A/N Oh God. I'm such a terrible human being D': What with Christmas and exams and life, I have been a terrible updater D': I AM SO SORRY!
Okay, this chapter: I have actually changed so much of my plan for If in the course of writing this because I thought it'd fit better but now I just hope that this chapter is all organised in a way that makes sense XD
Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers and readers that have put up with me, I LOVE YOU ALL MORE THAN YOU CAN KNOW :)
I will hopefully be posting again before Christmas day (and possibly even be *maybe* starting a set of Q drabbles for the Skyfall fandom over in the James Bond fanfic spot, maybe) but if not I wish you all the most wonderful Christmas and I hope it brings you all the joy and love in the world, you all deserve it very much :)

Disclaimer: Apparently monkey pee is very strongly acidic and they were missing the toilet for a reason: There is now a giant escape hole in my prison cell wall! Unfortunately monkeys aren't as intelligent as I thought as the hole they've made has simply led me to the next cell along -_- Subsequently I'm spending Christmas with a rather charming serial killer called Betty who knits in her spare time and has told me that while she's never dated anyone called Sherlock, her fourth husband was called Sherman. Sherman currently lives in an urn on her mantelpiece, along with her other six husbands.
Someone please save me.

There wasn't any pain when Mycroft awoke. In fact, there was not much of anything, other than the knowledge that he was awake. He blinked, his eyes drooping heavily as he tried to focus on keeping them open but it felt as if he'd been awake for days and, as much as he tried, he couldn't stop his head from lolling and his eyes sank shut.

The second time he awoke, the world snapped into vivid reality almost immediately His eyes still felt uncomfortably heavy and the unfamiliar sense of confusion was still lingering in him but he could see at least and he could hear the rhythmic beat of his own heart, the monitor lying somewhere out of his peripheral vision. He swallowed; his throat sore and he took a moment to allow the data to seep in. Sore throat, mild numbness to abdominal region, thin sheets. Obvious signs of some form of operation. He blinked, memory flooding back and he no longer felt the uncomfortable confusion as his mind latched onto the new information. Shot.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said. He let his head fall to the side to look at the chair that was positioned at his bedside and the man perched upon it.
"The same could be said for you," Sherlock replied blandly and Mycroft raised an eyebrow sluggishly.
"You didn't expect me to wake up?" Mycroft said. Sherlock didn't reply and the silence dragged out, filled with only the beeping of the heart monitor. Expensive sheets, if insufficiently warm. Monitor barely used. No other patients. Mycroft let the data become a distraction, concluding that he was in a private room, presumably with his own surgeon and doctor. If it hadn't been so ridiculous, he would have smiled. Even when they're expecting you to die, the British government like to keep their employees comfortable. He vaguely remembered what Sherlock had said. He is the British government.

Mycroft didn't know whether the silence was mournful or disgruntled so he didn't comment
upon it, instead, allowed the silence to drag on. He filled the space by devising 37 ways he could test Sherlock's mood in his head and, in the end, decided on none of them. He felt oddly distant from his brother, even though he was only sat an arm's reach from him away and contact had never been an integral focus for either of them while growing up. Sherlock's mood was both relevant and, at the same time, wildly irrelevant to the distance; confusing Mycroft's logical aim to past the point that his still drowsy mind could fathom.

"I don't recall waking," Mycroft said at last, "Not for more than a moment. How long have I been unconscious?" Sherlock lingered longingly in the silence and cocked his head at his bother.

"You haven't worked it out already?" Again, Sherlock's tone was impossible to decipher, a certain brand of bitterness mixed with concern and it infuriated Mycroft to no end not to know Sherlock's state but he reminded himself to be patient. He didn't have any right to judge Sherlock's feelings, whatever they were, with old wounds having been open in his younger sibling. Physical deeds meant very little to a Holmes; it was the psychology of a moment that mattered. What a person had to lose, or gain, by aiding him. If their reasons were merely superficial. If they expected that one action to be enough.

