Caring is not an advantage.

Mycroft had said that to Sherlock many times and meant it. He had demonstrated caring toward Sherlock and now every criminal in England knew exactly what leverage to use against him to get what they needed. Knowing that they would do the same with Sherlock, Mycroft had tried to warn him not to display his affections quite so openly. He knew full well it wouldn't work, Sherlock couldn't seem to help himself.

That was something Mycroft still puzzled over, and he was doing so even more now that his little brother and Dr. Watson were married.

Through his CCTVs and other sources Sherlock didn't know about, Mycroft had noticed a peculiar change in his brother. Since getting married, Sherlock's need for John, his emotional dependence on him, seemed to have tripled. He ached for John and loved him so much it could move him to tears on multiple occasions. He missed John enough that he seemed to not know what to do with himself when his love was away and would embrace him tightly when he came back.

Sherlock needed and wanted John the way his and Mycroft's mother had needed and wanted them when they were children. When he and Sherlock had been young, their mother had roused them out of bed early on weekends—which annoyed them to no end—simply because, according to her, she'd missed them. "I like having the two of you around for breakfast," she'd said as she hugged them. "I just need to be with my boys."

Sherlock and Mycroft had groaned and rolled their eyes, and petty though it was, Mycroft still felt annoyed to this day when he thought of it. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to feel this way about John times ten. He rarely wanted to go anywhere without him, and if he woke up first (which he usually did), he would stay in bed until John woke up too. Though John wasn't as obvious about it, Mycroft knew he felt the same for Sherlock.

Other people had a physical need for each other, akin to the need for food and water and sleep. Mycroft was beginning to think it was odd that he'd never experienced a need for someone, not since he was little at least.

Watching his brother, Mycroft found himself thinking that he couldn't remember missing anybody. Not really. There were times when he wished a colleague would hurry up and get to a meeting or that they hadn't called out sick because doing so made things more difficult. In terms of actually longing for someone to just be there, however, Mycroft couldn't recall that. He had never been homesick; on the contrary, he had moved out of his parents' house first chance he got as a young man. He kept them informed but had no desire to go back and see them. When he did, he did so grudgingly.

Genius that he was, Mycroft couldn't come up with a reason why. He knew that he liked being able to do things his way and not be bossed around by the goldfish of the world—that was partly why he'd aimed for such a lofty position in the first place—but even he had to admit that his parents didn't put many limits on him. Other than asking him for the occasional helping hand with dinner and scolding him for smoking and leaving things out, his parents didn't stop him or Sherlock from going and doing as they pleased. So why he got irritated every time they contacted him, he wasn't sure.

The more Mycroft pondered this, the more he found himself thinking back to what Sherlock had asked him all those years ago in the morgue. "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" He was beginning to wonder himself. Only not about Sherlock. Little brother wasn't unfeeling; he was simply traumatized by his past rejections and hiding behind a pseudo-sociopathic shield as a defense mechanism. Mycroft had always known that he actually felt things deeply. So had their parents. So did John Watson. Hell, even Jim Moriarty seemed to be a fairly emotional being. Yet he himself couldn't seem to feel much of anything, or show emotion at all.

Mycroft couldn't cry, and hadn't since he was four years old. He hadn't shed a tear at even one of the many funerals he had attended for family members and colleagues. Usually people thought he held it in because was embarrassed or ashamed, but the truth was he just couldn't. It was like he had forgotten how. Every once in a while his eyes would water if he had got soap in them or walked by the kitchen when his cook was peeling onions, but he never felt actual tears.

Once he had even tried to make himself cry, just to see if he could. It had been a silly, ridiculous idea, but he'd had a few glasses of wine and he had been curious to see if he still possessed the ability. Mycroft pinched himself as hard as he could, leaving marks. He imagined Sherlock being killed in horrific ways or dying of an overdose, which was about the saddest thing he could think of. He even banged his head against the hardwood floor, as that had been one of the few things to make him cry as a child.

Nothing. All he had to show for his foolishness were a bump on his head and smarting marks all over his arm. Even when he wanted to, Mycroft Holmes did not possess the ability to cry.

Mycroft hadn't been sure whether to consider this good or bad. He appreciated that he would never be reduced to a blubbering mess he couldn't control, but there were some situations where crying could be useful. Sherlock had proved that often enough; shedding a few fake tears had gotten him what he wanted on several cases. He feels so much he can make himself cry on command, Mycroft thought.

