A/n: Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait! Not only has this topic been quite difficult to write to satisfaction, but my free time has been rather minimal this last week. I hope you're all doing well and I'd like to thank my lovely reviewers for the support 'n stuff. ^^ Mycroft and Sherlock meet! Hope you enjoy~

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 7

"You made me call twice."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I am a busy man, and you are dead," he returned. Is this really Sherlock?

"I need a favor," Sherlock stated, not bothering with a comeback.

"Tell me in person. Where are you?" Mycroft asked, licking his lips. How could he be alive? He was certain he was dead. Why didn't he call sooner? Was it to punish him for his cooperation with Moriarty?

"The flat."

"With John?"

"With John," the voice confirmed.

Mycroft inhaled and stood from his chair. "I'll be there in twenty." Hanging up the phone, he braced his hands against his desk and shakily exhaled. Sherlock was alive; he hadn't killed him. Numbly, Mycroft started for the door, not even considering that by some stretch of the imagination that this was a trap of sorts. No, he knew what he heard.

o-o-o

Before Mycroft had the chance to mentally prepare himself and knock on the door, Sherlock swung it open motioned for him to come inside quickly. Trying to retain his composure, Mycroft stepped inside and watched as his brother close the door behind him. There was no doubt about it. The person standing before him was Sherlock. Feet socked...he's normally barefoot. Why is he covering them? Loose jeans, baggy T-shirt, untied blue dressing gown. His arm is broken. He's lost weight. There are faint scars on his hands, and his face...Those are rather new and those bruises are starting to yellow. John wouldn't have hit him quite that much upon returning...What were you doing?

"You want to know what I could have possibly been doing," Sherlock verbalized, studying his brother's face carefully. As much as the elder brother would claim otherwise, Sherlock could see as Mycroft's expressions faltered.

Mycroft nodded. "Of course, but you don't intend to tell me without my working for it, do you?"

"Who else but me to keep prodding you about that diet of yours?" Sherlock jabbed at his familiar pecking ground despite seeing his brother's healthier frame. The response was just far too formulated, too familiar to pass up. Did I do this to him? Was I his diet? He always did worry...

Mycroft decided to drop the banter, realizing that Sherlock's last comment hit a little to close to reality. Sherlock was the reason he dropped his indulgence in sweets. How could he reward himself with something that brought him pleasure when he had committed such a grave sin? "What is it?" he asked, looking around the room. Though he had offered to retrieve the entirety of Sherlock's belongings at John's dictation, his offer was never taken, and the flat showed it with Sherlock's possessions still strewn about.

The detective smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." Pulling a folded paper from his pocket, he handed it to his elder brother. "There are several locations in which I've used for safekeeping of information. They are numbered in the order I obtained them. Once you've gathered it all, read through it and return it. This will answer all of your questions," Sherlock explained as his brother unfolded the paper and studied the thirty-odd locations that it contained, spanning multiple continents.

Agreeing, Mycroft examined his brother once more and felt that at any moment, he could lose him through a floor crack. "I'm assuming by your calling me, you need assistance with something regarding this? Simply retrieving it is no matter," the elder Holmes began, attempting to prolong the conversation until he could find more suitable things to say.

"You'll know it when you see it," Sherlock answered flatly. There were somethings he'd rather not say aloud, including admitting just how much he needed his brother to help him with his situation.

Without the bickering, their conversation fell flat and silence permeated the room. All the questions he had, all the times he wanted to apologize, stole themselves away from Mycroft's mind, leaving him with little to talk about. "Where's John?" Mycroft finally brought himself to ask, realizing the stout, jumper-clad man was not present.

"Out. Buying groceries. He'll return within the hour. How's Mummy?" Sherlock inquired, breaking another awkward lapse in conversation. When Mycroft's face immediately soured, Sherlock turned to worry. "Mycroft," the detective growled, snapping his brother back into reality. "What happened?"

"She died," Mycroft breathed, "Over a year ago." No, he would refrain from crying, the elder Holmes told himself. And it's because you died. Because of me. But why didn't you come back sooner?

Sherlock didn't know how to respond, the news shocking him to his core. Taking a step back, the detective accused, "You're lying. She was a perfectly healthy woman."

Mycroft took a deep breath and continued, "I'm afraid I'm not. I had her buried in the plot next to yours."

"How?" Sherlock's voice shook. How could someone he loved die while he was protecting them? That was against the rules.

Watching his brother's expression morph into sadness, eyes begging that he wasn't at fault, Mycroft couldn't bear to tell him the truth. "Heart attack. We didn't even see it coming," he lied with as straight a face he could manage.

