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"When can we see her?" Father demanded, hands flat on Mycroft's desk as he leaned forward in that threatening yet worried way that only parents could achieve.
Mycroft paused, trying to remain expressionless, "There's no point."
He watched Mother's pupils dilate, and she hissed, indignant, "How dare you say that."
He barely refrained from rolling his eyes, exasperated. "She won't talk," he amended. "She won't communicate in any way. She has passed. . . beyond our view. There are no words that can reach her now."
Mother turned to her other son, distress clear in every movement of her body.
"Sherlock?" She urged, looking at him expectantly.
He looked back at her, confusion only slightly evident on his face.
"Well?" she prompted. "You always were the grownup."
Sherlock's brow furrowed, glancing over at Mycroft, who glanced back, if only halfway.
He couldn't argue with that.
But there's a certain heat in Little Brother's eyes at Mother's words, and though Mycroft suspects he knows what it is, he doesn't have the courage or virtue to acknowledge it.
"What do we do now?"
Sherlock sighed, slipping his hands into his pockets, "We keep moving. It is what it is."
Mother lets out a soft sigh, turning to Father, who didn't hesitate to offer his wife a comforting embrace.
Mycroft needed them to leave, needed them all to go.
Mother and Father were furious with him- he had made the final mistake, he knew.
They'd always had two children, and now that Eurus was back- well. . .
He realises his hands have started shaking against his face, and he twists the ring on his pinky to hide it. He knew Sherlock would see, anyway, knew what he would see. Knew he would see the festering regret and rage building inside him like a clogged powder keg.
But he can't. Not here. Not now.
Mother and Father stood in his office for far longer than Mycroft could care any longer to count, but he knew (or had heard) that comfort required time, and patience, and. . . empathy?
Empathy.
He'd never been too adept in such things.
Especially not now, when his stomach is beginning to churn terribly and his hands are still shaking.
Did he drink coffee today?
He can't remember. He thinks he might have, but his brain is electing to skip over details at the moment.
Well, some details.
Certainly not the intermittent shaking in his hands, or the fact that he hasn't lifted his gaze from his desk yet, or how Sherlock is looking at him, observing him.
Mycroft had failed them; failed them all. He's the shame of the family- truly he is.
But really- when hasn't that fear plaqued the back of his mind like the virus Moriarty had claimed to be? He was a virus onto himself, steadily deteriorating from the inside out.
Why was Sherlock looking at him like that? Why were his hands still shaking?
Did he drink coffee today?
His mind reels furiously, slamming into him hard, and ha can't help but gasp out softly because- no, wait, he'd just done this-
"Mother, Father," Sherlock said, like he was announcing something. "You two should go home. Talk this over, hm? I've heard communication is important for dealing with. . . this? I'll make sure Mycroft gets a proper talking-to."
Mycroft swallowed thickly, a lump forming in his throat.
"Oh, Sherlock," he heard Mother say, and felt Father's eyes on him as Mother made her way over to Sherlock, hearing a rustling as they embraced for a brief moment.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He hadn't realised their parents had even left until Sherlock was clasping his shoulder, trying to catch his gaze from where he'd buried in his hands. Mycroft flinched, bracing himself.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said, urgent and surprisingly soft. "Mycroft, breathe."
He let out a soft gasp, hands tightening around his skull, pressing into the soft, dangerous places.
"Mycroft, they're gone," Sherlock tried. "Mother and Father, they've gone."
He gasps again, only moving to press harder into his skull.
"Stop that," Sherlock reproached, prying Mycroft's hands away and holding them in his own. "Mycroft, it's alright."
It doesn't matter, he thinks. His lungs are burning and he can't breathe.
"I'm sorry," he whispers hoarsely.
"No," Sherlock whispered back, almost pleading with him, "no. You aren't allowed to apologise. We can worry about all that later. Right now I need you to breathe."
Mycroft swallowed around a lump, his vision blurring and twisting and suddenly he was back on the beach, Eurus running tauntingly around him, her ever-present toy plane "flying" through the air.
What was happening?
"Mycroft?"
