My brother is a murderer. He'd said that. He'd said those words. He never dreamt he'd ever say that sentence, but he had. He didn't believe it, of course. His brother was a pirate, a dragon slayer, a stupid little boy. Never a murderer.

Mycroft sighed, laying the umbrella across his lap as the car pulled up to the prison. Sherlock's prison. He'd been right when he told Lady Smallwood that there was no prison that could hold Sherlock Holmes, but he'd lied when he said he was not prone to fits of familial compassion. Prison was a death sentence for Sherlock, worse than the death sentence Mycroft was actually giving him. If he left Sherlock there, no prison cell would hold him – he'd end up in a white padded room before long, strapped to a bed. Sherlock couldn't handle prison, and Mycroft wouldn't let him.

Hardly merciful, Mr. Holmes. That was where Lady Smallwood had been wrong. MI6 was brutal, and Sherlock wouldn't survive it, but he'd die using his mind, running about in Eastern Europe, causing trouble and hopefully bringing a few spies down with him, just the way he would want to go.

Mycroft glanced out the window at the high security establishment, waiting. Sherlock would be coming out soon enough. He hadn't seen his brother since he'd killed Charles Augustus Magnussen in cold blood Christmas Day. Even he hadn't been allowed near him after his arrest so he hadn't consulted Sherlock when he made the decision to accept the fatal assignment. He knew Sherlock would approve, though. He knew his little brother.

Don't fire. Do not fire upon Sherlock Holmes. He'd said those words. He'd said them. At least he was able to do that much – save his brother from an undignified death on the patio of Appledore. Mycroft clenched his fists in frustration. What was the point of being the British government if he couldn't get his brother out of this? What was the point? But he couldn't.

Not for the first time, he cursed Lady Smallwood. It was her fault that Sherlock had gotten involved with Magnussen in the first place and the ungrateful wench had been entirely uncooperative in his efforts to save his brother. He knew he couldn't get Sherlock entirely exonerated – he had been trying to give away British security secrets and he had shot Magnussen in cold blood – but, together, he and Lady Smallwood could have gotten Sherlock a lesser sentence, a less dangerous mission, something. But she didn't give an inch. She was resentful, he was sure, that Sherlock had been unable to save her husband from his own past mistakes and so she declared herself unable to save him.

Mycroft's heart skipped a beat when he saw Sherlock, escorted by two armed guards, approaching the car, and he almost laughed. As if two armed guards could have stopped Sherlock if he wanted to harm them. He'd been running since he could walk. He'd shot Magnussen in cold blood. He had mastered jujitsu by age thirteen. If his brother wanted to get away, he'd get away.

("Sit down and read, Sherlock." "No, I'm practicing." "What's the point of that?" "Well, I don't want to be fat like you.")

The door to his right opened and Sherlock slid in beside him. "By your leave, gentlemen," he said sarcastically to the guards. The two brothers sat in silence for a few minutes, not an uncommon occurrence for them, until Mycroft held out a cigarette.

Mycroft always felt guilty when he saw his brother smoking. It was he who'd given Sherlock his first cigarette, when he was twelve years old, never dreaming that it would lead to a lifelong addiction. It as a habit he'd picked up at university and he really just wanted the little boy to stop nagging him. He'd laughed when Sherlock choked on the smoke after his first whiff. He'd thought that would be the end of it. Of course, his brother was determined to prove him wrong and so continued to smoke, even though he didn't like the taste, and mastered it, to the point where he could handle it better than Mycroft. You need low-tar. You still smoke like a beginner.

For perhaps the first time ever, Sherlock declined. "I'm sure there won't be an abundance of cigarettes in Eastern Europe. Best start breaking the habit now."

Mycroft nodded, placing the cigarette back in his coat pocket. "Quite right." They lapsed into silence once more.

"I did it for you too, you know," Sherlock finally said, staring out the window. "To get you out from under Magnussen's thumb. Which you are now, thanks to me."

"Thanks to you?" Mycroft turned towards him.

"Yes, thanks to me. He can hardly blackmail you from six feet under the ground."

"He was blackmailing me with you," Mycroft retorted. "If you didn't exist, he wouldn't have been a problem to begin with."

"Sorry about that." Sherlock turned towards him now and said, more seriously, "Really. Sorry."

("I didn't mean to break it!" "You're such a nuisance, Sherlock." "I'm sorry. Really.")

"Yes, well, I suppose I should have kept a tighter rein on you."