Sherlock didn't seem to expect a reply so didn't waste time in supplying his brother with an answer.

"1 day, 18 hours," Sherlock said, "An operation was done immediately. Your heart-" He stopped and Mycroft caught the small, tight swallow in Sherlock's throat. His breath caught. He already knew what Sherlock was going to say but somehow that didn't make him feel any better.

"What about my heart?" he said blandly, trying not to give away the momentary flutter in his stomach.

"It stopped for a little over 6 minutes," Sherlock said finally. Mycroft let that sink on. He'd expected that and yet the words were still enough to make his stomach fall. 6 minutes. He was lucky that they had even kept trying after that. Luckier still that it hadn't caused brain damage but, then again, he had only been awake for a few moments and that thought sent a chill through him.

"If you hadn't have been British Government, I doubt they would have continued the resuscitation," Sherlock confirmed his thoughts in a bland, apparently uncaring tone. But it wasn't entirely cold. Mycroft heard it there, the slight undertone of concern that only a brother could hear. It was barely even there and yet, to a Holmes, it was distinctive as the sun on a rare clear London day. Panic. Sherlock Holmes had almost lost his brother that day… and he had felt it.

The tone passed without comment. He didn't need to comment on it; Sherlock knew he'd caught it. A glance passed between them and Mycroft wondered if John Watson had had an effect on his brother somehow, however small as right now Sherlock's eyes showed more than he had ever seen revealed on his younger brother's face. Or had he simply let his guard down for a moment, caught unawares and without the protection of his mask?
Flicking his eyes away, Mycroft endeavoured to sit up, gasping in sudden surprise when the tepid numbness turned to pain in his chest as he tried to push himself upwards. He looked down at the sickly pastel hospital robe and gave a short, bitter chuckle.

"One would think that holding a minor position in the British Government would warrant you the privilege of a half decent hospital gown," he commented dryly. He saw Sherlock flash a small smile.

"Quite," he agreed, putting a hand under Mycroft's arm, steadying him as he finally sank into his cushions, at least slightly more upright than he had been before. The quip was familiar and Mycroft tried to cling onto that, the momentarily feeling of normality. Sherlock however was looking away, fighting hard not to meet his brother's eyes. Mycroft sighed.

"You haven't gone after him," he said. Sherlock didn't meet his eyes still.

"Mycroft-"

"It is possible that he hasn't gone back to Moran. In fact, it's more likely that he hasn't; from what we know Moran is a very dangerous man, he won't be pleased if Robert returns empty handed," Mycroft continued, trying to ignore Sherlock's interruption and the way that his brother's eyes pleaded with him.

"Mycroft-"

"Leaving the country seems a highly probable solution, Robert has contacts abroad, we know that fact for certain."

"Mycroft," Sherlock pressed and Mycroft stopped. He let out a slow puff of air at Sherlock's expression, bowing his head.

"You're not going after him?"

Sherlock sat a little straighter, but with his shoulders still sloped defensively it didn't make much of a difference. "I never said that," he said quietly.

"Then what are you saying?" Mycroft snapped. He was done guessing; he was tired of having to constantly try to navigate his brother's emotions. To say that feelings were not a Holmes trait, Mycroft felt like he spent too much time having to try and decipher them. "I may not have much to do with Scotland Yard Sherlock, but I know what attempted murder is, along with all the other crimes that that man has committed. This isn't about family, Sherlock," Mycroft snarled. "This is about treating Robert Holmes exactly the same as you would any other man for just once in your life. For God's sake Sherlock, if he hadn't have hit me, he would have shot you or John, have you thought about that?"

Sherlock's green eyes flicked to his brother's face and Mycroft had to bite back a remark when he saw the frantic deducing in his brother's expression, like he was desperately trying to understand what Mycroft meant but couldn't.

