I finally finished Mycroft's chapter! He tied with Sally for the next chapter, but I was going to write her's first. Unfortunately, she was being stubborn-typical, really-so Mycroft was the next up! I am going to try to do chapters for Sally, Anderson, Molly, and maybe John before the series premiere. We will see,

I don't own Sherlock. Please don't sue.

Mycroft once believed that cutting off his cocaine addict brother was the hardest thing he would ever do. Later he believed watching the CCTV feed of his brother getting on his knees for drugs and non-essential items like food and shelter was the worse pain he would ever feel. He thought that doing nothing would be the worst guilt he ever felt. He was wrong.
Mycroft sat with his head in his hands at his desk. It was not the weight of the Common Wealth he bore on his shoulders that had him bowed, but his guilt. Before him, his computer screen was frozen the instant before Sherlock hit the pavement. For once in his life, he didn't want to know. Didn't want to see the evidence of his abject failure. He saw stills of after, his brother sprawled on the ground in a pool of his own blood, and had promptly vomited the contents if his stomach into a bin. Luckily, Anthea had been the only one present. She had cleared his schedule for the foreseeable future and brought him home. He wasn't sure how she did it, and he didn't care all that much. He was having trouble remembering what it was like to care about anything. He had been sat here for almost two days now, stirring only to replenish his brandy. He continued to stare at the last moment of his brother's life though the pain constricted around his lungs as though intent in choking him out. He was suffering from a chemical defect. He had already lost.

He couldn't bear to press play so that his brother's fall would come to its inevitable conclusion. Blood shining on the pavement. The very thought made his stomach turn. Until he saw it play out on his video feed, he could make himself hope that something could happen in those unseen moments that would change everything. If anyone could cheat death, it was Sherlock. He knew it was crippling sentiment that fueled these hopes, not logic, but he couldn't let go of any small glimmer of hope.

It was all his fault. Sherlock may have thrown himself off a building, and Moriarty may have convinced him to do it, but Mycroft had given information to make it happen. In exchange for a few confessions, he had handed a psychopathic genius a loaded gun to use to destroy his brother. Mycroft had never felt more corrupt and vile.

Mycroft was so lost in his grief he did not look up, or even really pay attention, when his study door clicked open. It was probably just Anthea, come to make sure her boss would get a decent night's rest. It probably said something about him that the only person to help him through his grief was his paid PA.

"Hello, brother mine," the visitor said in a rich baritone that most definitely did not belong to Anthea. Mycroft froze. Perfect, not only had he caved to sentiment, he was hallucinating. Irrationality was abound. Surly he hadn't had that much to drink? Maybe he had. A rough sob broke free from his chest for the first time in years. He looked up slowly, half unwilling to break the illusion.

Mycroft blinked in incredulity. He could see Sherlock. Hearing a voice once, a vivid memory really, was excusable. Seeing things meant he was surly going mad. He drank in the image of his brother nonetheless. His face looked strangely blank as he crossed the room to sit at the desk. The chair he sat down in moved and reacted the way a chair should. Could he really imagine that? And would he imagine his brother with such a look of... concern flitting across his features. Somehow, against all odds, Sherlock survived. "Are you... Did you really... How?" For once, the unflappable Mycroft was at a loss for words.

"I am alive," Sherlock said, "I presumed you would have seen through the ruse when you watched the CCTV."

"I couldn't finish it. I didn't was to see you die," Mycroft muttered, turning the frozen monitor around for Sherlock to see.

"I am sorry, brother," Sherlock said softly, "I had no idea you would be so affected."

"Affected?" Mycroft spluttered, "How could I possibly not be affected by my brother's suicide?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock recited, raising an eyebrow in a challenge.

"You are the exception. You have always been the exception."

"That didn't stop you from selling my life story to Moriarty," he challenged.

Mycroft winced. "I will regret that until the day I die, but you must understand, I never dreamed Moriarty would escape."

"A criminal genius who staged a mass breakout of Pentonville Prison and it did not occur to you he may not escape your clutches? Never mind, your ever expanding ego, like your ever expanding girth, never surprises me anymore. I have come to you to inform you that I will be leaving to eliminate Moriarty's network. I do not know how long I will be away, but I am going alone. I will need identities, money, a gun, as well as dossiers on all known affiliates. I'm sure you will manage that within a week. After that, I will ask you to stay out of my life."

"Please, how will I even know you are alive?"

"I will contact you once a fortnight, because you will be running security on John, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. If anyone discovers I am alive, the will be killed. Eliminate the assassins assigned to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if you and do it quietly. If not, leave well enough alone. See to it you are more efficient in their protection than you were in mine."

"I will keep them safe. The Queen herself will not have better security," Mycroft assured him, studying him carefully. He did not seem angry, but some thinly veiled emotion ran beneath the surface. His brother was deeply unhappy, and Mycroft knew he was to blame. He had destroyed his reputation and separated him from the only one he counted as a friend.

Sherlock rose from his chair, setting down the paperweight he had been twiddling with while he spoke out of nervous habit. "Well, thank you Mycroft," he said, "This is goodbye, I suppose. Do try to stay on your diet." He smirked at his attempt at humor.

"Please, take care of yourself... You know how Mummy worries."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded and turned to the door.

"I am sorry, Sherlock, you must believe me."

"There is nothing to be sorry for. You acted exactly as I knew you would, in the interest for Queen and Country. Moriarty is dead, and I can do away with his web now. The common good has won out," he said with some bitterness, "In any case, I absolve you of your guilt. You are forgiven."

"Goodbye, little brother," Mycroft called to him, "Thank you."

"Goodbye, My," he said with a smirk, using the long forgotten childhood nickname. Mycroft thought it strange how that felt more like forgiveness than anything else.

"Godspeed, brother," he whispered after the door clicked shut. He turned to the computer and minimized the CCTV feed. He had arrangements to make.

Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think, and your choice for which character you want to see featured in the next chapter! I would like to write what people want to read since it is a bit of a time crunch! Thanks again!