Mycroft stands, the tea forgotten, he takes deliberate steps to sit at Sherlock's side, casting an arm about those shaking shoulders, grasping his trembling hands in a solid grip. He pulls his brother into a sideways embrace, tucking the dark curls beneath his chin. His eyes close, and he sighs.

"It doesn't, does it?"

It's so familiar, so simple, so hard to remember how and why they'd lost this, now that they'd both come back together. So painful to feel the what-might-have-beens against the realities, so good to feel the future potential.

It's not ok, so he doesn't say that. And he doesn't know if it'll ever get better, or easier.

"I know, my brother" he whispers, Sherlock's hair just as soft beneath his lips as it was 25 years ago. "I know."