"One day they'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

Sherlock Holmes was ten years old and his beloved cat was dead.

He did not want to cry, for that would be childish and pointless. Caring was not an advantage. Especially when it was in regard to living organisms as every living thing eventually withered and died. That was something he'd learnt rather quickly.

People die. It's what people do.

Cradling Hypothalamus in his arms he stroked her fur. Tears welled in his eyes. Her neck had been snapped.

Mycroft would be angry with him.

"Why did you do it?" Sherlock demanded.

Jim didn't answer.

Sherlock wished he was more sad. But the sadness was leaving him very quickly and laughter was filling his mind, echoing in between his ears and drowning out his senses.

Poor Hypothalamus was nothing more than a warm misshapen lump in his lap. But morbid curiosity was creeping over him. He wanted to touch her properly. To stroke her fur and to dip his hands in her insides.

Mycroft would blame him. Mycroft was always angry after Sherlock played with Jim. But first Mummy would find out and Father would find out from her and then Sherlock would be punished. Mycroft and Mummy and Father would all shout at each other when Mycroft next came home from university and then Mycroft would try to be kind to him when he knew he didn't deserve it.

Sherlock wondered how hard you would have to hit a grown man to make him break his neck. Would it be as beautiful and delirium causing as poor kitty's death had been? She hadn't even known what had happened. Sherlock wanted to see it happen again, to measure how she had gone limp in his arms, to see exactly when she stopped moving. He couldn't remember if she'd yowled, he needed to know.

Mycroft would be angry.

It would be like the time with the postman's dog and cousin Shirley's gerbil. It would be like the time he gave Auntie Roberta a brownie he knew to include nuts as he'd never seen the allergic reaction before.

Sherlock didn't like Auntie Roberta, he had no time for people who were of no use or interest to him. But he didn't severely dislike her. He gave her the epipen before she stopped breathing.

Sherlock didn't like Carl Powers at all. Sherlock severely disliked Carl Powers.

Leaves rustled behind him. A voice was yelling his name, piercing the darkness with desperate cries. Sherlock dried his eyes.

Mycroft stumbled into the clearing like Alice's Jabberwocky, floundering and fumbling and decidedly mad. It wasn't shock that took him as Sherlock secretly hoped would but a quiet kind of sadness.

"Oh Sherlock," whispered his older brother, almost uncharacteristically.

Sherlock sniffed. "You've been smoking. Started when you got back to university. Probably to cope with stress. Mummy won't be happy. You stink," he waved a hand. "That girl you've been going out with told you to get lost," his mind raced observing facts he shouldn't know. But that was it, he didn't know, he observed. "Found out you were a virgin, probably for the best- you could have caught anything from her-"

"Sherlock please," Mycroft's lower lip. "Sherlock why?"

Sherlock didn't look up for a moment. When he did his eyes had grown so cold they burnt, pure and adulterated rage. "It wasn't me. It was him. Mycroft. It was Jim."

The big brother just nodded and wrapped the dead pussy-cat in his jacket to carry her back to the house so that he might bury her in the Holmes' garden. Caring was not an advantage, but being human meant it was compulsory. It would ease his Mother's mind to know that one of them at least understood and respected sentiment. Hypothalamus could lie beside Rover and Shadow, a dog and a cat and previous pets of the Holmes' both having died of natural causes.

"Why did he do it Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled. "He wanted to know what it felt like."

Mycroft shuddered.

There had been no one in the forest clearing where Sherlock Holmes's beloved cat met her untimely end.

There was no Jim.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Mycroft Holmes was also known as the Iceman.

He couldn't prove that Sherlock had killed Carl Powers. It felt almost treacherous to be trying. As if he were betraying his family, his own brother. But he knew he wasn't. He'd always vowed to protect his brother, from Father when he could, from himself if necessary.

The drugs, cocaine, a dabble in heroin, whatever he felt like if he could afford it, had practically been a relief. Drugs he could protect Sherlock from. Self destruction like that he could deal with.

The amount of times he'd had Sherlock institutionalised. Because Mummy wouldn't act on her own and Father died on Sherlock's twelfth birthday. Mycroft could never prove poisoning. Never.

Who could accuse their twelve year old brother of poisoning his own Father?

Sherlock was good at bluffing. Giving the answers the psychologists and the psychiatrists needed. Mycroft was twenty five when he managed to find one who saw through Sherlock's bullshit. Dr. Mortimer was a Godsend.

He was brilliant and he was still far from normal.

The nine year old who'd received a chemistry set with a whoop of glee. The thirteen year old who'd watched Doctor Who and clapped his hands together at its brilliance. The twenty one year old who'd got them both banned from a Sussex railway station.

He had danger nights. He was still unreliable. A madman of London. He helped the police out, Sergeant Lestrade was aware of the medication and aware of Mycroft's status. And for once Mycroft was amazed to find someone who cared about his brother as much as he did. A comrade in arms against the demons of Sherlock's beautiful mind.

