*Blud On My Hands*

~WhiteGloves~

-There goes the Ending-

T_T *Warning for heavy angst* T_T

Part 6 (End)

Eurus' blood trickled on the glasses… then he remembered… when it rains 'blood'… it pours.

Uncle Rudi did tell them it wouldn't stop. Uncle Rudi knew what was going on when the first tragedy struck the Holmes family one mid autumn—of Victor disappearing and only Eurus chanting her self-made song. Young Mycroft had caught the sinister meaning of the words with the little 'deep down below' and 'brother, under we go' pieces and had concluded it must've been a burial place—a crypt of some sort. His first impression was the cellar of the house and even went as far as searching the floor believing there must be an underground beneath an underground. He knew old houses had those and never retired till everybody was begging her to tell Victor's whereabouts.

She didn't. Days passed and then she began telling them how Drowned Redbeard must be so cold by now. Didn't Mycroft go out of his way to search the river side for any sign of Victor for days? Wasn't the boy also under his care when his sister snatched him right under his nose? He was looking after them— he was the eldest of the four. His parents had often told him it was his responsibility to begin with.

First blood.

Mycroft remembered how upset he was upon concluding Victor's fate, but it was nothing compared to Sherlock's agony. He cried all night with tears drying on his cheeks, begging for his best friend back. Eurus watched him with curiosity in her eyes while no plead, no lecture, no reprimands and not even threats from their parents could make her speak.

Victor was lost.

It was such a dreadful week.

Then came second tragedy— the fire.

The red dancing flames that engulfed their ancestral home that night still haunted Mycroft on his every waking moment; each fireside was like a reminder of a past burned in his memory yet he never ceases to light them. He was never good at forgetting so he might as well let the memory keep burning.

But the fire was not the reason his sister was taken by 'them'. His parents had been very protective of her believing it was an accident. Mycroft knew better. Mycroft could also remember how Uncle Rudi had been crystal-clear to Mycroft's parents of what he thinks Eurus needed which only always ended up in a row. Mummy was not pleased nor was his ever calm father. Uncle Rudi heard the most awful things that day; even Mycroft was embarrassed for him. But alas, Mycroft knew Uncle Rudi was telling truth for he had watched his sister closely since Victor's incident. Never had he left his younger brother's side after Victor was gone. And never had he seen Eurus so fixated on Sherlock.

Mycroft was no fool as a kid. He knew something was bound to happen.

It did and it came in one singular object— the noose.

Mycroft didn't know where Eurus got it but one day it was hanging on her shoulder, even placing it on her head. Mycroft was quick to alert their mother who immediately confiscated the rope. She tried talking to her little girl, tried asking what it was for but Eurus wouldn't cooperate. Mummy was very concerned and Mycroft was sure she was crying over it on dinner. Eurus hated him for that and never once spoken a word—but she would always talk to Sherlock.

It didn't take long when what Mycroft had been anticipating happened—and it came as he saw Sherlock coming out of the drawer room carrying the noose. When confronted by Mycroft and his parents, the little boy told them his sister asked for it because they would play on the beech tree.

Her special hair band she called it.

The events that followed were nothing short of heart break with his parents crying as they held each other. Uncle Rudi was there. They took her away. Mycroft watched as her sister was ushered out of the room. Sherlock was asleep, he tucked him in. He watched as they went, and seen last of his sister looking at him—just him.

She knew what was happening, Mycroft concluded. She knew… and he was not helping her at all.

He remembered Victor, he remembered the fire… he remembered Sherlock and the noose. He couldn't possibly help her. He could only hope that wherever they were taking her, they would make her better.

Deep inside him, he never believed that.

And then next was the fire on the institution she was taken—

Lots of blood spilled there they said and Uncle Rudi showed up in his school and the events that followed after was like watching a film flash before his eyes. Again and again. Till there was more blood.

