WARNING: No humor, just brotherly fluff in the final chapter. Kind of sappy so I apologize. Also, no more chapters after this. Thank you all for reading.

He ignored the first call, cringed at the second and finally gave in at the third. John was gone to visit family for a while, leaving Sherlock at the mercy of his brother's calls. He wanted to just sit around all day but that didn't appear to be good enough for Mycroft.

With reluctance, he answered his phone with a curt hello.

"How's John?" was the first thing Mycroft said.

"You know he's with family," Sherlock nearly spat out the final word in disgust.

There was a pause.

"It's been three days. Haven't you at least attempted to make contact? John might be expecting a call soon."

Sherlock was an adult now but still had to battle the urge to roll his eyes whenever Mycroft nagged him. Mycroft would always say that was something a teenage girl did and Sherlock would respond that he nagged like an old housewife.

"If he wants to tell me about his day so much, he can call first. It's not that hard."

"I think it would be better if you made the first contact."

"Why?" now Sherlock's brows were raised.

He knew that some elaborate nagging was on its way, so he braced himself for it. Yep. Here it comes.

"If you make the first contact, it will prove to him that you're emotionally invested in your friendship."

"But I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. You only call yourself a sociopath to avoid getting hurt. Sherlock, there will always be pain in life. But you shouldn't deny yourself good things just to avoid the bad. John is a true friend and you could lose him if he doesn't think you care."

Sherlock wanted to say that he didn't care at all but the lie refused to escape his lips. It caught in his throat, stubbornly staying put. For once in his life, Sherlock was speechless.

He pondered Mycroft's words and nearly felt sick to admit that he was right. John had been more and more depressed around him lately as Sherlock would often brush him aside or stay aloof. Little things like that eventually collect like dust and then-

And then-

John might leave.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wait," his big brother's voice was now gentle and kind. Sherlock was taken back in time. A long time ago when Sherlock was barely a toddler and he worshipped his big brother. He fell on the ground and was crying because the scrape hurt so much. Mycroft took him in his arms and told him it would be okay.

But his soothing words didn't make the pain go away. The words only made it bearable.

Maybe that was all they needed to do. Sherlock was hurt but he felt safe and secure in his brother's arms.

"Sherlock, listen to me. I blew it out of proportion. It's not like John will leave if you don't call during his vacation. He's a bigger man than that. I'm just worried that you're not enjoying what you have."

"What I have?" Sherlock finally found his voice.

"A friend, of course," Mycroft chuckled with humor.

They didn't speak for a long time. Then Sherlock spoke.

"I'll call him," he promised.

"Thank you. And forgive me for slipping into such sentimentality. So droll of me. I'm ashamed of myself."

Was it the heat of the moment? Did last night's beer go to Sherlock's head? Something happened during that phone call that was so bizarre Sherlock thought he was dreaming.

"Goodbye, Mycroft. Thanks for the advice. I love yo-"

Pause pause pause! His eyes widened. How could those words slip out of his mouth so easily? When he tried to hold them in for so long?

"I love you too."

With that, Mycroft hung up, leaving Sherlock dumbfounded. An hour later, he gathered his wits enough to phone John, who was happy to hear from him.

The brothers never spoke about their conversation to anyone.