The observation of his brother was partially for his own good, but mainly for the protection of others. Unfortunately Sherlock was too good at avoiding said cameras. Despite what Sherlock told people, while he did have a lot of influence over the British government he couldn't keep Sherlock away from the general public.

Not until Sherlock killed someone.

Mycroft tried to warn people. It should have been easy for a man like Sherlock to find a flatmate, despite his antisocial tendencies. He already had Mrs. Hudson employed to watch his younger brother, he ensured she kept a firearm in her flat and was trained with it. Just in case. Just in case. Her number was flagged and she had him on speed dial.

Molly was one of his best agents, he relocated her to Bart's when he found out Sherlock was using the morgue there. It made him glad that he already had a pathologist in his service.

John Watson didn't know and Mycroft relaxed after the thing with the taxi driver and the suicides. Sherlock had come away like an excited puppy yapping about some Moriarty. Dr. Watson had saved his brother's life and for that Mycroft was indebted to him.

When the bombing's started Mycroft was proud that his brother was protecting people. He might deny that he cared, but he did. Mycroft was proud of him, for taking his medication, for fighting his demons, for being a good man. Because he was, he was a brilliant man.

He should have expected the call.

"Just some kids with laser pointers, said Holmes paid them a tenner each to point them at them when he said a certain cue, told them it was for a film or something," Sally Donovan would later inform the journalist she was dating. "Not even real explosives. Watson figured that out."

"Moriarty did it!" stated Sherlock. "Moriarty killed him! He killed him!"

On a regular basis the British Police do not carry firearms. Only specially trained officers and squads do, and those officers include Greg Lestrade. His gun was trained on Sherlock.

John Watson was dead. He'd been dead when the response unit had arrived and they'd originally entered the building to find Sherlock Holmes desperately trying to stem a wound that had already stopped bleeding. When they'd moved closer he'd raised the weapon.

"Put the gun down brother," Mycroft stated. "If you insist on acting like a child they will treat you like a child."

Sherlock span. "You Judas traitor. You could have stopped him. You knew it was him," he rocked on his heels. His face broke in a grimace of disgust and hatred. "I was bored Mycroft! Bored! But not anymore. I'm so changeable!"

"Sherlock please, just put it down," Mycroft's voice didn't waver, he kept it a steady commanding tone. Then, contrary to the command of the CO19's lead officer, he stepped into the light.

"Big Brother, you and all the King's Horses couldn't stop me when I was twelve! You think you can stop me now?" his face twisted into a terrible grin. Then he began to laugh.

It echoed around the swimming pool walls and filled Mycroft's mind. It hurt his ears and ripped his soul into shreds. The Iceman didn't beg, the Iceman didn't cry, the Iceman was cool and conservative and resigned.

"I don't want to die," he whispered backing away. He shoved the barrel of the gun into his mouth. His whole body began to shake from his fingers to his toes.

People were shouting. The explosives squad wanted everyone out in case the jacket was detonated.

"Sherlock Holmes you do not leave me," Mycroft took another step forward.

Sherlock slowly removed the gun from his mouth and Mycroft moved faster than he ever imagined he would. Clicking the safety on he slid it across the floor not caring where it ended up as long as it was far far away from them.

Cradling his little brother in his arms he lowered him to the floor and hugged him hard against his chest.

The older Holmes remained calm and collected until they reached the hospital. He was calm and collected at the funeral when Harry Watson spat in his face and gave him a black eye. All he did was raise a hand to stop his bodyguards from seizing her. He shook his head head when Mr. and Mrs. Watson came to him with their sympathies. Even when Mrs. Watson had hugged him and told him how sorry she was.

He was calm and collected when Molly Hooper visited Sherlock once then gave her warning and fell off his radar twenty four hours later. He was calm and collected when Anthea told him it was time to stop mourning and start living again.

Calm and collected was what he was all about. The politician, ambassador, walking the halls of rulers across the world like the male Helen of Troy. He ensured the survival of kingdoms and ensured the success of his country.

He did not raise his eyebrows when it was reported that Sherlock had made another attempt at suicide and had failed. He kept himself smooth and low talking when Sherlock ranted about the need to catch Moriarty. He did not even blink when Anthea told him Sherlock was in intensive care after yet another suicide attempt, he only stood to collect his coat.

The Iceman was Ice.

He cared. But if he allowed it to leave its mark on him then he would cry. If he cried he would never stop.

But the Iceman was also a man.

Christmas Eve came around once again and he lit a candle in his office, an old habit that had died hard, something Mummy used to do. To remember those who can not be with us. She said when it rained on Christmas Eve, it was the angels crying.

Mycroft Holmes chuckled softly.

The angels began to cry.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

"Mummy, did Mycroft cry too?"

"Yes darling. Mycroft cried too."

AN: Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed x