They say that I didn't love Mycroft, that we were estranged brothers. That I wasn't even slightly grateful for his protection or his observation. Yes, it was annoying. Yes, it was unwelcome. But now that he's gone, I realize how much I did care for him.

It was I who found the body. I'd gone to his flat to drop off some paperwork that I was annoyed that he insisted I filled out. He was on his sofa. Stabbed twelve times. All to the chest, though none directly to the heart. Lividity had begun to set in. Dead for six to eight hours. Ligature marks on ankles and wrists. He was tied to a chair and killed. He was conscious as he died. The killers were careful. Multiple killers—no two wounds could have possibly been inflicted by the same man (and they were all men). Different weapons. Different heights. Methodical. Precise. Cold. This was an assassination.

I'm trying to keep my head straight. It's hard. This matters. This body isn't just a body to me. I flash back to all the nights I spent as a child, huddled near him, going to him for comfort because Father made me need it. I see not a set of factors, but the one person whose friendship I have always had. I undervalued it. I won't be getting it back. Something inside me breaks.

John arrives just after the police do. He's shocked. Lestrade refuses to look at the body. That probably means something. I can't think what.

"Oh, my God," I hear John eventually say. "Sherlock…" He trails off. He's worried. Of course he is. Lestrade is walking over to me.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." He's speaking softly. He cares. But then, thankfully, he's all business. "What can you tell us about what happened?"

I look at the body—I must force myself to think of it as a body and not as Mycroft—and begin to speak.

"Victim was killed elsewhere—lividity places time of death at between six to eight hours. A group of a dozen men, probably hit men, tied him to a chair. The marks are strong so he'd been there for some time before they killed him. He wasn't gagged. They probably wanted some sort of information out of him before they killed him. The murder was ritualistic. Each injury was inflicted by a different weapon and person. They wanted him alive as long as possible—they didn't stab him in the heart." They wanted to hear him scream. That one thought brought back the memory of the time he fell off the roof. He screamed. It was the worst noise I'd ever heard.

He wouldn't have begged them to stop. Not Mycroft. He'd never beg, no matter what. He would have gone out with his lips sealed. In his profession, it was a risk. He was the unhackable computer. All the information the government needed to keep secret was in his head. He'd died for it.

"They tortured him, probably, going by the slight dislocation of the left shoulder and the bruising caused by the tightness of the restraints." My voice is starting to shake. I hate it. I hate myself for it. Why can't I keep it together? John puts his hand on my shoulder to comfort me and only then do I realize I've sat down in the chair. This hurts. It ought to be just another case, just another corpse, just another puzzle. But it isn't.

The coroner takes him—takes the body away. Everything in his room is neat, tidy, untouched. No signs of who did this to him. In the corner on the desk, there's a note. A list of reminders.

Learn to bake cake for S birthday

Intercept Greek intelligence concerning Japanese treaty

Confirm whereabouts of Korean missiles

Alter press concerning Libyan riots

Have medium-grey umbrella repaired

In Mycroft's clockwork world of espionage and secrets, I was first on his list of priorities. To make it worse, there was no hint as to who may have abducted him. Looking around the flat, I notice how little has changed over the years. He is—was a man of habits. Nothing has changed since the last time I was here three years ago. The coffee cup is still in the same spot, the dark ring thin. Precisely the same spot, every morning. Toothbrush on the right, toothpaste on the left. Arms on the leather recliner worn where his arms would rest as he read a book. The photograph of us as children that sits on his bedside table is the same as the one in my room. Everything is immaculately clean. Not a single speck of dust or fingerprint. He had always been patriotic. The man slept with a portrait of the Queen above his head. Even if I hadn't known him, I could have read these things from his habits. Having known him, I'm hyper-aware.

John and I are ushered away from the crime scene—there's nothing more to do. John doesn't speak in the cab, but I wish he would. I need distractions. I need something to keep my mind off the image of his pained yet defiant face staring into nothingness. Finally he says something.

"I know what you're going through."

"How can you?" I don't mean to snap, but the emotions I'm not used to feeling clip my words.

"I lost people in Afghanistan. People I cared about. Good men. The best friends I'd ever had."

