That large amount of fluff last chapter should be able to last you through this bundle of angst. You didn't expect Mycroft to come back, did you?

Being a government official meant you could walk into any room and immediately command attention and respect. So why was Mycroft hesitating to enter his brother's (well, John's) flat?

Really, there was no reason for hesitation. Mycroft had important information that Sherlock had to receive. But he couldn't knock on the door any more than he could watch his brother bleed. The elder Holmes steeled himself, and raised his hand to rap on the acid-burned, badly painted, exceptionally damaged and yet still standing door that was the difference between Sherlock's perfectly intact heart and the crying mess that Mycroft comforted through the night.

So there was a reason, but Mycroft didn't ever want to admit it to himself.

"Sherlock?" he questioned, unable to raise his hand any further. "May I speak to you?"

He heard someone stand up in the room, saying a few words to the other person. When Sherlock opened the door, Mycroft didn't put any of his usual walls up. He'd rather not tell Sherlock if his baby brother could see it.

"Mycroft. What are you doing here?" Had his love for John blinded him so much that he couldn't see anything?

"I wanted to see you. How is everything going?" The words Mycroft needed to say buzzed in his ears, but John had to be out of the way for Sherlock to hear them.

His brother smiled, smiled so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled. "Amazing." He turned to the doctor, who was sitting on the couch. "John, this is my brother Mycroft, who appears to be doing very well on his diet, contrary to popular belief."

John stood up and came over to the door, lacing his hand through Sherlock's. "Hello. I've heard a bit about you. Are you here for the good news?"

Mycroft could have laughed right then, laughed long and loud even when he was dying inside. He needed a drink, quite badly. "Yes, I am here for the good news."

"Do you want to tell him?" John asked Sherlock, beaming just as wide as him. "He's your brother, after all."

"Alright then, since you asked so nicely." Sherlock pecked the doctor on the cheek and said, "John and I are engaged, Mycroft. I'm surprised you didn't see it as you walked in."

Mycroft tried not to look astonished. "So that happy announcement I was expecting did happen soon after you both moved in."

Sherlock and John gave him the same perplexed look. "What does that mean?" John asked.

"Inside joke with someone who is no longer with us." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Brother dear, I couldn't be happier for you. You deserve this more than anyone. However, I came with news of my own."

"What sort of news?"

"Sherlock, can't you read it on my face? When was the last time you deduced someone?" He couldn't say it, not here, not now. Mycroft was begging him to just see. There wasn't much time left for his baby brother to be like this.

"Last time Harry and Clara came over for breakfast, so a few days ago. Mycroft, can't you just tell us?" Sherlock still didn't understand. He always knew love made people soft and caring wasn't an advantage, and here was the proof, with his ignorant little sibling.

"I need to speak to you in private. And yes," he said, noticing that Sherlock was going to suggest he tell them both at the same time, "you alone."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with sudden realization. "I'm coming. We can talk in John's old room."

"Thank you. John?"

"Yeah?"

Mycroft smiled sadly. "I'll bring him back in a few minutes. Don't worry."

"Mycroft, what's this about? I thought you were going to leave me alone when it came to John," Sherlock said as he closed the door behind them. Mycroft sat on the bed, trying to ignore the twinging in his stomach.

"I had to come. It's actually about your dear fiancé."

Sherlock frowned. "What is it?"

Mycroft looked up at his still standing brother. "Everyone whose memories were taken by Moriarty has them back now. DI Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan, and Anderson all remember John and the past two years, including your death. It's only a matter of time before John does too."

Sherlock fell, down and down and down, slowly, until he was curled on the floor. "That can't happen. I can't let it. I can't let John go through that fucking bleeding hell again."

"But you have to." Mycroft had turned away from Sherlock, unable to look at him. "There is nothing you can do to stop it, besides killing him, which I know no one on this earth can do."

"I don't have to," Sherlock said bitingly. "I can-"

"You can't, brother mine. John will remember." His little brother slumped into the ground at that. "I want you to stay like this, you know. Forever. You and John Watson, running around like the madmen you both always are around each other, married and happy, living in 221B until eternity catches up with you. But I know and I've accepted that will not happen. And believe me, I wish the memories won't come back as well."

"Who do you have that is so important to you?" Sherlock asked numbly, not even responding really.

"It's not about me. It's about whether you can let go of this life, Sherlock. You need to in order to survive, because you won't if John goes again. Sew yourself back together, otherwise you might as well be dead."

"You didn't answer my question. Who do you have?"

Mycroft sighed. "After the night Irene Adler died, I contacted Lestrade to keep a close watch on you, and when he said he would, I asked if I could somehow repay him for the number of years he watched over you. Gregory said," Mycroft smiled bitterly, "that if I took him out for coffee, he'd consider the thanks."

"Who's Gregory?"

He rolled his eyes. "Lestrade. That's his real name."

Sherlock looked more like himself when he kicked the back of Mycroft's leg. "You dated my DI?!"

"It didn't last very long. I wish it had, I wish it had lasted much longer, but before you jumped off the St. Bart's roof, I broke it off rather brutally, basically being the Iceman Moriarty enjoyed so much. Now that his memories are back, he's going to hate me, and I've hated myself for that long enough." Mycroft looked up, away from the other Holmes brother.

"Yes, and I killed myself in front of John," Sherlock remarked drily. "You can repair your relationship with my DI, but I betrayed John and lied to John and crushed him, and whether he loved me or not, I can't let that happen one more time."

"But it will happen, Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft was completely done with this. "He will either hate you or forgive you, and either way, you have to keep living. I want you to stay alive, and I'm sure he does too."

"He'll want me to rot," Sherlock whispered dangerously.

"He loves you, you daft idiot!" Mycroft exclaimed. "That will not disappear even when he realizes how much you hurt him!"

"Neither will his desire for me to jump off that roof again, correctly this time!" Sherlock had begun to get up off the floor.

"Sherlock, you can't see what I see! John was reverting to his original state just slightly when we were talking, and even then, he had the same glowing look of people that are in love."

"But that's worse."

Mycroft stared at him. "How is that worse? When you come back, he'll love you with both memories."

Sherlock shook his head. "When I come back, he'll hate me with both memories."

Neither brother spoke for a few minutes. Silence for them usually spoke volumes, but this time, there was no speech at all. "How long do I have?" Sherlock asked into the still air. His voice was froggy and hoarse, probably from the tears slipping down his face.

"How long do you have for what?" Mycroft replied.

"How long do I have to be happy and forget what we just talked about?"

Mycroft folded his hands over his umbrella handle. "A few hours. Go to a jewelry store and buy John a ring of his own, eat dinner together at Angelo's, solve another case, laugh with him, and say your goodbyes. Instead of jumping off the roof again, you should jump off of London Bridge into the Thames. At least then, you have a better chance of living through the experience." He turned to open the door and walk out. Mycroft was not only craving alcohol, he craved cake.

"Wait, Mycroft." Sherlock paused. "Thank you."

"For what?" he laughed, almost hysterically.

"You never let me go, no matter what happened to us."

Mycroft silently and numbly climbed into one of his black cars, not acknowledging Anthea sitting next to him. "Is the information delivered, sir?" she asked, not looking up from her BlackBerry.

"Yes, it is," he replied shortly.

"Sir, you have another appointment."

"What the bloody hell 'other appointment' do I have?! I want to go back to my office and drink until I forget this whole thing ever happened, and sod anyone that tries to get in my way," Mycroft said angrily, having let his façade go before he could stop it. "I broke my little brother's heart, again. And I don't want to speak to another person that could make this worse."

Anthea smiled sympathetically. "I promise you can drink as much as you want at this meeting. And I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

She grinned a little more real this time. "Are you already drunk, apologizing to your lowly assistant?"

Mycroft glared at her. "Just tell me where I'm supposed to be meeting this person. Is it the Portuguese diplomat? I thought we cleared up that issue last week."

"No, it's not the diplomat. You'll see when we get there."

Sherlock nearly fell down the stairs to John. "Darling, what did Mycroft tell you? Are you okay?" his fiancé asked worriedly.

"It doesn't matter yet." Sherlock ran a finger over John's wrist. "How about we shop around some jewelry stores and find you a ring, and then tell Angelo the amazing news when we eat dinner there?"

John smiled. "That sounds lovely."

"Let's go now," Sherlock said, pulling his fiancé to the door.

"Whoa there, love. I need to grab my coat." John kissed Sherlock on the cheek before finding his jacket on a hook.

"If we get back a little early, I want to take you to bed and make love to you until we're both exhausted."

John laughed. "I'm personally all for that. What do you say? Shall we call a cab and get out of here?"

Sherlock was already on his way down to the street.

When Mycroft entered the pub, the first thing he did was order a Scotch on the rocks. He drank it within three seconds, slammed it down on the bar, and then ordered another. After he'd drank four, he stopped, and enjoyed how fuzzy his mind was getting.

"Who knew you could throw down drinks like that?" a rough, masculine voice that Mycroft wished many times he'd forgotten remarked.

"You should've. We went to pubs a couple times." Mycroft turned around to see DI Lestrade in the flesh. Or rather, Sergeant Lestrade as he was now. He had a few more lines in his face, but otherwise, it was the same (reliable, independent, good-looking) man. "Hello, Gregory."

"Hello, My." God, that nickname burned, even with the egregious amount of alcohol in Mycroft's system.

"I'm sorry, Greg. So very, very, very much sorry that you need the entire pond to hold all the sorry in."

"Wow, you are drunk." That soft look in Gregory's eyes wouldn't go away. Why wouldn't it go away? Mycroft was a horrible person and didn't deserve that look.

"Why're you bein' nice to me? I don' get to have any sort of nice."

"Oh, sweetheart, of course you do."

"Stop looking at me like that. I'm not a nice person like you. You help people and I hurt them for my own purposes." Mycroft leaned back on the bar, swinging his legs around the barstool and waving his umbrella around Greg's form. "I even hurt you, and my little brother, and my brother's fiancé. So no, you're going to stop looking at me like you used to and find another pub to be nice to men in."

And, Greg Lestrade laughed. He bloody laughed! "Mycroft Holmes, sometimes I wonder about you."

"What do ya wonder?"

"I wonder if you notice all the good you do. I also wonder if you forgot what I said to you when you 'broke up with me'." Gregory made quotes with his fingers.

Mycroft thought for a moment. "What did you say to me?"

"I said," Gregory moved closer to Mycroft, placing his hands on the intoxicated man's shoulders, "that even if you gave up on me, I would never give up on you."

Mycroft hummed a moment, staring into Greg's eyes to try and find all the little indicators that would light up if he was telling the truth. "Can I hug you?"

"Oh, love, of course you can." So, Mycroft Holmes willingly hugged someone, and didn't let go.

"I want to go out with you again when you're sober," Greg said, still holding the drunk politician.

"M'kay."

A minute passed with quiet, but then Lestrade asked, "Who on earth is Sherlock's fiancé?"

Only two chapters left, you guys. Thank you so much for reading this far, I love you all! Read + review!