Watching Eurus slam her forehead on the glass while trying to break it was like a horror film gone wrong. It was one of those nightmares that would make him sit up at night with sweat covering his face except that this time—the dream was real. There was just blood—lots of blood. Mycroft was rattled to the core. He had tried his best to calm the thunderous hammering of his heart but it proved to be quite futile. Even when it was over, his heart was disbelieving it. Nothing was ever over, not for him unless—

He closed his eyes and wished he really was heartless. It didn't help that his mind kept playing and playing the awful episode of his sister beating her head on the glass wall— making him swallow with eyes shut. It stirred more unpleasant memories of nothing but crimson and fire and it was unhinging him— driving him insane—

Alarms went on his head, warning him of the destruction he was making to himself. He could always tell those, having a mind like his, but somehow this was different than his previous encounters. Eurus had always tried talking him to his death, it never worked before. He had learnt to steel himself from her influence and that was a good thing for he lasted the battle no one ever knew.

Until this day. Until something inside him broke.

Was it his heart?

Balderdash. He's learned to control that organ. For many times.

His reasoning?

That was the only thing he had… and if lost too then what?

What were the risks of losing himself?

Mycroft gritted his teeth and cursed himself. Another wave of Eurus with blood on her face nearly made him cry out— he let out a low whimper. If insanity was the only cure…

Don't… don't feel…

Mycroft gulped, the pressure of his hand by his eyes was already making him feel the pain. His mind was playing him, it was no good. Wasn't that why he kept repeating his catch phrase 'caring is not an advantage?' Because whenever he does, this would happen: lost in his thoughts, tragically going over the past, remembering his sentiments. With emotions and his brain working together the effect on him was exponential. How was one supposed to help oneself when the battle was lost already?

Eurus' childhood image haunted him. The agony.

Don't feel.

He suddenly had a mental picture of John Watson's reprimanding face: What made you?

She made you.

But John was wrong. Eurus or without Eurus, this was him making a choice.

Caring is and will never be an advantage. Not to him, it isn't. That was when Mycroft started calming down. His mind applauded the smart choice. Don't feel.

He began taking in deep breaths with eyes still close. Then he began feeling his environment and remembered he was in the governor's office in Sherrinford with one hand covering his eyes, the other set on the table into a fist, unmoving. He could not remember how long he had been sitting there only— he wasn't alone.

"You shouldn't have gone here on your own." Sherlock's voice was deep as he said this tersely.

Mycroft jolted his memory as he tried to remember how Sherlock got there and saw flashes of his brother standing beside him when the unconscious Eurus was taken. Mycroft removed his hand from his eyes and lowered it to the table. He looked at his brother quietly and saw him standing there by the monitor. He saw Eurus on the screen too that caused his eyes to flicker. She was getting medical treatment and glad was he that her cell was designed with those tranquilizers at disposal. It had been one of his neat tricks to subside her.

"How is she?" he managed to ask.

"She's fine. She'll live."

"Good." He reached his fingers to his forehead.

Sherlock whirled around him. "How about you? How are you?"

Mycroft, who was massaging the bridge of his nose, looked up in mild indifference, his face impassive.

"I'm fine." He saw Sherlock glared and had to raise his eyebrows too, "Are you expecting another answer?"

"You're not fine—not after what she did in front of you."

Mycroft travelled his eyes on the screen again and nodded. "I suppose. That was quite a scenario. Too messy, really…"

A short pause came as the detective continued frowning at him. "Mycroft—are you sure you're alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" he frowned at his younger brother who was also scowling at him for some reason. "Anyway, Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

The detective ogled at him for a second, and put the remote he was holding down the chair then answered, "You left your office without any message—why didn't you? I had to wrestle it out of your Secret Service for crying out loud."

"You didn't." Mycroft pressed a disbelieving smile.

"Not really. I had your secretary tell me directly."

"That must've been some trouble." Mycroft thought of it for awhile, and then blinked at his younger brother again. "Why were you tracking me again?"

He saw Sherlock's jaw clenched and received the most penetrating look. "Your assassin is still at large and might still be after you. How can you even forget that?"

"Oh. I didn't." Mycroft shrugged and then travelled his eyes back at the monitor towards his sister. "I just don't have infinite supply of 'care'." His view of his sister getting treated was suddenly blocked by Sherlock in his dark suit when the detective sauntered towards him without a word. Then he was standing in front of his big brother.

"Mycroft." his voice was soft and slow.

