Planning an intervention was harder than Sherlock had first anticipated. First of all, there were the scheduling issues. Mycroft was almost certainly busy with matters of state. So he came to the conclusion that Mycroft's assistant, Anthea, would have to be involved. No one else knew his brother's schedule.

Getting ahold of her was easy enough, simply try to call Mycroft's office for an appointment, and she was sure to pick up.

"You have reached the office of Mycroft Holmes, this is Anthea speaking. How may I direct your call?"

"Hello, Anthea. It's Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh!" There was an awkward pause. "Erm, let me transfer you to Mycroft."

"Wait," Sherlock said quickly. "I was actually hoping to talk to you."

"Me?" She asked with surprise and a bit of suspicion.

"Yes, there's something I need your help with."

"What is it?" More suspicion.

Sherlock lowered his voice. "Is Mycroft around?"

"No, he's in a meeting for the next hour. But I don't see what that has to do with-"

"He has a problem."

Anthea was quiet, listening.

"I'm sure you've noticed it; even someone of average observational skills would."

She huffed, no doubt slightly offended. "If you're talking about his weight loss, he assured me it's under control."

"Maybe it was at first, but don't you think it's becoming a bit excessive?"

She sighed. "It's...it's not my place. I've already voiced my concern for him, and he was quite adamant that I not mention it again."

"That's because he's an idiot."

There was a shocked pause, and Anthea chuckled. She wasn't used to people talking about Mycroft Holmes that way, as he was the most brilliant man she'd ever known.

"You see him every day, surely you have to agree with me. It's getting worse, isn't it?"

She hesitated. "He'd be angry with me if I told you..."

"He won't find out." Sherlock promised.

"I haven't seen him eat in months. He drinks coffee all the time, though. He never does lunch meetings anymore; he told me they seem too informal. He's tired all the time. Sometimes when he stands up too fast, he stumbles, like he's about to fall over. He gets these horrible headaches..." Anthea's voice trembled slightly. "I'm afraid he's dying." She admitted.

Christ, it was worse than he thought..."He needs help." Sherlock said earnestly.

"I could lose my job-"

"I'm not asking you to be involved, I just need to know his schedule for the next week. I'll make sure you don't get in trouble." He assured.

"...alright," She finally agreed.

Thanks to Anthea, Sherlock determined that Tuesday night would be ideal. That gave him two days to figure out what the hell he was going to say...He had debated bringing John, his best friend was so much better at this. But Mycroft wouldn't open up around him. He wasn't family.

Then again, he wasn't entirely sure Mycroft would open up to him either...

Mycroft was exhausted. It had been a long Tuesday afternoon, and he was happy to be home. He walked through the door and hung up his coat. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week, but he hadn't exercised today. He needed to run at least two miles before he allowed himself to rest.

He made his way up the stairs to his room to change into workout clothing, and found himself gripping the banister for support as the world started spinning. The dizziness had been getting worse lately.

He made it to his room, and flipped on the light, almost having a heart attack when he noticed Sherlock sitting in his favorite chair.

"Sherlock?!" What the hell are you doing here, how did you get in?"

"Hardly my first time breaking and entering, brother mine."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You probably shouldn't be admitting that."

"Your security is horrid. It's a miracle no one else has broken in. Then again, you probably wouldn't notice if they had."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Mycroft glared. "I've always been the-"

"The smart one, yes, I know." Sherlock stood. "But you're losing it."

"This is ridiculous. Get out of my house before I call the police."

"Mycroft, listen to me!" Sherlock yelled, and there was something in his voice that Mycroft hadn't heard since they were children. It was more subtle, but it brought back memories of a five-year-old Sherlock shaking under the covers, begging his big brother not to leave him alone during a thunderstorm.

Sherlock was afraid.

So Mycroft listened.

"You have to stop this. If you continue this way, you are going to die! Can't you see?!"

Mycroft swallowed hard. "I know." He said quietly.

Sherlock stepped closer. "Then why don't you stop?"

"I can't." Mycroft admitted. "Or I don't want to." He quickly corrected himself. "I don't know."

Truthfully, he had grown used to it. He'd always felt...hollow. Now there was a hollow feeling in his stomach too. Nothing could fill the void, so why even try?

"Please," Sherlock asked softly.

"I suppose I could try."

"Let me help you."

Mycroft laughed. "I don't need help."

"Oh, but I think you do. While I was waiting for you, I had a look around. There's barely any food here. Certainly not enough to survive on.

"So maybe I need to do a little shopping."

"I'll come with you."

Mycroft scowled. "That's unnecessary, I'm not a child."

"I don't care, I'm coming with you anyway. You don't have any meetings after 2:00 tomorrow, we'll go then."

"How did you know...?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Anthea is in on this, isn't she?"

"No, I broke into your office and looked at your planner." Sherlock smirked.

"Christ, this can't become a habit. You're going to get arrested one of these days, and I won't bail you out."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What have you eaten today?"

How long had it been since he'd eaten? Two days? Three? "I had a banana for breakfast, and a salad for lunch." He lied.

"You've gotten even worse at lying," Sherlock shook his head. Come on, let's see if we can find you something. He grabbed Mycroft's arm and essentially dragged him to the kitchen.

Mycroft stood there, leaning against the counter with his arms folded while Sherlock rummaged through his nearly empty cupboards.

"Ah, peanut butter. Lots of protein there, right?"

Mycroft's stomach churned. 96 calories per serving, or 8 minutes of running.

"And it looks like you've got some whole wheat bread here too."

81 calories. 6 minutes of running.

Sherlock spread the peanut butter on a slice of bread and handed it to Mycroft, not missing how his brother's hands were shaking slightly.

Mycroft just stared at it. He wanted it. God, how he wanted it. He was so hungry...but all the fat, the calories...he couldn't...

"I'm not leaving til you eat it." Sherlock stated.

Mycroft nibbled at the corner.

"Come on, it'll take years at that rate." Sherlock said impatiently.

Mycroft sighed, taking a bigger bite. It was delicious. The creamy peanut butter on the crunchy bread...

But he only managed a couple more bites before his stomach started protesting.

Too much.

Too soon.

Fat.

Calories.

Disgusting.

He set it down. "I'm sorry, I can't." He couldn't look Sherlock in the eyes.

His brother eyed the half-eaten piece of bread with disappointment, but luckily he didn't try to force it. "That's okay. Next time you'll eat more."

Next time. Mycroft wasn't looking forward to next time.

After months of hardly letting anything past his lips, eating felt like losing.