consulting detective looked back at him in surprise. Would this man really…no… No, Sherlock would never kill him, which only means…oh god.

The older Holmes gripped him tight—and from there he tried sitting up. Seeing the disturbance in his brother's white face, Sherlock calmed him by putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder and looking him straight in the eye.

"You're safe now."

"No." Mycroft's newly found voice even surprised him, but he was pushing himself now, afraid that it would come back and take over. He believed that now—a man like him who had studied the psychology of the mind for his sister was a victim of its fragility and power, he believed that to be true. Because Sherlock would never kill him and if his mind was suggesting such a thing then it was quite clear now— he needed help. "Sherlock—!"

Sherlock's full attention was on him. "Mycroft, calm down—"

"I have to…"

"Stay..."

"You pushed me—"

Slight confusion creased Sherlock's forehead. "What?"

Mycroft shook his head and shut his eyes. Opening them back, he found his younger brother still watching him with concern.

"Mycroft, do you remember what happened?" he quickly asked.

The older Holmes didn't respond. The memory was no longer clear. "I fell," he whispered when he was able to, "deep down... I don't know."

"Why did you say I pushed you?" it was an important question.

"My… head seems to be under that impression."

Sherlock leaned down on him, the pressure of his hand on his arm making him pay attention. Sherlock's dark eyes was again looking at him as it did before, but instead of deep darkness there was a light there—a kind of light he had always seen that his younger brother had innately possessed. A light neither he nor Eurus ever had. Hope.

"You know full well I didn't." It was important for Sherlock to say it. "Mycroft—you know it— but do you understand it?"

A long pause, and he replied. "I understand."

Silence fell between them, and the last thing Mycroft heard before drowsiness caught up with him was the sound of warning from many ships—and consequently the sound of gun fires and explosions.

Epilogue

A lot of inquiries happened to what the world now knows as the War at the Gulf supervised by the three nation's navies—United States, Great Britain and Australia who came to the aid of Britain when it called for available war ships in the area on such a short notice. Information flocked the internet days after as number of casualties rose to a hundred—mostly naming international criminals and big names of terrorist groups who all vowed to get revenge, but with their activities immobile at the lost of their heads, lots of other government took charge of stomping out these organizations that lead to a worldwide campaign of finally destroying terrorist cells. Rats were purge, spies were caught and nameless people who acted suspiciously upon the news that the bosses had all been killed were arrested and thus began an era of change.

Details of how the War of the Gulf even happened was unclear. The news only carried facts of how terrorists held a summit of what was only supposed to be a Black Market's exchange, the Navies were tipped-off and had been circling the Indian Ocean before the horrendous war broke out that killed nine military men. In the end, a clearance was given that after firing back and seeing the criminals inside the ship were fleeing and threatening over radios of how the world will suffer the consequences with remotely no intention of surrendering but used their trump cards— hidden bombs and massive shootings in countries— Britain Government gave the order and missiles were released.

And there never was a mention of any connection of those two individuals who were left on a boat for an hour floating from miles away with a lone man watching the whole events transpire right before his eyes in grim silence.

And never will their connection be known.

Sherlock had an arduous meeting with the Cabinet Office right after coming out of the hospital for medical checkup. His stunt of jumping on the lifeboat from such a height and having the said boat slam down the ocean right after had shattered some tissues on his leg muscles—not to mention his exertion at jumping in the water to locate his drowning brother within seconds were enough reasons for medical attention as John Watson had recommended.

"You're insane." John had told him when he rested in one of the hospital beds in a white, comfortable room after getting successfully retrieved by the Special Operations in the middle of the ocean. "Totally a nut job!"

"What am I supposed to do—let him drown?" Sherlock complained, more to himself rather than his best friend, the vision of his brother going overboard and getting devoured by the dark ocean still fresh on his mind, "The initial few seconds of falling from a great height is critical and he's already injured in so many places. How many ribs did the doctor say he's cracked?"

"Several."

