My first English fanfic but I hope that you won't find too many mistakes because of my great beta alotis2words ;)
alotis2words: Thank you again!

No one ever showed me what it'd be like to fail. No one taught me. I had been expected to be the best, so I was.

If you were to ask my parents, they would probably say otherwise, but in the end it had always been my decision whether to disappoint them or not.

But now I had failed. I had tried my best to reach a target, but couldn't achieve it.

The thought itself pains me to no end, but that isn't the worst about it. The worst part of my failure is the consequence. Thinking of it hurts too much. So much that I tried with everything I am to block it from my mind. But suppressing your feelings never works. I know that better than anyone else because I have tried it all my life.

But there has always been another way: to act like you don't have feelings, make everyone believe you don't know emotions. And maybe you can fool yourself.

Unfortunately, unlike others, I'm too brilliant to be fooled.

When I look at Lestrade sitting on that cheap hospital chair, I can tell he's shocked: His skin as pale as the whitewashed wall and his hands faintly shaking.

He doesn't seem to have the power to keep himself straight, doesn't lift his gaze from the ground. Because if he did, he'd see me. Me, the one, who doesn't seem to care about any of these things. Maybe he's always believed in the good in me. If that is the case, then I've let him down. Let him down just like I to do to those foolish enough to close to me.

"Come on. Straighten yourself up. I know you've seen worse injuries." It isn't me saying these words. They just escape from my mouth, my body acts without asking my mind for permission. The expression on his face changes from stunned to aghast.

He opens his mouth like he wants to shout, my observant eyes see him straighten in order to leap up, grip my shoulders and shake some sense into me. But he doesn't. Partly because he doesn't have the power to do so, partly because this is the moment my brother appears. I can tell he's arriving from the steps on the floor a few moments before he comes into sight.

Well not in my sight because I turn away so I don't have to see him. I don't want to see him now, never really wanted to. Not since…

"Sherlock!" he interrupts my thoughts. He sounds worried, he always does when he's talking to me, but normally he hides it better.

"Mycroft!" I say and turn to him an obviously faked smile on my face.

He doesn't answer, instead he stares at me trying to figure out what I feel, if I feel anything at all.

He's always looked at me this way.

I stare back trying to read him as well, to see what he sees in me. When he stares at me like that none of my movements are accidental. I'm under total control trying to make him think of me what I want him to. I shift my hands a bit to make sure he doesn't think I hold them still on purpose. Because that would mean I had to hide something like a faint shaking. I force myself to breath normally, shift my weight a bit being aware of the fact that he might deduce I'm uncomfortable and trying my best to look like I'm not.

It works because I can see he's faintly shocked. He can't believe that I'm having no strong emotions in a moment like this, but that's only what his eyes tell him. And –believe me- he'd never doubt them.

"Are you coming to get me home?" I hear the arrogance in my voice and it's hard to hide a smile, because of the irony, as I act perfectly normal though it feels like my world's falling apart. "The Detective didn't want to let me go."

Lestrade opens his mouth to protest, probably wanting to say that it is me of all who should be interested in what happens here.

Again he's interrupted. This time by an opening door. A tired doctor steps outside, the expression on his face telling that he has just failed. Just like me.

I turn away using my brother's distraction. My wandering gaze finds a picture, a replica of an old Van Gogh. Of course, it's cheap and the quality isn't high. I recognize that it as one of his last pictures painted just a few days before he killed himself. I wonder why they put it here. It's pretty depressing.

I'm never been into arts much, just learned the basics facts to be able to determine a claimed enthusiast from a liar. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people never lie just once. It tells me much about their character.

"Excuse me!" calls my brother, bringing me back to reality, because the doctor intends to go without paying any attention to us. The doctor turns, a disgruntled look on his tired face. "What?" he grumbles obviously not made nervous by the sight of the important suit-wearing look of my brother.

"Did you treat John Watson?" The doctor shrugs. He doesn't seem to recognize the name, but probably he doesn't know the names of the patients. Probably he doesn't ask for. I wouldn't. Not when they end this way.

Reviews are of course highly appreciated!