"…but I believe I'm bleeding internally; my pulse is erratic and you may have to restart my heart on the way…"

"The East Wind takes us all in the end."

"You know what happened to the other one."

"Sherlock, really, have a care." The British Government leant back on the couch, sighing dramatically.

Sherlock Holmes, rolled up in a sheet, looked up at his brother from the carpet, his mercurial eyes taking in the lines of exhaustion that his brother failed to hide.

"I am fine, Mycroft," he grumbled. "There is no need for you to hold me prisoner in your castle."

Mycroft sighed again.

"Brother-mine, you cannot keep doing this," he said softly. He slid from the couch to the carpet and lay next to his brother. "Please, I beg of you, stop."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I don't know if I can," he said in a small voice. "I promised John and Mary…"

Mycroft took his brother's hand in his own. "You have not only fulfilled your vow, little brother, you have gone over and beyond the call of duty. There is nothing more for you to do." He sighed yet again. "There are people other than John Watson who love you and need you…and frankly, given recent developments, I am no longer sure that John should be at the top of that list."

"Do I hear sentiment, brother dear?" Sherlock mocked.

"Yes."

Sherlock Holmes turned his head and stared at the exhausted visage of his brother, the most powerful man in the United Kingdom, and, quite possibly, the world.

"Caring is not an advantage," the detective whispered.

"I know," the older Holmes said. "But I'm afraid I cared for you too much and too early – a long time before I learnt that, and, as such, it is an incurable condition."

Sherlock remained silent, his mind taking him back to every instance in his life where his brother had been there to help him – regardless of whether that help had been appreciated or not. To his surprise, he saw that Mycroft had always been there for him, even when Sherlock had tried to push him away or left him behind for other people. Despite their façade of sibling rivalry, the older Holmes had always taken care of his little brother in every way he could. He remembered his brother saying "Your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock sighed, fatigued beyond measure – physically and emotionally. His gunshot wound still hurt, and he felt drained from all the drama with Mary and Magnussen…and his exile, which was cut short because Jim Moriarty appeared on every screen in the country.

"The Watsons are safe," Mycroft said quietly. "Security details are in place for them, as well as our parents."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. He propped himself up on an elbow. "Why am I here, Mycroft?"

"Convalescence."

Sherlock snorted. "Have you found the perpetrator yet? Moriarty is definitely dead."

Mycroft shook his head.

"Sherlock…there is something you should know," he said softly. "I am not sure if it is relevant to our present dilemma or not, but you should know the truth before we go any further."

Sherlock frowned at his brother.

"How much do you remember of your infancy?" Mycroft asked.

"I remember everything after my third birthday," Sherlock said haughtily. "Everything that I haven't purposely deleted, that is."

Mycroft nodded. "I promised Mummy I would not say a word to you unless it became important. I believe it is time for you to know now."

Sherlock stared.

Grimacing, Mycroft sat up. "We have another sibling," he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded. "I thought as much. Older than you, yes? I have some vague recollections of a young man in the house. Is he dead?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and shuddered. "No, Sherlock. He is not dead. He is the man behind Jim Moriarty. He is incarcerated – he has been, since a few months before your third birthday."

Wide-eyed, Sherlock could only gape at his brother.

"Sherrinford was always the smartest of the lot," Mycroft said quietly. "I worshipped the ground he walked on. He was ten years older than me. By fifteen, he had graduated. By twenty, he was running a criminal network. If I had not stumbled on to one of his criminal activities accidentally, he would never have been caught."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What has this to do with Moriarty?"

"Jim was Sherrinford's son. I have reason to believe he is not the only one."

"How is that possible? Jim was older than me!" Sherlock cried.

"Biology, Sherlock. Puberty hits most people by fourteen. We believe Ford fathered Jim, Jack and Jon at fifteen. Of course, we did not know it back then. Triplets, Sherlock – and identical. Jim was the brains, obviously. Jack often played Rich Brook. Jon is the sane one – and possibly, the most dangerous. Jon is a mathematician, like Mummy."

"We?"

"Mummy, Daddy and a few others in my line of work."

"Are they looking to avenge Jim? Is that what this is?" Sherlock asked. "But that doesn't make sense! If they wanted me to die in disgrace, I was already exiled and on a suicide mission – you're never wrong. Why show their hand now?"

"Sherlock, do you really think I would have let you die in disgrace in Eastern Europe?"

Sherlock flushed and looked away as realisation dawned. "Mycroft Holmes' pressure point is his junkie detective brother," he quoted softly.

Mycroft nodded. Silence reigned for a few minutes.

"But I destroyed his network, Mycroft," Sherlock said finally. "I am positive I did."

Mycroft sighed. "Jim is gone, Sherlock, as is his network – you did a very thorough job."

"Then…"

"Ford is still alive, and will be released soon on grounds of good behaviour. Jim was the loose cannon, but Jon and Jack will follow their father's instructions."

