A/N: The adventure is over, I'm afraid. Your fantactic feedback left me delirious with joy. I wonder if you can get the reviews in this story into three digits;) Enjoy the feels!

Sherlock immediately disengaged the gear, and turned to Mycroft. "Well, that was fun, wasn't it?" he asked him. Mycroft didn't respond. His face looked rather gray. "Sherlock," he said quietly. "Tell them... keep an eye... you," he whispered, and promptly passed out.

They were picked up by helicopter and the medics worked on Mycroft on their way back to England. "He will be alright," a medical reassured Sherlock. "Just a bit too much excitement."

"He never liked heights," Sherlock replied, frowning. The medics insisted on checking the detective, too, and found him in decent condition. Mycroft regained consciousness about half-way through the journey, and immediately called for Sherlock. "Are you alright?" he asked his younger brother in concern. "Well, I wasn't the one who fainted after a little jump," Sherlock scoffed. They passed the rest of the ride silently, Mycroft still confined to a stretcher, and Sherlock not moving from his side.

Sherlock exited the helicopter first, and walked silently over to the group of agents waiting for him. He spread out his hands a bit. "Do you need to cuff me first?" he asked politely. The agent in charge waved his hand in dismissal and ordered him to follow them into a black car.

Mycroft was taken to a hospital, despite his protests, and given an IV for slight dehydration. He was offered some Valium, but declined. His eyes lit up when Anthea swept into the room and hour after his admittance. "Anthea," he breathed, clinging to the name like a lifeline.

"Sir," she said. "Sir," she repeated, a tiny catch in her voice,and a suspicious brightness in her eyes. "I'm glad you're alright."

"That's largely in your credit," he replied gently, grinning. She grinned back.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked suddenly.

"He's safe," she replied promptly. Her answer caused alarm bells to ring in his head.

"Safe?" he asked sharply.

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "He was taken in for questioning. It's a necessary part of the procedure," she answered flatly.

"Who's in charge?" he asked shortly.

"Bailey."

"Let me speak to him."

"Sir," she said urgently. "He's got his orders from the very top. I'm not sure it would be wise to interfere."

Mycroft inhaled sharply. "I only want to know if he was allowed a stop at Baker Street."

Her eyes flashed understanding. "You think?"

"I'm never sure, but right now, I'm as close to certainty as I can."

She immediately began typing on her phone. "It's too late. Sherlock left Baker Street half-an-hour ago, and is currently in a holding room at headquarters. Mycroft swore for a minute straight, ignoring the surprise on Anthea's face.

"Let's go," he ordered, and to his relief, she didn't protest.

Barely twenty minutes later, he was at headquarters. He was led to the room holding Sherlock, an armed guard at the door. He let himself in quietly, and heard the door lock behind him. He stood straight, hands behind his back, and observed his little brother slumped all over an armchair, eyes closed.

Several minutes passed in silence. Mycroft knew that Sherlock was aware of his presence, and also that Mycroft knew it, and was deliberately ignoring him. Mycroft ended the silence by speaking up softly. "The list, Sherlock."

"What list?" came the apathetic response, of the man still half-lying, with his eyes closed.

"Don't try to play innocent," said Mycroft in a much harsher tone.

"You are turning paranoid with your suspicions. There is no list, and I didn't take anything. Now shove off, and go finish eating your cake." Sherlock's voice had turned venomous.

"You're muscles are twitching, your breathing is too rapid- oh." Mycroft stopped in mid-deduction and marched up to Sherlock. "Roll up your sleeves. Both of them."

"I didn't inject!" the younger man protested.

"I know," Mycroft said calmly. "Now, do it, or I'll get someone to do it for you."

Shooting his brother a hateful glare, Sherlock rolled up his sleeves. There were three nicotine patches attached- on each arm.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft breathed. "He began frantically ripping them off, ignoring his brother's protests. Then he gave his little brother his most disappointed look. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

To his surprise, Sherlock chuckled. "What have I done? Not much. Not much at all." He laughed harder. "Let's see, I dragged my best friend into danger because I was an arrogant sod, overconfident sod. Oh, and then I shot a man in the head. Just. Like. That. What else? Little things. I betrayed my country." His laughter continued, bitter, with an edge of hysteria. "Probably earned myself a life sentence for murder and high treason. But that's not the best part."

