A/n: First off, I'd like to thank all my lovely reviewers and subscribers. You guys are fantastic. Anyhow~ Here we go! As a general disclaimer, you might want tissues if you are one to cry.

Letters for You

Chapter 7

Collecting the day's mail, Mycroft sorted through the mess, categorizing it based on its interests. Amidst the stack, he found a peculiar one, handwritten by a familiar scrawl. Eyes darting to the return address, he found Sherlock's name scratched in the corner, the actual address returning to his lawyer's office. Sliding into his desk chair, Mycroft abandoned all of the other articles, caught by the existence of such a parcel.

He studied every aspect of the letter, appreciating its thickness. Three days after burying Sherlock, and he's getting post from him. Sherlock's last words to him. Hands shaking, Mycroft slid his fingers along the edges of the envelope. Though Sherlock had never (past the age of thirty) blamed his problems on his older brother, Mycroft couldn't help but consider that this letter might be just that. He didn't know if he could handle Sherlock confirming his own self-deprecation.

Hands still shaking, he grabbed his letter opener and cleanly tore the envelope, exposing several white pages, folded in uneven thirds. As he snatched up the contents, Mycroft took a deep breath. He had to read this, even if Sherlock was going to blame him for everything. They were his last words, and the least he owed him was to hear them out. Carefully, he unfolded the sheets and found himself on the first page.

Mycroft-

Hello, brother. It's been a month since we last properly conversed, and I don't know if we'll have another opportunity to talk face to face...I know I said I would call, but I don't think I can bring myself to do so...I don't even know what to say when we hang up. Would we treat it like we'd see each other again, like everything was as it should be? Or would we simply abruptly end the call to not bother with farewells at all? I don't want to properly end it. I don't want to say our farewells like it's going to be the last time, which is why I am writing these instead. I don't want to 'die' before I'm dead.

Too sentimental, you're probably thinking. "Caring is not an advantage" you always used to lecture. But we both know it's your own personal experience that led you to this conclusion.

For ages it seems, I did nothing but despise you. One way or another it seemed you were trying to ruin my life, or as I often thought, a blithering mess that didn't know what to do with himself. I remember that governess...I'm sure you do as well. How she just left me in my room the whole time? I remember sitting there after I'd read everything I had, cursing you for not coming home. Being stuck in there made me believe that no matter how domineering you were, you were still better. I was angry that you had left me all alone to her, for how long you had abandoned me, frustrated at how reliant I was on you.

And then you came home for holiday. Came home and saved the day, it seemed. I thought things would be better, now that you had fired the entirety of the staff. But you were smothering, more protective that you had ever been. I had to escape. I'm sure you remember (with probably great frustration) all the times I ran into the yard, sometimes making it further into the neighborhood. You remember that, Mycroft? The first time I got past the yard, how you called the police, deathly frightened that I had been kidnapped or something of the sort? You had just started your job with the government, hadn't yet felt the need to save face. You remember how quickly after they put out the call that an officer stumbled across me in a convenience shop as he was buying coffee? Remember how I came home, guiltily holding a full bag of candy (purchased from the few notes I'd nicked from your wallet), how the officer badgered you for calling over something so minor.

I still recall that day quite well. How you sat me down and forbade me from doing that ever again (forbid you ever mention it's because you were worried out of your mind - though it always seemed to go unsaid), and then with a deadpan serious face, you demanded that I give you at least half of my Crunchie bar! You haven't a clue how surprised I was. Here I was, sitting here with a bag of candy on my lap, waiting for you to just take it away for causing such a fuss as you lectured me, and your consequence? Share. I was so dumbstruck that I just rummaged around in the bag and handed you the thing. You outright smirked at the chocolate bar, mumbling something about how much you loved these stupid things. No wonder why there was never any candy at home! I smelled it and there was nothing but wrappers occasionally filling your pockets.

