Mycroft peeked into the hospital room, unsure if he should be there or not. His mother looked tired, her hair plastered against her head with sweat. His father stood by her, looking down at the bundle in her arms. Mummy looked up and smiled. "Come in, dearie."

Mycroft slowly walked to her bedside and studied the wriggling blanket. Two blue eyes were staring back at him. "Mycroft, this is your new brother," said Mummy. "Say hello to Sherlock."

"Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he reached out to the baby. The blanket fell off the top of his head to reveal dark curls. Sherlock took Mycroft's hand and wrapped a tiny fist around one of his fingers.

"Sherlock, this is your big brother Mycroft," Mummy cooed. "He's going to help take care of you. If you ever need anything, you can go to him. Isn't that right, dear?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, Mummy." Sherlock's eyes were now on Mycroft's hand. For only being hours old, his brother had a strong grip.

Mummy placed a kiss on the top of Sherlock's head. "Don't you worry, Sherlock. Mycroft will always protect you."

Thirty-five Years Later

Mycroft sat in his home office, accompanied only by a glass and a half-empty bottle of scotch. He had returned home from the Diogenes Club an hour ago, and for the second time in his life, Mycroft was afraid. In his quest to seek power and control, he had failed to protect his brother once again. The first time this happened, he had sent him into the path of the Woman. England almost fell because of him, but Sherlock managed to save the day. This time was different. Sherlock would not be able to save the day, because no one would believe him. Mycroft pressed the tumbler against his forehead. How could he have been so stupid? Once again, he compromised his brother's safety for information. His own little brother. The brother who he had spent time with growing up, teaching him the ways to be observant. As they grew up, a rift was wedged between them, one that never fully healed. They were both at fault, and they were both too stubborn to apologize.

Mycroft had turned a blind eye to Sherlock's drug problems. They didn't concern him, and he couldn't be bothered to help him. He was climbing the ladder in the British government; he didn't have time to help his brother overcome his addiction. At that time, he believed that Sherlock would stop when he wanted. It was at a Christmas party that he realized that wasn't the case. Sherlock's eyes were glassy and red, and he ignored most of the dinner conversation. Mummy had shot him a look but still he did nothing. He ignored the problem at hand and focused on his work.

A year had passed, and when he next saw his brother, Sherlock was clean. He said that a man at Scotland Yard wouldn't let him solve cases if he was high, so he had no other choice but to quit the morphine and cocaine. He did however use nicotine patches. The day that Mycroft met with him, Sherlock had four patches on his arm. Sherlock appeared to be happy enough, and their relationship began to slightly change for the better. If Mycroft was too busy to investigate a case, he sent Sherlock in his place. A few years went by, and Mycroft was at the top of his game. People feared him, and he had nearly limitless power. Sherlock continued to solve crimes and had told Mycroft that he was looking for a flatmate. Mycroft hadn't expected his brother to find one, but miraculously, he did.

His name was John Watson, and Mycroft sent after him immediately. He researched his past and found his therapist. At their first meeting he could tell that John was loyal. He didn't take Mycroft's offer of money, and he wasn't afraid of being threatened. This man would give Sherlock a challenge, one that Mycroft hoped would make him a better man.

Sherlock began to gather attention from all sorts of people, especially from one man in particular. After Jim Moriarty attempted to kill Sherlock and John, Mycroft put his name at the top of the most wanted list. He never thought that Moriarty would play him himself. A game of cat and mouse ensued, and Mycroft did not appreciate being the mouse. Using Irene's phone, they found his mobile number and tracked it. Soon Jim Moriarty was in captivity, and Mycroft waited for answers.

Moriarty gave none. He stayed silent through all of the methods Mycroft's men employed upon him. Finally, Mycroft had enough. He would question Moriarty himself.

"Staying silent won't do you any good," he said as he sat across from the criminal. Moriarty looked back at him with soulless eyes. "It really won't. It would be much easier to answer our questions." There was still no reply. "Believe me, Mr. Moriarty, I know from experience. Sherlock would do this to me. He would stay silent; he wouldn't tell me anything."

"When was that?" Moriarty asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

Mycroft stared at him. The criminal hadn't spoken in weeks, but now he was talking. "Several years ago, it's not important. We have you as the potential ringleader in a crime circle. Can you confirm that?"

Moriarty pressed his lips together. The room was silent for several minutes.

"The silent treatment?" Mycroft said after a period of time. "Again, I am very used to this. You and Sherlock are both like children. You're so alike I do suppose it's a pity that you don't agree with each other."

"Oh, but we do agree with each other, Mr. Holmes," answered Moriarty, a smile playing on his lips. "We agree that this world is dreadfully boring. Don't you agree?"

"I'm not the one who is supposed to be answering questions."

"But I know your answer. You're bored, just like Sherlock, just like me."

"Why Sherlock? Why did you choose him as your target?"

"Because I'm bored! He was a lovely plaything to have. So were you."

Mycroft studied the man and found that he couldn't read him. He didn't know his game, he didn't know the next move. "Mr. Moriarty, are you or are you not the leader of a crime web?"

Moriarty smirked. "Do you really think I'm just going to answer that question so easily. No no no no no, I'm not giving anything up that easily. Woo me, Mr. Holmes."

