It was a matter of some small amusement to him that Sherlock could be as nearly silent as it was humanly possible to be, yet he always knew when his brother entered the room. Something in the air shifted, a certain pulse of energy that had nothing to do with any physical sense he could identify. Not that he would ever give Sherlock the satisfaction of informing him of this fact. The boy already had enough proof that the world revolved around him.

"I expected you to have gone by now."

Mycroft slid his last text book neatly into his bag and didn't turn around. "Five minutes."

"Are you sure it won't be 4 and three quarters minutes?" The smirk was audible.

"Very well, five minutes with a thirty second margin for error."

A heavy huff that could have been a laugh or an irritated sigh. Mycroft took his time zipping the bag. Goodbyes had never gone well between them, but in the last 18 months they'd become absolutely toxic. He didn't anticipate this one breaking the pattern, especially considering what he'd done. He felt Sherlock meander into the room. His eyes slid to the left to see Sherlock lounge against his wardrobe. He was still in his pyjamas and going by the height of his curls hadn't bothered to do much in the way of personal grooming since he'd awoken. He was also very clearly struggling to find words for something.

"He probably won't be back till midafternoon. That's his usual pattern."

"All the more reason not to wait around for him."

Mycroft turned to face his brother, giving the slightest of lifts to his shoulders by way of a question. Sherlock rolled his own shoulder in response. They stood for several long moments in silence, before Sherlock opened his mouth again, his voice strained and near resentful in its hesitance.

"About yesterday –"

"There is absolutely nothing about yesterday that I care to discuss."

"You might let me finish a sentence now and again."

"Which serves you in such good stead most of the time."

"Will you shut up for thirty seconds and listen to me?"

"No."

Sherlock blinked at that. Mycroft took a step closer, crossing his arms.

"What do you want to say, Sherlock? Thank you? You're sorry? Father was out of line? What good will any of those statements be to me? You're welcome. I accept your apology – mainly because I don't expect you to actually give one. Of course Father was out of line, but he won't be for much longer. Don't waste time on banalities, brother mine."

"Do you honestly not care that –"

"I do not. What use would caring about it be? Where's the advantage in caring about things I can't change? It's time you learned this."

Sherlock's chin jutted upwards at that. He closed the gap between them in two long strides, nostrils flaring. "Sometimes they can be changed."

Mycroft permitted himself an unkind chuckle. There were ways in which Sherlock was still so very young. But Sherlock had frozen. Not because he laughed. There was a quizzical look in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer to Mycroft, inhaling deeply again. It had taken him less time than Mycroft had predicted.

"Smoke. But no tobacco scent," Sherlock said.

"Which suggests?" Mycroft prompted before he could stop himself.

"You were incinerating something. But that doesn't make any sense."

He'd meant Sherlock to find out after he'd left. But the habit of years didn't erase itself so easily. "Balance of probabilities, Sherlock. What would I be incinerating in this house?"

He could almost see Sherlock sifting through the house room by room. It took approximately three seconds for his eyes to widen. Mycroft braced himself for the inevitable explosion, but Sherlock turned and dashed from the room in a swirl of black dressing gown. Mycroft picked up his bag and followed. He met Mummy in the hallway, where she was staring after his brother. Her eyes were pale with accusation.

"Did you tell him?"

"He's a reasonably clever boy, Mother. He figured it out."

"With some help from you."

The same story, then, regardless of their camaraderie before. Somehow, Mycroft would always be indirectly responsible for Sherlock's actions. He drew himself up to attention. "Hardly."

Something in his voice drew her attention from the open library door. She turned toward him, eyebrows crinkled in what looked like apology. But before she could get the words out, Sherlock was tearing back through the door.

"What have you done with it all?"

"Now, Sherlock –" Mummy began, reaching for him as he stormed toward Mycroft.

Sherlock easily dodged her hand, but stopped about two paces from his brother, shoulders jumping with his breaths. Mycroft found himself wondering if Sherlock realized how much easier he was making it to feel less than remorseful.

"With what all?"

"You know."

"Sherlock, calm down," Mumy tried again. "It's ju-"

"I saw no point in letting you continue with this silly obsession," Mycroft interrupted. He did not, as he wished to, cut a silencing glance at his mother. This would only work if Sherlock felt he still had one ally in the house. "I did you a favor. I got rid of the stimulus."

There was a moment in which Sherlock was utterly still. His face was a mural of fury and something Mycroft was becoming all too familiar with – betrayal. Then he blinked and his eyes deadened.

"I can't change it."

"Correct."

Mummy was staring at them in confusion, but Mycroft felt a glimmer of hope. It was possible, just possible, that Sherlock had listened before.

"And I can't change you."

Mycroft steadied himself, not allowing the words to a resting place within. "Correct."

Sherlock gave one small nod and stepped back. Mycroft pursed his lips to keep back – well, something. He had no idea what he would say, or should say. If nothing else, he supposed he should be pleased that Sherlock finally seemed to be taking his advice. It would make the process much smoother, overall. It fit the plan. He just wished it didn't make him feel like his father.

"Well, then, I'd best be off," Mycroft said, hefting his bag slightly and turning toward the door.

Mummy trotted forward. "Mycroft, don't you think we should –"

"Say goodbye? Yes, of course." Mycroft put the bag on the floor and gave her a perfunctory hug. When they drew apart, he gave cut his eyes to Sherlock and then back to her, setting his jaw. She gave a tremulous nod. Stick to the plan. This was for Sherlock's own good.

"See you at Christmas, then, if not before." Mummy said.

"Yes, Christmas."

-fin-

Thank you so much to all my readers! This story has been such terrible fun for me - even though most of it is AU now in the light of Series 3. But still, I love my Holmes brothers, and I hope you've enjoyed reading about them, too.