Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling tears running over his cheeks. Normally, he would wipe them away, pretending that his eyes had been watering and that he just was allergic to something in his surroundings, but this time, he let them drop from his chin onto his feet or the grass in front of him. One drop after another, slowly falling down until he wasn't able to see them anymore.

It was cold, far to cold to run around in his pyjamas with bare feet and no jacket or coat, but he didn't care. He enjoyed the cold breeze on his skin, the feeling of cutting blades scratching in his flesh until there was blood. Maybe the pain would go away when he entered the house again, watching the stars from his window and not from the outdoors. Maybe he would be able to close his eyes and to pretend nothing had happened. Maybe people would believe him that he was okay - okay in his interpretation, for them, he was just someone who was strange - and they would leave him alone like always.

He felt weak, like a little puppy waiting for someone to bring him inside again. It was foolish to think they would care enough - they had proven him wrong so many times that he had already lost count. They wouldn't notice that he had left until he came inside again and they would probably ignore him because of some important guest. Politicians, people with more influence than brains who still ran the government.

He gulped and tried to fight off a sob. They had told him just this morning, five hours had passed since then and it was the first time he was alone to let his emotions run free. Some would laugh at him, tell him that he was just a silly, little boy worrying to much. Others would try to comfort him, to tell him that everything would be okay and that no one could hurt him anymore.

He wasn't hurt.

His brother was, but no one cared for him.

They just saw the crying, little boy in front of the gigantic manor and thought he might be alone; their house was at the border of Britain, far away from any other children or people his age with his interests. He had never been lonely, he enjoyed the silence. And he had his brother that was enough company for him. He didn't need any friends, dumb and silly, boys trying to mock the girls with frogs or jokes that only they, with their infantile minds, thought were funny.

People thought it was strange that a boy at the age of five enjoyed the company of his 12-yeared old brother, but for them, it was fine. No rivalry, no arguments or screaming because they destroyed each other's toys. Their toys were too expensive, microscopes, telescopes and books older than their father would ever be, his alcohol addiction damaging his liver and killing him slowly.

Sherlock had a calendar and he marked every day his father would look ill or vomit with a smiley, every normal day with a black cross. He waited patiently.

His brother was the only friend he needed, intelligent and smarter than Sherlock, calm and friendly to everyone, even people Mycroft hated - Sherlock didn't know them yet, but he never doubted his brother's appraisal - and for whom he would never smile willing., He was already being schooled at home, and he taught Sherlock everything he knew or was taught during his lessons.

They spoke German, French and Spanish together because their parents weren't able to understand them. It was their secret language to keep things concealed from them, moments when Sherlock stole their father's computer and they would easily hack it to use the internet, or moments when they stole their Mummy's diary just to see if she finally was brave enough to get a divorce.

Mycroft was the only person Sherlock was able to love.

And then his brother started to get quiet, never saying a word to anyone who wasn't Sherlock. He once told him that he wanted to speak, but he just couldn't - something inside his soul wanted him to be lonely, wanted him to get desperate and need to talk to people. Mycroft wasn't like Sherlock, he enjoyed company he could deduce and embarrass behind their backs. But he changed and Sherlock began to worry.

Their parents didn't notice the change. Puberty, they said when Sherlock asked them if there was something wrong with his brother, it was the hormone's fault. Mycroft started to hide in his room, turning the lights off until it was dark, until he wasn't able to see anything. Sometimes, when Sherlock came back from his violin lessons, he was able to hear crying. Muted, like Mycroft didn't want him to hear it.

He didn't laugh anymore. He just smiled when Sherlock did something great, like hacking into father's new computer with better safety guard or when he had finally been able to play the new composition of Mozart without any interruptions, and patted his head, told him in short sentences that he was proud of him. Sherlock asked him if he was okay and Mycroft lied, told him he was fine, just a bit tired.

Sherlock started to watch him in the night - he didn't need the sleep, he was allowed to rest during the day - when he was sleeping. Mycroft never closed his eyes, he starred at the ceiling and covered his mouth with his hands. He tried to force himself to stay quiet. Sherlock knew he tried to be silent for his little brother sleeping in the room next to his, his brother with the sensitive ears, able to hear anything which wasn't normal. Crying wasn't normal, especially during the night when one was supposed to sleep.

