A farewell. This was what it was. Just a farewell. This was not the first time that I was saying farewell to brother mine. Oh no, it wasn't. As I waited for Sherlock to say his loving goodbyes to Mary and John, my thoughts went back to those deep recesses of my mind that were seldom sought: my childhood, or rather our childhood.

I remember it so clearly: The soft pattering of footsteps in the middle of the night. The slow panting of Redbeard. The creak on the last stair. The soft clunk of the door closing. And the two silhouettes in the dark running outside the gate.

And I remember walking silently towards my bike, hopping on to it, and waiting for the two at the station.

"Running away, brother mine?"

The absurd look of shock on his face. The rarely seen fear. The growl from Redbeard, and the sarcastic, mocking smile plastered on my face.

"Does it even matter to you?" Oh. Typical Sherlock. Confused, wanting to be unemotional, showing the world that he is, but highly susceptible to sentiment.

Probably that was why I was scared for him. I did not stop him from leaving. Obviously.

But did it matter? Did it matter that he left? Did it matter that he was just 10 years old and running away from home and younger to me, and much weaker? Did it matter that I bullied him every single day, and I was probably one of the reasons for him leaving? Did it matter that he took Redbeard with him, and not anyone else.. not me? Did it matter to me at all?

Because it did. It mattered then. And it mattered now.

And as much as I hated to admit it, I was wrong. I thought I could make him stronger. I thought I could lead him away from human error. From sentiment. From emotions. I thought I could make him.. like me.

But I never could. I erred.

He never was weak. I was. I wasn't trying to protect him. I was trying to protect myself.

I didn't want him to be like me. Alone. So I tried to make him into someone I wanted myself to be: someone who did not need emotions. Someone who did not need people. Someone who did not care. Someone.. who was not me.

Because I cared. For him. And it hurt.. that I could never be the brother I should have been. I could never be what Sherlock wanted the most in his life.

It was clear for everyone to see. The change Watson had brought into Sherlock's life. But subtler was the change that had taken place.. in me.

Watson brought back the very core of the emotions I had kept buried deep down. Deeper than Appledore's vaults. It was strange how someone as ordinary as a military doctor could move the shackles of the British Government.

But then John was not ordinary.

He changed the very core of my being – brought forth that which I would never acknowledge in front of my brother. That I cared.

And it mattered to me that he chose Redbeard to run away with. It mattered to me that he welcomed John in his life, not me. It mattered that he cared for John more than he cared for me (if he even did).

It mattered that he chose to speak his last sentences with John rather than with me.

"Since this is likely to be the last conversation I will have with John Watson… would you mind if we took a moment?"

I did not miss the controlled shaking in his voice, nor the pained look on John's face as we moved to give them their space.

There was a rush of wind. A slight tremor. A feeling deep inside the pit of my stomach. A cramping of the muscle. One heart beat slowed down. Only for a second.

That John Watson was to Sherlock what I could never have been.

A friend.