Sherlock never liked to admit that the events of his childhood had played such a large role on who he would become but they had. The man who hadn't deserved the space in Sherlock's memory to remember a name, had taken a part of Sherlock, a part of him that he could never get back. It was Mycroft, always Mycroft ever since he was a babe that had been there to protect him, and Sherlock had expected that piece of him to be rescued, to be saved.

Sherlock hadn't known why he hadn't told anyone; shame maybe, embarrassment, the thought that people would think him a liar because he'd still cared about things like that back then. But then Sherlock had never had to tell Mycroft anything for him to know that something was wrong. He'd always known. But that time had been different as Mycroft was around less and less as his studies and job kept him far too busy.

For a while, Sherlock had thought he'd deserved it, that it had been his punishment for giving the people in his life such a hard time. But then he'd been angry, and hated everyone and everything. And after a bit, he'd just stopped feeling at all, locking it all away because it was easier that way.

That night that Mycroft found them, Sherlock had felt a thousand things at once, the dam opening at the sight of his brother. But most of all he'd been terrified of his brother, of the violence he had inflicted on the man and after that Sherlock barely recognized Mycroft as though his brother had changed into someone else right before his very eyes.

Mycroft had called someone, had the man taken away and helped Sherlock clean up. Sherlock had wanted to confess it all, but he couldn't find the words and Mycroft had been so angry. Mycroft was never angry and that had terrified Sherlock. They didn't talk about it, not in the weeks that followed, not for a long time. Mummy had tried to talk to him about it once, but he'd closed her out. It wasn't something he'd wanted to discuss. On the outside things had gone back to much the way they'd been before the man, but everything was different. Sherlock was different. Mycroft was different.

And then finally the day that he'd wanted to talk, that he'd tried to talk, and Mycroft had looked right through him, with that face he wore when he was on a business call. But it hadn't been perfect yet, the mask, and Sherlock saw it, saw the truth of how he felt. Mycroft didn't want to talk about it, so Sherlock hadn't. He'd never tried again. Not with anyone.

Sherlock had never had felt attraction before those events and certainly hadn't had any interest in sex after. Oh, he'd done his fair share of things to get money for the drugs when he'd needed it, but it hadn't been because he'd enjoyed it. It had been a necessity like any other, done because you had to, not because you liked it or wanted to. Mycroft would have given Sherlock the money if he'd asked, he knew, but he couldn't cross that line.

It had been a copper of all people, Detective Inspector Lestrade who had been able to pull Sherlock out of that life, offering him a new addiction in place of the old. But for this new one Sherlock needed all of his senses, needed his mind sharp and not clouded with the high of the drugs as great as they were at disguising the past. Sherlock had known that Lestrade's reasons for helping hadn't been all that altruistic, but it had been what Sherlock had needed at the time.

Sherlock had been fine with his lack of sexual interest, with how he was, or he'd thought it hadn't been important. Things changed with the entrance of John into Sherlock's life. With John, Sherlock wished that he was interested. There was nothing he wouldn't do for John, nothing that he didn't want to experience with John. Caring is not an advantage, the mantra that his brother had taught him so many years ago went out the window with John, and Sherlock hadn't fought it, hadn't been able to fight it.

Mycroft's little show for John wasn't really a surprise, but it wasn't really welcome either. Oh, Sherlock wasn't blind to miss what his brother did, the surveillance, the overdose that should have seen him dead only to wake up in the hospital with his treatment paid for in full by an anonymous beneficiary. Sherlock knew that Mycroft was there, but couldn't help but hate him a little for it.

Sherlock had forgiven his brother a long time ago, but he could never forget. It hadn't been Mycroft's fault, not really, but for a long time, Sherlock had blamed him, blamed himself. It had been years before he could admit that no one was to blame but the man. And by then Sherlock had lost himself. The gap between them had been too wide for him to traverse, as he'd been more than a little leery of risking himself to that kind of hurt.

All Sherlock had needed was the words, for years he'd hoped that Mycroft would come save him as he'd always done, but he knew what Mycroft thought of him, had seen his disgust so many times, and knew that it would never happen. There was no going back to what they'd had before, not matter how much Sherlock wanted it. He loved his brother, but he didn't need him anymore.

The past didn't define Sherlock, but it was a part of him that he could never 'delete' no matter how hard he wished it. Maybe with John, Sherlock could be himself.