"You can't tell me what to do."

Mycroft felt like pushing the obstinate child down the stairs, but settled for holding himself back and trying to exude calm instead.

Pale grey eyes narrowed. "You're angry. You want to tell me off. Is that Mummy's breathing trick?"

At seven, Sherlock already saw more than most adults, and it still unnerved Mycroft, no matter that he'd been listening to Sherlock's observations since the boy had learned to talk.

"You are correct. I am angry with you. Sherlock, I want you to try harder with the other children at school." Reason seemed to work best on Sherlock, and Mycroft wasn't above abusing anything that would get him to listen. "There will come a time when you need to co-operate with others in order to get what you want. If you continue to isolate yourself, you will find yourself unable to achieve what you set out to do. You will be very lonely in the end."

He could feel a headache starting, and resisted the urge to close his eyes and show weakness. How could Sherlock not see that he only wanted the best for him? Wanted him to do well in the world? He felt the familiar urge to just itell/i Sherlock the truth rise up inside him, but swallowed it whole.

The young boy's jaw set in a familiar scowl, eyebrows drawing together and dark curls that he refused to have cut falling over his forehead. All in all, it was a perfect a picture of obstinacy that one would ever hope to see.

"They're all stupid, they don't know anything, I'll never need them. I don't care if I am lonely. At least I've got Mummy, she doesn't make me do anything I don't want to."

Mycroft watched silently as Sherlock played his ace, the child looked triumphant as he threw himself backwards onto an armchair that sat in the corner of the study.

"Mummy will agree with me, but I see there's no convincing you." Mycroft turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room, "I'll be leaving for University again tomorrow, will you at least promise to think about what I've said?"

He watched as Sherlock frowned. "But you've only just got here."

"I've been here a month, Sherlock, Trinity term starts back next week, and I'd prefer to be prepared."

The little boy, for little he still was, despite the lanky limbs that he must have inherited from his mother, pulled his knees to his chest and scowled at Mycroft. "University's boring, you should stay here with me."

Mycroft leaped on this chance to make an impression on him. "I can't stay here forever, Sherlock, and Mummy won't be here forever either. You really ought to try and get some of the children in your year better, think of it as training them up", his eyes crinkled with a smile, "They might be more interesting when they can keep up with you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, recognising the tactic, "Maybe", was his only concession, but Mycroft was proud of it.

Eight years earlier

Carol Harper was fifteen and very upset, if the tear-tracks were anything to go by.

"Are you sure?"

She shook her head, and sniffled again, "No, I might be wrong."

"But you don't think so?"

"Uh-uh, my period's late and all."

He blushed to hear her mention it, but rallied, trying to look stern. "Alright, well, um, we should find out, go see a Doctor or something. Did you talk to your Mum?"

Carol bit her lip and shook her head quickly, "No, I can't tell her, she'll get so mad. Please let's not tell her before we know for sure."

Mycroft felt like crying. He just wanted a grown-up to come in and take over, but that wasn't an option right now. "Okay, we'll go to the doctor's first, and then see."

She nodded in relief, "Sounds good."

They'd ended up catching the bus to a bigger town so that no-one would recognise either of them, and Mycroft watched the scenery pass by with a horrible dread sitting like concrete in the bottom of his tummy. He wanted to talk to Carol, wanted to pretend that everything was normal, but every time he turned around, the words turned to ash in his mouth.

Carol sat beside him the whole way like a statue, all long and slender limbs and dark brown curls.

The result had been positive. He'd known it from the very moment he'd walked into the surgery and made and appointment to see the Doctor. Carol had gone in by herself, and Mycroft couldn't help but be relieved, although that had vanished as soon as she'd stepped out again. Once out of the office and down a side street where there were fewer people to gawk, her face had crumpled, and she was in his arms, crying on his shoulder.

He had no experience with crying girls, and was on the verge of panicking himself. "It's alright, it'll be alright." He hated himself for relying on such platitudes, but he could think of nothing else to say.

The bus ride home had been bad, and telling their parents, even worse. Carol's father was furious, and seemed ready to blame Mycroft for all the sins of the world, and Mummy had been so disappointed. Looking back, that disappointment had been the worst part.

"And you'll be paying all the costs." Robert Harper was saying, "I don't want my girl's life tainted by this at all. You'll pay for the doctors, and for making sure no-one finds out, and then you'll take the baby and give it to someone who cares."

Mycroft couldn't do anything except sit there, mutely. He felt like a rag doll, with no words of his own. He never wanted to feel like this again.

Mummy cut through the tirade. "There will be no need for that, I will adopt the child. I was never able to have another one after Mycroft, and I think it's best for the baby if it stays with relatives."

Robert flung a hand dismissively. "I don't care what you do with the brat, as long as it's out of our lives."

Carol shrunk down even further into her mother's arms, sobbing. It was difficult to tell if she was pleased or upset with this declaration. Mycroft guessed that it was a bit of both.

Seven months later, the population of the world increased by one. Carol and her family left Cirencester for good, ending up somewhere in Birmingham, and Mycroft was left with a new brother. It didn't feel like it belonged to him, not when Mummy was so pleased with it, and never left the boy out of her sight, she'd named him and everything, left nothing for Mycroft to do.

Not that he'd expected to play any sort of major role in Sherlock's life. Mum and Dad had sat him down very early on and told him how it would be. He was only a teenager, he had years of schooling left, and a whole life ahead of him and no way of supporting a child, even if he had wanted to.

It made sense, he knew it did, but that didn't stop him from wanting something more.