And so he did. Mycroft quickly learned that Moriarty talked when Sherlock was mentioned. Mycroft soon found himself spilling details of their childhood. Sherlock's drug problem was discussed, and Mycroft told him of their strained relationship. He recovered some material from Moriarty, but a cabinet change up threw a wrench in his plans. They told Mycroft that he could no longer hold Moriarty for questioning, and the man walked free. Mycroft was there the day Moriarty left. He saw the one word carved into the room of his cell over and over and over again. Sherlock. It was then he knew that he made a mistake. Moriarty slipped into the underground of London to plot against Sherlock, and Mycroft couldn't do anything about it.

Sherlock rose to fame, and Mycroft watched from the sidelines. Moriarty was caught with the Crown Jewels and set free from the charges. Mycroft tried to warn John in passing, tried to make it seem casual. He told him to protect Sherlock from the snipers as he couldn't do it himself. It all led up to this night. John was furious, as he should be, when he discovered the truth. Mycroft was questioned by the Yard about Sherlock's whereabouts, and he told them that he had no information to give. It was the truth; Sherlock could have been anywhere in London. His brother's name was going to be blemished, and he supposed that his own would be as well. Sherlock would fall from grace, and it would be so difficult to rise again.

Ding dong.

Mycroft looked up and lowered the glass. The doorbell had rung, but who could it be at this hour? His mind instantly thought of Scotland Yard. Had they found Sherlock? Mycroft stood and walked to the door. Looking through the peephole, he saw that it was only Molly Hooper, the pathologist from St. Bart's.

"Hello, Miss Hooper," he said as he opened the door.

"Hi, um, you need to come with me," she said, wringing her hands.

"Do you realize what time it is?"

Molly gave a week smile. "Yes. I know it's late, but um, you really need to come to St. Bart's with me."

"Who's dead?"

"What? No, nobody. Uh, I'll explain when we get there. The cab's waiting."

"Miss Hooper, I never travel in a cab. We'll take my car."

"Oh, okay." Molly turned to relieve the cabbie of his duties and Mycroft slipped on a pair of shoes and locked the door.

"So tell me, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said as he drove to the hospital, "what is the nature of this meeting?"

"It's Sherlock," she confessed. "I really don't know how to explain this, so I'll let him do the talking when we get there."

"Is he alright?"

"Um, no. Not exactly."

They stayed silent for the rest of the trip. At Bart's, Molly led him up a staircase and into an empty room. Sitting on a patient's bed was Sherlock.

"Ah, Molly, thank you," Sherlock said. "I've told John that I was visiting the loo, so this will have to be brief. You'll be free to go in a moment. Hello, Mycroft."

"So what is the meaning of this secret meeting?" Mycroft asked.

"I'm going to die, Mycroft, and I need you and Molly to help me."

"I'm hoping that you mean that you will die in a figurative manner."

"If all goes as planned, yes. Moriarty's assumed a new identity," Sherlock explained. "He's going by the name of Richard Brook and is planning to expose me as a fraud."

"And how is he planning to do that?"

"He is claiming that I hired him to be James Moriarty, when in fact he is Richard Brook, an actor. Apparently he also has stories about me from my childhood, which I suppose he could have gotten from any of my classmates-"

"That was me, Sherlock," he interrupted. He felt his stomach tighten as Sherlock studied him. Molly shifted in her spot, obviously uneasy by the discussion.

"You did what?" asked Sherlock.

"I had Moriarty in custody. He wouldn't speak, but when I talked about you, he opened up. It is the gravest mistake of my life, brother, believe me." He looked at Sherlock, two blue eyes studying him. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, well, we don't have time for apologies now." Sherlock said, jumping off of the bed. "What matters is that I am going leave London for a time. Molly here is going to sign all of the paperwork and provide a corpse. Mycroft, you know I hate to ask this, but I am going to need a car to get away tomorrow morning."

"Where?"

"Here, at Bart's. I'm going to fake my death and try to take out Moriarty's network."

"How much money do you need?"

"That wasn't a question, I'll be fine-"

"Sherlock Holmes, I am giving you money and you will accept it. Do you have falsified travel documents?"

"Yes of course, but they're in my flat."

"I'll retrieve them tonight with a packed suitcase for you."

"One more thing, Mycroft. I've already told Molly this, but you cannot breathe a word about this to anyone. If somebody found out, my cover would be blown, and Molly would lose her job."

"What about John?"

"I'm assuming that his safety would be endangered if he knew as he would try to be gallant and find me. Actually, I'm surprised that he hasn't tried to find me now; it's been a long time. I'll see you tomorrow, Mycroft."

Sherlock turned and left the room, leaving Molly and Mycroft alone. Mycroft gestured to the door, and follwed her out into the hallway. They walked in silence back to his car, and Molly provided directions to her flat.

"Everything's going to change," she said as he drove. "How are we going to look people in the eyes when they all believe he's dead?"

"We're just going to have to do what he said."

"I guess that we should be flattered that he trusted us. Sorry, but he never mentions you. Never. You two don't have a close relationship, do you?"

"No, Miss Hooper, but it doesn't matter. Sherlock is my brother, and I must protect him."