He tried to warn his parents, tried to tell their nanny that there was something wrong with Mycroft, but who want to believe a little child? They thought his imagination was going wild, showing him dragons, and mermaids, and a crying brother.

He had liked his nanny, she had always been kind and sweet to them, but from that day on, he hated her with a passion no child should be able to feel. She quit one week after that day, a nervous wreck close to a break-down.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock was the cause of her termination, but he didn't sell him out.

When Sherlock had been four and Mycroft eleven, Mycroft would only leave his room to go out with Sherlock. They would go into their garden, watching the gardener take care of their roses, daisies and sunflowers, never talking. They just sat in the grass, Sherlock on Mycroft's lap, the elder's hand stroking the younger's curly hair, and they both knew these were the moments worth living for.

"Unsere Eltern ignorieren uns," Sherlock said and lent back to let the back of his head rest against Mycroft's chest. "Sie haben eine neue Nanny gefunden. (1)"

Mycroft didn't say anything, he sat still like a statue, and the only evidence that he was a living creature was the raising of his chest and the heartbeat right next to Sherlock's head. Sherlock turned around and wrapped his arms around his brother. He could feel some tears dropping on his skin, but he didn't say anything about them and neither did Mycroft. They just sat there, both with the knowledge that they needed each other.

Sherlock knew that something had happened between his brother and their father before his birth. There was always something strange and dangerous shining in father's eyes, like a predator waiting until his prey made its final mistake and he could close in for the kill. Mycroft always tried to avoid father, he quickly left the room whenever Father came in or he starred at the wall or his book, he sometimes tried to pretend that he was asleep. Father never noticed, he just circled around Mycroft, examining him like food.

Mycroft always stiffened when father touched him, sometimes just a hastily caress over his shoulder, sometimes a squeeze of the hand, now and then the stroking of his ginger hair. Mycroft never jerked back or ran away, but Sherlock saw the fear in his eyes, shining tears and a trembling lower lip. Mummy never noticed. Sherlock did and it made him sick.

He was too young to understand why Mycroft feared their father so much. He never hurt them, never screamed at them because he was away all the time, travelling to America, China or France, the only times he was at home were when he was meeting with important people. When Sherlock had been three, Mycroft was forced to participate.

Sherlock always watched them from a bush in front of the gigantic window. Mycroft sat next to his father, between him and Mummy, and the old men and women around him. They talked, drank wine and champagne right in front of a child. Sherlock was young, but even he understood that this wasn't right. They smoked, they laughed, they talked about dirty gossip, about the newest affairs of a rich man in the US - they described how he shagged his new mistress right in front of his wife. And Mycroft had to listen to everything, he had to watch and learn because father wanted Mycroft to be like him in the future.

Cold. Ice-cold without a heart. An android created to earn money and to run the country.

The windows were always closed, but he had been able to lip-read since he was two – Mycroft had taught him. It was a useful skill that he was proud of, how easily he could read everything they said, even if they all talked at the same time because everything slowed down when he concentrated on the movements. Like slow motion.

The last time he'd heard Mycroft's voice had been five days after his birthday. No one celebrated it with him because Mummy was crying in her room because of a negative pregnancy test and Daddy was in Africa, bribing some politicians to enslave the people. All for the money, he used to say, all for glory, money and a nice car waiting in the garage. They had five cars and father never used one of them.

Sherlock had been lonely with his cake, the one he had stolen from a bakery thirty minutes away from their home, and the candle burning at the top of it. There were arms around him and suddenly someone kissed his cheek. The low, beautiful voice of his brother spoke directly next to his ear and he still remembered every single word of the whispered promise.

"Regardless what I will do, brother," Mycroft said, he sounded sad and his voice was shaking, "it won't be your fault. Happy birthday, Sherlock, enjoy it."

He sat down next to Sherlock and turned his head to look at him, faking a smile that both boys knew wasn't honest, but it was fine for now. Sherlock was glad he had come. That was all that mattered.