"He's susceptible to drowning—the cold shock response of his body won't even be accountable for it."

"It's a good thing you quickly found him," John sighed as he shook his head, "with hypothermia and all that crap—he's really lucky to even survive. Imagine if he fell on the North Sea… anyways, how many minutes before his heart beat returned after CPR?"

"I counted two minutes, I reached a hundred and fifty pumps."

"And did he really think you pushed him?"

"If he blabs that on proper authority, I may have an arrest warrant for attempted homicide by now. Won't be my first."

"But Mycroft won't really—"

"Of course, he won't…" Sherlock's voice fell a tone short, "At least, not the Mycroft I know."

John stiffened and his concerned brows met. "What you're saying about Mycroft's case… is that really possible?"

But Sherlock had fallen silent and his eyes drifted to the wall, to the area where he knew his brother was resting under the observant eyes of the Intensive Care Unit personnel where no one was allowed entry. Sherlock's only assurance was the constant beating of the heart his older brother was loathed to admit—only for it to be his saving grace against the battle with his brain—because if Mycroft's heart wasn't on the right place then be damned the world will be in greater peril. It was after all, his heart that set his mind right in pursuing what was good—otherwise none of those hostages needed to survive. Mycroft needed not turn his attention to the criminal class and channel them just to punish himself. He could just be like Eurus.

Unfeeling and unattached It was his heart that set it all right. The brain, as it was, just followed the pattern.

"It happened." Sherlock said after a few minutes more as he locked eyes with his friend, "But I don't think it will get worse. I hope."

John looked at him sympathetically. "Well, Lady Smallwood will surely get the report of her life."

Upon meeting the Lady a day after, however, Sherlock only had one thing he wanted to say.

"My brother had been unstable since Sherrinford, even before he began this mission. His mental instability will be his defense to whatever charges your government will be plotting against him."

The Lady gave him one of her sharpest stares, before throwing a black folder on the table between them, the raise of her thin eyes brows not lowering its standard. Sherlock watched her, before turning his attention on the folder. Its title was blank.

"This is a report of Mycroft Holmes' successful mission in Middle East." She began with equal firmness and authority Sherlock had never seen any other gender give aside from his big brother, "Unfortunately he was gravely wounded in the undertaking and needs to have mental recuperation taken care of immediately. He is therefore relieved of his responsibility of this Cabinet until further notice, or until we can make sure he is well. In all aspects. I do not know what you mean by charges of the government. This is his government that only wished for his well-being. We're not all reptiles here, Mr. Holmes. At least, not on our kind."

The two exchange looks with Sherlock giving the Lady a sense of gratitude he again had never felt to anyone other than his family in 221B. Then he realized, this was Mycroft's family side in the works.

"Thank you." It was the only thing he could say as he pressed his lips closed.

"How is he?" Lady Smallwood's voice could not conceal its warmth despite the straight face she was showing.

"He's back to his old self, being pompous and all. He's out of the hospital now." Sherlock replied, feeling it was his duty to pay her back in kind. "He's back in his home. John's looking after him."

She nodded, still hanging for his words, "And this 'it' you said was there. Has it shown itself?"

Sherlock shook his head. "But I'll be bringing him out."

"What?" the perplexity in her expression was understood. "What do you mean you will bring it out?"

Sherlock sighed and looked determinedly back at her. The moment his older brother had spoken to him that morning upon waking up, signaling that he had no recollection of the events farther than boarding the ship, reverting to his old self of Mycroft being just him and ignoring the claims that he needed help, Sherlock already decided the next step to take.

"It's about time for my brother to face his demons."

A week since their rescue, Sherlock knocked on Mycroft's door and was allowed entry in a second. The past few days had been all for recovery and dealing with the government and convalescence that left the Holmes brothers seeing each other in between resting and waking in the morning. Sherlock had decided to stay in Mycroft's house for the time being, still haunted with the possibility that any moment this persona that Mycroft's brain had adopted may rise from its slumber.

Resisting the idea was Mycroft who had done everything in his power to have things return in their normal state, except having his younger brother in his household which he quoted as 'Already like kicking a dead horse' and 'defeating the purpose of normalcy'.

Sherlock won only after threatening him with the idea of informing their parents. Naturally, Mycroft had to bow.

Coming in the room, Sherlock skipped all the Victorian furniture, tapestries and portraits to locate his older brother standing by the window in his gray three-piece suit with a hand behind him. The curtains were open and he was soaking himself with the light of the sunset, a habit he had adapted ever since he was able to stand on his own feet in three days' time.

"Sunset again?" Sherlock called as he closed the door behind him and strode towards his brother.

Mycroft turned, revealing he was holding a wine glass on the other hand, his levelled eyes still unlively, much like the same Mycroft Holmes.

"You brought people." Came the calm and collected tone as he stood frozen on the spot.

Sherlock removed his thick coat and placed it at the back of a comfortable chair near the fire side.

"John came with me."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose up characteristically and still ever calm. "I said people."

Sherlock eyed him, and then nodded, "And a friend."

"I don't remember you having that much list. So, who might that be?"

"Mycroft, we talked about this." Sherlock said in exasperation as he crossed the room and stood in front of his brother. "Stop boring yourself, I told you I'll bring him in."

"And I told you I don't need him."

"And I told you I won't listen."

"And I told you please do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swiftly took the wine glass from his brother's hand and finished its content with one gulp. Mycroft sighed at the gesture and walked around the room carefully yet listlessly, till he reached the fire side. By the time he looked back at the younger Holmes, Sherlock had already placed the glass down and had now followed him at the heart of the room.

"This… this person you say… is he someone we can trust?"

"Yes. Otherwise I shall have to hunt him for the rest of my life."

"Sherlock, you know I can't…" Mycroft heaved a sigh, his eyes on his brother, "You know I never trusted anyone… Not with something as critical as this."

"He's a German Doctor."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? What if he's a spy?"

"He's John's medical friend, they met in Afghanistan way back." Sherlock interrupted before his brother could give him any other reason to postpone the meeting, "He's an expert in his field. He's been studying human psyche ever since his brother died of mental illness. He knows what we're going through."

"Sympathy will not help us if this is of government concern."

"You're no longer a government worker." Sherlock stated plainly. "You're just Mycroft, my brother."

"So what—you bring in a man whose hypnotic prowess can even make me believe I'm as high as a kite?"

"Only if you start taking in cocaine—no, he's here to help."

"I don't want help!"

"Say that again when both of us had plunge down the sea where you inadvertently blame our sister and turn to someone I don't know."

Sherlock saw his brother's face set again, but the firmness of his resolved not to let anyone in was slowly waning. Defeatedly, the older Holmes walked towards the couch and sat there quietly, pressing both his hands together. Sherlock could not help but feel reluctant at the idea as well, seeing how his brother was struggling. But seeing too that he was making a breakthrough at making him see his need, the consulting detective sat on the table opposite him and looked his brother in the eye.

"I'm sorry. Look, Mycroft… I would never let anyone or anything bad happen to you. You know that." He saw Mycroft's eyes bore on him, and much more than uncertainty, it was only sad. "But if our enemy—if the enemy I have to face is you— I'm afraid of what I'm going to be subjected to do again. When I thought you were intentionally working on your own, just the thought that somehow you had snapped and turned on an enemy of everything we believed to be right— for a second I thought I found the best enemy."

"You know you did." Mycroft chuckled.

"Yeah, but it didn't involve any game over—there was no winning or losing like our mental games. There was just you not being you anymore. I thought I lost you, Mycroft. I never wanted…" he pressed his lips as it was mutually communicated as Mycroft looked away. Sherlock sighed and continued, "So if this means awakening him—or partly talking to him to know why he even existed—to make sure he would never again resurface—a thought that can make me sleep at night, knowing you're safe, I'd take the chance. I want to help you solve this, but this time brother, we cannot do this on our own."

