A/N: Hello from the other side! I've been gone so long all you guys must have died! *awkward coughing* I apologize for my terrible sense of humor. Anyway here's a (hopefully) long-ish one-shot to make up for it. Hope you enjoy and remember to review! Sherlock?
Sherlock: *annoyed muttering* I am going to hide all of Mycroft's cake for making me do this, *clears throat* Nyx owns nothing, all rights go to their rightful owners.
Nyx: *ugly sobbing*
Sherlock: *rolls his eyes*

Hey brother do you still believe in one another?
Hey sister do you still believe in love I wonder?
Oh if the sky comes falling down
There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do

"Just two of you go on from here; your choice. It's make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most- John or Mycroft? It's an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose: family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson."

Sherlock's heart missed a few beats. He swore it did. It stopped for a few split seconds then carried on, but beating a thousand times faster than usual. Slowly Sherlock turns around to face the only other two people in the room, his face several shades more paler than normal.

"Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick." The room turns a scarlet red and Jim's sing-song voice bounces eerily across the walls, but not even his deceased nemesis can bring Sherlock out of his shocked daze. In the background the detective is dimly aware of Mycroft and John arguing about something and the room returning to its original color but he just can't seem to focus in on anything. His brain has somehow stopped functioning and his heart feels like it's being squeezed into powder by a frozen fist.

Mycroft or John Watson.

The words bounce around in his head like dice. Burning hot, poisonous dice.

Mycroft or John Watson.

How on earth was he meant to choose?

John Watson or Mycroft.

Could he choose? It made no sense to leave them both to die, but for once he didn't feel like being logical.

His brother or his best friend.

"Shoot him."

Those two words snapped Sherlock back into reality almost immediately and he stared at his brother incredulously.

"Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with… and we can get to work."

Each word was like a dagger to Sherlock's heart as he continued to stare at Mycroft, unable to comprehend what he had just heard. Mycroft had just told him to shoot John… how could Mycroft say that? Why would he say that? But Mycroft wasn't looking at him, he was looking at John. A silent yet fierce battle seemed to rage between them until the army doctor appeared to cave in and nod in hopeless resignation.

"God!" Mycroft exclaims, his hands slipping into his trouser pockets, mouth upturned in an uncharacteristically cruel grin, "I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always were the slow one..." his smile drops, empty eyes taking on a harsh glint.

Sherlock wouldn't, couldn't meet his brother's eye. He was ashamed to admit that Mycroft was actually getting to him.

"...the idiot. That's why I've always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing;" Mycroft tilts his head towards John, face twisted and sneering, "put this stupid, little man out of his misery."

John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Mycroft and bit his lip but he didn't say anything. Sherlock wished he would. Something, anything to help him. But he didn't. And for once in his life the detective felt completely hopeless. He was at the mercy of his sister's brutal game. A game that he was slowly beginning to believe he couldn't win.

"Shoot him." repeated the eldest Holmes brother, voice sharp and as cold as ice, each word clearly punctuated to deliver the most amount of pain.

"Stop it." murmured Sherlock quietly, his voice exhausted and pleading but firm, turning his head away he closed his eyes as if hoping to block out the rest of the world.

"Look at him. What is he?"

Slowly, the detective begins to turn around. His shaking hands moving the gun upwards. Tears begin gathering in his eyes without his permission.

"Nothing more than a distraction," Mycroft continues, "a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another."

"Please for God's sake, just STOP IT!" Sherlock's voice turns from a low whisper to a strangled shout as he whips round completely and pulls the trigger in one crazed, thoughtless movement.

The bullet flies straight into Mycroft's chest.

Only then does Sherlock understand what had just happened. Mycroft had tricked him. Tricked him into shooting him. Mycroft had sacrificed himself. Oh Gods, he had just shot Mycroft. He'd shot his own brother.

"You always were the most gullible, little brother." The British Government forced a pained smile, then he fell backwards.

