He looked down at the still figure of his brother, sleeping on his sofa. Sleeping. On his sofa.

He was back.

Mycroft shook his head to clear it from the unidentified emotions, tumbling over one another, preventing his mind from working properly.
They wouldn't go away.
Nor would this odd feeling in his stomach, the bubbling sensation he wasn't familiar with, and the weird lump-like thing that was stuck in his throat

He must have eaten something that was off. That was probably it.

He stretched out his hand, and ever so lightly touched the tousled black curls.

He really had come back.

How had the little bugger gotten in without any of his particularly high-tech security systems going off…?

His annoyingly uncooperative brain registered the scars, white lines covering the thin hands, an angry red mark in his little brother's neck, and he knew, through the mist of red anger that suddenly clouded his brain, that he had failed. Failed to protect the one thing he cared about, failed to shield him from pain, from hurt, and from the world.

Going by the dampness of the curls he was now stroking, even the rain had beat him to it.

He almost laughed, as the umbrella fell from his grip, landing on the floor with a soft thud that sounded like a drumbeat in the silence.

Sherlock didn't move, his breaths deep and even, with that particular Sherlock-huff-of-air occasionally escaping from his lips.

Mycroft stepped away from the sofa. With his heart racing, his chest in a tight knot, his stomach bubbling and his mind completely clueless, he felt just like he had three years ago.

Hopelessly inadequate.

Thank you all for reading/following and commenting on this story! I really love writing Mycroft, and i'm glad people like to read about him... Thanks :)

Also: I've moved to the UK, and have been without internet for a while... It's good to be back ;)