He stopped laughing suddenly, and became deadly serious. "I kidnapped you, and basically sold you to a monster. I betrayed my own flesh and blood."

"Yes, you did," said Mycroft quietly.

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock asked in confusion. Mycroft read between the lines. Why do you still care?

"For the same reason you were there when I was held hostage. For the same reason you were on the plane." He paused. "I knew you were planning something, you know."

"I figured as much. Why did you play along?"

"Honestly, I misread your intentions. I thought you'll take my laptop. I didn't really want you to do it, but I knew nothing would stop you from saving your friend and his family. If I had thwarted you then, you would just have come up with another plan, probably even more dangerous."

"So that's why you said... what you said. About my loss," Sherlock deduced, still not looking at Mycroft.

"Yes. I wanted you to be careful. And I wanted you to know, if any thing happened..."

"And then I tied you up, and delivered you to a madman."

"Yes. You do seem to come up with the most inventive ways to get rid of me."

Sherlock breathed heavily. "I didn't..."

"I know."

"I do think you're annoying, though."

"Of course."

"Mycroft, don't you think there's something wrong with us? How in the world did we ever get to this?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I wish I did." There was regret in Mycroft's voice.

"You would never have done that to me. No matter what."

Mycroft closed his eyes in thought. "You did it for Dr. Watson. Because he is your pressure point."

"According to Magnussen, I am yours."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock piercingly. "Why me, though?"

"Magnussen wanted you, obviously."

"No, I mean why always me? Why is it always me that you're ready to sacrifice first? No matter what I give you, I only receive your hostility in return. I must be doing something wrong. Tell me what it is. I don't want to be the kind of brother who instills so much resentment that his own brother would be willing to sell him at the drop of a hat."

Sherlock was taken aback, not only by the open and frank words of his brother, but by the genuine pain and desperation behind it.

"Why you? Because, honestly, I thought you don't care that much."

"No, that's not true, Sherlock, and you know it," Mycroft insisted firmly.

"Because you are the only one who would forgive me!" the younger man blurted. "If I treat anyone else the way I do you, they would instantly desert me. Even... John. It took him ages to forgive me for deceiving him, and all I meant to do was save his life."

Sherlock's voice was now breaking. "I had to show him I was serious about saving him, to make up for everything. I can't lose him, not again."

"I see," said Mycroft neutrally. "So I will now let you know, that I will never forgive you." He paused, looking at Sherlock's broken face. "If you ever do that again."

The younger brother quirked his lips. "I deserved that, didn't I?"

"Yes. But Sherlock, you did come through in the end."

"Hmm, yes, I was afraid you'll cause another Russian revolution, and you know what war would do for the traffic."

"That would indeed be catastrophic."

"Although I think ruling over the largest country in the world would suit your ego."

They continued the banter for several minutes, until Mycroft looked at his watch. "As pleasant as this was," he drawled in his usual sardonic manner, "I do need to get you out of here before you cause too much trouble here."

"You can't, Mycroft," Sherlock said sadly. "Not this time."

"Why can't I release an agent who executed his mission to perfection? When we planned this mission, we thought Magnussen had vaults. We also weren't aware of Mary's capture, and the Russian involvement. We had to improvise, and I let myself be taken, while signaling to you to take the suspect down. You were just following orders."

Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed. "That isn't what happened."

"It is now," Mycroft said smugly.

"Sherlock, whatever happened is in the past now," Mycroft added somberly. "The Watson's are safe. Speaking or which, you should really have a talk with Dr. Watson about how much he expects from you. I think you'd find his perception of your friendship a bit different from what you think it is.

"You are safe. So am I. And there's one more dragon that you've slayed. The nightmare is over."

"You mean Christmas?" Sherlock teased.

"Yes," Mycroft replied.

He turned to leave. "Mycroft," Sherlock called after him. "I want you to know that I gave you a Christmas present, too."

"Oh?"

"Magnussen. I shot him for you. Not for Mary, or anyone else."

Mycroft swallowed. "Be careful. You sound an awful lot like you might care."

"So do you, you hypocrite."

Mycroft huffed. "I might as well give you something, too. Only the one, of course."

He grabbed his brother in an embrace. "You're forgiven, you foolish child," he murmured, as he felt Sherlock hugging him back.