You broke it in half and gave me the bit without the wrapper, not wanting to get your own fingers sticky. I still find it funny how fickle you are about that, how you'd wince at the things I found no bother in touching. But I still remember just looking at you, still shocked that you were actually smiling at something, wondering just how much more trouble I would be in had I not brought any candy.

And we just talked. You continued on and on about which ones were your favorites, and I commented on each type as I tried it. You warned me to not be like you, constantly conscious of your weight, but you were a bit shocked that I'd never had any of this before. I think you started to realize how sheltered I had been, not even able to try such a basic chocolate bar that you yourself oftentimes had too much of. It was one of the few times I had fun at home, sitting on that awful, antique, floral couch that gaudily took up common room space, eating candy, and talking to you about seemingly nothing.

Mycroft smiled, reminiscing. His brother was so young back then, legs unable to so much as touch the ground from his place on Mummy's horrid sofa. How he smiled and grimaced with each variety. Sherlock always was expressive as a child. That was probably one of their better evenings with one another, not counting those times in Sherlock's early childhood. The ones where he'd run about the manor with a wooden sword, occasionally whacking his elder brother from behind an eyepatch, disclaiming that he was anyone but a pirate. Occasionally he found his little brother's face covered in grease paint (from an enthusiastic attempt at giving himself a beard) with a red pillowcase tied around his waist, which kept his baggy shirt (courtesy of Mycroft's closet) at a manageable length.

Always so full of life as a child, so playful, so adventurous. So happy. Sighing, Mycroft realised that he knew the end of this childhood innocence and continued reading, wishing that the story were somehow different despite it being set in stone.

But that day was better than it may have seemed to you. Just after I had left, I found a group of children, carelessly strolling, a bunch of sweets filling their pockets. I approached them to ask just what it was they were eating. The laughed, how could someone my age not know what all these sweets were? They harangued me for my attire (we both know how formal my wardrobe was), my appearance (the frail, gangly, feminine child I was), teasing me for being some "younger master". All I had wanted was to make some friends that were my age, but I couldn't stop myself. I shot back insults that apparently hit the mark, and they shoved me down in the street, storming off as they shouted all sorts of belittling slights. It hurt, and I couldn't quite comprehend what it was about me that had made them dislike me right from the start. I looked down at myself, noticing how different my clothes were from theirs. How little I knew about the things they liked.

So I got up and dusted myself off. As I followed along the street (in the opposite direction of those other children), I tried to avoid anything that attracted any attention. I was going to buy candy. Maybe then I would understand just a little bit better. Maybe I could fit in? Even though I hadn't the slightest clue as to where I was going, I made sure to walk with determination. Eventually, I found a small convenience store, and I popped inside. While making our purchases, that officer dropped me back home after assessing just who I was.

But after that conversation, I felt like I wasn't alone in the house. I could be like you, Mycroft. I would have you and no one else in my life, no matter what others thought of me it didn't matter. You understood, or at least you seemed to. I figured after that it wouldn't be so bad after that, that this new candy-loving Mycroft was on my side. I hoped that he would understand how much I valued my freedom, how confining his other half had been. But he hadn't. My hopes were wasted, and you were as suffocating as ever. You completely betrayed my childish confidence. Only now you would occasionally toss me a bar of something sugary. I remember looking at each and every one of them before discarding them uneaten into the bottom drawer of my desk. But I'm sure you discovered that when you started doing drug sweeps. Did you ever make that connection, brother?

He had. The day he found out his brother had started with drugs, he searched his room. The drawers were the first place he checked, and he recalled that numb feeling he felt upon finding the full sugary stash. After catching an expiration date on one, Mycroft realised that Sherlock had thrown every single one in this drawer, and that's when it hit him: Sherlock never wanted candy. He felt sick. Why hadn't he noticed before? Before it got this bad? A pang of guilt coursing through him, Mycroft read on.

