This was intended to be the beginning of a larger Mycroft centric post reichenbach story. But I liked where I left it.

Drabbles are not really my thing, however this didn't seem to benefit form being made longer.

To say my brother is brilliant is an understatement. To speculate on his brilliance is pointless and to attempt to measure it; a waste of time. Our parents never realised that, they tested him again and again, the pushed him and manipulated him into performing better.

At least they tried; Sherlock was always too clever for that, his response was to consistently fail every test they gave him, to refuse to answer questions and to be deliberately misleading.

I like to know I am right; Sherlock likes to know he has won. And he is clever enough to realise sometimes winning means being wrong; or at least letting people think you are wrong.

In truth I envy him, he is child; he lives in a fairy-tale world he constructs around himself. I live in a world of responsibilities and adults. Lives rest in the palm of my hand and I feel that bear down on me each and every day.

Sherlock is like a thunderstorm, he blows through your life and destroys everything but good God does it feel good while it happens; he makes you forget that anything else matters but the game. I cannot imagine what it is like to live like that. Merely watching is enough to wear most men out.

I have always protected him from the worst of humanity, I gave him a safe place to be himself, even if he just resented me more for it once he realised. But it only really takes one small seemingly insignificant event to undo it all. Of all the lives I juggle, I suppose it had to be Sherlock's I dropped, maybe it was the universe teaching me a lesson.

It struck me as odd that the most heart-breaking moment of it all was watching John Watson break, piece by piece and stand there begging for Sherlock to be alive, such is the impression he leaves, that even death is not enough to stop the great Sherlock Holmes.