"But not one of them happened to be your brother."

Silence.

Terrible silence.

Arriving home, Mrs. Hudson must have sensed that something was wrong as she made tea without complaint or encouragement. John switched on the telly. I couldn't think of anything but my brother's final moments. I could see it like a film in my mind. Mycroft, strapped to a chair, defiant. Men all around him, gloating, probably circling him, whispering that it'll be easier on him if he just answers their questions. He refuses to answer their questions so they dislocate his shoulder. He screams involuntarily. The ropes cut into his arms and legs, and he is unable to move. He speaks some expression of defiance. Their leader smiles as he takes out a knife and presses it slowly into my brother's chest. And still he will not tell them what they want to know. He's bleeding, profusely, the slowly-inflicted wound seeping the crimson flow of life from him. Another man steps in to inflict a second similar wound. Over and over this happens. Mycroft will not say anything other than half-grumbled insults. Eventually, he loses consciousness from exsanguination. Then he is dead.

I hate myself because I know I'm right. Rarely have I been wrong in reenacting the scenes in my head. For once, it hurts. I feel like I've been stabbed, too. I go upstairs to my bedroom, knowing that any moment I could break, and I don't want John to see. The instant I shut the door, the flood comes, and for the first time since I was thirteen, I sob. I break down completely, curling into the fetal position on top of my covers. And this time, Mycroft wasn't there to comfort me.

I'm a mess the next morning, or rather, afternoon. I had slept for a full thirteen hours. I feel beaten, physically as well as mentally. There's a strange compulsion to hug someone, but there is no one about. John works. Mrs. Hudson is spending the day with her godson. My head won't work right, and neither will my body. I still can't stop thinking about those slow wounds, the knives pressing slowly through every layer of skin—not jabbed. Not a quick and painless injury. Intentional. Sadistic. Normally this wouldn't be something I'd take on. Not enough interest in stabbing of a government official. But because it was Mycroft—I have to solve this.

The first thing that's clear is that Molly doesn't know who he was. Holmes is not an uncommon surname, after all, and it wasn't as though I'd informed her that I even had a brother. It's hard to look at him, lying there, naked, his wounds not even cleaned to preserve the forensics, face still in that state of anguished defiance. Despite that, I find myself staring.

"Are you alright?" She must have noticed my unusual reaction.

"Yes, I'm fine," I lie. I slap myself mentally. "I'll need checks for any foreign fibers, fingerprints, fluids, or anything else."

She nods, obedient and helpful. "Of course."

I leave the room and go up to the laboratory where, if nothing else, I could do a tox screen on my own, just for peace of mind.

Hints of sedative. They must have drugged him to get him to come. I had figured that out anyway—unlike myself, Mycroft wasn't prone to getting into the cars of people he didn't know. He didn't even like taking cabs. It's plain I can't think correctly today as I only notice that Molly has returned once she has wrapped her arms around me.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know."

John's told her. Idiot. Now I was going to have to fend off sympathy remarks. Those do no one any good. It only makes the pain worse. And to top it off, she's crying. Why is she crying? It isn't like she's ever met Mycroft.

I must be recovering. I can think of the body as being Mycroft without too much difficulty.

Not true.

I dare not look up from my microscope, even though the moisture from my tears has fogged it up.

"Molly, would you be so kind as to release me? I am trying to work." I have to keep the emotion from my voice. I mustn't let her know that I'm in the worst pain of my life. She lets go.

"Sorry. I just. I'm sorry." She puts a folder by me. "They got fingerprints that weren't his. Thought you should know."

"Thank you, Molly." Why won't the tears go away? Luckily she leaves before too much longer. I can't wait for forensics to get around to the case. I have to work on my own. I've scanned the algorithm of the fingerprints into the computer and am now running it through every database I have access to (though one or two of them I'm not technically supposed to be able to use). Now I have to wait. Nothing is as instant as I'd like. I fold my arms and desperately try to keep those imagined final moments of my brother's life from my head.

The door opens. John.

"Why did you tell Molly?"

"She asked, and she cares about you, Sherlock. She doesn't want to see you suffering."

"What's worse is everyone knowing my private business."

"Sherlock, we can't all be made of marble. Moriarty was right, you do have a heart, but for some stupid reason you lock it away. I know you're hurting. Maybe I don't know it personally. Harry and I don't get on—we're worse than you and Mycroft, but God knows if someone ever hurt her, I'd kill the poor bastard who did it."

So this was about my reaction. Or my apparent non-reaction. Good. If only I could hide it from myself. My phone chimed.

CCTV footage is in. Think you should see it.

Lestrade

He's right. I should see it. I have to see it. I mustn't see it. But I have to. I picked up my coat and left, John not far behind as always.

I watch my brother on the screen. The last time I'll ever see him in life. He's answering the door, four men in suits outside. He welcomes them in. I can't see their faces. It doesn't matter. I'll know them when I see them. Body language and mannerisms and haircuts and Albanian suits.

Lestrade fast-forwards through about an hour. They drag him out, semiconscious. Only semi-conscious. They knew they weren't going to bring him back alive. At this point, I don't even bother questioning why Mycroft had his own personal CCTV system at his flat. He did show paranoid tendencies. I don't care anymore. The nondescript vehicle on the screen is taking my brother away. I know what happens next.

"Any help?" Lestrade knows I just want to focus on the work. I admire that. He's respecting me.

"Albanian mob, most likely. Top interrogators. Or assassins." It's good to know that my rationality is still in control.

"Albanian?"

"Don't be stupid, it's obvious from their suits and that little tattoo on the neck." So stupid. All of them. "I need photographic blow-ups of any shot of these men."

Home again. The photos are splayed out on the walls, along with the fingerprint evidence. Ten at night. Looking for clues. John's cancelled his date. He wants to reassure me or something. As long as he stays out of the way, I'm alright with it. These people are too similar. Then it hits me. Brothers.

My phone rings. It's Mother. She's found out. I don't want to talk to her.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

"No. Busy."

"It says 'mother'."

"I know."

"For God's sakes, Sherlock, your brother just died and you won't even talk to your mother?"

"No. I'm rather busy trying to figure out who killed him." The phone stops ringing. Then it starts again. To my irritation, John answers.

"Hello. No, this is the correct number. This is John. No—just his flatmate, God, no. He's a bit busy."

"Tell her what I'm doing."

"N—Mrs. Holmes, he knows. He's trying to work out what happened so we can catch the people who did it." He took the phone from his ear. "She's crying, Sherlock."

"Of course she is, her son was murdered viciously."

"And she wants to talk to the surviving one." He held out the phone.

"I'll talk to her when there's closure. Not before." I snatch the phone and hang up.

"Did you just hang up on your grieving mother?"

"Yes."

"My God." I can tell that John is appalled. I don't care. I'm busy.

Hours later. Morning. Not much closer. The pain has been dulled by the five patches on my arm, but not much. Four in the morning I cried. I couldn't help it. I was putting on the nicotine patches and saw the scars on my arms from my old drug habit. Mycroft had helped me out of that dark pit. Mycroft. Gone.

It was a release, though now I'm tired from it. Grief is an exhausting emotion. My phone buzzed. I was going to ignore it as I'd ignored the fifty-seven calls from my mother (father was still continuing to ignore my existence) but it's a text from Lestrade. Consolation. I'm busy.

John comes in, hair a mess and eyes tired. He makes himself coffee.

"Did you ever talk to your mother?"

"When I was a child."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

John licked his lips before sipping his coffee. "Look, I have to go in to work today. Sorry."

"Mm." Fine by me. John leaves.

Mother calls and I finally answer. I'm not getting anywhere anyway.

"Sherlock." She's crying harder than I expected.

"Yes?"

"You know—about Mycroft?"

"Of course. I found the body."

"I'm sorry," she whimpers. I don't want to hear her whimper. It reminds me of memories best forgotten. "I'm so so sorry."

"Don't be." I'm not sure what to say. Normally I leave before the shock of hearing your loved ones are dead wears off. I was expecting that she'd want my sympathy. I didn't think she'd be giving it to me.

