"Sherlock. We're not children anymore, now for God's sake, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Oh, brother, don't be boring," said a very bored little brother. "You disappoint me."

"I disappoint you."

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up from the recently procured laptop, his new toy, the next object of interest. "Oh, yes."

"Apologies."

"Where is Gavin when I actually need him around?"

"Have you found yourself a new friend over the last two years?"

Sherlock was blank, confusion and utter reluctance burning in his eyes. "I..." he hesitated, he didn't want to say it, but it was true. "I don't understand. I've been working with him ten years now, he's hardly a new addition."

Realisation, and a little annoyance splashed across Mycroft's face. "His name-" he clenched his jaw. "-is Greg."

Slowly, as if in a dream, Sherlock's eyes found Mycroft's. Disbelief, curiosity, and unrestricted incredulity.

A whole minute ticked by. Mycroft shifted his umbrella uncomfortably under Sherlock's penetrating gaze.

"I know you rarely find more beautiful things than me, brother mine, but you might want to consider actually speaki-"

"I thought it would be Anthea. Always hanging around you, working with you, it was almost perfect. John and I had a bet, which I imagine he'll be winning now."

Mycroft's voice was drenched in impatience. "Start making sense..." He tipped his chin at Sherlock. "...now."

"Why him?" Sherlock shut his laptop. "Why..." He tried to remember the name, but it cruelly evaded him and he gave up. "Why Lestrade?"

Thank God for the umbrella, or Mycroft would have face planted into the carpet.

"I don't-"

"Buh-buh-buh-buhp!" Sherlock held up his index finger in Mycroft's direction, eyes scrunched tight and forehead kneaded in concentration. "I don't require the details. For once in my life."

The younger Holmes popped his eyes open and strode over to the mirror, observing the fireplace with impossible scrutiny. Mycroft lived here, but just sight of the fireplace drove a sharp stab of nostalgia through Sherlock.

"You told me everyone who ever fell in love was a complete idiot," came Sherlock's voice, softly, almost afraid. And he was, truly. His years as a child were haunted by a grey filter of humiliation for his extraordinary capabilities. And so he had avoided everyone - every opportunity for friendship...and anything beyond that.

"Where is this conversation going?" Mycroft was stuck in limbo, a state of suspension, precariously balanced on the end of a cliff, one centimetre from unleashing a torrent of horrible things.

"You dare fall in love after making me spend my entire life deprived of anything close to it?" Sherlock's tone was so soft. Dangerously so, like the shink of one knife against another.

The floor disappeared from beneath Mycroft, and he blinked, uncomprehending. "Sherlock-"

"And like that wasn't enough, you told me I wasn't worth it, I was stupid. And you said normal people - implying that I wasn't normal - weren't worthy of our attention." Sherlock's composure never changed, but something reckless and agonised pulsed behind his swirling irises.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. Goldfish.

"Well, sorry about this, Mycroft, but I've found a completely ordinary person who is apparently the only one worthy of my attention." Sherlock rounded on his brother. "I need to go back."

Mycroft hadn't expected that. "What?"

"Sherlock Holmes needs to be brought back to life," said Sherlock. "Moriarty's network is already in shambles, they're hopeless. But I can't do this to John any longer, I don't know which of us will taste the bullet first."

"Brother mine, you always were the impulsive one," said Mycroft, regaining his wits. "Not to mention dramatic, but I suppose that comes with the family name." He shifted his weight and began taking slow steps around the flat. "And about when you were a child, Sherlock, believe me. I was only trying to protect you. What-" Mycroft held up a hand to stop the younger brother from arguing. "No, my turn." He whirled around. "What do you think you would've done? Your parents don't think twice about what you do, you have a younger brother engaging in severe substance abuse by the age of sixteen and essentially the responsibility of keeping it together falls to you! I couldn't let you feel the pain of love-" his nose crinkled, "-with all that!" Mycroft's voice rose to a shout. "Do you know what that feels like?"

"Do you know what it is like to feel?" countered Sherlock.

"You're being stupid," said Mycroft, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"When am I not?" Sherlock flared up. "When is it ever going to be enough for you? I did everything I could to impress you, make myself worthy of your approval, and all I got was constant rejection. I thought that if love was going to be that hard, I wouldn't have the capacity to handle it, so I didn't even try until I met John."

Both brothers were breathing hard. Sherlock swirled with fear and an acute yearning for a sign of love from his big brother. Mycroft wanted nothing more than to have his little brother find someone worth living for.

Someone like John.

"Okay," said Mycroft, his voice a whisper in comparison to a few moments before.

"Okay? Okay what?" Sherlock had nearly let his tears fall, thank God he could exercise self control.

"Okay, you can go back to Baker Street."

"You thought I needed your permission," Sherlock almost laughed. "Oh, no, brother dear, I was merely giving you a heads-up."

"A cab will be here tomorrow to take you back to your home." The words stung Mycroft's throat unexpectedly. There had been a time when he was Sherlock's home, but those days were dead. He ignored the twinge in his sternum as the words left his mouth.

"You're right," said Sherlock, his voice almost empty. "John is my home."

Sherlock's steely gaze was met with a shockingly human emotion in Mycroft's eyes.

It was pain.

The two Holmeses said nothing, for a while.

A while.

And then Sherlock broke their silence with emotion.

All the fight drained out of his body, his shoulders relaxed and the fire in his eyes died down.

"I love him, Myc," Sherlock whispered.

"I know you do," Mycroft seemed equally vulnerable, and all he could think, against his better judgement, was how much Sherlock had needed him, and how he was never there.

"But he'll never love me."

Mycroft wanted to laugh. Did his little brother really think Doctor Watson was straight?

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, cautiously taking a step forward. "He's breaking without you. He doesn't see a reason to live. Is that not enough incentive to convince you that you're wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not that simple." A sad film glazed his features, allowing Mycroft to see for a fleeting moment the real Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft saw Sherlock step towards him and assumed his little brother was heading for the door. Clenching his jaw and averting his gaze, he wrapped nimble fingers around the umbrella and stepped aside to let Sherlock by. A tangible air of tension connected the Holmes brothers in that infinitely stretched moment, both longing to break through that tension and neither of them knowing how.

Sherlock stopped in front of Mycroft. And looked.

And looked.

And finally said, "Unfortunately, I think you'll always be my big brother. It's a cross I'll have to bear."

With that, Sherlock Holmes wound his arms around Mycroft Holmes and engulfed him in a gentle embrace, safely tucking his head into his older brother. Unfamiliar to all this, a slightly dazed and emotionally shaken Mycroft gradually wrapped one arm around his broken little brother and rested his cheek on Sherlock's head, gentle strokes coaxing the chocolate curls into yielding to the affectionate touch. His body molded itself around his little brother's skinny frame as if to shield it from the wildest tempests and angriest thunderstorms.

"My little brother," Mycroft whispered, "is not stupid." He tightened his arms around Sherlock protectively. "He is a genius."

Sherlock smiled.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

I
Am

SO SORRY

that was horrible omg I'm sorry but the only way to get rid of a writer's block is by writing, so ouch there you go

AH THEY'RE SUCH SMOL BEANSSS

Also sorry I haven't updated in a while :)