Though skeptical, Sherlock took it for the truth, figuring he would accept whatever kindness his brother was offering. He didn't want more on his plate than what was already there. "I guess I owe Mummy a visit, don't I?" the detective polled, smiling weakly at his brother.

"You do," Mycroft answered curtly, meeting his gaze. His eyes are dead.

"Are you disappointed, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, recalling the last time he saw his brother in the photo at his funeral and how the image haunted him for the last three years.

Tapping his umbrella against the wood floor, he replied, "I've yet to decide." Phone beeping, Mycroft pulled it out and read a text from Anthea. "And work summons...Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, brother," Sherlock mirrored with a touch of sadness.

Mycroft's eyes widened. Surely it had been years, decades even, since Sherlock had used the word brother without sarcasm or virulence. On impulse, he stiffly wrapped his arms around his sibling (cast and all), and was surprised as he felt Sherlock's right arm snake around his side. Though Sherlock was a tall man with a bulky cast, his brother was taller. Mycroft could now figure how thin his brother was, how much smaller, more fragile he seemed. Whatever he had gone through, it hadn't been fun, much less part of the game. After a few seconds, Mycroft broke the awkward embrace. "Never again," he stated.

"Never mentioned?"

"Never heard," he finished, taking another step away.

"Good, we understand each other then. I thought 'caring wasn't an advantage'?" Sherlock questioned, trying to get the last point in.

Mycroft turned to the door and turned the knob. "It seems we do, and it still is not," he mused. Having one final glance at Sherlock, Mycroft said his farewells and departed.

"Goodbye," Sherlock murmured to the closed door. Emotions getting the better of him, the detective sauntered into his room and closed the door behind him. Though John wasn't in the flat, he needed some time to be alone. Flopping on the bed, he groaned as his midsection griped against his careless movement. Within moments, Sherlock overcame the pain and stared at his dusty ceiling, inhaling the fine layer that had settled into his bedding.

Sneezing, the detective propelled himself forward and stood. This room wasn't comfortable; there was no one in it. No life. Without thinking over the ramifications, Sherlock tromped out of the room and up the stairs. Swinging the door to John's quarters open, the detective took a step inside.

As expected of John, his room was relatively tidy, his bed perfectly made. Easing his way onto it, Sherlock inhaled the distinct scent in the sheets. Though figuring he was probably now crossing into some strange realm of flatmate taboo, the man could hardly find himself caring. This was comforting. Familiar. Home.

Blocked by a cast to his left and a stab wound to his right, Sherlock grumbled at his inability to roll over. He was stuck on his back like a turtle, belly showing. Exposed. Rubbing his temples, he realized he was trying to do everything he could to fend off any thoughts about his family. Within a moment of the realization, memories flooded to him.

Sherlock could still remember the grand feud that took place between himself and his brother, creating a riveting schism in the Holmes household. From there on in, he declared Mycroft his arch-enemy and any trust he had granted the man forgotten. Mycroft was a threat to his independence, his identity, his hobbies, and essentially his entirety as a constant hovering entity that watched his every move, trying to regulate his life as he best saw fit. To keep up with his dislike (as admitting any form of concern meant defeat), Sherlock spurned his brother with his past boredom-induced drug abuses and dangerous lifestyle. He knew Mycroft cared, and he used that very fact against him.

"Caring is not an advantage". That line practically said it all. Sherlock knew Mycroft didn't bother to point out caring was a "disadvantage" because he truly does care a bit too much for the safety of his little brother (though in a twisted way that can be alternately written off as an intent to annoy). Admitting he cared was admitting he himself had a disadvantage, and that would give Sherlock a decisive victory in their war of wit and power. The last person Mycroft would admit defeat to was the only person he feared losing to, the only person he felt was a man on equal ground.

Their battle was never-ending, wagering who would come out on top. Neither felt completely superior to the other, and there was always a tense unease that furthered their fighting, a fear of inferiority. Without that fear, the battle would end, the result an established fact. Their crossfire a result from their repeated reassertion in dominance, the effects are only temporary. Always inferior, fighting to be superior. And it is absurd. Childish.

Mycroft, infuriating Mycroft, hugged him in some sort of strange mutual understanding for the first time in years. Any previous feuds were somehow trivialized by his own return. Mycroft's mothering and worrying had gotten the better of him, and Sherlock genuinely missed his brother. As much as they fought, Mycroft wanted him to live and thrive. His new enemies deemed it their sole goal to tear what little remnant he had of a heart and smash it into pieces innumerable pieces. While laying alone, wondering if these breaths were to be his last, he had even wished the likes of Mycroft would swoop down from his seemingly-omniscient podium and save him, driving those who opposed him to the ends of the Earth. Instead of begging for Mummy, he cried for Mycroft.

