To Dr. and Mrs. Watson, he must have sounded ridiculous.

"I'm not angry with you..."

Those words might be what a parent would say to a recalcitrant child, who was facing a scolding. Not to a brother who resented his very existence, and had never cared much for his opinion. Not to a brother whom he had sent into exile, and then recalled the moment his help was needed. Certainly not to a high-functioning sociopath, who lived to get under his older brother's skin.

He tried to get them to understand, yet he knew it wasn't possible. It didn't help that Sherlock went into his usual spiel. Even a deaf man could have sensed the sarcasm as Sherlock shot back, "I was really worried." But to clear up any doubts, he added, "No, hold on. I really wasn't."

Mycroft smirked internally. It was the same response, every single time. Yet he would repeat that line, again and again, each time Sherlock needed to hear it.

The Watson couple wasn't there when he held a young, overdosed, broken Sherlock, who suddenly looked up at his big brother, and asked in a very small voice, "Mycroft, are you still angry with me?"

And he knew he would always remind him that he never could really be.