As Mycroft's body hit the ground with a sickening thud, Sherlock heard an anguished, blood-curdling scream, one that echoed raw pain and heart break. It took a moment for him to realize it was his own…

Sherlock woke up panting, a small shout escaping his lips. His eyes darted swiftly across the room as he took in the familiar surroundings. He was in his bedroom. Well the room that had been his when he was a kid, he had been forced to spend a day with his family in their house but a fierce blizzard had snowed them all in so he couldn't leave for London and had to spend the night in his old bedroom. He sighed and forced himself to relax. He was OK. Mycroft was OK. They were at home. They were safe. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what position he moved into, Sherlock still couldn't get to sleep. Something was bugging him, he had the sudden urge to go and check up on Mycroft.

Scoffing quietly to himself, Sherlock rose from his bed and pulled on his nightgown. Since when did he care about Mycroft? Sure he was Sherlock's older brother but this was stupid and completely unnecessary.

Padding softly down the hallway, Sherlock contemplated how childish he was being, going to his big brother after a nightmare. And yet he still hadn't turned back. Sherlock was still frowning as he mulled the thoughts over in his head when he realized he had arrived at Mycroft's bedroom and had been standing outside the door for 2 minutes.

I'm just checking up on him, the detective thought to himself, just one look to make sure he's OK then I go right back to my bed, sleep and forget all this silly, sentimental nonsense.

But sociopaths (even high-functioning ones) feel emotion. They're just better at hiding it. A traitorous part of his brain answered, it sounded suspiciously like John Watson.

Sherlock mentally shook off the thought and carefully gripped the door handle, gently pushing it down. The door swung open with no sound and Sherlock stepped into the room. He crept forwards silently until he was at the foot of Mycroft's bed and looked at his brother. The eldest Holmes looked different when he was asleep, when he didn't have his mask on: more vulnerable, more peaceful and (dare he say it) human. Sherlock smiled slightly as Mycroft mumbled something about "chocolate cake" and rolled over, snuggling further into his pillow; for being the British Government, Mycroft sure was a heavy sleeper.

Turning back, Sherlok began heading for the door, that's when he realized he had forgotten to avoid the loose floorboard, he realized too late as it creaked loudly and sunk deeper into the floor.

"She'lck, what're you doin' here?" slurred Mycroft as he sat up in bed, rubbing his bleary eyes. It was evident he was still half asleep, his hair looked like a bird's nest and was poking up in all different directions while his clothes were all crumpled and disheveled, a huge difference to the clean, smart suits he usually wore.

For a second Sherlock debated lying but he knew there was no point, his brother could always tell when he wasn't being truthful.

"I- I had a nightmare." he mumbled, embarrassed, while shuffling his feet, looking everywhere but at Mycroft.

Mycroft blinked, suddenly completely awake. His younger brother hadn't come to him because of a nightmare since he was six. This must definitely be important.

Instead of scolding him for being immature as Sherlock had thought he would, Mycroft stood up and pulled Sherlock down with him to lie in his bed.

"What was it about?" he asked in a soft, completely un-Mycroft-like fashion.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, the memory of the bullet flying into Mycroft's chest still painful.

"It was- Sherrinford- I shot- you died." the words were all jumbled up and didn't make a lot of sense but Mycroft understood anyways. Then he did something completely unexpected, he hugged Sherlock. Sherlock stiffened at the contact but then he slowly relaxed and returned the embrace.

"It's ok little brother, I'm here, I'm alive."

And for the second time in his life (the first having been when Mycroft had told Sherlock that pirates didn't exist anymore) Sherlock began to cry. He sobbed into Mycroft's shoulder as his older brother rubbed soothing circles into his back and murmured "It's ok Sherlock, I'm alive, I'm fine, everything is alright."

Pretty soon Sherlock quietened down and let a small smile grace his lips. As he drifted off into a peaceful sleep Sherlock knew everything was indeed fine. Mycroft was alive. His brother was well and here with him. And at the moment that's all that mattered.

What if I'm far from home?
Oh brother I will hear you call
What if I lose it all?
Oh sister I will help you out!
Oh if the sky comes falling down for you
There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do

A/N: Yes, I know, I know. That was a really crappy, sappy ending *booing* I know, *more booing* OK! ALRIGHT! I GET IT! Jeez! Like none of you have ever written a terrible ending, *crickets chirping* ...oh... you haven't? *awkward silence* Ah... well then... I'll just... ahem... *does the walk off shame to a dark corner*