Mycroft Holmes stood frozen in his office at Whitehall. Vaguely he could hear his assistant Anthea asking him if he was all right. The part of his mind that was not frozen with shock, scoffed. As if he could possibly be all right after the news she had given him.

Sherlock was dead.

Sherlock was dead.

His baby brother was dead.

And Mycroft was alive.

Walking out of his office at a furious pace, he strode towards his car as Anthea told him about Sherlock's death.

He had jumped off the roof at St. Bart's. Sherlock had committed suicide.

Even as his mind processed his information, his heart wept. He could feel his insides twisting in a manner that had only happened once before – when their parents had died. But, Mycroft thought disconnectedly, the thought of Sherlock's death was infinitely more painful.

Reaching the hospital he practically jumped out of his car and followed the directions Anthea gave him to the morgue. Walking faster than he ever had, practically running, Mycroft reached the morgue in record time, hoping against hope that Sherlock was alive and this was just some stupid experiment to see how fast Mycroft would reach. That the body that was no doubt lying in the morgue was anyone's, anyone's except his brother's.

"Mycroft?" he turned as he heard someone call his name.

It was the DI. Lestrade wasn't it?

One look at his face, and the crying john beside him and Mycroft knew. The body had been identified. Positively.

Mycroft took a deep, shuddering breath and stumbled slightly, leaning heavily against his umbrella, forcing the tears away. His brother, his baby brother, Sherlock was dead. Dead.

Mycroft! Let's go play pirates! Mycroft, I'm sorry don't be angry with me please.

You are the bestest big brother ever!

And suddenly, Mycroft couldn't breathe, couldn't think. This could not be happening. His little brother could not be dead. The little four-year old boy with bright blue eyes and floppy hair, who had adored him and had idolised him could not be dead. His little one, his little pirate, the child he had taught to walk, the kid he had practically raised (thanks to his absent parents), the kid who would jump onto him from all sorts of weird places, who was always so confident and trusting in his big brother that he knew that Mycroft would never let him fall could not be dead.

Damn me! He thought to himself. Mycroft deserved to rot in hell. Because when Sherlock had needed him the most, when Sherlock had been falling, Mycroft hadn't caught him. Mycroft had failed him. A broken sob choked its way out of his throat, as he thought about his little brother lying dead and broken, all alone at the foot of the hospital, without Mycroft there to save him. His sob sounded so heartbroken and pitiful that it surprised everyone around him. After all, the ice man couldn't possibly be grieving could he? Mycroft thought bitterly.

And then, all of a sudden john exploded.

"this is all you fault Mycroft! If you hadn't given Moriarty ammunition against Sherlock he would still be alive. This is ALL. YOUR. FAULT!"

"shut the hell up Watson!" he heard Anthea snap at john furiously. "Sherlock might have been your friend, but he was Mycroft's little. Brother!"

That shut john up efficiently. Suddenly he looked at Mycroft with a horrified, pitying and apologetic expression on his face.

"Mycroft, I'm so sorry. . ." john began, but Mycroft turned away. He didn't want john's pity, it had no meaning.

Walking away, he exited the hospital silently. His driver opened the door for him wordlessly, something that Mycroft appreciated.

"take me home Arthur, please." Mycroft mumbled, his emotions a mess.

"of course sir, of course."

-x-x-x-

It was seven in the evening. Or maybe eight. Might even be nine. Mycroft didn't really care, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He was sitting in his study, in front of the fire, nursing his fifth glass of whisky. Might even be his ninth, the bottle was half empty.

Staring into the fire, Mycroft sipped his drink. His eyes flickered to his mantle place and he caught sight of an old photograph. The photograph had been taken by their parents, when they had still been alive. It had caught both Mycroft and Sherlock unawares – a rare occurrence, and so the brothers weren't wearing identical scowls that they usually fashioned for posed photographs. After all, what was the use of photographs when one had eidetic memory?

The photo showed Sherlock aged four, staring up at an eleven year old Mycroft, with fear in his eyes and his tiny hand clasped inside Mycroft's larger one. Mycroft was looking at his little brother with a reassuring expression, as a thunderstorm raged behind them.

Mycroft remembered that day clearly. It had been in the middle of a rainy day, and their mother had asked them to go out for some errand. As a child, Sherlock had been afraid of thunder until one day, when he was six, Mycroft had taken him aside and told him the science behind it.

That day, there had been an exceptionally loud thunderstorm and Sherlock had been reluctant to go out. Mycroft had offered to go alone but that notion had terrified Sherlock even more, because he had at the time, developed a ridiculous notion about being the only one who could protect Mycroft. This had amused Mycroft to no end as a child, but as an adult, he had appreciated the truth behind the sentiment. Sherlock was the only person who would protect Mycroft because he was Mycroft and not because he was the British government.

Anyway, that day, Mycroft had been about to open the yard's gate when lightning flashed and Sherlock whimpered next to him.

"Big brother? What-what if the thunder swallows us up, li-like the eas-east wind?" Sherlock asked, his voice quivering with fear.

For perhaps the hundredth time, Mycroft berated himself for giving in to Sherlock's pleas and telling him the story about the east wind. But correcting that misconception would take some time and more maturity on Sherlock's part, it would have to wait. For now, he would have to reassure Sherlock in some other manner.

"don't worry if the east wind or the thunder comes to take us away, I will protect you. Don't worry I won't let anything hurt you." Mycroft said reassuringly. As an adult, Mycroft would know that this moment had shaped his life. This was when their parents clicked the photo.

"No!" Sherlock yelled vehemently, "but what if they hurt you?"

Smiling slightly, Mycroft said, "that doesn't matter Sherlock, I would be happy knowing that you are safe." And he would, truly.

"but I would rather die than let you get hurt." Sherlock said stubbornly.

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. The very notion of Sherlock dying before Mycroft, leaving him all alone was a terrifying one. Mycroft had known even as a child that Sherlock would always have friends he could rely on. Mycroft however would only ever have Sherlock.

"Sherlock, don't you dare die on me! Or even say such ridiculous nonsense! Your death would hurt me more than anything else you idiot! Because I love you and the thought of something happening to you is a despicable one!" Mycroft had said impassioned, as he swept his little brother into his arms, never wanting to let go. Wanting to keep him that safe forever.

"I love you too big brother. You're the best in the whole wide world!" Sherlock mumbled into Mycroft's shirt.

Mycroft felt like a large hand had suddenly wrapped around his throat and suddenly, there were tears pouring down his face. Sobbing brokenly, he clutched at his chest trying desperately to ease the pain. God! Why Sherlock? Why his little brother?

A part of Mycroft was glad Moriarty was dead; a larger part however, was wishing that he wasn't, if only so Mycroft could kill him, slowly. Painfully.

Burying his face in his hands, as his shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, Mycroft – for the first time in his life, prayed. He prayed for his little brother to be alive, for all of this to just be a dream, for just five more minutes with Sherlock so that he could tell his brilliant little brother about just how much he loved him, how much he had always loved him.

"Mycroft?" he heard a familiar voice ask from behind him.

Standing and turning in one fluid movement, his body tensed and eyes damp, Mycroft looked up to see the one person he hadn't expected. Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was alive.

He was alive.

Either that, or Mycroft was hallucinating. But he didn't really care.

Striding over to his confused brother Mycroft didn't say a word as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and buried his face into his hair.

"Mycroft what the hell! We don't hug! Why. . . are you crying ?" Sherlock exclaimed as he tried to wriggle out.

By now Mycroft knew for sure that this was Sherlock and not some hallucination. If he were hallucinating he would have imagined his brother at a more pliant age.

"you're alive, oh thank the lord, you're alive." Mycroft whispered brokenly, its sound making Sherlock still.

"you were crying because you thought I was dead?" Sherlock asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty and hope.

"of course you incorrigible brat! You can't possibly die ever again you hear me? never!" Mycroft said hysterically pulling back to look at Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock's eyes clouded as he finally understood the reason for Mycroft's pain, "I won't, I won't big brother. Never again, I promise."

Wordlessly, Mycroft opened his arms. Sherlock stepped into them. The two brothers stood like that for what seemed like an age. It didn't matter that next week, Sherlock would leave to dismantle Moriarty's network, or that Mycroft would have to deal with hundreds of useless politicians and dangerous assassins, or that both of them knew that Sherlock wouldn't be able to keep his promise, or that statistically Mycroft was more likely to die first (a fact that made Sherlock shiver in fear and grip his big brother tighter.). None of it mattered. All that mattered was that right here, right now, Sherlock had Mycroft and Mycroft had Sherlock.

And that's all that ever mattered.