There followed a very long silence wherein the two Holmes just looked at each other. Until Mycroft broke the connection and bowed his head.

"You were always so reckless." He said quietly.

"About everything?"

"About everything. Especially when you jumped on that lifeboat. That was at least three story high."

"You fell like log on the water that was at least six story high, what'd you expect me to do? And why's everyone questioning the height I jumped and not how I calculated my jump?"

Mycroft heaved a sigh with lips thinning. Sherlock watched him closely.

"You ready?"

"As long as you don't talk me out of all the codes the government has entrusted me."

"Oh, believe me. My interest is beyond your silly government secretology."

He clasped Mycroft's shoulder before standing up. Heading for the door, he looked back to find Mycroft had buried his face on his palm. Not wanting to prolong the agony, he opened the door where John and the German physician who has a built very much like Mycroft's except for his dark beard and square glasses. The moment he came in, Mycroft stood up. John and Sherlock exchange looks as a little introduction was made of one Dr. Hoffmann. Dr. Hoffmann and Mycroft quietly exchange greetings but enthusiasm was one thing not to be expected from the older Holmes.

When everyone was settled and Sherlock sat beside Mycroft who had refused to say another word, Dr. Hoffmann glanced at John before turning to the Holmes brothers with a soft and controlled voice.

"Mr. Holmes, I am a medical man of specific expertise— one that wonders on the psyche of the brain—"

"A Freudian, no doubt." Mycroft replied shortly. "Among many things."

The doctor smiled. "Indeed. My practice allows me to well on the conscious and subconscious state of my clients but I cannot do this without securing your trust. The brain resists, otherwise. I need you to trust me."

Mycroft's expression did not change, yet— "I have trust issues, I'm sure you'll find out sooner or later. And if you had known the impossible was needed before you begin to offer your solution, why bother come at all?" he turned sharply to the younger sibling, "Sherlock, this is impossible—I'm sorry but I will not suffer this. This is insane, this is intolerable."

Resistance. John and Sherlock had been told by the doctor that this might come up. Though, he did say it would be an unconscious level. A kind of defense mechanism because the brain recognizes a threat. It should not be so.

"Mr. Holmes," began Dr. Hoffman again, "Your brother requested my help—"

"Is it why you flew all the way here from Germany? Not to worry, I can compensate all your troubles—"

"Mycroft," Sherlock put a firm hand on the top of his older brother's right knee. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." Mycroft frowned, "You believe this quack can help me? I've been like this for many years—even before you had acknowledged you had a brain—and you're telling me after twenty-five years this man can suddenly come out of the blue and claim to help me? This is illogical—this is unnecessary—!"

"Mr. Holmes, do you know why your brother called for me?" interrupted the German doctor before Sherlock could even speak. Mycroft let his sharp eyes fall on him.

"It would be fun to say I have no idea but my brother was being stupid. I have no desire to know."

"Can you not guess?"

"I never guess."

"Then it is you who are being illogical." * Reprimanded the doctor gently. "I've been told by your brother of how you have the superior brain. I only know your younger brother shortly and the aptitude of his brain has already astounded me. What more you. Is this the man whom I heard was behind the successful governance of Great Britain? Whose brain prowess surpasses that of Napoleon? I cannot help but feel disappointed, Mr. Holmes. For you to be subjugated but your desire to keep your problems to yourself, unable to acknowledge your own difficulty as well as continuously condemning those people who loved you enough to want to help you. Is this the works of the superior mind? Is this the man whom I've heard so much accolade from his admiring brother? You are doing these people injustice, sir."

Sherlock held his breath, and so did John. They had never heard anyone—aside from Mrs. Holmes— to give such a speech in the presence of Mycroft Holmes. And no one—no one had ever spoken to Mycroft like that. For a brief second, even John looked vigilantly at the consulting detective, as if afraid Mycroft might walk out. Then few seconds passed and no such event happened. Doctor Hoffmann did not remove his eyes from the older Holmes and the room was deathly silent.

