Sherlock was furious. Glaring at his brother. And Mycroft could not think of anything to say. Nothing that would explain the situation. Nothing that could possibly make it better. And Mycroft always made it better. That was his job. To make everything better for Sherlock. That was his reason for existing.
The two men squared off. Sherlock slightly shorter than his brother, whippet thin, pale eyes burning with malice. Mycroft, taller, broader, face resigned to the inevitable battle that was coming, all other options now exhausted.
Sherlock's fist connected sharply with Mycroft's face. Greg felt the force of it, the hatred and anger behind it. He wanted to stop them. To step in between them. Another blow fell as Sherlock began hitting his brother in earnest, his sharp fists pounding against Mycroft's flesh. Mycroft just stood there, his face blank and took the beating. As though he had done this before.
"Strange. He should be needing blood by now." La Neige hissed into LeStrade's ear. "He should be burning. Why is he not burning?" The dead eyes swivelled to look at Greg. "And how do you feel about it? After all he is currently trying to beat up your wife!" Greg got the distinct impression La Neige was enjoying himself immensely.
Greg should have been angry. Wildly angry. Before when Sherlock had made his inane comments about Mycroft's diet, Greg had just about been ready to rip his head off. Every time Mycroft's phone went in the middle of the day and he had to leave their bed in order to sort out another mess his little brother had made, Greg was angry. A terrible gut crushing rage that he fought to control. But now, when Sherlock was attempting to smash his brother's face in, Greg felt nothing, but a mild concern.
What was happening?
Sherlock finally collapsed on the floor, his legs unable to support him any longer; perhaps the need for blood was finally kicking in.
"Why did you do this?" he raised tear filled eyes to where Mycroft was standing. "I was free. I would have been free of this." Sherlock indicated his own body, the delicate pattern of veins beginning to bulge beneath the marble skin. "I could have been free of it. All of it. I know he was never going to love me back, but at least it wasn't forever. Now it is."
Mycroft knelt down in front of his brother, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. The full weight of what he had done was beginning to dawn on him. How had he never noticed Sherlock's feelings for John Watson? Feelings he was certain the dependable and very heterosexual Doctor would never reciprocate, whether he had the rest of time or not.
And there was only one way Mycroft could make it better. He had to ask the question. The sickening question. Sherlock had buried his face into Mycroft's chest, nuzzling against the soft hair that was exposed where his shirt had been unbuttoned. The cut La Neige had made there was still bleeding. Sherlock was licking at his brother's blood.
"Mycroft? I'm hungry." There was a new horror in Sherlock's voice as he said it. Mycroft looked over the top of Sherlock's head to where La Neige sat, with an expression of eternal curiosity on his face. He felt Sherlock's teeth bite into the flesh just below his nipple. He knew he had no option but to ask.
"Monsieur La Neige, how do I kill my brother?" After all, it was his job to look after Sherlock.