Author's note: This is for .Life, who suggested the plot to me. More about that later. She was also the first ever to favourite a story of mine and put me on her favourite author list. Encouragement is important when you're just starting, so thank you. I hope you're feeling better.

I don't own anything and please review.

It all starts – for John at least – on a wonderful autumn day.

It's one of those rare days at the end of October where the golden sun slowly trickles down the street, and it's not too cold to enjoy it.

John feels quite content as he climbs the steps to their flat with the groceries, and wonders if he can perhaps convince Sherlock to go for a walk. It's been four days since their last case, but his friend has been in an extraordinarily good mood so far and hasn't until now even once uttered the word "bored". Another reason for John to feel rather happy with his life on this Friday afternoon.

Until he opens the door and steps in the flat, at least.

As soon as he does that his good mood evaporates immediately.

Because he can see that Sherlock is sitting on the sofa –

And everything is so utterly quiet.

The only times the flat is quiet like this is when Sherlock is elsewhere – John should know, having lived for three years without the detective (though he hadn't been able to bring himself to return to the flat immediately, that had happened later).

If he is in the flat, there's always some kind of noise.

The rustling of a page in a book as it's turned; the clinging of bottles and glasses in the kitchen during an experiment; the creaking of the sofa as he turns around to lie on his other side or roll himself into a ball; his stride as he prances around; mumbling, to himself or to John, no matter in which room each of them might happen to be; violin playing or screeching or even just fingers plucking certain strings; a certain stir of the air as he searches for something in his mind palace; books or files or pictures flying around because he's frustrated he hasn't figured out who killed the victim yet; but something.

Even when he's sitting totally still, like now, there's a light stir in the air, almost like an electric current, that tells John whether or not Sherlock is in the flat when he enters it. It's like 221B only comes truly alive when Sherlock's there.

So, to see him now sitting on the sofa, and hear no sound, not one, is very disquieting.

In fact, John is scared.

Something must have happened.

He leaves the groceries in the kitchen, all but forgotten. He has to find out what happened. Or is happening. Or will happen. You can never be sure with Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

His flatmate looks at him and John almost stumbles back.

He has seen Sherlock look at him in a lot of different ways, but never like this.

The disgust is clearly written all over his face.

But before John can ask, or even stare for a while, Sherlock speaks.

"So, did he give you money, then? For the pain you suffered? I certainly hope you didn't sell yourself cheap."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John stammers, unable to comprehend.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, still looking disgusted. "Please, don't insult my intelligence." When John keeps looking confused, he spits out, "So that's how it's going to be, then?" He stands up and walks over to the window, back facing John.

"Mycroft". He says it quietly, but there's an undertone there that tells John he has to find the right words, or... he doesn't know, but it can't be good.

"Sherlock... what about Mycroft?" Then he suddenly has a thought. He is sure Sherlock cares more about his brother then he lets on, so maybe...

"Did something happen to him? Is he alright?" Sherlock turns around so quickly that John jumps.

"Is he..." Now Sherlock is the one looking confused, and John has to admit that he has never seen the consulting detective so utterly clueless. Not even in the case of the body in the car that turned out to be part of Mycroft's scheme to spoil the plan of terrorists.

Sherlock stops, then resumes, but John notes thankfully that the disgust is gone. "So you... you don't know?"

"Know what? Sherlock, please... You are scaring me here. What is going on?"

Sherlock answers by putting on his coat and scarf. "Sherlock!"

"John, I'm sorry, I have to go and see my brother. You'll hear everything when I return, I promise."

"But, Sherlock..."

"Trust me, John, please."

"Just tell me something, don't leave me hanging like that..." Sherlock looks at John, then answers, quietly, "Just think, John. Mycroft has always been keen to control every aspect of my life. I just realized that he even controlled the one thing I was sure was mine, and mine alone..." Then he leaves without another word, and John is left to ponder his cryptic words.