Oh Mummy...Throwing his hand over his eyes, Sherlock felt as hot tears streamed down his face. He couldn't even remember the last time he had talked to her, let alone seen her. All he could remember was the crying face from the photos. She had left him with subtle love, and he left her with heartbreak in turn. What a wonderful child.

Chills coursing his body, Sherlock pulled himself under John's covers and continued sobbing. His chest aching, mind throbbing, the distressed man was soon relieved by sleep.

o-o-o

Before heading for the grocery store, John popped by the clinic and told Doctor Owens that he would be needing some time off for personal reasons. Begrudgingly with his questions unanswered, Owens granted him three days to return the favors of the overwork he had endured in his stead. Somehow, John felt as if he would never return to work the demands of the ICU with the latest reinsertion into his life. When he stepped out of the building, John took a deep breath. Life was reverting back as it should.

Humming, the doctor strolled into the grocery and purchased milk, sugar, a couple of packages of pasta, two jars of sauce, a couple of apples, some grapes, and a package of fresh pastries. This should tide them for the next day or two. Though it was slightly frustrating having to navigate the store (which had undergone a drastic remodel since his last trip), John walked with a bit of a spring in his step. He had someone else to buy for. As long as Sherlock remained in the flat, as long as he stayed, he wouldn't mind having to go out for milk. John might have even been fine with obscure experiments, but he figured that he shouldn't give that thought away just yet. Give that man a centimeter, he'll stretch it to span the land mass. Give him nothing, he'll span the Earth to spite you. John chuckled, there was no winning, was there?

The woman behind the register smiled at him, and John realized he was already grinning like a mad fool. Sherlock was home, waiting for him (or talking to Mycroft, rather). The flat wasn't empty, and he was far from crazy.

Paying the clerk, he took his change and bags in his arms. On his walk home, John took in the cityscape, cataloging the changes that he had missed. Small video rental stores had morphed into music stores and coffee shops, bookstores into coffee shops. Within fifteen minutes, the doctor arrived at the flat. The door was already unlocked, and John pressed in, thinking nothing of Sherlock's carelessness. It's not like he had left the flat unattended.

Stepping into the kitchen, John placed the bags on the counter and put the groceries away. The rest of the flat was silent and gave John a sense of unease. Something was wrong. Walking into the living room, John searched for Sherlock's figure lounging on the couch, but was greeted with nothing. "Sherlock?" John called into the empty room and no response came. Making his way for his flatmate's room, he knocked on the thin door and called the detective's name once more. No reply. John pushed the door open and peered in. There was no one in sight.

Where could he have gone? Don't tell me he left...Oh God. Bolting for the bathroom, John noticed the light was off and the door ajar. With a quick push and a flick of the light switch, the doctor saw nothing out of place. Shit, shit, shit. Where is he? Sherlock...Was I just imagining it? I've finally gone crazy, haven't I? Wait! If he left, he probably would have taken his violin.

Returning to the living room, John located the case and sighed. He tried to escape tightness in his chest, eyes stinging. Either Sherlock left or he was imagining his return in the first place. "Sherlock?" he roused once more to a barren, echoing flat. "Dammit Sherlock!" John yelled, growing angrier by the second. What had he done wrong for Sherlock to leave him again? Was he even there to begin with? Why was his mind dragging the detective back from the dregs now of all times? But Mrs. Hudson, surely she had seen him, too? Choking back a sob, John stormed up the stairs. His room was the only safe spot from Sherlock, no possessions, no presence whatsoever. Maybe he should call Mycroft to finally remove his brother's crap. It was oppressive, and he needed to get away from it for his own sanity.

Pushing through into his room, John immediately darted for his bed, hoping to sleep whatever fit he had gotten himself into off. Eyes widening, the doctor stopped dead in his tracks. His bed wasn't made and a mop of curly black hair poked from underneath the covers. Sherlock. Oh thank God. John sunk onto the edge of the bed and stared that the lanky man before him. He wasn't imagining a thing. Ruffling Sherlock's curls, John remained perched on the bed for a moment before standing. "Why in here?" John asked the sleeping man as he left. Closing the door behind him as soundlessly as he could manage, John set off to clean. Mrs. Hudson promised she would be over for lunch, and he needn't her complaining about the flat's maintenance.

A/n: That's all for today, folks! Sorry it was a bit of a filler, but next chapter should answer a few questions and maybe introduce some more conflict (yay for conflict?). I hope this didn't disappoint for the wait. Anywhoodle, now that you've read, please review! Oh, and as of December 1st, I will probably not have much internet available to me. That could last anywhere from 5-10 days so updating might be a bit of a challenge. Anyhow, now that you've read, please review! Opinions are greatly appreciated and adored! Bye! :D