Hi, FanFiction readers!

I've decided to start something new here :) This will be co-authored, so put your hands together for the wonderful silversrider! This chapter is in a huge part her work… I only supplied the idea and the song! I proofread it for her and wrote the prototype, but she was the one who truly transformed this into what it is!

So, without further ado… the Prologue!

Running from the past, though we knew it couldn't last.

Looking back, it's so bizarre, it runs in the family

All the things we are…

We only see so far, 'cause we all got our daddy's eyes.

-Running in the Family, Level 42

Prologue:

The man sitting in the armchair beside a coffee table and a large window folded his hands and rested his chin upon them. The political dilemma that he had been working on required exquisite delicacy and diplomacy, and even he, the great Mycroft Holmes himself, was having difficulties with it. As if he were just a puppet on a string, the political problems were passed to him with even the grammar faults still in them.

It didn't bother him, though. The very fact that they considered him his puppet meant that his career was moving forward.

The man sighed and, against his will, his thoughts moved on to the outside world.

How could he have protected his little brother from his fate? Mycroft didn't have a clue. For once in his life, there was a problem posed before him that he couldn't solve, with his silver tongue and icy exterior.

Sherlock… he had always been to stubborn to listen to him. Always being too stupidly smart, believing that he was above everything and all.

He would even prove it by going without sleep or food for days on end.

Mycroft let out an annoyed sigh at himself. Thinking of his brother wasn't going to make his work faster done or in any case easier.

His phone, laying on the coffee table next to his cup of tea, vibrated violently, making the entire stool rattle. Mycroft watched it move a few inches before picking it up.

"Yes? Mycroft Holmes speaking." He answered in his usual, seemingly bored voice. He managed to hide his slowly rising anger, which had become habit after dealing with so many political disputes. He had been so close to figuring out the answer he needed and of course, he had had to be interrupted at that very moment. Of course, he had to be accessible at every moment. Half the UN would be at war with the other half if it wasn't for his mediation.

"Mr. Mycroft, sir!" He heard a female voice call urgently. It was Anthea, his personal assistant. "I think that you might want to take this call."

He groaned. "Is it Bonder from the MI6 again? Please tell him that my word is final."

The man had been plaguing him for the past week. Was it that hard to understand that sometimes espionage agents died of natural causes?

"No, sir. It's from the St. Mary's Hospital. It's about…"

He cut her off. "Tell whoever it is I will be there straight the car. I am unavailable to anyone and everyone, time unspecified." He hung up hurriedly, grabbing his coat and umbrella and making for the exit quickly, a rare moment of emotion played on his impassive face.

Fear.

The fear of losing someone he actually loved. Another one. He remembered his own words so well, come to haunt him…

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

The phone lay on the table, forgotten, as did his case and laptop. Maybe caring wasn't an advantage, but he left in such a hurry that he might have fooled himself.

His black car quickly appeared to pick him up, and he got in.

His own words matched the rhythm in his head. "Caring is not an advantage… Not an advantage… Not an advantage!"

He sat down in the back seat and massaged his temples with his large hands. But he did care… He had cared about his parents. He cared about his brother… and now about her.

Maybe it was only all a big masquerade set up by his own brain, mostly to confuse himself whenever he was staring at his own reflection.

You can't rule a country by caring. Look at the people walking there, so normal, so peaceful, so ignorant… So helpless… you can't help them by only caring.

He wouldn't stop the terrorists by just laying a hand on their shoulders and nicely asking them to stop. No. He had to come up with plans far more complicated than theirs, only to save the people of his country.

Mycroft looked out of the car window.

Nothing seemed to be the same as when he was still a young boy, walking hand-in-hand with his father on the streets of London, being shown the basics of police work…

He couldn't go back to all the time he spent talking with his mother about how the new Prime Minister was from the Conservative party and so might be responsible enough to lead the country…

However much he wished it deep in his heart, he wouldn't ever have the chance to play with his little brother ever again. He never did. He never had the time, and eventually Sherlock had grown up in his path.

A family of geniuses, he thought bitterly. And look where it had led them. His parents were dead. He was running half of Europe, his life hanging on a thread. And now… and now Sherlock had gone.

He couldn't bear it if… but he pushed the thought from his mind. She was alive, why else would she be in the hospital?

Growing up had changed everything for him. There where what was left of his heart used to be had made place for the dictating power of his own mind. Stronger than most of them, being able to out rule almost every human emotion… Like a robot, completing tasks and not feeling anything that got blown to him.

If he hadn't worn that mask, he wouldn't have gotten as far as he did.

But he wouldn't have failed as a brother.

He interrupted his mental tirade as the car pulled up next to the hospital, he didn't even wait for it to stop completely before he jumped out of it, hurrying toward the reception window.

"Hello. I'm here to see…" he stated, before giving her name.

The clerk tapped a few details into his computer before looking back at the man.

"I'm sorry, sir, but she's unconscious. Visitor's courtesy suggests that you wait until-"

Mycroft interrupted him. "Do you have any idea who I am?" He asked dangerously, playing the card he resented pulling out outside of work.

"I am Mycroft Holmes. I would like to see her, now."

The man entered the name into the computer and paled several shades. "Yes, sir. She's in the Intensive Care ward on the third floor, room 21b."

Mycroft nodded and without another word, climbed the stairs until he reached a sign that read "Intensive Care."

He walked down the hall of doors, staring at the names on the doors before stopping at the one that interested him.

"Jayne Holmes"

Please review! I think this came out fine :)