John Watson's performance at the Afghan territory sentenced him to fight against the enemy. The Captain assured him he was better than the other men who had been training for years while he had learned how to load, shoot, reload and kill just in one day and without any practice.

The Doctor looked down at his hands; they used to be soft and warm. Those hands were medical hands, proper of a Doctor, a man who should look after people's lives. But now those pale hands were covered with dust and blood. He hadn't been healing injured men. He had been killing them.

No matter how much he washed his hands, he always felt them dirty. John Watson MD, had broken his Hippocratic Oath he made when he got his medical degree. Instead of defend and stand up for human life, he was taking them away.

It was a hot day in Afghanistan. The British uniform felt heavy on his body and the rifle he was carrying with his left arm felt heavier, like if he was carrying thousands of dead bodies over his shoulders. John's blue eyes met the sky over his head which shared the same colour of his iris and he couldn't stop thinking what the Holmes family could be doing.

The tall and blonde man was seated in a very uncomfortable chair beside his brother's bed. The man resting on the stretcher was peacefully sleeping but it had been days since he had been found almost dead with a high overdose of cocaine in his blood.

Mycroft couldn't make a copy of himself and stay with his father who was close to the end and his brother, who was also close to the end, more than he liked to believe. He was angry. And for the second time in his life he wanted to punch his face.

The political man could perfectly remember the first time he lost control over his little brother and wanted to hit him. Sherlock was saying awful things about John and his parents.

"What do you think about Mother's 'new furniture'?"

Mycroft's smile disappeared from his face. He looked upstairs making himself sure his parents weren't there to listen Sherlock's words. His question sounded cold and his words's election were painfull. He couldn't believe what his brother's mind could think about the poor boy.

"Don't talk about him like that, Sherlock. He's our brother"

The kid shaked his head. "He's not our brother. Mother choose him because his name is John and he was born the same day that John Holmes, our real brother died. And Father agreed with her just for his stupid campaign and please her-"

Before Sherlock could continue with his speech, Mycroft grabbed him by his arm with more strenght than necessary and took him out of the house to the garden, not caring the worried look of the maids in their way out. He didn't want to talk to his brother and risk John or his parents to hear them so he guided his brother to the laboratory and closed the door behind him.

The dark haired boy looked angry, but Mycroft looked hurt. His eyes were sad and he realised it was the first moment he saw his elder brother like that.

"Sherlock, you don't understand how Mummy and Father suffered since John's death. We all waited for him so badly-"

His little brother far away from keep quiet and listen to him, cut him.

"So now all of you are replacing him with John?"

"She lost all her hope to have another child, until she got pregnant again. And it's not my place to tell you this, but if it is necesary to stop you saying those things about John-"

Sherlock was lost in his brother's words. He haven't stop to think just a moment how his parents felt when his brother died, before he could be ever alive in this world. He really loved his parents, and with Mycroft's words he opened his eyes.

"What is it, Mycroft?"

The teenager sighed and swallowed before answer. He knew he was going to touch his little brother with his words and he was confident that he was going to change Sherlock's idea about John. And making him understand that this boy wasn't a new forniture to his parents. John, was the brother he always missed and the son his parent's always loved.

"When Mummy got pregnant with you, there were more risks. You almost died in the deliver Sherlock, but you made it. She fought for you, and you made it"

Mycroft had to say thing he never wanted his little brother to know. But it worked. Certainly, he wasn't pleased to bring up again those awful memories of his parents crying after the death of his still born brother, but it worked.

Now the only thing Mycroft Holmes wanted was his brother to wake up and be back with his father.

But he was furious and angry. The older Holmes wasn't going to stay away from his father who health was poor and in a very delicate condition, aggravated by the grief in his spirit by Mummy and John's departure to stay with his 'stupid' brother who had been doing the most stupidest things ever. There wasn't another Mycroft to stay with him and play the older brother.

But deeply lost in his thought and concerns blinded him for a moment when Sherlock opened his grey eyes and glanced at the hospital room. Dark curtains were covering the windows from the sunlight and there was one of Mycroft's man outside the door.

"Finally you are awake, Sherlock."

Just when John looked again at the piece of paper written with his handwriting and closed the envelope which was addressed to Sherlock Holmes a bomb exploded in his camp. There were cries of panic and the alarm rang, bringing him back to reality.

He had a few patients and soldiers to attend that afternoon, but for some strange reason he felt the need of a time for himself. It's not easy to hold a gun, a rifle, a grenade and kill people. They might be the enemy, but they were people. He was being trained to do things he never wanted or wished to do. So he wrote Sherlock a letter, trying to apologize for leaving that way and explaining to him he wasn't angry and he could understand he never meant those words. And he promised him he was going to be back soon, safe.

For some reason, John felt pain in his chest. He felt Sherlock was in danger, and he could feel his brother suffering.

The twenty minutes he took to write that letter was enough for the terrorist to plant the bomb in the medical camp. Most of the Doctors and patients died.

Sherlock could feel the anger in his brother's voice, face and body movements. Mycroft was holding his umbrella with too much force and his knuckles were white. It wasn't difficult to deduce that.

His long and pale arm was bandaged and he could feel himself skin and bones. He felt weak.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt weak and useless.

"You almost died."

"I failed, then."

Mycroft had to close his eyes for two seconds and breathe to keep himself from hitting his brother to death. Sherlock despite looking defenceless was being as petulant and challenging like before. Not even the drugs and after spending days and days injecting himself had erase that attitude from his young brother.

"You better clean yourself and go home next week. It is an order, Sherlock."

"What for? I can't stay there. I have my flat and-"

"It is Mummy's first anniversary."

The sky over his head wasn't blue anymore. It was grey and stormy, product of the fire caused by the bomb. Just a few Doctors and two nurses survived and were safe enough to attend the ones who survived and the number of alive wasn't good.

The bomb had destroyed most of the tent that worked as an hospital, also destroying all the medical supplies and equipment. John had only a few things to use to cure and save lives. The Doctor forgot the that white envelope and did his best to stay calm and follow the medical training he had back in London.

But the fire extended and it burn everything. Including that letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm not going."

And Mycroft slapped Sherlock for the first time in his life.

"Father is dying."

Thanks for reading and sorry for any mistake!