"What?" why was his younger brother acting strange?

"What's wrong with you?"

Mycroft stared, and then plastered his smile. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock was looking at him furtively like he had not seen anything so remarkable. Or was his little brother in awe? Both ways, Mycroft knew he himself always had that effect on people to the point that it was no longer amusing. Gold fishes swimming about… even his little brother seemed to be turning into one.

"Eurus is fine…" came Sherlock's voice.

"I can see that." Mycroft's eyes glinted as he recalled indistinctly how she banged her head on the glass. "She has been prone to outburst of… self harm ever since a child. That is why we all tried to keep her from sharp objects—because she always had the tendency to make use of them in anyway creative." He looked back at Sherlock with a matter-of-fact look. "Of course you wouldn't remember, whatever modification you did with your memory wouldn't allow you to. You're still just catching up, brothermine."

"What about you?" Sherlock threw at him sharply all of a sudden.

Mycroft looked slightly interested. "Me?"

"What have you done to yourself?"

"What?" he frowned.

"You… something's wrong with you."

"Are you being sarcastic or are you making a point?"

Sherlock stood still and the brothers exchange quiet looks for awhile. Mycroft had sat comfortably on the governor's chair like he was back in his office in London. Sherlock continued giving him that odd look that was somehow reaching a disturbing point so the older Holmes had to put his foot down—

"Is this a staring contest—?"

Sherlock hesitated, as if fighting the urge to say something and not saying it at all. The latter thought seemed to win as he then slowly turned towards one of the chair where his thick dark coat was hanging.

"Let's head back… there's something I want to confirm."

"Good lord knows how much I needed the environment of my home."Mycroft was about to stand up with eyes already blinking round. "This chair, while so much comfortable, is not nearly as appealing as the ones I have back at home."

"If you can call that drag a home—"

"You speaking of your flat?"

"Yes. We're heading there."

"Why?" there was no response as the older Holmes watched his brother go before looking back at the monitor. "She's still unconscious. Can't it wait until she's out of danger?"

Sherlock gave a swift glance at the screen, before looking at his brother. "It can't. This is top priority."

Mycroft considered and then slowly, resumed his position on the governor's chair.

"Must we do it together?" Mycroft followed his brother with his eyes looking disapprovingly. "Can't we do the usual parting of the ways?" he smiled again, making his brother sigh deeply. Parting of the ways was one of Mycroft's favourite games just to get rid of his brother on special occasions—per se.

"You're still under surveillance."

"There seemed to be limited things I can do with you hovering around me." The older Holmes said with an attempt of sarcasm but Sherlock only gave him a dark look.

"You know your killer is still out there—"

"Hmm… he's kind of doing a poor job, isn't he?"

"No reason for you to make it easy for him now."

"How about a bet?"

"I'd win."

"Indeed. Unless you consider this also an appointment in Samara."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cut in plain reproach and Mycroft just had to shake his head at how easily his brother would jump on word play traps these days. He knew where his brother was coming from and frankly he was touched by the gesture but to some extremes, his younger brother seemed to make it a habit of making him look helpless when he is not.

But well, he does always humour him.

"Fine. Sorry."

Sherlock looked unconvinced as he wore his coat and flashed his brother another glare. "You don't look it. You look dead!"

"Thank you." Just some real compliments keep on coming.

"Only you would appreciate that— you never had feelings about death." Sherlock seemed more irritated than usual, "Oh, I know—one reason why you tried killing yourself!"

"I thought that's water under the bridge?" Mycroft looked genuinely surprised.

"You thought."

"If you're asking if anyone's got problem, Sherlock, between you and me—"Mycroft raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Why do I sense some hostility every time you hint with this kind of dialogue?"

"Forget it—we're going." The detective strode towards the door again which only made Mycroft shake his head.

"For god's sake, our sister's still in her death bed!"

"Come on, Mycroft." Sherlock called as he turned towards the glass door with one eye at his older brother. "You don't get to worry about her when you're like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've got brain! Figure it out!" was the snappish answer as Sherlock strode to the door. "Because believe it or not, something is off with you!"

"Do tell what?" Mycroft snapped finally, already tired of his brother.

"You're you!" Sherlock shouted back in the same manner. "Something's wrong with you!"

"There's nothing wrong with me!"

If Mycroft had said it once, he had said it many times as he found himself back in Baker Street after few hours and is seated once again on the same chair he had occupied before their sister excitedly sent them a grenade to blow the place up. Now it felt like nothing was the same. Or was Mycroft the only one who felt that given the slight difference in the place even though they tried hard to replicate it?

Because there was a baby on the carpet floor.

Mycroft stared at it and then up to John and Sherlock who were both on their respective chairs, just as he remembered them before the drone flew in. If he could will it, he would just let this be the next part of his memory and skip the part about Sherrinford. Alas, however, he wasn't like Sherlock to rewrite it. Too essential to forget.

Still, he wanted things to be quick as the baby Watson was ogling at him too. He glared at the men.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Sherlock." He said darkly, as he watched his brother walk back to his black chair after staring out of the window. "I already told you I am perfectly fine—better than I ever was so don't make me sit here again like some common—I'm not a client!" he snapped as the two just watched him and then added, "Do you remember what you told me when I last came here?" Mycroft stood up. "You told me to 'get out'. I'd gladly take the offer now—" he was just about to step away from the chair—

"Sit. Down." It was an order heavily given, one that made Mycroft to shoot his brother a flabbergasted look. The way Sherlock was looking at him was enough for him to gape awhile, then pressed his thin lips closed and sat back on the chair quietly with arms crossed. He graced them his coldest look that can turn normal people to ice.

"Is he still suicidal?" John began abruptly, making Mycroft roll his eyes.

"He is suicidal." Sherlock replied aptly.

"I'm not suicidal!" Mycroft indignantly said—

"And after all the things I already told you…I thought I made it perfectly clear." John whispered with meaningful eyes at the older Holmes who pressed a sigh as he too remembered how John was his sentry while Sherlock hunt as the cavalry.

"I made things perfectly clear too, he just doesn't accept them." Sherlock grimaced and the older Holmes had to put his face on his palm. "One of which includes telling him I don't want him to die which he still doubts."

"Oh."

"Jesus." Mycroft shook his head.

John frowned and then turned to his best friend."You said something's 'wrong with him… but he's mostly the way he is." he glanced back at Mycroft who raised his eyebrows. "Yep. Still the same."

"No, something's wrong with him." Sherlock insisted with a heavy frown, "Something's…"

There was a short pause, broken only by Mycroft sighing. "Am I supposed to sit here while you two observe me like I'm some species undiscovered?"

"Yes, you are." Sherlock turned to John darkly. "You didn't see him after Eurus tried to break the glass. Tell me this isn't a normal reaction of somebody already traumatized."

"I'm not—" Mycroft began but was ignored—

"Oh, you mean—" John caught his best friend's eyes and there was something mutual between them there. Sherlock nodded and the two stared at the perplexed older Holmes. The doctor blinked. "Right. He's supposed to be much more affected than—hang on, isn't that just him being him?"

"Exactly." Sherlock and Mycroft eyed each other. "Which makes it all wrong for me."

"Yes, certainly, talk as if I am not even around." The older Holmes clapped his hands together with gritted teeth. "If you want to say something to me then heavens— be direct! I don't want to be treated like a fool, Sherlock."

"Sure—like how you would infiltrate my house to figure out what's on my head when all you can do is ask!"

"That's beside the point—I'm here, ask me!"

He gave his brother a critical gaze and Sherlock swung his arms at the back of his chair with his body in a slanting position. "Fine, then answer me this: are you still worried about our sister?"

The questioned earned a dark look from Mycroft.

"What sort of question—?"

"Answer!"

The older Holmes paused, obviously now confused. What was his brother up to?

"Of course I am."

"Why?"

Gritting his teeth, Mycroft wanted to tell Sherlock to go knock his head somewhere as obvious questions always tick him the most, always want to make him explode. But it seemed too important to his brother—why?

"She is still a threat not only to herself but to those around her." He raised an eyebrow at that but when his brother did not say anything, he went on. "She is also incapable of looking after herself so yes, I worry…"

"And your feelings?"

"What feelings?"

"How do you feel about everything?"

"Why should I feel anything about everything?"

Sherlock glanced at John as if trying to make a point and by this time, even the doctor was looking strangely at Mycroft. Narrowing his eyes at the two, the older Holmes straightened a little again.

"Is this how you two play deductions games? Figuring out people's emotions? I thought you're detectives, not psychologists." he asked them testily that made his younger brother flash him a look of annoyance. But then, Sherlock's eyes averted to John and for a second Mycroft thought he saw it softened. It made him even more confuse when John began shaking his head.

"Oh, Mycroft…"

Mycroft didn't like that. He never liked anything that starts with 'Oh, Mycroft' at all.

"This is how he's been coping with everything." Sherlock sighed with a look at his brother full of wonder. "Always the cold one, always with the reasoning… then one splash of emotional threat… and here he is back to his factory reset…"

Mycroft fell silent.

"Isn't…" John began with a slight glance at the detective, "Isn't that a good thing? I mean having witnessed all those things that happened… I mean—you rewrote your memory— what do you expect your brother to do?"

"What he already did." Sherlock responded full eyes on his older brother. "Just him being Mycroft."

"You knew he'd shut his emotions? How can he do that?"

"Practice. Brain."

"But—"

"Enough." Mycroft glared at the two residents of 221B with his voice full of contempt as they both looked back at him. "I told you I don't quite enjoy being an audience to a case in point conversation. Now be good gentlemen and stop the idle chitchat—I am needed elsewhere." He began standing up.

"The only place you're ever going to be is here." Sherlock snapped hotly, "Someone wants you dead, you want yourself dead, and you act dead — for heaven's sake stay put where I can see you."

"Sentiments, brother dear. But then that has become you, hasn't it?" a forced smile appeared on his face.

"And it hasn't you?" Sherlock threw at him, "After everything at Sherrinford, with Eurus and me—you can't just ignore them—you can't just tell me you don't care—" he stopped after seeing his older brother's face paled.

Inside his head, the smear of blood on the glass suddenly cracked inside his memory sharply—as if he was back there standing by the glasses. It made him close his eyes. It was threatening.

"Not to my advantage, brothermine." He whispered, closing his fists.

"Lacking emotions is neither."

"Then…" Mycroft had looked up pointedly, "Would you rather me incapable of thinking? Because what I have, Sherlock…" he pointed at his head. "Just as it was with her… Is just about enough to drive one mad."

Mycroft was serious. His darkest moment with their sister was nothing Sherlock could ever imagine; her memories with him accumulated inside his head be it as a child and as a grown up. Especially upon growing up. Her taunts, her tricks, her open expression of loving to see him die and how she thinks he, Mycroft, would also enjoy see himself die.

I can help you. She said.

"I can help you." Sherlock's voice rang in his ears that only made Mycroft give a wry smile.

"No, you can't," he sighed quietly, he eyed John too. "Neither of you can. I'm beyond anyone's help. Only I can help myself." He turned his eyes back to his brother and suppressed another smile. "You don't need to be so upset about it."

For Sherlock was making that face—a mixture of crestfallen and anger put one with gloom.

"I'm not upset—I'm pass upset." The detective replied fiercely as he stood up, "I'm offended! You're still thinking of that getaway to heaven just because you can't manage it? If you're not a bag of—"

"Watch it." Mycroft's eyes flashed in his direction.

"Then just out of curiosity," Sherlock said, "didn't it ever occur to you to tell me about our sister whenever you bother me on my flat with simple cases of the queen and company? Not even during those times we have those 'deduction games'?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows to heaven.

"How tempted do you think I was to tell my brother of our ghost sister he can't even remember and that might possibly trigger some negative response that cannot guarantee me if my brother would be the same? Truthfully speaking, I never did think you capable of handling the matter at that time what with your sporadic behavior and constant distressing, serious occasions with your flat mate—no offense." He looked at John and then saw Sherlock look away and had to press his lips for a moment before continuing, "It was a sensitive topic for you, Sherlock, one that require you prepared both mentally and emotionally. I couldn't have told you that earlier than this."

"I don't think that's what you call being 'heartless'." John pointed out. "You never were, Mycroft. You just had a funny way of showing it."

"You're being kind." Mycroft hinted with sarcasm. "I was just thinking of the trouble it would cause with his personality too unstable—"

"He's right you know." The doctor piped with a look on his best friend's direction. Sherlock gave him a flat stare.

"Of course I am." Mycroft said.

"This is not about me." Sherlock said.

"Rosie's hungry." John said when the baby began crying and he picked her up on the floor and went to the kitchen for awhile, leaving the brothers staring at each other with renewed blades in their eyes. The detective looked so dissatisfied.

"You had no plans of revealing all of this to me, were you?"

"I was monitoring you whether you were apt to the task of knowing. You didn't make it easy, Sherlock."

"I didn't know about her."

"Does it make a difference now that you know?" Mycroft smiled feebly

Sherlock fell silent again, his frown ever there. "You tell me." He was ever quiet too.

The brothers continued exchanging looks till there was a hysterical sound—more like a wail—of a woman's voice from the doorway. Both looking, Sherlock and Mycroft saw Mrs. Hudson standing there looking as if she had seen a ghost, her eyes on the older Holmes.

"Mycroft Holmes!" she called with every bit of concern in her voice as she moved towards him.

"Yes?" Mycroft's eyebrow jumped up automatically upon seeing her but was thunderstruck when she gave him an affectionate tap on the shoulder, and even went as far as sliding her arms around him. Mycroft was baffled. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, how could you think of doing something frightful like that! Suicide indeed, Mr. Holmes!" she began scolding him but her grip on his shoulder not diminishing, "What would I do with your brother if he gets all uncontrollable again and I had to take extreme measures that will get the police or media's attention? Then what? Who will help me fix things in this house?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock who was fighting the impulse not to burst into laughter.

"Mrs. Hudson, I assure you—"

"Hang on, I'll get you tea." And with one final squeeze on his shoulder, she disappeared into the doorway with one glance at John. "I heard her cry, do you need help, doctor?

"I'm fine."

And then she was gone. Mycroft was already giving his brother a knowing death glare.

"You told her." He muttered flatly.

"Someone older ought to know since you don't act like one."

"For heaven's sake!" he breathed as he watched his younger brother cross the room towards the window again. Mycroft closed his eyes. "Please tell me you didn't inform our parents— I'd be very upset if I find them by your threshold with open arms."

Sherlock smirked and looked back at him. "This doesn't change anything, brother. I'm still on to you."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"You didn't leave me—"

Mycroft threw a scathingly look at him as he rummaged for his phone. "I can just imagine you barging in one of my cabinet meetings just to check if my heart's still functioning."

"I can do that."

"Shut up. Now." The older Holmes pressed a button and put the phone back inside his chest pocket, eyes meeting his brother's. "We've had enough sentiments flying about in three months, don't you think it's about time to stop it before it becomes a hobby?"

"About time you practice it." Sherlock watched as his older brother stood up from the chair with look daggers in his eyes. "Sooner or later you're going to have to tell me everything you remember about our sister."

"I doubt that."

"I'll make you."

"Is that a threat?"

"A challenge, brother dear."

Mycroft gave his brother one lasting look, before finally smirking and heading towards the door. He caught up with John about to come out of the kitchen door but merely gave him a raised of an eyebrow before heading down the flight of the stairs. He met Mrs. Hudson along the way too, who was carrying a tray of tea. Mycroft raised one hand and walked passed her, giving her at least one singular awkward smile that was new to him, took his umbrella by the door side and then opened the doors of 221B to the outside world.

One thing was proven by this meeting, he thought as he walked towards his sedan parked in front of the flat—that Sherlock was better than him. With better company. All he had were politicians, and agents and secretaries and secret societies—which all were just fine by him. He would never be move by anyone save his brother most like, and maybe a bit of a friend in John's presence but aside from that, he doubted he would ever truly enjoy others' company.

Others' company? The thought itself was dreadful.

Mycroft clambered his car and sat inside, giving an exasperated look at the window towards his younger brother's flat.