Until Mycroft gave a rumbling sigh and shook his head. "This is senseless."

"You know it's not." The doctor, despite his size, moved quickly about and sat at the edge of the table just in front of Mycroft. Leaning forward with eyes bright and urgent, he spoke in a very calm voice, "You have recognized the power of your brain and that is a first step forward liberating yourself of its massive control. The brain indeed is very powerful that once you lose your hinges on its frame, it controls you. All we need, Mr. Holmes, is to make your subconscious be known. Of why it has decided to make an appearance. But bear in mind sir, that your subconscious is not and never will be an enemy."

Mycroft slowly raised his eyes and met the doctor's eyes for the first time. Dr. Hoffman nodded.

"Your subconscious is merely representing what you have been keeping. It appearing substantially is only a mechanism to protect you. Otherwise, from what I have initially heard, your subconscious is acting on thoughts you have been resisting because the 'conscious' you find it unthinkable. Now if the motivation is so strong, the subconscious will find its way to make your body aware— from what I heard it is quite damaging. This is where my help comes in. If only you would allow me."

It took a minute for Mycroft to respond, and when he did nod his head, Sherlock slid an arm behind him and tapped his back. "You'll be okay, brother. I'll be here."

"Should I leave?" John said as he rose from the chair the moment the doctor went towards his bag and Sherlock ushered his brother towards the bed.

"No, it's quite alright." Mycroft whispered as Sherlock took off his elegant coat, leaving him only in his waistcoat. "You're family."

John and Sherlock exchange glances again and the consulting detective could not help but notice how best friend's ears went red. He quickly recovered as he was asked by the German doctor to close the curtains. So as Mycroft sat on the bed, John positioned himself at its foot while Sherlock stood at the other side of his brother with Doctor sitting at the edge, just beside the older Holmes who was looking weary at the physician.

"No stupid questions, Sherlock." Mycroft said to relieve the tension he was feeling.

"Oh, I would never ask who your first affair was and the history behind your ring. Though both would be interesting."

"Sherlock." John warned as the Doctor Hoffman gave the detective a raised of eyebrow. Sherlock pressed his lips closed again. When everything was settled and the room quite dark with only the side lamp on, they watched the German doctor drew a pocket watch that was already on his hand. It was an antique sort of watch, the kind you would see on shops with excellent price but it was obvious this one was an heirloom. Sherlock frowned upon seeing it as he recognized the initials while Mycroft himself looked unsurprised at the discovery.

"Now," Dr. Hoffman began, "I want you to sit straight and keep your eyes fixed on this."

He then commenced on swinging said object from its chain back and forth.

Both Sherlock and John would give each other glances when after a full two minutes, Mycroft's eyes remained following the pendulum. Both agreed that with Mycroft's brain, something so simple may not after all be affective. But then on the third minute, the older Holmes' eyelids began to fall and his shoulders hunched that by the end of the second, he sat on the bed with eyes quietly closed with all of them waiting for what will happen next.

Dr. Hoffman caught the watch and quietly hold it in his hands, his glasses flickering at the light of the lamp.

"Mycroft, do you hear me? Nod if you will."

Mycroft silently nodded. Sherlock stood tranced but kept his eyes at his brother.

"I will ask you some questions," his voice had gotten low and gentle, "I wish you to answer them honestly. When I snap my fingers, you will awaken and open your eyes. When this happens, you will not remember anything that has taken place while you are asleep. Do you understand?"

Again, Mycroft nodded. "Yes."

Dr. Hoffman gave Sherlock a look, "We are now speaking to his subconscious. May I proceed?"

Sherlock nodded. The German Doctor turned to Mycroft.

"When did you begin taking over his conscious state?"

"At the age of twenty-two."

Sherlock gasped but was halted further distraction with a raise of hand from Dr. Hoffman in his direction.

"Why?"

"Uncle Rudi died."

"Do you know how?"

Mycroft nodded. "He killed himself."