Sherlock makes his way to the Diogenes club, though he doesn't know how. His thoughts are jumbled and all that's left is the feeling of betrayal – and a tiny bit of relief that John really didn't know, had no part in it. At least he has this.

At least John actually likes him for himself, and that's something.

He allows the foot man to bring him to the speaking room, and, as he expects, Mycroft comes in soon afterwards, posh as always, umbrella at his side.

"Brother mine, what an unexpected pleasure. How may I help you?"

Sherlock loos at him, and he knows that Mycroft knows he knows, after all, he still has the live feed of the camera Sherlock has never been able to find in their flat on his phone, but is too conceited or maybe enjoying this too much to admit it. So he takes a deep breath.

"John".

"What about him? I thought he had forgiven you for your little stunt of pretending to be dead for three years..." Mycroft's eyes darken and Sherlock takes a certain satisfaction out of the thought that his brother didn't know he was alive, either, and that for these three years he was free. For once in his life. True, he was unhappy and missed his friends, but he was free.

Although, come to think of it, he suddenly isn't so sure that Mycroft didn't tell Moriarty everything on purpose. His brother controls every aspect of his life, after all; maybe he wanted to control his death, too. And that thought, though he'd never admit it, scares him more than anything else.

"He has. Wholeheartedly. But, please, Mycroft, I'm not here to discuss the current state of our friendship. I'm here about the beginning of it."

Mycroft stands up and makes himself a brandy, without offering one to Sherlock, but he doesn't want anything anyway.

His brother sits down again and takes a sip before raising an eyebrow. "May I ask – how did you find out?"

Sherlock smiles joylessly. "Mike Stamford is a good man, but I fear he isn't the best actor around."

Mycroft shakes his head. "I knew I should probably have made sure he couldn't say anything, but you seem rather fond of him – caring, as I told you before, is clearly not an advantage".

Sherlock sends Mycroft a glare. "I would prefer it if nothing happened to Mike now either."

The British Government shrugs his shoulders. "Why should I do anything about it now, dear brother? What's done is done. He's safe. So I take it he let slip that he knew who I was?".

"Not really – in fact, he didn't let slip anything. But if I'm standing in front of St Bart's with someone who is determined to tell me everything that has happened in his life in the three weeks since we saw each other the last time, and a black limousine drives by, and he shudders, though it's rather warm – "

"I see." Mycroft nods.

This is going nowhere, but Sherlock has to know. He just has to know.

"How did it come to pass, then?"

Mycroft clears his throat and lets out an annoyed sigh.

"You were still out of control, even after I had set you up with DI Lestrade and you had quit cocaine" and even Sherlock has known this ever since the DI knocked on his door in his then small, cheap and nasty flat and called it a drugs bust and offered him to work with the police in the same breath, it's not something he likes to hear.

"You needed someone to help you focus, to keep you occupied. You needed a friend. Luckily, I could convince Mrs. Hudson to make the rent just high enough for you to search for a flatmate." Of course he did. Poor Mrs. Hudson.

"And then I started searching. Believe me, Sherlock, it wasn't easy. I needed someone who was utterly human and therefore able to keep you in check, but at the same time someone who would be able to protect you, even from yourself; someone who knew discipline, but wasn't eager to maintain it at all times. And he must be able to stand you and like you. It seemed near impossible.

I thought, however, that a soldier would be the most likely candidate, so I went through serving soldiers your age – and once I found Doctor Watson, I knew my search was over.

Kind, a doctor, a soldier, utterly – or, as you would probably say, boringly human. But, judging by the recommendations he got because he ran to wounded soldiers even in the midst of battle – an adrenaline junkie. Which would give him a reason to stay with one. Once he'd returned of course. So..."

"So" Sherlock says, and his blood runs cold, "You had him shot".

Mycroft looks slightly exasperated. "No need to be overdramatic, Sherlock. Of course I have contacts in every British regiment. It was easy to tell a sniper to wound him, severely enough to be invalided home, but without permanently incapacitating or killing him.

I couldn't foresee that he would develop a psychosomatic limp or a tremor in his hand" – he must have hated that, he usually pretends he can foresee everything – "but that just helped my purpose."

"How" Sherlock asks, and makes sure to keep his voice neutral, though Mycroft can surely see through him, "did you get Mike to introduce us?"

Mycroft smiles – a cold, calculating smile. "You can imagine my positive surprise when I realized that one of the few people you spoke to was an old friend of Doctor Watson. So I used my minor position in the British Government to ensure John got a flat – one of these "transit flats" for returning soldiers – near the park Mike Stamford transverses everyday to get his coffee.

I had him picked up one evening after he'd tried to teach students anatomy. I'm sure I don't need to tell you all the details – let's just say, at the end of our interview, he was more than ready to introduce you two. He is rather fond of his life as it is, I believe".

Sherlock is reminded why he, before he – was made to met John, was afraid of his brother.

"And then I asked John's therapist to lay their appointments in a way that would ensure Mike Stamford and Doctor Watson meeting, By accident, naturally."

"Naturally" Sherlock repeats.

"And the rest, as they say, brother mine, is history". Mycroft downs the remains of his brandy.

Sherlock stands up abruptly.

"Mycroft... Goodbye."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I may not be able to stop you controlling my life, but I am able to refuse to see you again. That" he winces at the cliché "was the last straw".

With this, he leaves the club and returns home.

John is anxiously waiting for him, become even more worried when he sees Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock..."

"John..." Sherlock exhales. "There's something I have to tell you, and you – you might not want to stay afterwards."

John wisely chooses to say nothing.

Sherlock tells him the truth.

Afterwards, John, who has let himself fall on the sofa by this point, sits still for a few minutes. Then he clears his throat. "Is that what you meant with "keen to control every aspect of my life"?"

"Yes" Sherlock answers, quietly. "When we were little, he told me which books to read, which clothes to wear. He decided which university I would attend and was furious when I quit. He sent Lestrade over to my place so I would start to work with the police..."

John's brows furrow. "What does he do if one of his plans..."

Sherlock bites his lip and shakes his head, and John exhales. "I understand".

"I tried to give you a hint" Sherlock tells him, "On our very first case. You remember? Your question about Mycroft being a criminal mastermind? My answer was –"

""Close enough". How could I forget". Suddenly, John looks pained. "Do you want me to leave? Because – I – I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock laughs out of sheer relief. "I'm so used to Mycroft controlling me by this point – he forced me to America all these years ago, just so I could meet Mrs. Hudson because I needed a "motherly influence" – and, with you, I'm for once rather glad he did what he did. Though I'm not glad, of course, that you got shot."

John smiles. "That makes two of us, then". Then he thinks of something, and suddenly, his eyes start to glitter.

"Come on, we are going for a walk".

He all but drags Sherlock out of the flat and actually finds a secluded spot without security cameras. Sherlock is impressed.

Sherlock – Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade aren't very happy to have Mycroft in their lives too, right?"

"Right".

"so... what if we bring him down? I mean" he elaborates, when he sees Sherlock's look, "it can't be that difficult to bring on a national crisis and make Mycroft the one to blame. He wouldn't have any power then – he couldn't control you anymore."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asks, his eyes hopeful. "Could be dangerous".

John laughs. "Indeed – that's why we're doing it".

And so, the fall of the British Government is decided on in the glorious October sunshine, while said British Government is reading the Times in the Diogenes Club, unaware that his greatest gift to his brother was the biggest mistake he ever made.

Author's note: She suggested that Mycroft, being anxious to control every aspect of his brother's life, had John and Sherlock introduced.

Mind: Ahem.

Me: Yes?

Mind: You know... I read nothing about dark!Mycroft or Sherlock finding out in her prompt.

Me:... Well, it was implied...

Mind: It wasn't.

Me: You're meddling more than Mycroft.

Mind: My pleasure.

So, yeah, once you get me to think about something, it might end up being something very different. Sorry for that.

I hope you liked it, and please review.