He felt something wet slip down his cheek.
He should've predicted this. He shoud've done better. He was the eldest, he should've. . .
Eurus had hurt Sherlock, had hurt his parents. He'd thought sparing them the horrors of Eurus' world would be kind. He thought he'd been helping them. He hadn't wanted them to experience what he'd had to, when he'd elected to rise to this position solely for the purpose of taking Eurus' charge.
Everything he'd done, every path he'd taken, everything was carefully placed and meticulously detailed to ensure his family remained unscarred and unscathed.
"Mycroft, look at me."
He didn't understand. He'd thought he was he was being kind.
"Mycroft."
Sherlock was there; he was older, though- trench coat and scarf and gloves and all.
Mycroft smiled a little, though it quickly faded. Little Brother had such personality.
"I don't understand," he murmured. He was on the beach. He'd just been in his office. Hadn't he?
"Mycroft, where are you right now?" Sherlock asked him, green eyes fierce and gleaming with concern.
"On the beach at Home, Little Brother," Mycroft replied, almost on autopilot. His brow furrowed when the rocks flickered into concrete, so instant that Mycroft almost missed it.
Sherlock's eyes filled with understanding now. Sympathy. Mycroft didn't need sympathy.
He was a machine, a stone cold set of gears and output. He didn't deserve pity.
He wasn't human enough.
Mycroft looked away, watching Eurus stop for a moment to study Sherlock with a pragmatic fascination.
"Mycroft," Sherlock prompted. He was confident, now- demanding as he was when he'd solved a cold case. "Mycroft, look at me. Now."
He did, mind twisting sickeningly again at the concern filling Sherlock's eyes.
Mycroft had gone and screwed it up, all because he'd wanted to be a good big brother, because he wanted to love his sister.
He'd fallen for the trap of emotion and relationships again, and it'd screwed him over, ruined his family completely.
It's never worth it.
He'd always told Sherlock; it's never even worth it.
So why does he keep doing this to himself? To his own family?
Perhaps he is destined never to learn from his mistakes.
Perhaps-
"Mycroft," Sherlock cut through his rapidly spinning thoughts. "You are in your office."
Mycroft frowned, that wet feeling carving into his cheek again.
No. No, they were all Home again. Eurus is. . .
"Eurus is in Sherrinford. She's fine. We're all fine, Mycroft," Sherlock finished, standing right beside him now, still gripping his trembling hands. "Well, that's actually a relative term- but that's not the point, really-"
Little Brother was flickering, dressing down to just his cotton button-up and trousers.
The river stones turned to concrete, the skies melting away to reveal black, theatre-esque walls, mirrors scattered around the room he suddenly finds himself in.
"Mycroft?"
Little Brother's eyes were so sea green, chiding and angry and intense and so, so concerned and- no, no, no emotion only destroys, don't fall for it, it's not worth it, it's never-
Lungs and eyes burning, stomach twisting, chest tightening, vision blurring and spinning like a top-
"Sherlock," he gasped, and everything went black.
"What is it?"
"Mycroft."
He sighed silently: couldn't he be left alone for just one moment?
"Mycroft," the voice came into focus, sharper and less muffled. "Mycroft, c'mon, mate, I'm gonna need you to wake up."
He sighed again, too tired to respond.
He heard someone sigh as well, felt himself being sat up, and his name called again.
"C'mon, I need to check to your responsiveness and blood pressure."
Leave him in peace. For once. Please.
He needs a good night's sleep; it's been a while.
"What's wrong? John, why isn't he resonding?"
Sherlock.
He started, his eyes fluttering open.
"Ah, there he is," John Watson said, coming into focus as he sat on the floor near him, one leg splayed out in front of him. "How was your nap?"
Mycroft blinked several times, head pounding and blood roaring in his ears. His mouth felt desert dry, his body like lead.
"Mycroft," Sherlock said, and he managed to slide his gaze over to look at him. Sea green eyes filled with concern met his glassy brown. "Are you alright?"
Any words in his brain fled at that- he hadn't been expecting such a genuine sentiment- and he stuttered, dazed "I. . . I don't know."