What must it be like, to experience emotion so intensely that you could conjure it up at the drop of a hat? He supposed he'd never know.

Some time later, he realized he couldn't scream either. He could yell; Lord knew he had raised his voice with Sherlock plenty of times over the years. But in terms of an actual terrified scream, his vocal cords failed him. A few years ago he had been in an emergency situation in eastern Europe where he had needed to get an agent's attention from a distance, and no matter how hard he tried, his voice seemed to be stuck at a certain volume level, like a machine that was programmed not to go any higher. Mycroft thought wryly to himself that if a criminal ever pointed a gun and told him not to scream, he'd answer with, Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.

Soon he began to wonder if he could even laugh.

Sherlock could make him smile, sometimes even chuckle (admittedly in a mocking sort of way), but he couldn't remember if he knew how to laugh. Mycroft tested this too. He watched recorded stand-up routines when he had spare time and access to a private room. He read John's blog, which usually made him grin. During a rare visit to the Holmes house, he tried turning the hose on John and Sherlock when they were making out in the garden. That had been amusing for sure, and it still made him smile to think it, even if both of them had refused to speak to him for a week. He even opened a few joke books.

The most he experienced was smirking and quiet, quick chuckling that was over in a second and low in volume. He wondered if he had ever in his life thrown back his head and laughed uncontrollably, like Sherlock did when John tickled him.

So. He couldn't laugh, cry, scream, or need anyone. Mycroft thought grimly that he wasn't sure he had it in him to love either. He had never been what you would call "in love." Contrary to what Sherlock liked to believe, he was not bringing home women every night. He could probably count the number of times he'd had sex on his fingers. It had been all right, nothing special. Enough to satisfy his "transport," as his brother called it, but he'd never fantasized or dreamed about anyone. Actually, now that he thought about it, he didn't dream at all.

He had never fancied anyone; even if somebody's good looks did catch his eye, they were never intelligent enough to hold his interest. Sherlock insisted that this didn't have to mean being alone; he was cleverer than John in many ways and they were both still happy. Still, Mycroft was on an entirely different level of cleverness than Sherlock, and he couldn't fathom tolerating stupidity even from someone who was otherwise pleasant to be around.

Weeks and months crawled by and Mycroft became surprisingly bothered by all this. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why, it didn't make any sense. He had never cared before. All the same, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He found himself wishing he could consult a health or psychology professional, but they would probably just tell him he was depressed and needed medication, which was absurd. Mycroft wasn't depressed. He didn't feel sad. He didn't feel hopeless. He didn't have trouble getting out of bed in the morning, and he hadn't lost interest in his normal activities. He wasn't the least bit suicidal; he quite liked the land of the living, thank you very much.

He decided to run an experiment. People often said that helping others and giving back made them feel good, that it evoked emotional responses. Mycroft could test that easily. A week after receiving his next paycheck, he quietly donated three thousand pounds to a children's charity (anonymously of course, the last thing he needed was for this to get out and have people asking him questions) and waited. He sat at his computer, credit card still in his hand, and tried to detect any change in his psyche or heart. There was none.

The next week he went down to the foster home where his sources said the money had gone to. Under the guise of a government inspection, he asked the director if there had been any changes recently.

"Well, we recently had a very generous donation, and have used it to buy some of the children computers to do their homework," she said, smiling and pointing to a room inside. Tables of children working at their new devices filled the small space. "Amazing what a difference it's made. Some of them had ADD and can't bear to spend hours rifling through encyclopedias. The computers are helping them work faster and bring their grades up. They have more time to play too, so they're quite happy."

"I see," Mycroft said, nodding.

To his great disappointment, the whole thing felt as mundane as paying a bill.

Sherlock had told Mycroft once about John's "machine" comment. At the time Mycroft had waved it off; it was just a word and John had been distressed at the time, so what did it matter? Now he was beginning to see why it had bothered his brother. He was becoming more and more certain that John's comment had been right. It had just been directed at the wrong Holmes brother.

It wasn't like Mycroft wanted to wear his heart on his sleeve, that wouldn't do at all. He just wanted to feel something besides annoyance for a change, if only to know what it was like, to know that he wasn't made like the criminals he and Sherlock worked to bring to justice.

The only real emotion he felt on a daily basis, if it could be called that, was concern for Sherlock. And even if Sherlock were to be murdered in cold blood the next day, Mycroft was afraid it would be just like donating to charity had been. He'd have the criminal arrested and given the death penalty, attend the funeral and say a few words, and it would feel like just another thing he had to do. Another box to check off his to-do list.

