After their mother's death, there was very little left for Sherlock in Mycroft, and he'd always been of the opinion that he had been the one to walk away. Looking back now, he can see that it was Mycroft, pulling away. Spending more time at work. Missing Winter Solstice and birthdays. Protecting him.

Something tight forms in Sherlock's chest. It feels like a rock or a hard piece of clay and makes it difficult to swallow. He allows it to exist, but doesn't bother trying to work out what it means. Understanding that feeling won't help them if and when they need to run.

He takes a sip of water. "District Thirteen's footage is false. It isn't still a wreckage. Or, if it is, it's overrun with something else."