All Lives End (All Hearts Are Broken)

My brother is thirty-nine, and by all accounts he threw himself off a rooftop yesterday afternoon. I watched the thing on CCTV; it was rather touching, in its own way. Dr. Watson was admirably foolish and brave, as always. Allowing Sherlock to take him as a hostage, following my mad brother all over London, nipping off to check on Mrs. Hudson after one well-placed phone call from yours truly (not directly, of course, never directly). I suppose, were I of the more dramatic bend, I might have shed a tear. Lord knows Sherlock did; more than one, in fact. (An astounding fact. I have not seen my brother cry since he was eight years old, clutching my shirt in his small fists and cursing himself for his peculiarities.)

This morning I watched Sherlock's skinny back retreating towards the waiting car, his hair still wild and his silhouette still striking. "Do attempt to be careful," I called after him from the open doorway. He responded with a gesture that some might consider uncouth. Our love is a nurturing sort, I assure you. (I apologize. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.)

Last night I watched him sink down on the edge of the chaise lounge in my formal sitting room and set his head in his hands, tears flowing freely. I leaned against the mantel and sipped my brandy slowly. "Your reaction to all this, brother mine, is somewhat bemusing."

Sherlock made a rude noise but didn't look up at me, whether from shame or disinterest I'm still not sure. Perhaps both.

"You knew how this would end, surely," I said softly. Why did I need to say those things aloud? We both knew them; neither of us enjoy toying with redundancy. And yet… "You chose to play the game. No one wins at chess without losing a few pieces."

"I hardly expect you to understand, Mycroft." Sherlock looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed. "Moriarty seemed to think John was my pet. Would you agree?"

I laughed, a small, hard sound. "I should say quite the opposite. For all that you're a contrary creature, Sherlock, our good doctor has made some progress in taming you."

The noise that left Sherlock's throat then was a wretched sound, a laugh that had been broken and torn to pieces. "Our good doctor. You know he'll hate you for this."

"I could, perhaps, say the same thing to you."

My cruelty was rewarded with a look of sheer anguish. "What have I done?" Sherlock whispered, more to himself than to me.

But I'm not his skull, nor am I his doting friend. I am his brother. I answered as honestly as I could. "What was needed. Your self-pity is beginning to grate my nerves, dear brother."

"Then do by all means fuck off and leave me to my thoughts," he said, but without any real fire in his words. He reclined back, folding his hands over his chest as though he really were dead, his eyes falling closed and his chest nearly stilling.

I watched him in silence for a long moment, until my glass was drained and my blood was a little warmer for it. My voice soft, I asked, "Where will you go, Sherlock?"

"Prague," he said at once. "I have a lead."

"Ah." I sighed and shifted my weight, leaning a bit more heavily against the fireplace. "I do so love Prague in winter. The stark beauty of the place. So cold and colourless. It's heavenly."

"My God, you ought to write a book. 'Dreadful Descriptions of Depressing Destinations.' I hope you'll send signed copies to my friends, in my memory."

My laugh that time was a truer thing. "But of course. I shall dedicate the work to you. 'To my dearest brother, who has been nigh insufferable his entire life and has only become worse upon his untimely death. Let us hope that in his resurrection he will become somewhat more tolerable.'"

"Unlikely," Sherlock said, crossing his ankles. He'd stopped crying, at last. "I wouldn't hold out for it, certainly."

"No," I agreed, smiling a little. "I should say not." I sighed and set the glass down on the mantelpiece, trusting the staff to attend to it after I'd gone. "Please avail yourself of the guest suite, Sherlock. This may well be your last opportunity to sleep in a proper bed for some time."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'll be needing a few things in the morning."

"Of course. Leave a list on my desk in the study and I will see to it first thing." I began to walk away when his voice, quiet and small, stopped me.

"Thank you."

I stood still for a moment longer before moving on once more, my footfalls quiet against the plush carpeting. I didn't respond. There was nothing more to say.

Now it's dark again, pale moonlight shining through the open curtains of my study. I don't know, not for certain, if Sherlock has truly gone on to Prague or not. He lost my tail quite quickly, the relentless fool, but I expect I'll catch sight of him again sometime soon. I always find him after all, my brother.

I'm thinking about his last words to me: look after him. Sherlock was referring to Dr. Watson, of course; in all things, his mind goes back to that small soldier and his unending kindness. I will look out for the man, naturally, as I consider it my duty. I will put money into his bank account and refuse to accept it when he inevitably tries to return it; I will continue to watch him on CCTV and have a surveillance team track his movements, as I have done for quite some time now; I will allow him to come to my club and shout abuses at me and I will not even contemplate the speed with which I could see his life end, if I wanted. The doctor has become an extension of my brother; so be it. I will look after him.

But, as it always has been, my mind will always be on Sherlock alone. I meant what I said: I do hope he is careful. I hope he comes home. It's true that caring is not an advantage, but in this instance I feel my handicap is justified.

And besides, we do make quite the formidable team.