A/N: Hey guys! Another fill here. This one is quite anxiety, and as I said in the summary there is a trigger warning for discussion and somewhat graphic description of an eating disorder. Although there will be Mystrade in this story (starting chapter 2) the main relationship focus is the brotherly love between Mycroft and Sherlock. I hope you enjoy!

Reviews would be much appreciated :)

Chapter 1: The Past

It started off as a few skipped meals at first because of some injudicious comments which wounded his self-confidence a little. Mycroft Holmes could walk around with his head held high, his intimidating glances and no-nonsense posture, but he was still an 18 year old boy trying to make his way in the world, and if they couldn't take him seriously now because of the way he looked then they would never take him seriously in the world of politics. When he'd gone to university Mycroft had thought the tormenting would stop, but no, he and his peers where in more competition than ever before and that meant buttons were pressed – childishly, with the hope of causing a reaction.

However, one day in November Mycroft was getting dressed in his room when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and turned to look, pinching at the flesh on his stomach. All he could see was unnecessary fat seeping over the top of his trousers. Maybe those people hadn't been cruelly jesting at all, maybe they had just been observing. It made Mycroft feel sick. He'd always thought he'd been tall and fairly lean but apparently his brain had deceived him with this perception. His mind was supposed to be Mycroft's only true ally, and now it appeared even that have failed him.

He was too distraught and brainwashed to see that his size was perfectly healthy for his age and height, all he could see was overwhelming imperfection and he needed to make it go away.

So, Mycroft stopped eating all together. He would drink tea to keep him going on most days, and on the days were he felt like he might faint he allowed himself to indulge in some crackers or something equally as bland with few calories. He started to notice the effects after only a couple of weeks, and it made him smile when he could actually see his ribcage actually starting to show. That would show them; he wasn't fat, he was completely in control of his body image, but he still had a far way to go yet.

No one else seemed to care or take notice of the dramatic change in Mycroft. He couldn't understand why the perturbing comments still continued, and so he buried himself even deeper into his studies until he became somewhat of a hermit, only leaving to sneak in and sit quietly at the back of his classes. He had no true friends to tell to stop, but Mycroft probably wouldn't have listened anyway. No, he was in complete control.

That was the way he stayed, until the Christmas holidays came along and Mycroft went home for the first time since leaving.

Sherlock had been excited all week. He would never admit it of course, and whenever Mummy caught him out for it he would stick his nose up in the air and pretend that he didn't know what she was talking about. The truth of the matter, however, was that he could not wait for Mycroft to return for the Christmas period. They hadn't seen each other in so long and 11 year old Sherlock felt like Mycroft was the only one in the world who truly understood him. He'd been a bit lonely without his brother to play deductions with, or even just to bicker with. He wouldn't tell Mycroft that right out though, of course.

When the day of Mycroft's return finally came, Sherlock was in his room trying to distract his eager mind with an experiment involving numerous types of dirt. When he heard the front door open to signal Mycroft's return, the younger boy immediately dashed from his room and hopped down the stairs two at a time. Mycroft had his back to him as he closed the door so Sherlock took the moment's opportunity to put on his face of nonchalance and tried to appear bored. When Mycroft did finally turn to him Sherlock's eyes flew wide open with alarm.

"Hello, brother-mine" Mycroft smiled, and Sherlock was sure he was simply trying to ignore his startled expression.

Mycroft looked so…different, and not in a good way. He was thin, far too thin. His face looked gaunt and Sherlock could see bones poking out from all over the place.

"You're not well." Sherlock stated, as for him that was the most obvious conclusion.

"I'm perfectly alright" Mycroft tried to assure him, but Sherlock simply gave him a calculating glare making it very clear that he did not believe his brother. "Where are Mummy and Father?" the elder Holmes asked, evidently trying to steer the conversation away from himself.

"In the kitchen, Mummy wanted to prepare a nice meal" Sherlock explained.

He noted how Mycroft seemed to grow paler – if that was possible – and gulped with an expression of dread.

"I should…I should go and see them" Mycroft claimed and all but brushed past his brother.

Sherlock looked after him for a moment and for once, he almost wished Mycroft had seen his look of concern.

Sherlock may have been 11 but he was certainly not stupid. He aspired to be as intelligent as Mycroft one day, but as far as other children his age Sherlock was well above them in terms of brightness. He knew something was seriously wrong with his brother and he was determined to find out what – Mycroft would have done the same for him.

Other than experimenting, Sherlock was good at research and soon after Mycroft had gone off to see his parents, Sherlock had gone to his father's study to raid the bookshelf. Given Mycroft's symptoms and his clear discomfort at the mentioning of a meal, Sherlock had one sound theory, but he felt he still needed some more evidence.

As they sat down for dinner that night, Sherlock did not miss the worried looks his parents shot each other as they watched Mycroft push his food around the plate a little before taking very small and hesitant bites. Mummy tried her best to keep the mood light by asking Mycroft about his studies and what his new roommates were like. Sherlock could tell he was lying about his 'quiet' cotenants but that wasn't the biggest concern right now.

Mummy and Father soon got into a private discussion about the new neighbours, and so Sherlock watched Mycroft discreetly out the corner of his eye as he ate his own food. He saw his older brother compacting some of it together so it looked more touched, and he even managed to slip some into the napkin on his lap.

Eventually, Mycroft placed his knife and fork together on his plate to signify that he was finished. Their mother looked over at the still more than half-full plate, her brow creased with worry.