You were quite possibly the only person who cared for my existence, but I didn't want to rot away under your oppression. As you climbed the government ladder, I found myself alone in the house, which was filled with nothing more than gossiping staff (that you carefully interviewed and hired) and disdainful tutors (that I made certain to drive off with haste). I was lonely, Mycroft. So terribly bored at home, nothing left there to stimulate me. Other humans, whom I had found remarkably interesting to watch and observe, didn't warm to the fondness I had conducted of them. Oftentimes, on my adventures out, people would harass and ostracize me for an off comment. My intelligence, paired with my abrasiveness and my complete and utter ineptitude at so much as conversing with another human, drove people away. They'd spit, "Piss off!" after I'd struck a nerve, bark all sorts of obscenities, chalked with harsh things. Every now and then I'd find myself in a physical altercation. Forget finding someone that cared for or understood me, finding someone to so much as tolerate me was more than a chore. I didn't have friends, and I most certainly could never hope to find any.

So I slipped out of the house as a teenager. No one could stand me. Remember that night I had stumbled in battered and bruised? How I'd been hit so hard up the side of my head a molar had cracked? My ribs were no better (as expected of a good pair of steel-toed boots), and I was barely recognisable behind my swelling bruises. You fussed, and in a sick way, I enjoyed ever last moment of it. I had wanted your attention, your genuine care, but at the same time, I wanted you gone; I didn't want you hovering over me. I just wanted my freedom. Contradictory. I had too much attention, but none of it was quite the right type. You thought you were doing what was best for me when you hadn't bothered taking my own interests into consideration...

But like clockwork, when I had mostly healed, you headed back off to work, leaving me bored, so terribly alone. I left again, only to find that along with my crown, you had included a tracking device. My trust in you plummeted to an all-time low. I hadn't done more (before that night) than leave, and you track me? Every part of me screamed that you were no longer my brother, that you were nothing but a part of the British government. You didn't want your little brother to sully your good name. I hated you for your inconsistency. Could you make up your mind? Did you care for me because I was the only family you had left or because I could potential ruin you with scandal? You never could just pick one, never entirely cold nor caring with me. I felt like I would have been better off with just one. I was childish. You remember that night I came home, when I stubbornly ripped the thing out in front of you? I don't know how you could possibly forget that one. That hurt. For us both, I'm sure. I can barely remember what I said I was so off my ass, but I remember it was far from kind.

So I ran away, thinking there was nothing else to do. I didn't want to be stifled, so stuck. The more and more time I spent in the outside world, the more thoughts cluttered my mind, the faster I learned. My observations were limitless, and they drove me mad, barraging my senses mercilessly. By comparison to my childhood, this level of stimulation in a mere moment was probably more than some of my eventful years. My violin could only clear my thoughts for so long, my mental release lasting only as long as I could possibly play. I couldn't get it to stop. Thanks to you, I was never without money, and one day I was offered cocaine, my chance at oblivion.

Neither of us would care to remember those days, how disgusting and repulsive I had made myself on impulse, not knowing that this shell shock would subside had I given it the chance...Is it sad, however, that I think people preferred me strung out, a vomiting mass on an already-dirtied floor? I was degrees and realms more "normal" drugged than I was vertical and conversing. And then that first attack struck. You found me, shoved me in rehab, and I hated you for it. I saw your efforts as selfish, like for whatever reason, this wasn't being done in my best interests. How dare you interrupt my suicidal plight. When you told me I was going to destroy myself, I took it as a challenge. So what if I destroyed myself? Even though I felt sick on narcotics, anything was better than simply existing. Maybe one day I'd overdose and that would be that.

I escaped, and I continued on my destructive path until a massive attack hit. I was caught in this gut-wrenching lucidity, everything was so frighteningly clear. I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to let myself die like this. So I let you throw me into rehab, this time for good. Just long enough to shake myself of withdrawals. You set me up working with Lestrade and Molly at the morgue, and I thought I had finally found my calling. It gave me that rush I had missed (though it hadn't entirely extinguished my urge to relapse).