The three looked at one another. Then Dr. Hoffman leaned forward again. "Why did he kill himself?"

There was no response, but Sherlock noted the slight crease on his brother's brow.

"Eurus talked him to it." Came the soft answer that had Sherlock's mouth hanging open while John shot everyone a look of pure surprised. Only the doctor seemed collected at the piece of information.

"Eurus? Your sister?" he turned to Sherlock briefly who nodded, unable to keep his eyes away from his older brother. "Did you tell anyone?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"They also don't know."

"Why do you think it was Eurus who made him kill himself?"

"I was there when he shot his head. He told me his job was done. He wanted to be free."

Ringing silence flooded the room and Sherlock was no longer paying attention to the eyes looking his way. All he could see was how pale and shadowy his brother's figure had become, all he could see was the beads of perspiration on his brother's forehead. All this time, no one knew…?

Dr. Hoffmann tried again. "Does your conscious know that this happened?" Sherlock sharply glanced at him.

"Yes." Mycroft answered.

"Did he acknowledge it?"

"No."

"How did he respond?"

"He didn't want to."

"Do you blame your sister for his death?"

"Yes."

The German doctor sighed.

"How many times have you appeared in the past years?"

"Rarely after. Recently."

"When did the recent begin?"

"Eurus called me. We spoke."

At that, Sherlock had to look hard at his brother. "What does that mean?"

"What do you mean?" repeated the doctor.

"She called me. She said it was time we worked together. I gave her access to everything."

This statement had the whole room falling silent again. John was frowning at Sherlock too.

"Does that mean he helped—?"

"Shhh…" the German doctor halted them, his serious face magnifying the importance of every second. "I have been briefed about what happened in Sherrinford. Were you somehow involved?"

His answer was much anticipated. And then— "Yes."

John shut his eyes close and put both hands on the board at the foot of the bed with his head down. "I knew it! That's why we couldn't trace… or how else do we explain the billboard and motion grenade?" he threw his best friend a look, "Mycroft admitted he was the one who had it purchased! Why didn't we realize…?"

"I did." Sherlock admitted as he stared at his brother's face.

"You did—?" John whispered and the consulting detective looked at him.

"I realized if this was possible… then it means he had always been involved. Unconsciously."

"Oh, jesus…" John muttered.

Dr. Hoffmann waited for the whispers to subside, before turning to Mycroft again.

"Did he suspect that he was somehow involved?"

"No. He was unable to think it through."

"You made him ignore it?"

"He made himself ignore it."

"So then why have you appeared now? What do you want to happen?"

There was a ringing pause but the answer was none other than what they already know.

"Die."

"Why?"

"My job is done."

"I see." Dr Hoffman nodded again, before turning to his patient, "Well, Mycroft. It should be known that you are quite needed. Your other sibling does not think your job is done."

"Other?" inquired the older Holmes with a slight raise of tone.

"Your brother, Sherlock."

"Sherlock." Mycroft repeated. "He is a grown-up now. He doesn't need me."

"Of course, I do!" Sherlock blurted out before anything else, his hands slamming down the side of the bed, his voice vibrating in all the corners of the room, rendering both doctors and even Mycroft silent. "I need you!"

Dr. Hoffman put a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder and nodded his head, before giving his attention to the patient again.

"Your brother claims he needs you. No one in this room thinks you should go."

He was greeted with silence, Sherlock's eyes transfixed at his older brother who somehow, deep in his mind, had come to terms that he was no longer needed—that everything has to end. The German doctor waited till the consulting detective had straightened up and was calm again.

"It's okay now, Mycroft." Dr. Hoffman said softly, "You can sleep now. I will wake you up shortly, please sleep. You will remember nothing of this exchange when you wake up, do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Very good. Now sleep."

Mycroft lay limp on the bed and after a few seconds of watching him, Dr. Hoffmann quickly rose from the bed and met the two gentlemen at the foot of it, his eyes wandering back to his patient.

