After an extraordinary (if unsurprising, under the circumstances) period of chaos, they were finally alone, standing outside Mycroft's house, where Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson were temporarily staying. It was night. There were unusually many stars.

"I never got around to apologizing for pointing a gun at you," Sherlock remarked.

"I would prefer you didn't," Mycroft said, irritated. "There's nothing to apologize for."

"I never for a moment intended to shoot you. I figured that if I didn't make a choice, she might get impatient. I wanted more time to think of alternatives."

"Really, Sherlock, stop it," Mycroft sighed. "It doesn't matter at all."

"Of course it matters. How can it not matter?" Now Sherlock was frustrated too. "After that-ordeal, how can you still be like this?"

"It doesn't matter because if you hadn't thought of a way out you would still have had to kill someone, and if you had had to kill someone it would still have had to be me, and if you had had to kill me it would still have been a perfectly correct and rational decision and nothing worth apologizing for. So don't."

"If I hadn't-it would still-" Sherlock stumbled uncharacteristically over his words. "If she had really insisted on taking one of you-I don't know who-I don't know who it would have been."

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft shot a confused glare at his brother. "It would have been me. You need Dr. Watson, you don't need me. Which is fortunate, because it will be a very dark day indeed when you find yourself so desperate as to have to rely on me. Why are we relitigating this? We're not in that room. The last thing I want to do is go over this again."

"Oh, brother mine," Sherlock breathed, looking at Mycroft with bright eyes and sudden warmth in the lines of his mouth. "I didn't point the gun at you because I need you less. I pointed the gun at you because I knew you could handle it better."

"Sherlock, are you high?"

"Both you and John are long since accustomed to saving my life, but only one of you is accustomed to ingratitude in response. John wouldn't have blamed me, but he would still have been hurt, secretly, deep down inside. But you, look at you, you don't even care. You think this is what big brothers are for." Sherlock smiled radiantly.

"Stop it." Mycroft felt something tighten in his chest, something not exactly unpleasant yet still too painful and terrifying to bear. "Enough, brother mine. Stop it."

"I won't stop it. I've meant to say it my whole life but I thought it didn't need to be said. But if you really thought your little trick might work, if you thought anything could make losing you easier, then I was wrong. I need to tell you, out loud, in words, at least once."

"Tell me...what?"

Sherlock put his arm around Mycroft's waist, pulled him close, leaned his head on the elder Holmes's shoulder. Mycroft startled a little, but slowly relaxed against him, even as the tight thing throbbed in his chest. It was the most affection they'd shown each other since an almost-forgotten childhood. "You," Sherlock murmured into the rough fabric of Mycroft's suit, "are a very good brother."

Mycroft didn't reply for a while. When he finally could, he whispered, "You make it worthwhile."

They continued to stand outside, gazing at the stars.