"Which are…?"

"Ford will kill me and acquire you. He was always fascinated by you." Mycroft closed his eyes. "Sherlock, I need to train you to take over my job when I die. This country – and this world – cannot afford to lose both of us to Ford. He has no enmity with you, and I have taken steps to ensure your safety, especially in the event of my death. You must not let him take over."

A cold fist closed around Sherlock's heart. "Don't be so fatalistic, brother," he said lightly. "We won't be rid of you so soon."

Mycroft gave him a half-hearted smile. "I am the pragmatic one, little brother."

"So, I'm here to learn your job?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded.

"And what about my job?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I will try my best to survive to save you the inconvenience of taking over."

"You'd better." Sherlock shifted and laid his head in his brother's lap. "I am not sure what I would do without you."

Absently, Mycroft's fingers stroked through Sherlock's dark curls. The detective sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.

"Mary might be of use, you know," Sherlock said quietly.

"She shot you," Mycroft said in a dead voice. "The only reasons that woman is still alive is because she is with child, John Watson loves her and you love John Watson."

Sherlock smirked. "She owes me a favour."

Mycroft felt a smile creep up his lips. Sherlock may not be as smart as him, but he was deliciously ingenious – and often, diabolical. A ray of hope was suddenly visible to him. If he and Sherlock could work together – then maybe, just maybe, they could all come out of this situation alive and unharmed.

"What did you have in mind?" the British Government asked.

Two days later, John Watson opened his door to find Mycroft Holmes standing on his porch, looking pale and drawn.

"Hello, John," Mycroft said.

"Jesus, you look dead on your feet," John remarked, ushering him in. "Is everything all right? Is Sherlock ok?"

Mycroft smiled tiredly. "Actually, it is for Sherlock that I am here to request a favour," he told the doctor.

"Of course," John said immediately. "What do you need me to do?"

Mycroft hesitated. "It might be a bit much to ask, but…"

John regarded him silently.

Mycroft leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few moments later, Mary had joined her husband and they were both regarding him curiously.

"Do you know anything about why Sherlock jumped off the roof?" Mycroft asked quietly.

John and Mary shared a look. "He said Moriarty had to be stopped."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "True enough, but not the whole truth." He sighed. "My brother killed himself because Moriarty had you, Mrs Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade at gunpoint. We could have taken a less traumatic option – and less injurious to Sherlock – if that had not been the case."

The Watsons remained silent.

"During the two year "hiatus" – as you call it – Sherlock travelled through the world, destroying every bit of Moriarty's network that he could find. The last bit was in Serbia. By the time he reached Serbia, however, my brother had run himself ragged, and he was captured. They tortured him for information, obviously. It was over a week before we were able to locate him. By then, the situation had deteriorated to such an extent that I had to go undercover myself to retrieve him. I was able to extract him from Serbia. Even half-dead, he still ran to see you as soon as we returned to London and we patched him up." Mycroft shot John a pitying look. "Of course, I warned him that you would not be very pleased to see him – but Sherlock is a child at times, and he couldn't fathom that his friend wouldn't be happy at his resurrection. You proceeded to make him bleed – understandable, of course. How were you to know that he was already walking around with broken bones, lacerations, contusions and PTSD?"

John swore under his breath.

"As luck would have it, Magnussen chose to abduct you. It is the only thing I am grateful to Magnussen for. Sherlock, of course, jumped into the fire to pull you out – and your friendship was on the mend. Of course, Sherlock knew he was going to lose you to your wife soon enough…but when my brother loves, he loves with everything he has. So, he busied himself with your wedding preparations. I am not sure if you realise what caused the drug relapse. Anyway, his drug habits are irrelevant now."

John was trembling by now, and Mary had an arm around his shoulders.

"Is there any reason why you are telling us all this now, Mr Holmes?" Mary asked archly.

Mycroft blinked. "As John would tell you, Mrs Watson, I never divulge information unless it is required."

"Clearly you want us to do something for Sherlock which we would not do otherwise, and you are trying to gain sympathy for him," Mary said.

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. "I really cannot imagine why Sherlock chooses to protect you, Mrs Watson, despite your attempts to murder him not once, but thrice. But then again, he may not have picked up on the attempts except the time you shot him point blank. He can be quite blind to the faults of those he loves."

John turned to his wife, and she shrunk visibly.

Mycroft levelled his raptor gaze at the ex-assassin. "The only reason you are still alive, Mrs Watson, is because you are loved by John Watson, and are carrying his child, and my brother loves John Watson too much to hurt his wife. If you weren't, not even Sherlock would be able to keep me away from you."

Mycroft turned to John. "Sherlock made a vow to protect the three of you – and he has. He was shot by your wife for his efforts, John, and he still endangered his life to reconcile you. He took on Magnussen, and killed him when no other alternative remained to keep your wife safe, even though it meant giving up his own life. He knew it would end with either his incarceration – and everyone knows what happens to policemen and detectives in prison – or in his exile, which would mean a fatal infiltration mission."

