"I'll be fine, Mycroft."
Mycroft looked warily at his little brother who, even at 20-years-old, still managed to brew up the same feelings of worry and anxiety as Mycroft felt when Sherlock was so small.
"You'll call me if you need anything, Sherlock?" he asked, knowing with almost certainty that he wouldn't but hoping with all his heart that he would. "Anything at all." Mycroft repeated.
He thought his brother was ignoring him as Sherlock continued to pack his things into his case, but a moment later, there was a long, broken sigh and Sherlock turned around to face his brother.
"I'll be fine." he said quietly, not in his usual impetuous tone but small... and uncertain, "Thank you."
Mycroft gave a small nod and excused himself. "Mummy will be here soon. I'll just go downstairs and wait for her." He slipped from his brother's room and took a minute to compose himself.
The last three months had been hard. Sherlock had battled with demons, nurses, doctors and, ultimately, himself during his time in rehab. He had come out of the other side clean, yet Mycroft was all too well aware that it would take considerable effort on his brother's part to stay that way.
Now, Mycroft had to let Sherlock go. He had to start his new life and studies at university. Mycroft had done all he could for his little brother and, as he stood outside the building and waited for Mummy to arrive, he just hoped that it had been enough.