Dr. Watson- John ("just call me John- please, Mycroft") - wrapped something coarse around his arm- for some inexplicable reason the coarse fabric startled and unsettled him.
"I'm going to need you to sit still for a minute," John told him. "I'd like to take your blood pressure while you're still awake, if it's all the same to you."
"Brother mine," Sherlock said again, still with that impossible sympathy in his eyes. "You're going to be okay. John knows what he's doing."
Watson snorted, "I bloody well hope I do. I've been a doctor for far too long not to. Now, being an army doctor. . . I've plenty of practice dealing in panic disorders."
Mycroft's brow furrowed, his head pounding a little harder, "Panic disorders?"
Sherlock frowned, concern shining in his eyes again, "Do you not remember-?"
Mycroft coughed, grimacing as Dr. Watson removed the wrap-around, velcro almost screeching in his ear. Too loud.
"I recall seeing the beach at home, though I don't believe that was real. . . I couldn't breathe- did I faint?"
"Yes, Mycroft," Sherlock said, and his voice was terribly soft, so gentle it took Mycroft's breath away. "That was a panic attack, brother dear."
Mycroft blinked, startled once again by the sincerity of the endearment.
"With a bit more than a touch of dissociation, at that," John added, rather too casually.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, hardened his gaze, and stared Sherlock down. "Sherlock- what happened?"
"You ran out my breath, I'd wager," John quipped instead, taking out his nurse's flashlight and grasping Mycroft's shoulder. Carefully, he shone the light into his eyes, checking the pupils as he went.
Mycroft flinched back at first, but managed to still after the first round of shining, and a stern look from John.
The doctor retreated, pocketing the flashlight, "All good. Blood pressure is no worse than normal, you're responding well, no slurring or long pauses. You'll be alright, given time."
"How much time?" Mycroft asked worriedly, pushing himself to sit a little more.
"Few hours of bedrest should do it."
He let out a little breath of relief, eyes fluttering closed again.
"But what if it happens again?" Sherlock asked, not even bothering to hide the worry in his voice.
Mycroft scowled instinctively.
"Does this happen often?" John replied, rolling his sleeves back down.
Sherlock frowned, turning back to Mycroft, who only set his jaw and scowled deeper.
"Mycroft?"
"Does it-? No, Sherlock, why would it-?"
"Mycroft," Sherlock chided, and it sounded like Mother's firm tone, but softer, more forgiving. Kinder.
Mycroft blinked; his head was threatening to go fuzzy again. Something unpleasant clicked in the back of his brain.
Distasteful.
"Um. No," he mumbled. "No, I don't believe so."
"I'll be completely honest with you, Mycroft," John said, setting his supplies to the side and fixing him with a look. "There's a chance this won't be only time- or the last, really."
"Well, what are we to do then?" Sherlock demanded. He sounded angry, but- he looked more worried than when he'd been looking for Victor all those years ago.
Emotions were too complex, too risky. . .
"Therapy," John stated, like it was obvious. "Worked well enough for me, eh?"
"Well enough," Sherlock muttered.
"Different for each person, Sherlock," John reminded him patiently, like they'd had this conversation before.
"Yes, yes."
"Would you like Sherlock to help you to bed, Mycroft?" John asked, pushing himself up to stand. "Because you are. Going to bed, that is. I understand you must be quite content to wallow by yourself on the floor, but I won't have it. Understood?"
Before Mycroft could even try to reject the offer, though, Sherlock was looping an arm under his shoulders and helping him to stand on shaky legs.
He felt weaker than a newborn kitten just out from the Thames. His frame was trembling- but it was more intermittent: a sudden clench of the hand there, a jerk of the shoulder there. Like his nerves and neurons were continuously misfiring.
"Come now, brother dear," Sherlock told him, quiet and almost soothing as he retreived Mycroft's coat and umbrella, as well.
"Let me take care of you, for once."
And in spite of his adamance that he was a full-grow adult, that he was meant to be looking after Sherlock- Mycroft closed his eyes, and let his brother carry him.