A/N Here's the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed or favourited this story, and to the reviewers who suggested I should continue it in the first place :)

This takes place in Mycroft's final scene in 'The Reichenbach Fall'. Enjoy :)

The level of responsibility that came along with being a man with as much power as Mycroft was suffocating at times.

It was all very well showing off by being over-dramatic; kidnapping John, spying on Sherlock, dropping hints about top-secret events within earshot of his brother as a display of power, although nowadays this mostly impressed John as Sherlock had long since lost interest in his brothers work.

However there were times when it was genuinely hard to be in his position, times where important decisions rested solely upon his shoulders. Over time he had learned to deal with this, there wasn't a day that passed by where he wasn't faced with a challenge, and years of this had hardened his feelings, made him cold and calculating but still, for the most part, on the side of good.

If he was faced with a situation like the one Moriarty had presented to him - sacrifice the lives of the few to save the lives of the many - then the answer was usually the same. Over time the few had become less than people in Mycroft's eyes, merely names without faces. And the only reason Mycroft was fine with this, the reason he could sleep well at night was because he had saved the lives of the many. There were people spread throughout the country who were with their families, living their lives, blissfully unaware that their simple, ordinary lives could have drawn to an abrupt close thanks to a wrongly handled decision. The deaths of the few seemed meaningless while the many continued to survive.

Not this time though. Mycroft would have given anything in that moment to swap the lives of the thousands of innocent people he had chosen to save for the life of his brother, even if that thought went against all that he worked for. The newspaper felt like a lead weight in his hand and his usually cold heart grew uncomfortably heavy as he scanned the pages. Words like 'fraud' and 'suicide' and 'murderer' screamed out at him, words that didn't belong there. Sherlock hadn't deserved to be associated with these vile accusations, he hadn't deserved to be destroyed by the ruthless lies that Mycroft had helped to fuel. And he definitely hadn't deserved to be left at the mercy of Moriarty, facing the maniac alone at the time when he'd needed his brother's help most.

Moriarty had foreseen all of this very well, had calculated his opponents next moves almost to the letter. He had probably spent most of his time in custody adding the final touches to his plan. All those times he'd seemed withdrawn, staring into the darkness, he'd really been putting the pieces in place, waiting to resume his game. Forcing information out of Mycroft, ensuring that he'd be released from custody before he'd even been abducted, managing to cut off outside help from Sherlock - he'd managed all this months in advance of his 'final problem'. And in the end he'd succeeded, burning out Sherlock's heart and taking Mycroft's with it.

Mycroft folded the paper and dumped it on the table beside him. John had been right. It was complete rubbish. In fact John – ordinary, caring John – had been right about many things. Mycroft pressed his palms tightly in a steeple position and closed his eyes, blocking out the silence that surrounded him with his thoughts. However his memory had other ideas, as it often did when he closed his eyes these days, and cruelly returned him to his last conversation with the doctor.

"Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition."

Yes, he had. And what had it all been for in the end? Worthless information about a non-existent key-code that had whipped the government into a frenzy for no reason. A chance to dig deeper into the psychopath's fascinating mind to see what really made the consulting criminal tick. Nothing worth betraying his brother for.

"John..."

Mycroft almost cringed at the defeat laced within his tone. John's reaction hardly helped as he spun around in annoyance, as if he could barely stand being in the same room as the elder Holmes any more.

"I'm sorry."

John's disbelieving laugh rang out throughout his mind along with his own words. Had Moriarty's threat not rested then Mycroft would have willingly gone down to 221B himself, looked Sherlock in the eye and spoken these words face to face with his brother. But, as it was, that action would have resulted in John's murder, and Mycroft had more than enough blood on his hands for one lifetime.

"Tell him, will you?"

Mycroft doubted he'd ever sounded so lost, so regretful about his past actions. His reputation as 'The Ice Man' was threatening to melt away if he kept this up. He was most definitely lost though. The need to protect his brother was overwhelming, just as it had been in his childhood, and yet it was useless because for once in his life he was powerless to come to Sherlock's aid. And if John didn't carry out Mycroft's final request, which would be unsurprising given the fact that the doctor looked like he would happily punch Mycroft for his stupidity in that final moment, then Mycroft would have been given no chance to redeem himself.

In the end it was all his own fault. In a way it was Sherlock's as well. Moriarty had been a genius and they had both been attracted to that, fascinated by a man they could finally call an equal, no matter how insane or evil he was. They had both been tempted into his dangerous game of chess and once they'd decided to play they'd been trapped, being manipulated across the chessboard as Moriarty took control of all the pieces.

Mycroft had taken part in Moriarty's twisted games. And as a result he'd killed his little brother.