CHAPTER FOUR

A/N: At last, I've finished the final part. I really cannot begin to apologise for taking so very long to, not only update, but finish this all together. I swear, I truly am sorry.

Regardless, I really hope you enjoy this, since you've all been waiting for it for so long *head!desk*. Thank you so much to everybody who has left reviews, followed this or even more spectacularly, followed me XD It really does mean so much to me, so truly, thank you.

Alright, I'll stop talking and let you read. Please enjoy, and once again, thank you so much

The car wouldn't start.

Tobias and Tiberius had both spent hours trying to fix it. Even Sherlock, armed with every scrap of mechanical knowledge he could dredge up from his Mind Palace, and Mycroft, armed with a direct line to her Majesty's most trusted mechanics, had tried their hand at breathing life into the old beast.

Regrettably, none of them enjoyed any sucess.

Aunt Scarlett had taken her car with her to drive Grandmamma to the station in Paris, for her lunchtime train trip back to Bruges and wasn't expected back for some time. Everybody else had left already.

'We'll just call a cab,' Mycroft announced after his fifth call to their plane's captain, delaying take-off for another hour.

'From here?!' Tobias gasped, as if he'd lost his mind. 'It will cost a small fortune.'

'I can cover the expense,' Mycroft assured, already beginning to search for taxi companies on his phone.

Right up until Tiberius snatched it from his grasp, narrowing his eyes reproachfully.

'Absolutely not, Mycroft,' he announced.

'We said we'd get you there and we will,' Tobias continued. 'Or at the very least, we'll make the arrangements.'

Mycroft sighed.

'It's really no problem I assure yo-'

'Mycroft!' Sherlock irritably snapped, 'They're not going to take 'no' for an answer. Just stop arguing and let them find an alternative, this is wasting even more time and I have business to attend to in London this afternoon.'

Mycroft hesitated a moment longer, before reluctantly nodding, smiling politely and replying, 'Of course, you are right. My apologies.'

Twin grins split across their uncle's doughy faces, and with a lot of pomp and fervent assurances that everything will be sorted out in no time they left to phone everybody that they knew and call in favours.

Mycroft sighed.

'Perhaps we should start walking,' he murmured.

Sherlock smirked.

'Legwork,' he reminded.

Mycroft scoffed, shuddering good-naturedly at the reminder.

He seemed to be back to normal Sherlock mused whilst they set about liberating the least sickly looking pastries for breakfast.

He didn't look like he was about to start crying again, which was a relief. Sherlock honestly had no idea what he would do if he was confronted with the particular show of emotion again. It is something that had bothered him since childhood, Mycroft crying. There was just something fundamentally wrong about his big brother who, in spite of all his faults, had somehow become a pillar of strength in his life, falling apart.

He shook his head roughly. Best not think about it.

Other than that, apart from the occasional flinch at raised voices or people coming too close and the occasional daydream, he seemed pretty much himself again.

Sherlock still didn't know the identity of his attacker.

And he still wasn't sold on John's theory. Certainly, it made sense, in an abstract sort of way, but people had been persuaded to believe ridiculous things when the facts had been twisted enough to resemble proof, and Sherlock had no way of knowing if that was what had happened here.

Everything he knew about his brother rebelled against it.

Mycroft was strong, perhaps one of the strongest men Sherlock had ever known (not that he would ever tell him that). The thought of him being beaten, being scared, it simply did not compute with the man he knew, or even the boy he knew, who fought Sherlock's bullies for him and taught him how to cope with the pressures of being an outsider (the inevitable by-product of their intelligence). It just didn't make sense.

And yet in spite of this, something kept niggling away. Memories of Mycroft pleading for forgiveness after the bed incident, his over-reactions to silly things, like running in the house and sitting and standing straight… but that didn't mean anything.

So, Father may have been a strict parent, that didn't automatically equate to abuse. And the bed thing, he'd been 14, of course he would have been humiliated and… well he'd always been a bit of a drama queen.

