Mycroft Holmes was well acquainted with the topic of death. In the early years of his career, he was in the field, dealing death to others and always wary of the courtesy being returned. These days, in his profession, dealing with death was unavoidable. His decisions involved deciding who died as much as who remained alive. Rarely was it as simple as eliminating a threat. In the most difficult cases, it involved the lives of innocents, weighing in on who could be saved, and who would be condemned.

He accepted the reality of his eventual death, as well as the likelihood of expiring when still in his prime. He had calculated probabilities and possibilities, always trying to be prepared. He had his will regularly updated, though only minor details were changed. Secure in the knowledge that his parents and siblings would be well looked after, he obtained a measure of peace in contemplating his end. Dying was a default of living, as all lives come to an end. All that was left to worry about was the when, and more importantly in his mind, the how.

It could be said, Mycroft would admit to himself, that he was possessed of a rather large ego (to match his girth, Sherlock always said), and a weakness for dramatics. His modus operandi, when dealing with humans, would involve intimidating them showing off his power, using mysterious black cars and omniscient surveillance. In the rare cases that hadn't worked (Dr. Watson was one such unusual specimen) he would use his deductive powers to discover their vulnerabilities, and expose their secrets. He was always immensely satisfied as he watched them gaping, he just loved it when his audience was impressed.

It was unfortunate that his calculations showed miniscule chances of assassination. Now, that would have been a great way to go. It would involve drama, and controversy, and his name would be immortalized. Best of all, it would set him aside from the mundane population. Only Very Important and Powerful People could be assassinated, after all.

Motivations for assassins fell under three main categories, he observed. There was political motivation, personal revenge, and a simple wish for fame. Mycroft Holmes was well known in certain circles to be the 'power behind the throne', as his position was often referred to, but not well known to the average man. Thus, fame seekers could easily be ruled out. Political dissenters knew better than to touch the most dangerous man in the world (a title his brother coined but many others believed). Those seeking personal revenge were either unaware of whom to target, his position being obscure, or well aware of him his powers, and smart enough to stay away. Of course, one could always hope for someone stupid enough to make the move, yet smart enough to best him.

Dying a hero's death, sacrificing himself to save a life, or perhaps even the entire country, that would be the ultimate death. His name becoming a symbol of sacrifice, being inscribed in the annals of history. He would bring honor to his family name, perhaps even his annoying little brother would be forced to acknowledge his worth. It would only be a pity that he wouldn't be alive to witness it. His pleasant musings would always come to an end as he considered his chances. Sitting behind a desk didn't leave much opportunity for heroic sacrifice, no matter of his importance on a national scale.

He might not get the death he wished for, yet he desired to be prepared, mentally at least, for the most likely scenarios. To none of his surprise, nearly every such scenario had a common denominator; namely, one Sherlock Holmes. Being associate with the most irritating little brother in existence gave him plenty of opportunities to die, in varied ways. Methodical as ever, he had written down a list, in no particular order, as one scenario was as likely as the next.

The first possibility was dying of a stress related illness, brought on by his brother's shenanigans. Heart attack, stroke, and aneurism were all included in this category. He dearly hoped it wouldn't be a heart attack. Sherlock would surely blame it on his weight and fondness for junk food, which was as unfair as it was untrue. He dieted and exercised, for goodness sake, would it kill his brother to admit that?

He was just as likely to fall while involved in one of his brother's schemes. It didn't matter much if he would be shot, pushed off a roof, or drowned in the Thames. The consultant detective's reckless behavior and Mycroft's obsession of following him around to pull his hide out of trouble would very possibly spell Mycroft's end. He never wondered whether he would step into a bullet's path to save his little brother. He could not imagine doing otherwise. The little ba*** would probably stand over his grave, arms folded, saying, "I told you to stay out of my way, you idiot!" He always got the last word.

Other possibilities included Mycroft shooting himself in the head, or committing any form of suicide. There was only one person with the power to exasperate him enough to consider it. Sherlock might even manage to feel a smidgen of guilt over that, but he wouldn't be around to enjoy it. He would need to carefully weigh the pros and cons before indulging in such an act.

Of all the scenarios he'd construed, his imagination wasn't wild enough to come up with the actual one he found himself in now. Held captive by his deranged sister, he found himself in a room with Sherlock and his little companion. The challenge had been issued, and Mycroft wasted no time in offering his opinion. "We're not seriously going to discuss this, are we?" He was spurred on by his guilt, and by his secret fantasy of a hero's death. But mainly, as always, it was about protecting his brother. His brother couldn't afford to lose Dr. Watson. There was no choice. He couldn't imagine doing otherwise.

As he spewed his insults, first against the doctor, then against his brother, he wondered about his legacy. He probably wouldn't be remembered as a hero, only as the despicable man who showed his true colors, and turned on his brother. It pleased him that it didn't matter much to him in the end. The irony of having his most noble deed bring him shame and dishonor amused him. He hoped his brother was enough of an idiot to buy into it.

He wasn't. Sherlock wasn't buying it. His little brother picked up the gun and aimed it at his head, not with malice, but with regret. Sherlock was steeling himself to do the hardest thing he never thought he'd have to do in his life, and Mycroft helpfully pointed out a target. He smiled at his brother, amused at the thought running through his mind: I always knew my little brother would be the death of me.