May 1891

It had barely been a week since both telegrams had arrived at his Whitehall office, at the same time.

The first, from Dr. Watson said simply:

Regret to inform you, your brother was lost after fight with M. Unable to recover body.

Mycroft had not even had time to process this information, never mind about grieving for his brother, when he opened the second telegram, which was from Sherlock.

In Florence. Have fooled all into believing me dead. Will take down what remains of Moriarty's empire incognito. Need funds.

An address where he could be reached for the next month followed.

Questions exploded in Mycroft's mind, the first of which was that he'd thought Sherlock had already taken down Moriarty's empire. Of all times for his brother to be mistaken. Nevertheless, Mycroft took it upon himself to take care of everything Sherlock needed. He wired the money to Florence, assured Sherlock he would take care of financial matters for the foreseeable future, and then spent the rest of the time pretending to grieve for his younger brother. The week had been a flurry of activity he found highly disturbing to his carefully maintained routine.

Mrs. Hudson, to Mycroft's astonishment, began to cry when he visited her and informed her that due to her former lodger's generosity, she would be able to remain where she was without needing to take boarders.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, thank you. I won't touch a thing. I'll leave it just as he liked it," the landlady said. What, a mess everywhere and smelling of chemicals? Mycroft wanted to ask. He hadn't thought Sherlock had gone to particular lengths to secure his landlady's affections, but it seemed there was much about his brother he didn't know. As he found out over tea for the next two hours, when Mrs. Hudson regaled him with tale after tale of his brother and Dr. Watson looking out for her. This pretending was becoming frightfully awkward. The grief everyone else experienced was undoubtedly real, while Mycroft alone was aware that Sherlock was actually alive. It felt strangely backward; in that it seemed most of these people knew Sherlock far better than his brother had.

Now, things had begun to calm down. Sherlock had stopped wiring him every day with instructions or asking for money, and Mycroft settled down in his favorite armchair at the Diogenes with the evening newspaper, ready for a quiet night. He had barely sat down when a footman came with a note saying he had a visitor. Mycroft sighed. He had been expecting this.

True to his expectations, Dr. Watson was standing at the window in the Strangers Room, looking out. Mycroft was astounded to see the difference in him since the last time they had met. Dr. Watson's shoulders were slumped and he seemed tired in a way that went deeper than mere physical exhaustion. When he turned around to shake Mycroft's hand, it was clear that some of the light had gone out of his eyes. The fresh grief was almost too much for Mycroft to take, and he very nearly sat the doctor down to explain that Sherlock was not really dead.

"I'm sorry I did not come to see you earlier, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Watson said, preventing Mycroft from ruining Sherlock's whole deception. "As I'm sure you know, it has been an extremely difficult week. I thought you would like to know what happened."

"Yes, I would very much like that, Doctor. Thank you," Mycroft answered. Dr. Watson gathered his breath and began his tale. Mycroft listened, to how Sherlock had tried to send him back to England once he realized Moriarty had escaped his trap. How Dr. Watson had been tricked into leaving Sherlock alone at the Reichenbach Falls. How he had arrived back at the Falls, to find only a note and realizing that Sherlock Holmes must have fallen to his death over the falls after a fight with Professor Moriarty. The agonizingly long search for the bodies of both men. The official paperwork, the lonely journey back to England. Each part of the tale seemed to bring the grief closer to Dr. Watson afresh, and he had to stop due to emotion several times. Mycroft found himself in such sympathy with the fellow that he resolved to wire to Sherlock immediately and ask him whether whatever he was doing was worth this deception.

"I wish I could have returned his body to you, Mr. Holmes. I am sorry for that," Dr. Watson said when he had finished. "I know he wanted no funeral, but I'm sure it would have been a comfort to you. I know it would have been to me." The doctor sighed, looking out the window, but, Mycroft was sure, seeing instead the faraway Reichenbach Falls.

"Oh, yes, Doctor," Mycroft said, feeling horribly guilty. "But I am sure he was pleased that he was able to finish off Professor Moriarty. He would have felt it had some poetic justice."

"Yes, he did," Dr. Watson said. "He told me he would have been glad to retire after this, that the capture of Moriarty would be akin to the crown jewel of his career. I just did not imagine it would end like this." The poor man looked as if he had lost everything at the bottom of those accursed falls. How his brother could do this to his closest – only – friend was beyond even Mycroft's understanding. It was a cold thing to do, however necessary.

"I am sorry, Doctor, that this happened and that you were there with him when it did," Mycroft said sincerely. He wondered if he would feel even half the grief, if Sherlock had actually died, as Dr. Watson obviously did. He wasn't sure if he had it in him, and the thought saddened him somewhat. Maybe that was why he and Sherlock had never been truly close, why Sherlock had turned to a friend instead. Although, Mycroft was quick to point out to himself, Dr. Watson probably complemented Sherlock better than he himself ever could have.

"You're sorry? You lost a brother, Mr. Holmes. I am the one who should be sorry," Dr. Watson spluttered in astonishment.

Mycroft smiled, "That is true, although I doubt that I lost what you did that day at the Falls. You have been closer to him these ten years that I have ever been." He waved a hand over Dr. Watson's protests. "'The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.' I would not begrudge my brother this connection that brought him such comfort these last ten years, nor his friendship to you, when you clearly valued it so highly." Mycroft was not a jealous man by nature; he had no desire for friendship or companionship of any kind, but was glad to see that his brother and Dr. Watson, who did seem to have that need, had found such in each other.

Dr. Watson nodded, "I understand. My own brother and I were not close. Your brother is – was - more of a brother to me than he ever was." He looked guilty for saying this, but Mycroft could tell it was undoubtedly true.

Dr. Watson left soon after, saying he had to return home to his wife. Mycroft wished him good evening, and good luck. He doubted he would see the man again for a time; the reminders were too strong for them both, albeit for different reasons. He hoped Dr. Watson would find a way to live his life as best he could, and that whatever Sherlock was doing was worth this. He didn't seem to have spared a thought for Dr. Watson's feelings in this matter.

Then again, perhaps he was mistaken. No sooner had this thought entered Mycroft's mind then a telegram arrived for him. It was not signed, and only consisted of one sentence.

Watch out for Watson.