Guilt - an undiscovered emotion
"I worry about him. Constantly."
Mama pretended not to notice Mycroft's absence for yet another Christmas dinner. She pretended that he had forgotten. At this point, Sherlock realized that despite all of those times this woman had been pretty useless to him, she was in fact right. And despite the fact he hated Christmas dinners, he needed another being to finish the turkey. It was terrible.
Sherlock stopped rooting for Mycroft ever since he betrayed him by joining the government. It was all pretty dramatic but as far as Sherlock was concerned, Mycroft was a blood traitor. The government didn't deserve people like them. They were too different and the government, well they were too ordinary.
So judging that he couldn't fight this family war alone, he recruited Mama who was pretending to be indifferent about it. Papa had left a long time ago to be put into consideration. To be honest, Mama was a perfect candidate. And during their 'time' together, he realized that both of them, weren't so different after all.
Mycroft on the other hand, had always been the speaker. He was outright and confident and had this attractive charm that radiated around him whenever spoke. Sherlock was the passive genius, the arrogant boy with the messy black curls. While Mycroft stood tall, Sherlock learnt to slouch. He couldn't have cared less if his brother was the king of England. But he was certainly not living in his brother's shadow. He was certainly never going to let people think he was afraid of stepping into the shoes of the almighty 'Mycroft'.
Mycroft was always aware of Sherlock's quiet jealousy. He knew him too well, after all they were the same. At first, he reveled in his brother's envy towards him as he always felt ( no matter how insanely childish it sounded) as if Sherlock had stolen his spotlight. One would not be surprised if Sherlock felt the same way judging by how their egos were bigger than themselves.
However, as Mycroft matured ( a word that he felt Sherlock will never become),he realized that their once childish squabble, had itself matured into a bitter sibling rivalry. They were adults now for gods sake! Although Mycroft still regarded Sherlock the same judging by the spider like form he maintained since he was born.
Thinking so much about Sherlock was unhealthy. Now, he couldn't even remember when the last time he had thought about himself. Wow, talk about selflessness, it was so un- Mycroft. It was so un- Holmes.
Then again, nothing was Holmes since...
Mycroft had collected all of them. The newspaper cuttings. He had them in a box - reminding him of the events leading up to the great fall. He had convinced himself that it was for the records of the government, but then again, he could have asked Anthea to do that for him. However, what happened at the fall was something he did not wish to remember. He burned that article.
He remembered watching the orange flames consume the wrinkled paper. He heard the crackling sound of the disintegrating product. His mind was a hard drive, it deleted everything that was unnecessary.
He remembered the sound of light pattering on the roof, on the giant glass window he had his back to. He remembered the dim afterglow of the ashes in the fireplace, in which he had destroyed the most painful evidence. He remembered the silence that was always there but it was only then did he realize it.
It was known that Mycroft Holmes didn't have a heart, he wasn't born with one. But as he looked at the rain pouring from the skies outside, he realized that it belonged to Sherlock.