Mycroft wondered if what he felt for Sherlock wasn't a real emotion either, but an obligation. Their parents had insisted over and over that it was his job as a big brother to look after Sherlock, and that had probably become fixed in his subconscious as something he had to do. Maybe that was all it was.

In any case, this next Christmas dinner might give him another chance to find out.

"Why did you wait until you knew we were coming to repaint?" Mycroft asked in disgust. "That sofa is murder on my back."

Mrs. Holmes huffed. "Well I'm sorry Mikey, but the painters were busy until just a few weeks ago. This was the only time I could get them to come out here. And if you don't want the sofa, then see if Sherlock will share with you."

Sherlock looked up from his newspaper with a murderous expression he never would have worn if his mother hadn't had her back to him. "There's only one bed in my room," he said.

"Brilliant of you to notice," Mycroft snapped. "If I can't sleep in my room, then I shall have to leave and find accommodations elsewhere," he said, pulling out his phone.

"Oh, don't do that," Mrs. Holmes sighed. She turned to Sherlock. "That bed's big enough for both of you."

"Not with the extra slice of apple pie brother dear enjoyed," Sherlock said, and Mycroft shot him a nasty glare. Little brother had been in a sour mood the whole visit because John had been roped into visiting Harry this year, and the rehab center only allowed one visitor. It had been their first Christmas apart in years.

"I think you'll find that food won't be nearly as bothersome as all of the cigarette smoke clinging to your clothes," Mycroft said loud enough for their mother to hear.

"Fine, take my bed. I'll just sleep on the floor," Sherlock said before Mrs. Holmes could start in on him about the smoking.

That night saw them sulking at each other more than they had since they were children. Mycroft hated being barred access from his room as much as Sherlock hated sharing his with someone who wasn't John. He hadn't been joking about the floor either; he snatched a pillow and more than his fair share of blankets and made himself a pallet as far away from the bed as he could get. That was fine with Mycroft; it meant he'd have the whole bed to himself.

They settled themselves in and turned out the lights without saying goodnight, and Mycroft stared at the ceiling while trying to ignore the bothersome sound of Sherlock's constant tossing and turning. He had always been a roller; Mycroft didn't know how John put up with it.

He wasn't sure if he had fallen asleep or not when he heard Sherlock mumbling. Mycrift couldn't make out what, but it sounded like he was desperately trying to work something out. A dream deduction? Mycroft sat up and leaned forward to see. Sherlock was sweating a bit and his hands were groping for something.

"Jhn," he muttered, and his hand stilled a little when it met the edge of the pillow.

Mycroft didn't know what made him get up. The next thing he knew, he was sitting next to his brother and putting a hand on his shoulder. "Go back to sleep," he whispered. Sherlock groaned and turned over again. His shirt moved up as he did and Mycroft could see imprints on his skin from sleeping on the floor. He was going to be right sore in the morning.

Knowing he was going to regret this, Mycroft slipped his hands under Sherlock's arms and started to pull him up. "Come on now, just get into the bed." Sherlock grunted something inaudible, still half asleep, and stumbled over to the bed, falling into it clumsily. Mycroft pushed him toward the middle, retrieved the blankets from the floor, and covered him. Then he climbed in on the other side next to Sherlock.

"Soft…much better," Sherlock mumbled in his sleep.

"Yes, I should think so," Mycroft murmured.

Lying there beside his brother, watching him fall back asleep in the dark, Mycroft thought something seemed different. There was a sensation in his chest that was like a strange mix between warmth and concern…or was that protectiveness? All of a sudden he had to fight the urge to put his arms around Sherlock and pull him closer.

Sentimental nonsense, he thought, but smiled. He remembered when Sherlock had been a toddler and would suck his thumb in his sleep. He almost looked like he might do so again now; his hand was close his mouth and his fingers were twitching. Carefully, hesitantly, Mycroft placed his hand over Sherlock's, and his brother's hands stilled.

"Sleep well, brother mine," Mycroft whispered, still smiling. He didn't know what to call this feeling in his chest, but whatever it was, it seemed to be swelling and filling him up. And to his surprise, he liked it. It made everything seem peaceful somehow, as he closed his eyes and started to fall asleep too, his hand still over Sherlock's.

Even if it meant Mycroft was getting soft and sentimental in his old age, it was nice to know he could still feel something.