"Well, there's the root of it. This Uncle Rudi, was he a close relative?" he threw the question at the younger Holmes.

"He was his mentor." Sherlock answered with a glance at John, "They were supposed to be close… or that's what Mycroft wanted me to believe. He followed the man's every footstep."

"You have no encounter of him?"

"None that I consider that matters."

"And this Eurus? You told me she's suffering from mental genius?"

"Yes. It's a very complicated case."

"She tried to kill us too." John answered with a shake of his head.

"Mycroft has been taking care of Eurus since she was diagnosed of psychosis. He and Uncle Rudi worked together to… take care of her case. I didn't hear anything about Uncle Rudi dying. Somehow, Mycroft had me thinking he was inconsequential."

"He hid a relative's death not once, but of someone he's truly taken." Dr. Hoffmann crossed his arms, "He saw him die, he shot his head. It explains his insistence on dying by his heart as you told me. He's pushed everything in his subconscious. Especially when he said the conscious him did not want to deal with it, and deal with it means an emotional expression or even acknowledgement. He is susceptible to the control of much misuse subconscious as he never admitted feeling these things to himself."

"He clamped when David shot his head." John mentioned with heavy eyes, "I've never seen him vomit before. I thought he was just too… sensitive. I forgot he was never anywhere near that as long as I know him."

"That explains one thing," Sherlock sighed, "and explains why he wanted to donate his brain."

"Do we tell him that he was partly responsible to the release of Eurus in the world?" John asked him.

They looked at the doctor who shook his head. "That is the same as telling him we know of the death of your Uncle Rudi which is by far the only reason why this man here is suicidal. The lost of his most admired one to suicide makes his subconscious reflect the idea that it too is ready to die. Death is by own hand, he understands it as this, while the conscious mind of Mycroft disagrees: I take it a reasonable man like him would detest the idea of suicide. It's a battle within one's mind. We can help him resolved it, but it does not include directly telling him what we have found."

"So, what's the point of this if we cannot tell him?" John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the doctor who masterfully looked him in the eye and smiled a little.

"Our main purpose it to know the depth of his unconscious mind—of whether or not we can reach it and find its roots. We did. And Sherlock here has made it very clear that his older brother's purpose is not yet done. If this has been affirmed in his subconscious, then I can honestly tell you that our work here is done. Though it will not erase what has already happened, it is sure to make him agree with his conscious level this time and avoid any trigger for the subconscious to think it needs to act."

By this time, Sherlock was already facing the bed again where his brother was still lying fast asleep.

"So, there will be no more awakening of his other self this time? He's okay? No more eyepatched man in the suit?"

"He still needs the therapy if he allows it." Dr. Hoffmann offered in all honesty. "He has suffered a mental trauma. His consciousness would find it hard to trust itself. But I daresay… you can do something about it this time?"

Sherlock didn't answer as the doctor snapped his fingers and Mycroft's eyelids slowly opened.

There were plenty of things he wished to talk about with his sibling. Things he never thought they needed talking. Come to think of it, he realized the only thing they do whenever they were together were the constant banter and fit of words no ordinary human would understand. Thinking about it, it was Mycroft who conditioned Sherlock to such a fashion, it was Mycroft who began their common game Deduction Game. Lacing it as a tool to sharpen Sherlock's observation, the younger Holmes could not help but wonder if his brother was merely distracting him.

Distracting him from many things as Mycroft had distracted himself.

They never spoke of Uncle Rudi, except constant recall of his name whenever they insulted each other. They never spoke of each other's emotions for both deluded themselves in believing they don't have the sort of mechanism, which in fact was untrue. They never spoke of each other's affairs—though it was easily noticeable once they see each other.

They never had a healthy relationship. There was nothing there.

Yet, Sherlock abhorred the thought of his older brother dying. It was never a constant thought five years ago, but losing him now felt like he was going to be reduced to pieces. Because make no mistake—his older brother had never told him anything because Mycroft was protecting him. In his own way of looking at the world, seeing a fragile little brother, Sherlock couldn't help blaming himself for being the ignorant fool. But it was a limitation that had been set ever since Eurus' incident. He doesn't blame her. He just wished he could have been much stable person before, a kind of man Mycroft Holmes could have trusted all those years and not the ticking bomb everyone used to believe.

He cringed as he remembered Mycroft's voice while hypnotized: 'He told me his job was done. He wanted to be free.'

Does Mycroft think he has been shackled by his circumstance too?

Anyone would think so and many would run away. Mycroft didn't because he tried so hard to be the responsible brother—the strong one. But it was not a charade.

He was strong. He tried. For so long.

Seeing his older brother open his eyes, Sherlock immediately found his place beside the bed while John and Dr. Hoffman excused themselves out.

"Mycroft." His voice could never be any gentler.

The older Holmes found his eyes and it lit with recognition.

"What happened?" he whispered, blinking, then as if the memory came rushing back to the moment before he was made to sleep, his eyes flickered in bemusement, but there was no sign of anything tragic there. "Did you find anything interesting inside my head?"

"Nothing remotely interesting." Sherlock sighed with a smirk. "It was a terrible place to peek in, like watching you in the bath while naked."

Mycroft smiled grimly. "Should I sue your doctor friend?"

Sherlock grinned, but something else was already in his mind. There was this sudden responsibility he needed to do. He needed to secure Mycroft's capacity to remember and to understand. But especially, the perfect time to mention it: Uncle Rudi's death. Sooner or later they have to discuss it. He just wondered when without jeopardizing Mycroft's mental health.

Then it came to him how he had slipped in Mycroft's shoes—of being the responsible brother that has to check with trigger words whether his sibling was apt to talk about the memory or not.

He didn't think it required this patience. He always thought Mycroft was only bullying him.

"Hey, Mycroft." He called suddenly.

"Don't hey me in such an informal way… you know I never had a liking for things informal." Mycroft straightened up on his sitting position and rubbed the back of his neck. "What's the matter?" he asked when he noticed the younger Holmes watching him eagerly.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before realizing it was not about him anymore.

"You are strong, Mycroft. One of the strongest people I know and it's only right to believe that you are."

That earned him a threatening raise of eyebrow.

"I really should have that doctor arrested after all. I'm calling my security—!"

Sherlock's smile turned upside down. No, there was no easy way for this man to understand love.

"You're going to get John arrested."

"He's the one I want arrested."

"Why would you have my best friend arrested?"

"Because he's let you stay here in my house for a prolong of time and I do not appreciate it—"

"Who says I wanted to stay here for so long?" Sherlock looked scandalized but not as scandalized as his older brother who was following the pattern of brotherly sentiment and seemed to be rejecting it. But Sherlock could only believe otherwise as Mycroft went on—

"You praising me is enough to make me believe I have been threatened with your presence— that's it, you're overstaying. Get out!"

"You're not making any sense."

"Go back to 221B!"

"I most certainly will not! I find your fireplace quite pleasant."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "I knew it! You were only saying this because my house makes you comfortable! Forget it! I know how your brain works! You are not living with me!"

"I did not suggest I would—"

"But you were thinking it—"

Sherlock paused, then had to nod. "What's wrong with having your brother in your house!? You just got released from the hospital!"

"No. That would only encourage you to stay. Get out!"

"Mycroft—you deluded old fool! I won't be moving anywhere! I will stay here as long as I'm needed!"

"Who needs you!?"

"Well, I need you."

"You—" something seemed to light up in the older Holmes eyes as something in the back of his mind reminded him of something, he could not quite put his hand to. "Stop saying that or I won't be able to get rid of you!"

"You won't need too. Now, I'm out. And if you need me—I'll be in my room."

"Sherlock—"

"Good night, Mycroft. I'll see you later."

"I thought I was the one who got hypnotized!? What have those doctors done to you?" was Mycroft's concerned yowl.

The End- Thank you for sailing with us :)