I wasn't a child anymore. I learned to grin and retort back at any sneers, bury myself in experiments, cases, observations. I grew cold, flatmate after flatmate leaving as quickly as they could manage, pinning me a "freak", callous and cold, bereft of a heart. But I started believing it after a while, and I acted in accordance with their expectations. The further I kept people the less they could hurt me. You were right, caring isn't an advantage. Caring allows you to get hurt. So what if I wasn't wanted? I'd live the rest of my life rather quickly regardless.

But then I met John by sheer circumstance, and he didn't run away; he ran with me. He stuck by me after the cases, through the insensitivity, through the drug busts. He never poked or prodded at my past. We may have bickered, bantered, fought, but he was my friend, brother. My only friend. We were both so lonely and then we had each other. Nothing else mattered. For the first time in a long time, I cherished just what I had. I desperately wanted for more time, but I knew it couldn't be possibly so. Caring may not be an advantage for people like us, but it's worth it Mycroft, I swear it. After sifting through all the pain and rejection, I've never been happier. The greatest risk reaped the grandest of rewards. I hope you can find your disadvantage one day, brother.

So I'll let you win, Mycroft. I suppose it's my place to say the unsaid. I know you regret how I was raised, all those times you apologized to me after receiving news from the specialists, all those times you had to tell me that you couldn't find anything to help me. I know you cared, just how hard you tried. So don't fret, you ninny. This was my fault entirely, fueled by my childish vices and a poor combination of genes. You don't need to feel guilty, brother. I was the one who chose to do the things I did, and you tried to do what you thought was in my best interests. Even though I should probably be asking forgiveness for my outlandish behavior, I forgive you, Mycroft. If you couldn't already tell (what with our deceptively scathing banter). After all, you're my only brother. All I ever wanted was your attention.

Live well, try not to engineer some sort ends to the Earth. Please do check in on John, make sure he's doing well (though I have no doubts my strong soldier should be just fine). Farewell, brother. This is the last you'll ever hear from me.

With Love,

Sherlock Holmes

Mycroft's eyes hung on the last loop in Sherlock's signed name. He never signed his full name. How final. Tears slipping down his face, Mycroft reread the two concluding paragraphs in awe. Sherlock had forgiven him for everything it seemed, no matter how grave his past offenses. In his own way, he loved him. But Mycroft still felt guilty, how little credit he had given his brother, how little attention he had genuinely paid where it counted. It was too late, he sighed.

After what seemed like an eternity spent absorbing the contents of his brother's letter, rereading bits, a part of him felt lighter. At least Sherlock hadn't died hating him.

"My strong soldier," Mycroft repeated to himself, noting his brother's likely inadvertent word choice. Sherlock honestly cared for that silly little man, didn't he? John was Sherlock's disadvantage. Just as Sherlock was his. A sadness struck him, realising just how alone John now was. See, this is why he didn't care about others. It always led to pain. Nervously chuckling, Mycroft shook his head. He couldn't possibly bear another disadvantage in his life. He couldn't handle another Sherlock.

Setting the letter back on his desk, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He needed to calm down before making good on Sherlock's last wish. Now confident that his voice would not falter, he picked up his phone and dialed. A voice erupted from the other line, and Mycroft continued, "Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I have a favor to ask of you..."

End of Chapter 7

A/n: I dunno. There's a part of me that thinks that Mycroft only cares because Sherlock can sully his name, but there's this other part that thinks he just cares too much (not to mention the part that Sherlock was actually bullied to the point where he stopped caring about others, that he was actually just as lonely as John. After all, since he could afford it, why would someone look for flatmates if he didn't care for people?). That's clearly the part that wrote this, and hopefully the part of you that read this. Thoughts? This chapter was rather difficult for me to piece together, so now that you've read, please review 'n subscribe 'n stuff! 'Till next time guys!