Richard was sleeping peacefully after his lunch and his older son was sitting beside him reading the newspapers and glancing once in a while his phone which was in silent mood to not disturb him when Anthea, his PA called him.

She never called him. It was a very strict rule she would never make a call unless it was a matter of life or death. Mycroft ran quietly outside the room and accepted the call. He wasn't ready to hear what she had to say to him.

Sherlock had been found unconcious, almost dead. He had an overdose.

Mycroft Holmes could remember sharing countless cups of tea with his younger brothers in which they used to talk about their lectures at university. He was already a graduate man, but he always enjoyed to listen to his brothers discuss about words and different terminologies. John was attending to School of Medicine at Saint Bart's Hospital and Sherlock was attending at the same place but he was studying Criminology. Certainly, Mycroft wasn't unfamiliar with words. 'Overdose' wasn't an strange concept for him.

He would never know how his facial expression was but his driver took him to Sherlock and John's place very quickly. The last time he had been there was weeks ago when he delivered John the papers he needed to enlist himself in the Army as a Doctor. When Mycroft saw his brother lying naked and almost lifeless he couldn't believe he was the same Sherlock who left the manor just after John's departure weeks ago.

Sherlock was skin and bones. He was dirty, clearly signs that he haven't been eating or cleaning himself. He had a beard and his skin was white, not pale. His left arm had red marks all over it and there was a needle resting on the floor.

The entire place was a mess and there was a horrendous smell. Anthea was already there with who seemed to be a Doctor and he was listening to Sherlock's heart and lungs. He was unconcious and his chest was moving very slowly.

At least he was breathing.

Mycroft couldn't help but let tears fall from his green eyes. His Mummy had just passed away a few weeks ago, less than a month. His brother was gone and he didn't know anything about him. His father was going to leave them soon and now his other brother was killing himself. That was the moment when his PA stroked his hand and for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes regretted his position as an older brother.

John hid himself behind a big rock and he took advantage on the windy weather and the dusty surface of the enemy field. He reloaded his rifle with his shaking hands. At the Captain signal he turned around from behind his hideout and shot.

He was breathless. John had just killed for the first time in his life.

By orders of his PA, Sherlock was taken to a private clinic under some fake name. The only and last thing Mycroft needed was reading the newspapers with the header 'Son of the ex PM Holmes found with an overdose'. He was sitting in the back of his black car with his usual umbrella in his hands. He looked outside the window, trying to think what he was going to say to his Father. Just in a few days it was going to be a month since Mummy's death and they were going to visit her grave. And he doubted his brother was going to be clean until that day.

"It's settled, Sir. Mr Holmes will be hospitalised under the fake name of Vincent Bregman. The Doctor already has strict orders to keep Mr Holmes true identity under the most highest discretions."

Mycroft just nodded and sighed, looking at the grey London sky and wondering what his other brother could be doing in that moment.

The fire was gone. They had killed the enemy. John took a few steps forward to look at the dead body lying over the Afghan floor. The man was young, in his early twenties. He had tan skin and his eyes were open, showing a pair of very dark and deep eyes. John went down to his knees and removed the enemy's helmet. His hair was dark and curly. Like Sherlock's.

The only thing he did was raise his head to the sunny sky over him and wish he was safe.

John wanted Sherlock to be safe.

"He had an overdose."

"May I know which was the substance involved?."

Mycroft was nervous. He felt the panic on his body, travelling through his veins. But as a political man he was wearing a very good mask over his face.

"Cocaine. Mr Holmes injected himself high doses of cocaine."

"Tell me."

The Doctor glanced again at his patient who was lying still unconcious on the bed and at the chart on his hands with the blood test results.

"If we hadn't arrived at the exact moment, he could have died."

The older Holmes was never the same since that moment. He was determinated. He wasn't going to loose his brother. He had lost his mother and John. But he wasn't going to lose Sherlock.

For anything in the world.

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