So I was rewatching Reichenbach last night (sob...) and although I absolutely hated Mycroft in the scene where John confronts him about telling Moriarty Sherlock's life story, I couldn't help but wonder how he felt about it afterwards. Also, although we don't know whether or not Mycroft is in on the fact that Sherlock's still alive (I'd like to think that he doesn't, give him a bit of punishment for what he did) I wrote this from the perspective that he knows absolutely nothing about it. I hope you like!

He wishes he hadn't done it.

It's a pathetic thing to say now, but it's the truth.

He knew, as soon as they'd let Moriarty go, that he'd made a mistake. He knew it was wrong,

But still, he did it.

He'd told himself it wouldn't matter. That nothing would come of it. And then John Watson had come striding in and confirmed his worst fears.

'Moriarty wants Sherlock destroyed, right, and you have given him the perfect ammunition.'

He had been irredeemably stupid, he could see that so clearly now. And it had been Sherlock who had paid for it. He can still see the coffin lowering into the ground; still hear John's agonized outburst.

And now he's remembering a different voice – his mother's, warm and serious.

'This is Sherlock, Mycroft.'

He remembers the pink face, the soft downy hair on the baby's head.

'You must promise me that you'll always take care of him. He's eight years younger than you, and you will always have those eight years of more experience than him. So promise me that you will use that to keep him safe, always.'

He'd nodded.

'I promise, Mummy.'

She'd smiled.

'Do you want to hold him?'

And then baby Sherlock had been sick on him, sparking off what Mycroft still considers their first disagreement. He is surprised to find his eyes dampening at the memory, and after wiping them, stares at the wetness on his fingertips.

'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.'

No. Caring has never been an advantage for him. But if he'd cared just a bit more about throwing his brother's life away, then Sherlock might still be alive.

It was so easy to forget, in the middle of one of their great feuds, that they were still each other's flesh and blood. Because no matter how much they argued, or how cold the distance between them was, Sherlock was still his baby brother, and that would never, never change. No matter what happened.

So now, he leans down and brushes his fingers across the soil covering his brother's grave. He tries to put a lot of unsaid things into the touch, but he was never good with emotions. Not like John Watson, who had managed to finish everything off neatly when he'd come to say goodbye to Sherlock.

Mycroft stands. He looks at the golden writing one last time, then turns to walk away.

He does not look back.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, please review!

Iliketotastetherainbow x