A/N: This is set after "The Space Around Me" and before "The View From Up Here" but makes reference to something mentioned in "A Lifetime For Music". I think it would be understandable without having read that later one, though. I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

It was unwise to draw a conclusion without being in possession of all of the facts.

To be fair, when the facts were assembled across the span of an entire life, coloured by the perceptions of childhood, which were necessarily flawed, incorrectly remembered, incomplete, and hazy, it was difficult to be entirely accurate.

Especially if one had been denied a substantial amount of vital information that could alter how reality was perceived. Reality itself could not be altered, of course, but when he looked back now, it was quite easy to see how events and reactions had been utterly misinterpreted, how his child's mind had made deductions that did not hold up, but were supported by the evidence that had been available to him.

Sherlock found that, when viewed from this angle, his entire childhood was quite a bit different than he'd always remembered it, than he'd perceived it at the time.

He had been so certain of how things were, that his interpretations were accurate, because they had been what he'd grown up with, before he'd been as adept at reading people – always so much better than the other children, and the other adults as well, but still undeveloped, and far too close to his own situation to make clear judgments. Another problem with evaluating one's own life; how to draw the line between the reality of memories and their emotional overtones? Even for him, those emotions were there.

His parents were part of what Sherlock considered the old guard when it came to familial relationships. Such a far cry from him and John, two adult men marrying each other in their mid- and late-thirties, childless, each with a career, neither with strong family ties nor cumbersome social obligations. Living in a rented flat, no other home to speak of, certainly not a country home, living primarily off of John's physician's income, although they could easily have relied on Sherlock's money if need be, but that wasn't necessary. No help, no vast estate, not even a small garden to call their own. It was as unlike his own upbringing as Sherlock could imagine, particularly the part where he was married to another man.

William and Sibyl, on the other hand, were what Sherlock considered quite traditional for the British upper class. They were third cousins once removed – Sherlock had drawn up his family's genealogy when he'd been seven and had been somewhat surprised to learn that, although by this time, he'd already begun to suspect this was common for the upper crust. Still, it seemed strange to see the same name appearing on both family trees, quite some time ago. When he'd pointed this out to his mother, she'd not seemed surprised, only vaguely interested, as if this weren't at all out of the ordinary. He had learned then that it wasn't.

They had married young, more out of a sense of duty rather than romance, the marriage half arranged by their families, half arranged by themselves. Then they had more or less gotten on with their separate lives – Sherlock had never found evidence that either of his parents was carrying on an affair, and he had looked, because it seemed like it should be the case. They seemed largely uninterested in each other, as if they'd done what was required of them and could now get down to the more serious business of their own individual interests.

Although, he had to admit, William and Sibyl seemed to genuinely like each other, if not love each other. It was a difficult distinction to make. If one liked someone else enough, could it be considered love? Were familiarity and routine and companionship the same thing, or close enough to?

Again, so different than what he and John had, which Sherlock could easily classify as love. He could no longer imagine living without John, nor existing in the flat together without really passing by each other except for on the surface. He could not imagine a relationship in which he did not want John all of the time, nor one in which John did not return this ardour. He could not imagine being indifferent to John's touch, able to take it or leave it, not really needing it. He could not imagine John as a duty.

That was how it seemed his parents had approached each other and their children. They'd produced one son early on, the first child a boy, precisely what they should have wanted, precisely what their duty required of them, even in those times of a Queen on the throne, and women's liberation taking hold of the western world.

Mycroft had been the elder the first child, the oldest son. He'd commanded his parents' entire attention, such as it was, for seven long years before Sherlock had been born. And had continued to command it afterwards. He had been everything Sherlock had not been, easily managed, compliant, intelligent, but also intelligent enough to be responsible with himself, with his mind, to make decisions that were rational and would be expected of an adult.

Mycroft had been sent to boarding school when Sherlock had been only two, so he had only hazy and disjointed memories of his brother's presence in his life before that. But growing up, Mycroft had embodied everything Sherlock wished for – he was older, intelligent, calm, collected, sharp in his school uniform which was always perfectly pressed. He had friends, he laughed, he made witty jokes, he spoke confidently to adults, he understood things Sherlock did not.

Their parents gave Mycroft freedom and responsibility, letting him alone to do as he wished, trusting him to make well thought out choices. They did not hound him, they did not keep tabs on him, they did not question his judgment and decisions. He was an adult from the time Sherlock was old enough to remember, moving about the house with an air of assuredness Sherlock envied and coveted, wanting to imitate it, wanting to own it. How did he do this? What did he know that Sherlock could not figure out? Was there some secret to being Mycroft that Sherlock was not allowed to know, that was withheld because he was too young, too impulsive, too troublesome?

William, their father, had never been much interested in his children; to him, they were more like background noise in his life, which was largely absorbed with his work as a high placed engineer for a military contracting company. When he was not at work, or at some function for work, he tended to be in his study, working. His life was his job, which Sherlock understood. Married to his work, with a secondary relationship with his wife, and some incidental contact with his children.

At least, with his eldest son.

He allowed Mycroft to do what Mycroft pleased, secure in the knowledge that Mycroft was unlikely to burn down the house around them, get into trouble with his school or the police, or get himself lost on their vast property, wandering about the gardens, learning everything he could about the plants by touching, smelling, looking, tasting, as Sherlock did. He'd made himself sick on more than one occasion doing that.

Being sick was a source of anxiety in his house, the only time both of his parents descended upon him with a fervour that both frightened and pleased him. It brought a lot of attention, but he'd never faked it, because it also brought a lot of confinement in his bed. Sherlock had learned early on how to hide symptoms to avoid being tucked up in bed and not allowed to leave until he was fully well – it had made him pass out once and give himself a quite serious concussion when pretending not to have come down with the flu. He had expected to be punished for this, for lying about his health, but he hadn't been. Instead, he'd been put to bed after the doctor had cleared him, fed soup and weak tea and given access to some of Mycroft's books, because his brother had been away at school.

The only time he'd been sick that William had avoided him was when he'd had the chicken pox at the age of five. Sherlock remembered being confused about this – usually his father would check on him when he was sick as if to ensure Sherlock hadn't left his bed and was recovering on some unknown schedule, but he did not see his father for four days following his outbreak. Only later would he learn that William had never had chicken pox himself as a child, and had to essentially quarantine himself. Mycroft had had them long before Sherlock had been born, of course, so Sherlock could not have known that the same thing had happened to his brother.

While William left Mycroft alone often, giving him the responsibility Sherlock craved, because, yes, he was a child, but it was obvious he was so much brighter than most of the adults he knew, he did not leave Sherlock alone, not really. He would check up on his youngest son, asking in a tone that suggested he was forcing himself to be interested, what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock was always eager to explain his latest experiment or observation, and William listened, but never seemed particularly impressed or engaged. By the time Sherlock had been eight, he'd figured out how to give succinct answers that didn't attempt to capture his father's interest. William wanted to know his errant younger son wasn't about to cause a minor catastrophe, and that was all.

His mother, Sibyl, always seemed flustered by him in a way she didn't with Mycroft. She seemed at ease with Sherlock's older brother, able to communicate properly with him, but with Sherlock, she seemed constantly at her wit's end. Sherlock alternated between encouraging this and trying to find some way to bridge the barrier, although it never seemed to work. She always seemed a step behind him and he couldn't wait for her to catch up – there was always so much to learn, to see, to know, to do. Why would anyone want to slow down when the world was so fascinating, so full of people who were so easily read, and then the ones who were like puzzles, who surprised him, who required time and attention and consideration?

It was only when she taught him the violin that they seemed on the same page, and Sherlock loved these lessons. Music was something to slow down for, the only thing. A single note could reverberate for an entire afternoon in his head, and he could soar along the rise and fall of a scale, entranced with the beauty and genius of composers who had died centuries ago. How was it that someone could reach through time so precisely and capture him? How was it that they'd known that he needed to establish this common ground with a mother who didn't seem to know what to do with him?

Perhaps it was his fault. If he could slow down, be more controlled, more like Mycroft, perhaps they'd have an easier time with him. But it was so very hard.

Then he'd overheard a conversation he wasn't meant to hear, recovering in the hospital from the crash, John sitting on one side of the bed, holding one hand, his mother on the other side, holding his other. They thought he'd been asleep, but he'd been awake enough to follow their words, to be aware in particular of the contact between him and John, a contact he now required in his life, which his parents had never seemed to need from one another.

Mycroft had always been the responsible child, the good one, the favoured one.

How very, very odd to find out Sherlock had been utterly wrong about that.

Mycroft had been the expected one, the one who was easy because nothing had been uncertain about him.

Sherlock had been the one they hadn't expected at all, the one whose arrival had loosened a stranglehold of tension on his parents as they waited for nine months for Sibyl to miscarry for a third time.

He'd had no idea there had been two other children before him and after Mycroft, both lost over midway through the pregnancies. He'd had no idea the doctors had advised Sibyl not to try again after that, to be content with the one surviving child she did have.

No idea they'd waited each day for his arrival but never counting on it, each moment coloured with uncertainty, hope and denial warring against each other, until he had been born and suddenly been so very real.

It cast everything in a new light.

His mother had said Mycroft had been jealous. This, then, explained the distance, the aloofness, the superiority Mycroft had always projected and which Sherlock had so badly envied.

This explained William, the father who didn't need to concern himself overmuch with his eldest son but who needed to keep watch on Sherlock. There had been nothing uncertain about Mycroft's arrival. His mother had been healthy when pregnant with him, no complications before that to alert her that anything was wrong. Sherlock had been born in complete uncertainty. William had watched his wife, for whom he at least felt the fondness of familiarity, go through nine months of tension. He asked his younger puzzle of a son what he was doing and tried to listen, having troubles not because he was disinterested, but because he didn't know how to be interested.

He had been reassuring himself, Sherlock's whole life, that Sherlock was well. That this unexpected second child was not going anywhere, would not vanish suddenly, would not leave them thinking that he'd been nothing but an illusion, a shared dream almost called into being by the strength of their longing. When Sherlock had gotten sick (or made himself sick eating the plants in the garden), William would check on him to make sure this small unexpected miracle was not about to die and leave them where they'd begun, with Mycroft and the memories of lost children.

This also explained Sibyl, not flustered, but simply trying to keep up with him, to understand him. She'd understood Mycroft easily but Sherlock had kept her moving, kept her guessing, kept her trying to stay on top of a son who was unexpected in his arrival and in his intelligence and curiosity. What to do with a child who was not like her first son, who did not listen and observe quietly, but observed noisily, needed to know everything for himself, and learned so much more quickly than other children?

It had not been disinterest they had been showing him, but attention, in their own way. Neither of them used to receiving attention themselves, either from each other or from their own parents, who were cut from the same cloth, having families as a duty, leaving children to the purview of nannies and tutors and teachers and equestrian coaches. They had treated Mycroft precisely the same way, seeing nothing wrong with it, but had tried to do somewhat more for Sherlock, if only because they had not believed – not allowed themselves to believe – that he would ever be there. Because he'd been unexpected, but not unwanted.

Astonishing, really, how this changed things.

He knew he would probably never be particularly close to his parents. Even now, William still worked, often not coming home to his wife – who didn't seem to mind or notice – for twelve to sixteen hours a day. Sherlock doubted his father would want a closer relationship or know what to do with one. But he could make some progress with his mother now that he understood this a bit better, because she would welcome more contact with him and not be unable to determine how to receive it. Sherlock also doubted he'd be any closer to Mycroft, but it went a long way to explaining his brother's attitude toward him. Constantly keeping tabs on Sherlock gave him back some of the power Sherlock had stolen by being born and getting more attention, and it had also spilled over from how their parents had treated him, always keeping watch on him.

If anything, he felt it made him better with John. Simply understanding why his parents had acted the way they had made him more aware of how he was with John, what John needed, and how to provide it. He still slipped up – John was still angry about Sherlock leaving his wedding ring on the coffee table as an indicator that he was at home and sleeping – but it was easier now to see how to approach things, to understand what John needed him to do, and how to do it.

And it made him smile, inside, to know that he had something over Mycroft, some knowledge he wasn't supposed to have, that he understood something about his brother that even his brother likely did not understand.

Now he had all of the facts, and things were so much clearer for it.