"You think he can't do anything wrong Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled. His throat protested at the volume and he finished the words on a choked cough, the soreness flaring sharply enough to catch at his words as they rose. He took a deep breath, lowering his voice. Perhaps anywhere else the nurses would have entered but Mycroft imagined that they were used to officials shouting at people here.

"What is it going to take to make you realise that he's not what you seem to think he is? He threatened you, and John, he shot me, he-"

"I know."

Mycroft stopped with a stutter and, with one look at his brother's torn, hurt expression, his heart sank. Sherlock had already come to terms with it. And Mycroft had just gone ahead and re-opened those wounds. He still looked like he was trying to process the information, like it was still whirring through the cogs in his brain; but all the same, it was there, resounding through the map of nerves and synapses to reach the illogical mess that made the Holmes so vulnerably human, the emotions that both crippled him and made him.

"And yet you're not going after him?" Mycroft said. The meaning of the words were there but the unspoken contract between them that was, absurdly, still holding meant that neither one of them commented on it. I'm sorry. Mycroft felt like he had said those words a hundred times already.

Sherlock grunted out a non-distinct reply and pulled his feet up to his chest in the chair, steepling his hands. Mycroft felt like smirking at the familiar position but it felt hollow.

"Your heart stopped," Sherlock said suddenly. It was a statement of a fact, nothing more, Sherlock's voice plain and unwavering. But it was also a repetition of a fact that they both already knew and that made Mycroft's eyebrows raise and his throat clench a little. Sherlock Holmes never repeated information unless it meant something, personally or otherwise and although the notion was abstract, Mycroft understand what Sherlock was trying at. Your heart stopped. You almost left. It seemed ridiculous that Sherlock Holmes would put forward a notion of such sentiment but Mycroft wondered it all the same. Had Sherlock stayed because he was afraid? Because Mycroft had never left Sherlock, even when Sherlock had walked away? Did Sherlock Holmes feel guilt or regret? Mycroft's mind worked to figure the puzzle but it was almost laughable in its irony. They were perhaps the two greatest minds in all of England and yet, here they were, stumbling like children when the puzzle twisted in on itself.

Mycroft's mind craved for more information, to ask more questions but something made him stop and he let the conversation drop, taking Sherlock's words as the only answer he'd receive.

"So," Mycroft said, "what are you intending to do?" Sherlock stared forward for a moment before sucking in a hiss of air and shifting in his seat.

"We have two problems simultaneously," Sherlock said and it was back to business, just like that, the younger Holmes's voice returning to the straightforward, exuberant tone that always seemed to precede the description of a case, even from when Sherlock was just a boy.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, "Both Robert and Moran are out there somewhere, whether together or apart and they're looking for a way to find Moriarty's old clients."

"Which will evidently end badly for them," Sherlock said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, wondering if Sherlock meant for Moran and their father, or for the people that were currently so blissfully unaware of the danger they were on the precipice of.

"Do you know who the clients are?" Mycroft asked. He had been wondering since he got suspicious of Robert's links to Moriarty's cases if it was something to do with what Sherlock did, or didn't, know but the idea had never caught hold. Until now.

Sherlock shook his head. "Moriarty didn't keep any form of evidence as to who his clients were," Sherlock explained, "To know who they were would be all but impossible unless he told you himself."

"Which is how Moran knows about a few clients," Mycroft said.

"But not all of them," Sherlock finished. "So far, so obvious." Mycroft nodded.

"Without it, Moran is in trouble," Mycroft said after a pause, "And, if it is to be believed, so is Robert. They still think you have it." Sherlock shot his brother a wry smile.

"Are you suggesting I offer myself up as bait?" Sherlock said. Mycroft shrugged.

"It is easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar."

Sherlock turned his nose up at the cliché and Mycroft smiled lightly. His brother seemed marginally better when there was a case to work; a problem to solve that didn't involve people's emotions and illogical actions.

