"You didn't like me."

"Hmm?"

"When I got here," John said between mouthfuls of milkshake and cookies. "Mummy and dad said you were nice. When I got 'ere you didn't talk to me for a week."

Sherlock looked down, slightly embarrassed. Both twelve year old boys were drinking milk and eating cookies in Sherlock's room. The boys, close to be teenagers, had just finished their homework and now were surrounded by books Sherlock said he was getting rid of in order to get more science books and spy stories.

"They didn't say they were bringing you."

John said nothing.

"What were they like?"

"Who?"

"Your parents?"

"Ah," John finished his milk. "Nice. Mum was sweet. She..." the boy took one of Sherlock's new books and opened it at a random page. "she liked baking cookies."

Sherlock looked at his adoptive brother going through random pages, not meeting his eyes. "And your father?"

"Dad? I don't remember much about him. He smoked. Had a pipe or something like that, can't remember. But he," John made a pause. "He liked Harry best."

"Why?"

"Dunno. I think it was cause Harry's a girl. Fathers love their daughters, right?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Fathers should love their children equally, independently of their gender."

"Dunno," John repeated. "Maybe dad just didn't like me much."

They kept putting books away and putting new ones on the bookshelves for hours. Neither of them said a word about the subject again, about John's parents, his old family. Sherlock talked about an uncle he had but died a few months before John arrived. Little Sherlock said it was a pity John hadn't arrived before because this uncle liked giving him money. John said he liked their aunt Henrietta, who was an old lady, Mummy's cousin, who was round, had bright pink cheeks and ate always three slices of cake and two full cups of tea every time she came to visit.

At night, mummy and dad were back and the four of them had dinner. Dad said he had visited Mycroft at uni and that he was doing very well, as expected. Mummy talked about her friends at the club and their tea party. Sherlock never talk unless asked, but John was very talkative and their father was very interested in his activities, and Sherlock's too.

"When's the game, John?"

"Next week," replied John. "Are you gonna come and see me, dad?"

Their father wiped his mouth and drank some wine. "We'll see. There are matters of great importance at the office."

The following week Mr Holmes was sitting in the first row. He cheered John and his team won.

Now Sherlock understood everything. Their father never showed any preference over one of them: Mycroft, John or himself. But there were moments when it was clear there was something else between him and John. Of course. He should have seen it. Sherlock should have seen it but he didn't: his father was John's real father.

Mycroft was saying the truth: John was their father's bastard. When he knew about John's mother and partner being killed, Harry almost killing John in a car accident, he decided to take John in. Sherlock wondered what their mother said, how she felt. But again, he didn't need to be clever to know what his mother must have felt.

John had their father's eyes. John was clever, that's why he became a doctor and got the best grades. John had their cleverness but John had never developed their deductive skills.

The man Sherlock loved was his brother, his real brother.

Before this Sherlock wanted to tell John he loved him. When he realised John was that 'adoptive' brother he couldn't remember, Sherlock's relief was that they shared no blood.

But they actually did.

Nothing could possibly happen between them.

Never.

"Got your message," said John, opening the door of the very same lab in which both found each other again. "What do we do?"

Sherlock didn't move but instead focused on John, who was taking his jacket off and sitting around one of the lab tables.

"Why you never told me the truth?"

John froze. "What?"

"Why you never told me you were my brother?" Sherlock asked, his mouth dry.

"Sherlock -"

"It was Mycroft, wasn't it?"

"No."

"Please."

"I didn't tell you because you didn't remember me." John finally confessed. "When Mike Stamford introduced us you acted as if I were a stranger -"

"Because you were," Sherlock cut John off. "You promised mummy..." The detective stopped when he felt tears clouding his eyes. "You left me. You left..."

John went furious. "You said we were not brothers! You said I was just a child father got for mummy - that I was no one!"

"I told you I never meant what I'd said -"

"Do you know what I felt?"

"John..."

"Sherlock," John sighed. "I sent you letters. When I was out there, fighting, all I thought was... you and our family. I know what happened when mummy died and you should know I'm sorry for not being here."

Sherlock stood. "It doesn't matter now."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

John frowned. "Sherlock, what -"

The detective aimed a gun at John and fired.

John immediately felt that familiar pain again right in the middle of his chest. He looked down and saw a little blood stain growing and growing. "Why?"

"Fall backwards," Sherlock instructed him as the pressed a phone to his ear and said something about a rooftop. "John, you've got to fall backwards."

John fell backwards. And when his body hit the ground, Sherlock knelt next to him and stroked his hair. "I'm sorry."

The doctor closed his eyes and everything went black.

"Here we are at last... you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." Jim said from his spot, sitting almost on the edge of the rooftop. "All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."

The detective looked at the place. There were no possible escapes.

That was good.

"And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them. Ah well. Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook."

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."

"Of course."

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach," Sherlock explained. "the case that made my name."

"Just tryin' to have some fun. Do you have anything else to say?"

Sherlock looked at his enemy, his nemesis, his rival. "The code. You planted it on me. Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me... hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy. Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears?"

Sherlock smiled. "No."

Jim turned confusedly. "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

"Of course."

"Genius detective proved to be a fraud." I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."

"John? John, stay with us. Come on, boy, stay with us!"

The only thing the doctor could understand was a voice. A male voice and lights. There was a strong light blinding his eyes. He felt cold and nauseous.

Someone was pulling at his clothes and he felt a pair of cold scissors cutting the fabric of his shirt.

John couldn't understand what was happening, why there were so many people around him, running, shouting.

"Sher..." he tried to speak.

"Hush," It's okay. We got you."

"Sher..."

Everything went black again.

John was dying.