"Find them, Sherlock, love. Find them."

"Obviously."

"Do me a favour when you do." Great. She probably wants me to show me the photo of us as children. When next she speaks, it is cold and dangerous—I am not used to it from my mother. "Burn them."

The phrase that Moriarty used. Burn them. And that gives me an idea, though not a literal one. It won't be that hard.

I've spent hours in the kitchen with the chemistry equipment. I am finished. Then, hiring cabs, I go down the list of the people I now know to be the ones who've killed my brother. One by one, drugging them the same way they did Mycroft and taking them to an abandoned warehouse under the pretense that I'm going to sober them up. In a way, that's exactly what I'm doing.

I'm not dressed normally. I've donned a suit not dissimilar to Mycroft's. I've straightened my hair and worn it like he did. I've put on a pair of stage glasses. No one would recognize me. Not until I want them to.

They're all tied to chairs, in a circle of twelve, facing inward so they can see each other. I wait until the last one is awake before I start the performance. I know they're family. Cousins, brothers, sons, fathers. This will feel good.

"Do you know who I am?" They shake their heads. "Do you know who this man was?" I brandish the picture of Mycroft. "No? He was my brother." Part of me shouts that what I'm about to do is wrong, but I have it all planned out. I turn to the head of their group, the eldest male. "You murdered him for what? A piece of information? That's all he was worth to you? He didn't beg. He didn't whimper. He didn't plead for his life. But you will."

I take the knife out of my pocket and then the man realizes what I'm doing. Vengeance.

I start with the youngest. He's the most psychologically difficult. Then again, it's the first man I've ever killed, so it would be. He screams as the knife pierces his flesh. It's harder than I'd expected, stabbing someone without the benefit of momentum. But the blood begins to flow in increasing amounts, and I find myself thrilled with the kill. I'm enjoying my revenge. Oddly, the screaming is delightful, not jarring as I'd expected.

"Do you see? The pain I felt. It's this. It's all of this. And more." Again and again, I repeat my process. Twelve slow pressure-cuts in the youngest member of the group. I leave him to die. Ignoring the shout of protest, I continue my work. It's too fun. This thrill of power. That corner of my mind is telling me that this is wrong again, but now I've almost forgotten about revenge. The blood on my hands, the life force oozing down my fingers, making the grip on the knife that much harder, that much of a challenge. I've lost track of time. I don't know how long I'm there, slowly murdering eleven men. It doesn't matter. I know I've gone quite mad, but in the passionate fever that is grief, is it not expected?

I've finished. The leader sits, tears flowing down his face.

"And now you understand." I come within three feet of him. "How many more have you killed for the sake of information? How many people's lives have you left shattered?" I whisper. I don't shout. Whispering is more insidious. He's sobbing. I show him the gun—his gun. "Now it's time for the Pièce de résistance. You." I untie his hand. I tie it to the gun. I place it to his temple. I help him pull the trigger.

I've left a change of clothes in the warehouse. I change into my normal attire and burn the old ones—even the glasses. I'm satisfied. More than that. I'm happy.

"Where have you been?"

John's home already.

"Out. On the case."

John frowns. I'm hoping he doesn't notice the blood in my hair. I couldn't get it out without showering.

"You found something?"

"Yes, the identities of the killers. I've texted Lestrade."

"Good," John said. "You look awful."

"Stress."

In the shower, I let the warm water flow down me. In the midst of my killing spree, I had gained vastly heightened senses and they were still lingering. The water flows on my mouth, on my tongue, and it feels fantastic. I rub my hair and the leftover crimson splatters to the bottom of the shower, mingled with the soap. I smile, knowing that no one will ever find out what I've done. I'm too careful.

I arrive at the scene of last night's glorious adventure on the request of Lestrade. He wants me to figure out what happened. I tell him that the murders were obviously committed by the same person who then tried to make it look as though the leader went berserk, killing the others before he killed himself. I say the killer had intricate knowledge of how this particular cell works—their killing method, their torture methods. I say the killer probably enjoyed his work or he wouldn't have kept going through eleven men, twelve wounds each.

What I don't tell him is how much I enjoy the memory of their screaming.