"Alright," Sherlock said, "So, I text Father, arrange a meeting and, what, we have a good chance of catching him? Despite our best intentions, we will be treating a symptom. Moran is the cause and, should we close in on Father, Moran will run and we may not get another chance."

Mycroft's mouth twisted in regretful agreement. Sherlock sat, entire body tense with excitement, mind running at lightning speed.

"We need more information on Moran," Mycroft muttered in agreement. Sherlock chuckled.

"Time is not on our side brother," Sherlock smirked and although Mycroft could hear the hint of sarcasm in his voice, the familiar remarks and jibes feeling almost satisfying. Mycroft nodded.

"I'm sure you're more than capable Sherlock," Mycroft retorted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow challengingly but simply nodded.

"I'll put out word," he said plainly, standing. Mycroft followed his movement up, tilting his head despite the soreness that had developed in his neck as his brother shrugged on his coat. For the first time, Mycroft took in how dishevelled Sherlock appeared, his shirt rumpled and if Mycroft wasn't mistake, he could see tiny speckles of dark red dotted on his brother's neck. He wondered if Sherlock had showered since- He cut himself off, deciding not to linger on the thought.

"I'll leave you to…" Sherlock waved a vague hand as if to finish his sentence and Mycroft nodded, allowing the inevitable pause to lengthen so that he could take another look over his brother. He had been thin ever since his return to Baker Street but he looked worse now, his eyes coloured purple underneath and everything about his appearance seemed to be trying to become invisible by wasting away and, not for the first time since he'd awoke, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Sherlock had been here longer than he might indicate.

"Do eat something brother," Mycroft admonished, "I would hate to see you waste away before we resolve this."

Sherlock didn't retort immediately and Mycroft noted that he didn't ask for clarification on just what they were resolving and that thought gave him hope.

"I would remind you to eat Mycroft," Sherlock said at last, as loftily as his unkempt appearance would allow him to be, "But I imagine that that won't be a concern. But do try to do as the nurses tell you, I'd hate for them to have to keep you here until after we've resolved this." Mycroft scowled, wishing that his sore neck would allow him to tilt it in indignation but as the movement was impossible, he settled with a petulant folding of his arms. The action reminded him abruptly of Sherlock and he wished momentarily that he and his brother looked more alike, selfishly imagining that seeing any of himself in Sherlock would help the guilt tearing at his stomach.

Sherlock shrugged at Mycroft's glare and tugged on his scarf. Mycroft noticed that his balance was ever so slightly off as he walked to the door and Mycroft no longer had to wonder if Sherlock had been sitting, and worse, sleeping, in that very same chair for almost two days, he knew it. His mouth quirked into a smile which he quickly hid as Sherlock span round before he left.

"I know you'll get bored in the hospital Mycroft, but do try to not start a war before I get home"

Sherlock had placed a forty per cent chance on receiving the text at some point before the week was out, which is why he met the alert from his phone with mild surprise when he saw the sender was not John. He had had several messages from John, who had left him in the hospital room yesterday when Sherlock had stopped making conversation with him and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the ID on the text as he opened it.

Moran is in London. I am sending you a map location. He's not expecting you.

- RH

Sherlock smiled. Forty per cent chance indeed. He considered for a moment the idea of returning inside to tell Mycroft but he shook the thought from his head. Father was afraid of Moran, enough to try and sell him out so that he could get away. In its own way, it was perfect: delivering exactly what they wanted to them in return for his chance to escape. He imagined that Mycroft already had an idea already, much like he had, that Robert would try this and, much like both his sons, Robert Holmes had already developed nine different plans to counteract theirs. Sherlock committed the text to memory and slid his phone into his pocket, glancing back at the hospital. He shut down the flicker of insecurity that sparked as he considered getting Mycroft's help, deciding it against it. Mycroft was injured, enough so that Sherlock had, for the first time in his life, contemplated the idea of a world where he was the only Holmes sibling. A world without an arch enemy and the annoying cameras in his flats, wherever he lived, the bickering and the taunting. Something akin to guilt made his stomach churn and he hailed a cab in dejected silence.

