He bent over Sherlock, watching the painful rise and fall of the broken chest as his little brother. His baby brother. Mummy's favourite darling boy, was gasping for his last few breaths. This was nothing like the feeling he had when he was with Greg. There was no need. No burning desire. No hunger. This was more like the times as a lonely teenager when he had sat in his room and secretly stuffed himself with food until he felt sick. And had carried on eating anyway.
"This is the absolute last time, Sherlock."
He swallowed the nausea and bit down on Sherlock's elegant neck.
The blood tasted disgusting. A horrible, over ripe, meaty flavour. Mycroft gagged, but continued. The heart monitor was sounding a single long note. Sherlock was dead. And Mycroft had just killed him.
The medical team arrived, just in time to see the tall, red-headed man bury his pale face in his brother's neck. Then he looked up. Raising his head with effort to look at them all with bloodshot eyes.
"I'm very sorry Mr Holmes." The Doctor was speaking. A nice looking young man with wide set eyes and an unfortunate jaw line. He really wasn't old enough to be a Doctor. "Would you like a few moments?"
"Thank you." And then the mask was back in place. "That won't be necessary. I will be taking my brother's body."
"I'm afraid we will need to do an autopsy Mr Holmes." The Doctor's face paled as he looked at the blue eyes now fixed upon him. It hurt to look at them.
"I really don't think so. I have clearance level Alpha 1."
"Yes Sir." The Doctor ushered the crash team from the room. Leaving Mycroft alone. He could feel his guts churning. Looking down at the still, dead, figure of his brother. What had he done?
A sound from the doorway. Greg LeStrade standing there. Radiating his usual warm bakery smell. Mycroft felt his insides twisting and the bile rising in his throat. He just made it to the sink. Greg watched in horror as Mycroft heaved up a crimson mess of blood and coffee and blue icing.
"Oh Mycroft." The hand rubbed his back. He heaved again. "Don't tell me you just bit Sherlock? Please God, tell me you haven't bitten your brother?"
"All right. I won't tell you." He dabbed at his mouth with a paper towel and set the tap running to wash away the mess in the sink. Blue Icing?
"That could have ended you! You can't drink from your own blood. It is unbelievably dangerous. How could you be so stupid?" Greg was frantically checking Mycroft. Running concerned hands over his face and body.
"Well it's done now. And I'm still here. Now help me? Please?" He looked so lost and confused. Greg felt his insides contract and heard La Neige's words: he will burn the heart out of you. It seemed La Neige, as ever, was quite correct.
"We need to get him to The Family. Quickly."
There was already a private ambulance waiting downstairs, in to which Sherlock's body was loaded for transport. Mycroft looked back at the hospital as the car pulled away. What he had done to Sherlock was terrible. Yes. But what he had just done to John Watson had undoubtedly secured him a ticket to hell.