Sherlock blew the candle out and smiled. Mycroft gave him a tiny present, wrapped in golden paper with silk ribbons painted on it. It was an old pocket watch, expensive and unique with the engraving 'Enjoy it as long as you can.' When Sherlock had been four, he thought that these words were good, that Mycroft wanted him to be happy all the time for the rest of his life.

Now he knew he wanted him to enjoy his life before it was over.

The fifth day after his birthday was a sad one. Daddy came home and dragged Mycroft into his room, locking the door and drawing the curtains. Sherlock heard crying and shouting, but didn't knew what happened. Father stormed out of the room one hour later, his knuckles red and scratch-marks on his arms and cheek. Sherlock ran inside.

There was a whimpering body on the floor, lying in a pool of blood and tears.

Mycroft.

His brother jerked back when he tried to touch him, telling him to get out because father would come back. When Sherlock asked him why Daddy hurt him, he could see resignation in the bright eyes of his brother. He wiped away Sherlock's tears, running over his cheeks unnoticed by Sherlock, and looked down.

"Leave," his brother said and, if Sherlock had known it at the time he would have begged him to say more, his last words for a few years were spoken with a trembling voice, "Please, leave."

And Sherlock, the little child, innocent and naïve, thought his brother didn't want him to be there. That he didn't want him to comfort him because he hated his little brother more than their own father.

Sherlock left.

He had regretted the choice every day since then.

Because, one year later, they didn't speak a word to each other. Mycroft never left his room again, and if he did, he only left when Sherlock wouldn't see it. Sherlock stopped watching his dreams because he was huffish and disappointed, thinking that Mycroft hated him. So he hated him, because it was easier to live with someone in the same house when you hate him too. He left the room when his brother entered, he stopped speaking other languages and he would never look his brother in the eyes again.

Maybe this was the reason why he didn't notice how desperate Mycroft had become. How broken, lonely, and tired. Five days after Sherlock's first day with his teachers, he entered Mycroft's room to find it empty.

Mycroft was nowhere, not in the house nor in the garden. Sherlock ran to his parents, they told him that Mycroft had moved out. He was a genius, already finished school and able to live on his own. Because people thought he was clever enough, intelligent and grown-up.

Sherlock laughed dryly, the sound mixed with tears and a scream. No one heard him because his brother was far away and his parents had already left again, flying to Jamaica. He lifted his arms and clutched his head, digging his fingers in his skin until it started to bleed.

When his parents came back five weeks later, their son had changed. The happy child became a silent, angry one, too smart for his own good and with no brother to tame him anymore. The beast was born and the beauty was gone, far away with his own grief and pain.

Mycroft wrote letters, only for Sherlock in which he told him he was fine, that he already had an apprenticeship training in the government because of their father. That he was glad Sherlock seemed to manage and that he knew that his brother hated him. But this was how life works, he wrote and the letters blurred because of Sherlock's tears, it never was fair and Mycroft had to work, had to get a high position to protect his brother.

He asked him if Sherlock would forgive him.

Sherlock never answered.

On one of the letters was a little red spot. Sherlock didn't care, he destroyed the letter without reading it.

Mycroft still wrote him, even if they lived in the same city and he visited Sherlock almost every day.

He always asked Sherlock if he could forgive him. Sherlock never answered, he always destroyed the letters without opening them. John saw them, but he never dared to ask. He saw the tears shining in Sherlock's eyes, saw the shaking of his fist, he just made some tea and talked about nonsense distracting Sherlock.

He never opened them.

This was the reason why he was almost the last person to notice that Mycroft wasn't happy with his life.

John was the first.

He opened one of the letters and saw the blood next to the tiny letters, five drops next to the question 'Will you ever forgive me, brother?'

(1) Our parents are ignoring us. They found a new nanny.

I don't know how this idea came into my mind, to be honest. I just listened to "Rubik's cube" by Athlete and the plot crossed my mind, forced me to run down to my PC and to start writing this.

I hope you'll like it, it's going to be dark and dramatic, with sadness, tears, blood and love.

Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading.