Song: Imperfect Tense by Frank Turner

Summary: Mycroft considers his relationship with Sherlock.

Warnings: Mentions of drug use.

Disclaimer: Unfortunatly, I own nothing.

Author's Note: This chapter began with one idea and morphed into something entirely different. This is a new style for me so please don't hesitate to give constuctive criticism. The lyrics from the song are in italics

Naked and retched and retching on a hotel bathroom floor, somewhere in the City
Three days no sleeping, not eating, not feeling good anymore
Drenched in sweat and self-pity now, it's not a pretty sight

What to say in my defense, I was imperfect tense
Used to have such balance, but I don't know where it went
So won't you be my present sense

Mycroft had always known it would end this way. That didn't stop it hurting though. As he stood in the doorway of some faceless London flat, looking at the still form of his little brother he felt something clench around his heart, an iron fist burning cold. If he were any other man his pain would be clear to read on his face. But he was Mycroft Holmes. Maybe if he had been different this wouldn't have happened, but there was no point wasting precious space on pointless speculation.

If Mycroft had been any other man he would not be standing calmly in the doorway. He would be hysterically sobbing by his brother's side, holding him tightly, screaming at the world. But he was Mycroft Holmes. Instead he immediately ascertained that his brother was still breathing, called an ambulance and waited, leaning casually on his umbrella.

People accused him of not caring, but people are idiots. The truth was that he cared too much. He loved his brother with a fierce, possessive intensity, brilliant and destructive, burning through everything it touched. But if Mycroft's love was fire, then Sherlock's was ice; the tighter Mycroft clung onto it, the faster it melted away, until in the end Mycroft had to let him go or risk losing him entirely.

Breaking, I'm shaking, it's taking a long long time
To come down off this murderous medication
Trying to remember, my reasons for running myself into the ground with such dedication

What to say in my defense, I was imperfect tense
Used to have such balance, but I don't know where it went
So won't you be my present sense, sense

Sherlock lay in a hospital bed, black curls jarring against white sheets and whiter skin. He was sleeping peacefully, restless energy stilled by a combination of sedatives and exhaustion. Mycroft studied him with carefully concealed concern, face an impassive mask. A doctor appeared at his elbow and coughed slightly to get his attention. Mycroft turned to face him with questioning eyes.

"We are fairly sure that he will recover completely, however we will have to wait until he wakes up to be certain that there are no complications. The next step will be arranging his rehabilitation." Mycroft cut him off.

"Just do whatever is necessary to make my brother well again." The doctor looked into the eyes of the man in front of him and felt his blood still, frozen by the depth of feeling that he could not even begin to understand. Then the walls slammed up again, misery replaced by something darker and more dangerous, directed straight at him. Mycroft smiled almost imperceptibly as the doctor scurried away.

It was dark outside. If Mycroft was a poetic man he would compare the darkness outside to the darkness in his mind, but he had more important things to concern himself with. Sherlock had awoken briefly but not for long enough to remove all concern. In the harsh light of day it was easy to focus entirely on his brother's health, but the darkness was seductive, drawing him into the circular questions he had promised he would never ask. He would never understand why Sherlock pushed himself so relentlessly, even at the risk of destroying his brilliant mind, the only thing he held dear.

Mycroft was under no illusion as to the status of his relationship with Sherlock. He knew that when Sherlock finally awoke (and he would wake) he would not want to hear everything Mycroft wanted (needed) to tell him. So he would stay by his bedside until Sherlock woke, and when he did he would inform him of the arrangements he had made for his rehabilitation, indulge Sherlock's desire to insult him and then leave, with all the important things left unsaid.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man to let emotions get the better of him. But Sherlock was the one chink in his armor, his one weakness. And Mycroft was afraid that it was his weakness, his terrible love that had driven his brother to the brink of madness. If Mycroft was a different man he may have believed that he could give Sherlock what he needed, but he had made that mistake before. No, he would take a step back and force himself to watch as his brother flew through life with his eyes closed and his mind open, heedless of the cracks in the road. Mycroft could only pray to whatever gods were listening that Sherlock would find someone to catch him before he fell too far into the chasm that was always just ahead of him, waiting for him to take that final, fateful step into oblivion.

Cos it's not meant to be
I am lost at sea
So mermaids sing to me
Of the better times and the things that can be
Like the diamonds in the Mediterranean sea
Or the beatings and sleeping and times that I took
And of washing the drink and the drugs from my blood
And I've nothing to say in my defense
I'm far from perfect I'm still tense
They say that love can change you once
Please say that love can change me once
Come on change me

Authour's Note: Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing this. I will update this as and when I write chapters, depending on how inspired I am. Until we meet again, Fireheart93