I quite like this format. I have another one planned, but it'll be smutty and Johnlocky, so I'll post it on livejournal instead. Anyway – here you go. I've wanted to do this shot for ages.

-for you!

…and One

When Mycroft turned forty-three, Sherlock was dead.

He'd never really had very many reasons to celebrate his birthday, but to say that today he was not in the mood would be a grievous understatement.

He hadn't missed the fact that his assistant had hastily stashed a bottle of champagne and a significant amount of unhealthy food under her desk when she'd seen the look on his face. Bless her: she'd always made a fuss of his birthday, and yet she was so attuned to his minute shifts in expression as to know that the gesture would not be appreciated.

As he was on his way home he'd cancelled the small gathering of a few old acquaintances that had been arranged. They'd all understood: even though he'd pretended to believe in this feud Sherlock had always tried to keep alive, apparently it had been obvious how much the younger Holmes had meant to him.

Mycroft's hand shook as he tried to let himself into his flat. He wasn't entirely sure how he had managed to keep working for the last two weeks, running mostly on autopilot and only averting full-out war with China at the last minute after a suggestion from his assistant.

He'd have to remember to give that woman a bonus.

His hand was shaking so hard he couldn't fit the key into the lock. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for him. Sherlock had told him, he'd said: he'd taken great delight in informing John that his brother would sell his soul if it helped him. He'd been horrifically offended.

And yet, that was really what he'd done. The first criminal that refused to crack under interrogation, and he'd poured out the essence of his brother into James Moriarty's willing mouth in exchange for a couple of petty criminals and solved cold-cases. Someone might say in his defence that he couldn't possibly have known the extent of Moriarty's obsession.

What was it John Watson had said? Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and you have given him the perfect ammunition.

Forget what the public thought, forget even what John Watson thought. He had killed Sherlock, not James Moriarty. What was the line? Guns don't kill people. People kill people. Jim Moriarty couldn't have done it on his own. All it would have taken was a little more strength.

But who could know how many lives Moriarty would have taken instead? How can he possibly equate the life of his own brother to possibly hundreds of British citizens?

The arguments had looped around and around in his head for the two weeks since Sherlock fell. His people had removed Moriarty's body from the rooftop the next day and he'd let John know what had happened; the poor doctor had still assumed Sherlock had committed suicide, and he'd been glad Mrs Hudson's shoulder was preferable to his own when John learned the truth.

Well, as much of the truth as they knew. Mycroft supposed they'd never know for sure exactly why Sherlock jumped, but he could only assume there was some sort of threat to the people Sherlock cared about. He wondered if that had included him.

In the kitchen, Mycroft reached for the decanter of Cognac he kept in a cupboard for emergencies. The past two weeks had certainly been an emergency. He poured himself a reasonable measure and proceeded into the living-room, flicking on the lights as he went.

"Oh, good, you're home."

He dropped the tumbler, mouth falling open in an extremely undignified manner. Sherlock Holmes lifted an eyebrow from the armchair by the empty fireplace, smirking.

"Sh…Sherlock?"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes. "Please. You didn't actually think I'd killed myself, did you?"

"I… I… no, but… we found Moriarty's body," he managed finally, his brain not quite managing to cut through the static and the scratched record of Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. "But I… I still thought you'd died."

Sherlock's face – Sherlock's face, just the way he remembered it only ashen-grey from stress and lack of sleep – twisted into a grimace. "I was only lucky he'd discounted Molly, and that I'd figured out he'd do something like this. But if you thought I was dead, I can understand your emotional turmoil, brother."

The consulting detective spat the word from his lips as though it was poison he'd just sucked out of a snakebite. Mycroft's heart contracted to the point of physical pain. "I… I didn't…"

"Good Lord, have I rendered the great Mycroft Holmes speechless?"

The lazily petulant tone of Sherlock's words was enough to kick his brain back into 'autopilot' function and find the response to such teasing. "Don't be childish."

"Sherlock Holmes grew up in an ostentatious home on the outskirts of London now used for event hire… I wonder where she can have got that information from?" His brother shook his head disgustedly, his lips trembling in a way that brought out all the brotherly instincts Mycroft still possessed to hold and soothe and shelter. "All those times I told people you'd sell me out if someone asked you, I didn't really believe it."

He had no defence, not really, but the politician in him still attempted to muster one. "James Moriarty was… I couldn't have predicted that he –"

"One look at the man and you can tell what he's like!" Sherlock snapped back immediately. "One look and you know he's criminally insane. A mastermind like that, Mycroft, you can't honestly tell me you didn't know how dangerous he was. And he asks for my life story and you just tell it to him?"

"How could I have known?" Mycroft couldn't help but retaliate, feeling more cornered than he ever had in his life. He wanted to stop making excuses, to fall at his brother's feet and beg for forgiveness instead. "I'm sorry. Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

He stepped forwards, bringing a hand to rest gently on top of Sherlock's. "Don't you touch me!" the younger Holmes cried, snatching his hand away. For a moment they stood there, Mycroft's desperate green eyes locked with Sherlock's livid grey ones.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said again, so softly he wasn't sure his brother had heard it.

Sherlock snorted. "I'll bet." Briefly, the expression of anger and disgust dropped and the consulting detective merely looked exhausted; then he almost seamlessly hitched it back up and drew a sharp breath in. "Deplorable as the situation is, I need your help. Money, and information."

"Of course," Mycroft nodded. "Both, as much as you need."

His brother swallowed. "And… a place to stay for the next week or two. I can't continue to encroach upon Molly's hospitality." Again, the elder Holmes merely dipped his head. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "First of all, though, I'm sure that wasn't the last of that brandy." He gestured to the auburn stain sinking into the carpet. Mycroft grimaced.

"Of course."

He waited until he was back in the kitchen, the empty tumbler clutched in his hand, before he let himself reach out for support and drop the polite smile he'd been wearing. This was quite possibly even worse than before, only that sounded awful – it wasn't that he'd rather Sherlock was dead, of course not. It just hurt so much more somehow to know that his brother knew how deeply he'd betrayed him, and would likely never forgive him.

Instead of pouring two glasses, he grabbed the decanter and an extra glass and went back to deal with the stain.

Sherlock was still sitting in the armchair by the empty fireplace, but he'd dropped the haughty expression of suppressed rage in favour of placing his head in his hands, looking thoroughly broken.

Mycroft banged a tumbler against the decanter gently to alert his brother to his return; somehow seeing him like this seemed too intimate, a sight he had not earned the right to see. At the sound, the detective raised his head, but did not change his expression.

"I really am sorry," Mycroft tried again. "I have been since the moment you first ran into him at the swimming pool. I… I didn't know."

Sherlock sighed and accepted the tumbler. "I know. But you…" He downed the liquid in two swallows, but waved away the decanter when Mycroft offered him more. "You just… everything's so horrible. It's hard to let go of the fact that it's your fault that I had to stand there and make John think that I… that… and now I have to cope with the fact that my best friend thinks I –"

"No, he doesn't." Sherlock's head snapped up. "I told you, we found Moriarty's body. John was so beside himself. I informed him that we'd found the body, and that it was almost certain there had been some sort of threat to him and to others if you hadn't jumped. It… the knowledge did console him somewhat."

The detective sat, shaking, staring up at Mycroft with a desperate expression. "You told him," he repeated slowly, so quiet it was almost a whisper. "So he doesn't think… he doesn't blame me?"

Mycroft would have rolled his eyes were the situation any less serious. "Of course I told him – he never blamed you, Sherlock. John Watson thinks the world of you."

Sherlock allowed him a brief smile. "And I of him."

"I know," Mycroft replied, smiling back. "I'm proud of you, you know," he ventured. Sherlock's left eyebrow made a hesitant trip skywards. "All those times I told you not to connect to people, to give up your wild fantasies and be realistic. I'm proud of you for not listening to me and doing everything anyway."

The younger Holmes stifled a yawn and put aside the empty whiskey tumbler. "Thank you."

"Bed," Mycroft insisted, removing the tumbler. "I'll find you some pyjamas."

Sherlock glared at him, but it was without fire. "Don't mother me, Mycroft," he said, but he stood up anyway, stretching slightly and grimacing as the urge to yawn again came over him.

Mycroft left him – he knew where the spare bedroom was – and found a spare pair of pyjamas from his own bedroom. When he returned to the spare room, it was to find his brother sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, wriggling his toes childishly under the duvet. He couldn't help but smile. "Do you remember that time you first told me you wanted to be a pirate?" he asked softly.

His brother looked up at him. "When I asked you to marry me and you said we couldn't?"

He shook his head. "You were five years old. I should have just said yes." Sherlock accepted the pyjamas, but didn't move to change. "I tried to protect you by making sure you didn't make the mistakes I made. I didn't understand. Maybe… maybe if I'd let you try to make friends, you would have had more luck than I did – maybe you'd be a more social person now."

Sherlock actually smiled. "Or maybe I would have been hurt." He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. "You were too young to have to make those decisions. I blame you, but it's not your fault. You shouldn't have been the one that had to teach me everything."

"Maybe not." Mycroft smiled at his little brother. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

He was at the door before the detective answered. "Thank you, Mycroft. I'm… I'm glad you're my brother. Anyone else might not have cared as much as you did."

He tried to keep a straight face as he left the room, but as soon as the door closed behind him he let the happiness show properly on his face.

He'd always wondered if Sherlock really understood how much he loved him.

"Oh - Mycroft?" issued from inside the spare room. He opened the door again to see his brother half-changed into the grey pinstriped pyjamas. Sherlock grinned.

"Happy Birthday."