Sherlock needed those kinds of people. He doesn't. His brother wouldn't understand that—not anymore after experiencing relationships. Mycroft was different. Sometimes solitude is the best answer for people who, like him, have too much secret not willing to be spilled.

Eurus was just one of those secrets, though she might be the biggest and one of the darkest. One of those darkest that sometimes always lead to one road. Mycroft humorously remembered Sherlock's most detested story.

Appointment in Samara.

Seconds passed, and Mycroft frowned for the sedan has not yet moved. He shot his driver a look— one look—it just took him one look to identify that this man was not his driver. How wouldn't he notice when he spends his days looking at that man's back even from a far. The difference flashed in his mind—

"Who are you?" he asked sharply, his hands automatic on his umbrella but things happen and when they do it was hard to fight them—especially when a gun was already pointed in your direction. The fake driver who turned out to be his most awaited assassin had turned around in one quick move with his handgun pointed and unstoppable.

Mycroft smiled wryly, his thoughts on his brother as he closed his eyes simply. A flash of Sherlock pointing a gun at him in Sherrinford but not pulling the trigger and instead pointing it on himself just to save his brother came— then image of Sherlock appearing on his doorstep the night Mycroft planned to kill himself just to stop him—and the second time Sherlock came back to help him with the beta plan—

And when he came out of nowhere to stand by him in Sherrinford when their sister nearly broke the glasses and watched over him until now.

You can't always save me, brothermine. Though you tried.

The trigger was pulled and a loud bang filled the air.

-THE END-

A/N: Thank you for reading! We all know that was bound to happen.

Hopefully there will be more Sherlock in the future. They can't just stop there.

Also if you are inclined with this story, please also ready Spare Holmes and The Hidden Holmes

(both of which already different from the canon considering season 4)

THANKS FOR READING!

And now...

Epilogue

A loud sound—the car's window crashed into pieces—and Mycroft watched as an elbow struck the driver on the head, and then a pair of hands coming from the outside wresting him, banging it on the driver's window, and then to the steering wheel—and Sherlock Holmes continued slamming the man's head on the car's front panel—unmindful of the fragments of the glasses on his own arm, beating him till the driver's face was bloody.

Then the driver's door was opened—and the man was pulled out grudgingly. Loud sound of sirens of police car filled Mycroft's ears as the next thing he did, he opened the car door on his side to come out and see the progress, his head still light headed and still in disbelief at his narrow escape of death once again.

Sherlock was there, standing over the unconscious man while around them, police car were already filling and Detective Inspector Lestrade came in the view and nod at the brothers while his men tackle the hired assassin and check for other weapons.

"I'll take this chap now." He said briskly with an eye at the consultant detective, "He's taken much of our time already." Turning to Mycroft's questioning stare, he answered. "We've been here all day, your brother requested it. Said His Highness has descended to 221B and needs back up in case."

Mycroft blinked and turned to Sherlock who merely nodded at the police and the criminal.

"Make sure he doesn't come out."

"Yeah, I got it." He waved for an ambulance to come near.

The place was still ringing with police sirens, and Mycroft was still just watching his brother. People from the café had all started coming out in interest, though most of them don't look surprise at all. That was the meaning of Baker Street to most of them. Mrs. Hudson was at the entrance of 221B too while John stood just about inside with his child on his arms. Mycroft took in the situation with his brain already telling him to act—to call people—to let his power flow—

But his body won't move as he just watched his younger brother.

Sherlock glanced in his direction quietly. "You alright?"

Mycroft nodded once.

"Still feel like dying?" Sherlock shrugged with a press of his lips as he walked closer to the silent man who looked down the ground and sighed. "Be honest, you thought I couldn't save you this time, didn't you? Forget it, I'm dragging you to Sumatra whether you like it or not."

Mycroft didn't know where to start. He didn't know what to say. So he just stood there, leaning one hand on his umbrella, till he felt his phone ring once, twice, inside his coat pocket. Taking it all out he saw Pollock and Love had called his number.

How news fly.

"Seems like I'm not the only one watching you." Sherlock smirked as he saw the names when he stepped closer.

Mycroft turned his mobile and put it back inside his coat and with one final sigh, he glanced at Sherlock.

"I think I'll take that tea now, please."

END :)