Besides, playing a game with two Holmes was enough to almost kill a man. Sherlock could not bring himself to factor in another one.

Mycroft found his phone on his bedside table, as expected. Even in hospital, the British Government apparently didn't get a break, no matter what the general opinion was. He fumbled for it, debating the notion of calling and talking but he quickly dismissed it, his throat too sore to comprehend speaking much more. He flicked down the numbers lazily, his mind hazily managing to read the names on the small screen.

Turn yourself in. MH

He paused before sending it, thumb playing over the button as he wondered exactly what it was he expected to achieve. By the time he finally sent it, the screen had darkened, the words merely ominous shadows in the dark.

The reply was almost instantaneous and Mycroft considered for a moment before opening it.

I see no reason to. Sherlock is going after Moran, is he not? RH

Mycroft clenched his jaw a little, the cocky tone making him jab at the buttons harder than usual. He knew of no other man in the whole world that he hated more and each stab at the keys made his temper flare.

You don't know him well enough; I promise that he'll catch you.

There was a moment's pause before the reply came and Mycroft managed to find some satisfaction in that.

I know what's best for him. You act very high and mighty Mycroft for someone who has hurt him just as much as I have.

Mycroft snarled at the words and the corners of the phone dug into his hand as he tightened his grip on it.

At least I tried to raise him. You've got him wrong; he's stronger than you think. He's out in the world, being a hero, unlike you and me. He was right; we're more alike than you know.

Your actions will come back and bite you both in the end Mycroft, you know that. We're not alike. You're holding him back. I can help him.

Mycroft gave a disbelieving snort at that, incredulous fury turning his veins to ice.

You want him dead, Mycroft typed, hitting the send with more force than he knew he should but his every nerve was on fire with anger.

No, I want his help. To get rid of what Moriarty created. We can both take on Moran, with his help, I can win and it will finally be finished. Moran will be gone.

Mycroft looked at the text for a long while, the cold fury creating a hollow pit in his stomach, the quiet air of the hospital room punctuated only with the increasing beep of his heart as he allowed the cold silence to sink in.

No. You want the money, Father, like you always have. You hit mother. You left her sick and took the money; you left Sherlock and I to starve. And when she went out of her mind with pain, she turned on Sherlock because of you. Last year, Sherlock was hurt because of her and that is your fault. You made her hate us. All we did was love her. It's your shame, not mine.

Mycroft wished for his voice to be strong, wishing he could hear it echo back to him in the room as he finally told this man what he had held back for so many years and yet he was muted, agonisingly silent against the raging force of years of dominating, undisputed power that his father represented.

You're not a father, Mycroft stabbed, relishing the appearance of the words on the screen, as if they could deliver everything he had to, needed to say in his words, you're a coward.

A beat. Nothing but the sound of the monitor and Mycroft's quiet, slow breathing.

And you're not?

Mycroft felt his fury settle as the silence closed in on him and he shuddered in the sudden coldness of the room, his stiches aching more prominently than ever.

You sold your own brother to Moriarty.

Mycroft didn't even have to consider the message, its reply already stock and stored in his mind.

I've done worse than that.

A/N Okay, so, I had actually planned this to be spread into three different chapters with different things happening and Sherlock being elsewhere while Mycroft was in hospital but I dunno, I kinda like this better. With no solid leads, it seems more likely to me that the only place where Sherlock would be after such a violent, confusing time with one member of his family would be with another member because that's just how Sherlock is. He has to know, he has to discover and understand why his father would do this to him and the only source available to him at the moment that may hold the key to that puzzle is his brother, even if it means sitting by his bedside for two days while his mind wraps around it. I dunno, it's probably just me, but that's how I feel :D Anyway, thank you soooooo much for being so patient and for reading once more, you guys are awesome! XD