Sherlock snorted. "As if you could. I'll be far outside your reach now, not that it matters, if your calculations are correct, which they always are."

Your loss would break my heart. Before this conversation, those were the last things he'd said to his brother. Yes, he'd been drugged on spiked punch (which he was still feeling the side effects from, thank you, Sherlock, for allowing your junkie friend to poison us all) but they'd been true nonetheless. He'd never admitted to Sherlock how much he cared for him; it wasn't their way to express such sentiments. Sherlock was his pressure point, though, as Magnussen correctly identified. His only pressure point. He always had been.

("Mycroft, what are you doing?" "Give me the baby, he's mine! He wants me. It's okay, Sherlock, I've got you, hush now.")

"I am sorry, Sherlock," he admitted. "I can't get you out of this."

"I'm not asking you to." He was quiet again, fiddling with his scarf. Mycroft had given him that scarf. And the one before that. And the one before that. He was always cold as a child, always rushing outside without a coat, so he'd thought a scarf would be easier to remember to put on. It was. But he misplaced them often. "What will you do now?"

"What I've always done. Protect the British government, a job your rash decision has made significantly easier, I must admit."

"It wasn't rash."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, let's acknowledge that you committed calculated murder, Sherlock, that makes the situation better."

"There's no one around but you."

And Mycroft would never tell, they both knew that.

"But what will you do?" Sherlock asked again.

Mycroft frowned. "I've already told you."

"You'll end up in a mental hospital." Ah. But I've been away…I thought you might have found yourself a…goldfish.

"Sherlock, I survived before you were around, I survived while you were away, and, quite frankly, I've endured with you present. I shall proceed as I always have."

Sherlock didn't believe him, he could see that. He wasn't entirely sure he believed himself. He didn't require constant companionship, he never had. Their parents had been concerned about him as a boy, always off on his own, reading at school and never mingling with the other children. But they were stupid and not worth his time and his parents didn't want to talk about the Serbian elections and the newest breakthrough in chemical warfare with him, they didn't think it was normal for a seven-year-old, so he'd entertained himself with the news and with his books. It wasn't until Sherlock came around that he'd ever craved the presence of another person.

Mycroft found him intriguing even as a baby. He'd made the assumption that, coming from the same gene pool as himself, Sherlock was likely to be gifted as well, and so he thought he'd give Sherlock the advantage that he himself had never been given: training. He'd doted upon Sherlock, reading to him from his textbooks and showing him how to build and experiment. Over time, he found he couldn't resist giving into the demands of the little curly-haired boy who followed him around and asked him to deduce things. Sherlock worshipped Mycroft. Mycroft adored Sherlock. And when the little boy got distracted by pirates and other childish things, Mycroft indulged him.

("Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Mikey? I don't want the East Wind to get me.")

As they got older, as their similarities and differences grew more pronounced, they clashed more, but the main dynamic of their relationship never changed – Sherlock looked to Mycroft for guidance (whether he admitted it or not) and Mycroft never stopped giving into Sherlock's every whim and looking out for him.

Until now. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. This whole situation just proved him right, again. If Sherlock didn't care for John…if John didn't care for Mary…if Mycroft didn't care for Sherlock… But it wasn't that easy to just turn off, he'd discovered.

"You'll want to say goodbye to John, I suppose," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked out the window again. "Yes…You'll look out for them for me, won't you?" Since he wouldn't have Sherlock to look out for anymore.

Since he wouldn't have Sherlock anymore.

"If they'll let me."

"Oh, please. Since when have you ever needed approval?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes, I'll look out for them for you. I'll keep your little vow."

Sherlock nodded, not even bothering to ask how he knew about that.

They were getting closer to the airport now. Sherlock wouldn't talk to him there, wouldn't say goodbye. They never really talked in front of people, not like they did when they were alone. It left people with the impression that they didn't get along. Sherlock referring to him as his "arch-enemy" didn't help with that.

As Mycroft struggled to think of how to say goodbye, how to express how much he would miss him and how much he needed his little brother, how to thank him for his sacrifice (because it had been partially for Mycroft, he knew that; just because he wasn't Sherlock's pressure point didn't mean Sherlock didn't care) and apologize for his failure to protect him, to uphold his vow, Sherlock asked, "Do you want to play deductions?"

("Let's play deductions, Myc! I'm getting better!")

Can't handle a broken heart, how very telling. He supposed it was time to learn.

I don't own anything. Reviews are welcome and very much appreciated.