[Mycroft takes it all with heavy sighs, and a lot of acquiescing and agreeing, at least to make her rant end much quicker than if he protested. He rubs the bridge of his nose as he gets verbally shot down, and hangs up without much else to say. What could he say? He did fail Sherlock.

The next two hours pass by in a bit of a blur, with worse and worse scenarios happening in his mind. He sat back, fingertips steepled under his chin, his eyes lost in dark thoughts and worry.

And then...]

Yes? Yes, it's me. I'm Mycroft Holmes.

[He stands up, mindlessly adjusting his vest as if it mattered what he looked like. His heart had never beat so fast. His stomach had never been this twisted into knots.

Please don't be dead, Sherlock. Please.]