John started. "He said you told him it was for six months."

Mycroft smiled bitterly. "It was an MI6 mission that would prove fatal to him in six months, by my estimate, as I told him. I had asked him to decline it before it became the last resort."

"And you're never wrong," John replied. He rubbed his face. "Jesus."

"The only reason my brother is back in the country is because Moriarty showed up."

"But Moriarty is dead," John said.

"Jim Moriarty is. There are two more. And then there's their father." Mycroft locked eyes with John. "The father of the Moriarty triplets is my oldest and most dangerous enemy. He is smarter than Sherlock and I put together, and he will stop at nothing to get to Sherlock. He views Sherlock as his property, and he will happily go through me. He has been incarcerated for three decades now, and I was responsible for his arrest."

"What do you need me to do?" John asked, his soldier springing forth.

"I need you to keep Sherlock safe," Mycroft said simply. "I have reason to believe that I will not survive this affair, and Sherlock must be my successor – there is no one else capable enough. He has agreed to learn as much as I can teach him till the inevitable attack on me takes place – even if I survive the assault, I am likely to be incapacitated, and attempts to eliminate me will continue until it is successful. However, Sherlock must be protected at all costs. I would not be exaggerating if I said that the fate of England, as well as that of the civilised world, rests on keeping Sherlock alive and well and established as my successor."

John and Mary stared at him, dumbfounded.

"I need you to move into my townhouse till this affair is concluded. It is the safest place at the moment, and best for Sherlock's recuperation. He has not yet recovered – physically or psychologically, from his recent ordeals. We have a medical team at hand all the time, of course, so Mrs Watson's delivery will be conducted under the best of care. I would, however, advise you to choose the godparents with care."

"Sherlock," John and Mary said at once.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on, who else would we trust enough to be the Godfather to our child?" Mary said.

Mycroft nodded, a satisfied look flickering across his face. His face hardened. "Mrs Watson," he said, his voice soft and dangerous. "If Sherlock comes to any more harm by your hand, directly or indirectly, I will forget you are John Watson's wife."

John met the British Government's gaze unflinchingly. "You won't need to," he promised solemnly. It was not a husband's promise; it was a soldier's.

Mycroft nodded, pleased. "I trust you will be able to pack up in an hour?"

John nodded.

"A car will be here in an hour." Mycroft bid the Watsons a curt goodbye and left.

John turned to his wife. "What do you need me to pack?" he asked.

The crushing betrayal in his eyes was more than Mary could face. "John, I…"

John held up a hand. "Listen very carefully, Mary or AGRA or whichever character you are at the moment – there are two things that keep John Watson alive and happy. Sherlock Holmes, and the little family with his wife and child. I can love again, find another wife and have another baby. It will be difficult, but I can do that – I have done that. There is, however, only one Sherlock Holmes."

Mary stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I told you that your past problems are your business, and I will honour my word. Sherlock Holmes, however, is off-limits. If one hair on his head is harmed, you will lose your husband. Is that clear?"

Mary nodded fearfully.

Mycroft Holmes smiled as the conversation played on his phone. Pleased, he forwarded the attachment to his brother, hoping that John's concern – love – would put a halt to Sherlock's mission to self-destruct.

Sometimes, caring could be an advantage.

Sherlock heard John's warning to Mary with a small smile on his face. He knew Mary wouldn't hurt him unless she thought it would help her in some way – but with John issuing an ultimatum, she would probably be much more careful.

Things were moving according to the Holmes brothers' plans. Sherlock frowned when his brother returned, displeased at Mycroft's exhausted appearance. Mycroft was an impregnable fort – cracks in his façade would mean doom for anyone else.

"You need rest," Sherlock told his brother as soon as he entered.

Mycroft sighed. "No rest for the wicked, brother dear," he replied with a quirk of his lips.

Sherlock took his brother's hand – a gesture so uncharacteristic that Mycroft appeared shocked. "Brother dear," Sherlock whispered. "We can't afford to have you down."

Mycroft ruffled Sherlock's hair affectionately. "You are the East Wind, little brother. You will pluck the unworthy and restore balance to the earth. I know I never say it, but I am an incredibly proud big brother."

"That's what Magnussen said," Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself.

Mycroft shrugged. "He was smart and perceptive and a threat to this nation. You did well to end him, Sherlock…though it would have been much better if you or your doctor had not been seen on the premises at all." He smiled. "But you are not an assassin; stealth is not your forte. You are a dragon slayer with all the dramatic accoutrements that come with it."

Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft's face hardened. "Never again, Sherlock. Never again will you jeopardise yourself in such a fashion. Promise me."

Sherlock looked away. "I will try, brother. You have my word."