"Are you sure you don't want any more, darling? You've left quite a lot."

"No, I'm quite full thank you, Mummy. I had a rather large lunch." Mycroft insisted with a smile plastered on his face.

"Liar" Sherlock muttered under his breath as he messed around with some peas. He wasn't aware he'd said anything out loud until he realised the rest of his family were staring at him.

"What was that, Sherlock?" Mycroft challenged.

Sherlock, realising there was no backing out of it now and fed up of everyone tiptoeing around the situation, set his own cutlery down and gave Mycroft a poignant look.

"I said you are lying." Sherlock spoke louder and much more firmly that time.

"Sherlock…" his Father started in a warning tone.

"No, I know you see it too!" Sherlock said turning to his parents. "You can't just go on pretending everything is alright. Mycroft needs help!"

"Sherlock…" Mycroft started, though his voice was laced with an underlying panic. "I told you before, there is absolutely nothing…"

"An eating disorder." Sherlock said abruptly, turning back to Mycroft. "That's what you have, don't you? Anorexia I would say by the looks of it."

There was a deafening moment of silence which followed. It was shattered a few moments later when Mycroft brusquely got up from his seat and glowered at Sherlock.

"You don't know anything. You stupid little boy" the older Holmes seethed before striding out of the room.

Another uncomfortable silence followed. Mummy eventually let out something which sounded like a sob and them quickly got up to gather the dishes as a distraction and going to wash them at the sink.

"Sherlock, that was very thoughtless of you" Father said, but there was no real scolding behind it.

"But you know I'm right!" Sherlock argued.

"Perhaps, but Mummy and I were going to broach the subject at the right moment. It's a very delicate matter and now Mycroft is upset..." Sherlock looked down at his lap then and sniffed – his eyes were beginning to sting but he couldn't let his father see. "I know you're worried…" his father continued sympathetically. "But, just give Mycroft some time, eh? We don't want to make him feel pressured into anything."

Sherlock nodded even though he did not agree at all. What if Mycroft doesn't have any time?

Later on in the evening and Mycroft still had not emerged from his bedroom where he had hauled himself up after storming out the kitchen. Sherlock supposed he deserved to have been yelled at – he certainly wasn't known for his tact – but he wasn't going to apologise for letting out what he knew to be the truth.

Still, he had been looking forward to seeing Mycroft again for so long that he didn't want to just waste the time they had, so he went up to his brother's room and knocked on the door before waiting patiently – if that didn't say he was making an effort Sherlock wasn't sure what would. He wasn't really surprised when there was no reply, so he tired calling out to Mycroft instead.

"Myc, can we play deductions? I've been practicing whilst you were away, I'm getting really good at it now…"

There was still no answer , but Sherlock was determined, though he was also growing impatient.

"Mycroft?" he asked, but not even waiting to hear if there was a reply as he twisted the door handle and slowly opened the door.

The apprehension Sherlock had felt was soon replaced with pure terror at the sight which greeted him. Mycroft was crumpled in a heap on the floor. His shirt was removed and Sherlock could see every single rib, every vertebrae of his spine, and a stomach which was completely concave. Sherlock feared he might have been sick if the adrenaline had not taken over.

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed as he rushed to his brother's side. The older Holmes was completely unconscious and his breathing was shallow. "Mummy! Daddy!" Sherlock cried. He cradled his brother's head in his lap as he waited.

Please don't die, Myc. Please don't die.

Mycroft had been unconscious for two days. Sherlock hadn't wanted to leave his side but his parents had forced him to go to school, assuring him they would take turns to stay with Mycroft so he wouldn't be alone.

The sight of the IV drip poking out of Mycroft's arm scared Sherlock to no end – that could be the only thing keeping his brother alive right now. The doctor had informed them it was likey that Mycroft hadn't eaten in nearly 3 weeks, and his body had been under this strain and abuse for some time.

Sherlock had always thought he and Mycroft had told each other everything, but apparently that was no longer the case. He hated to think about all the times Mycroft had been there for him if he was ever having trouble, and yet his big brother had had to suffer alone.

One day after school Sherlock returned to the hospital to learn that Mycroft had woken up and the younger Holmes couldn't be more relieved. He bounced into Mycroft's room to find his brother sat up in bed looking very tired, but he was conscious and that was the main thing.

"Hello, brother-mine" he said with an exhausted smile. Sherlock tried to smile back, but found for some reason he couldn't. "Mummy, would you leave us for a moment?" Mycroft requested.

Once they were alone, Mycroft weakly stretched out his arm and motioned for Sherlock to take his hand. Sherlock did so a little hesitantly at first, worried that Mycroft would shout at him again.

"I apologise for calling you stupid. You are of exceptional intelligence for your age, and I am very proud of you." Mycroft assured him.

"Thanks" Sherlock replied, although it was not the most concerning thing on his mind. "You are the stupid one for trying to deny anything was wrong. You should have told us…you should have told me."

"You are right." Mycroft replied, somewhat to Sherlock's surprise. "I was a fool to ever think I was in control of this. I care too much about what people think of me, and I must confess it has clouded my judgement."

Sherlock nodded trying to supress his rising anger at the people who'd made his brother feel this was a necessity. His took a deep breath to calm himself and then looked Mycroft squarely in the eyes.

"I'm going to help you through this, brother, I promise" he said, and gave Mycroft's fingers a tight squeeze.

Mycroft nodded and attempted a weak smile.

"Thank you" he replied as a tear escaped down his cheek.