Besides, Mycroft had once said Father had taught him everything he knew about the science of deduction. Men who abuse their sons do not then choose to mentor them in their free time.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock blinked, glancing up sharply at his brother, sitting across from him.

'Pardon?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'I said, would you please pass the butter,' he sighed, holding out his hand.

Sherlock wordlessly obeyed.

Mycroft frowned.

'Are you alright,' he asked as he slowly spread the butter on his toasted slice of banana bread. 'You've been awfully distracted.'

Sherlock frowned.

Should he ask? He wouldn't get a straight answer, of course, but perhaps he would be able to deduce something from what wasn't said.

But this was Mycroft. He wouldn't let anything slip, and then he'd be on his guard as well. Best play the waiting game. Feign ignorance and catch everything he doesn't bother hiding from a 'non-existent' audience.

'Sherlock?'

That's what he'll do.

Smirking, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and faced his brother.

'There's nothing to worry about Mycroft,' he drawled. 'I've told you already. I have a business this afternoon. A most promising client has requested to see me regarding a vindictive future Sister-In-Law and a set of troublesome university photographs.

Mycroft returned his smirk.

'Most engaging,' he chuckled. 'Try not to fall for the blackmailer this time will you.'

Sherlock blanched.

'We had a mutual respect for each other's intelligence-'

'Is that what the kids are calling it these days?'

'Oh go and eat a cake!'

Chuckling, Mycroft resumed tapping away at his blackberry, not deigning to provide a response.

For half an hour they sat in relative silence (and peace), Sherlock sending irritated (read: whiny) text messages to John and Lestrade whilst Mycroft slowly began to transform his half of the kitchen into some breed of improvised office, with cake ('An ideal set up for you I'd have thought.').

That peace and quiet was quite spectacularly disrupted by their Uncles who, almost the second the clock ticked past ten, burst through the door with loud and victorious cries.

'We've found someone!' Tobias heartily cried. 'Finally!'

'We told you we would,' Tiberius chuckled, pouring himself some of the coffee Mycroft had brewed. 'And you doubted us.'

'Never Uncle,' Mycroft smoothly replied, a polite smile curling his lips. 'So, to whom do we owe our gratitude, other than the both of you, of course?'

'You'll never believe it,' Tobias scoffed, sharing a conspiratory glance with his partner.

'Oh I think I might,' Mycroft replied, and there was something… off with his voice.

Sherlock glanced over, and frowned. He had gone absolutely still, sitting straight and tense in his chair where he'd earlier been quite comfortably reclining and Sherlock, who never put much stock by gut feelings, was hit by the decided wrongness that was radiating off his brother in waves (although his face, as always, gave none of this away).

Tiberius chuckled.

'Well my boy,' he replied, clapping Mycroft soundly on the shoulder (Mycroft tensed further still, although discreetly enough for it to go unnoticed by all but Sherlock), 'Your father will be here within the hour.'

Sherlock's eyes widened as the knuckles of his brother's hands actually turned white where they were folded together on his lap.

'He was only just setting off himself,' Tobias cried, peaking inside the cupboards for even more food.

Mycroft smiled tightly and Sherlock's frown darkened.

'How fortunate,' he calmly replied, before swiftly standing from the table and sweeping from the room, a drawled, 'I'll just go and inform the pilots, they'll be absolutely delighted,' his pardon.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock stood himself and moved to follow him, only to be accosted by his uncles and frog-marched back to the table before he could so much as reached the door.

'I don't think so,' Tobias chuckled, 'The last thing you need is to skip breakfast.'

'Most important meal of the day you know,' Tiberius added.

'God knows you're only skin and bones as it is.'

'How it must break your mother's heart.'

Mycroft returned five minutes later.

'I think I just might go and bring our bags down,' he announced from just inside the doorway, already stepping back out to the hall. 'Won't be long.'

'Oh no you don't,' Tobias cried, 'You need to eat as well. You're almost as bad as your brother.'

'Now I wouldn't say that,' Mycroft chuckled, moving to flee once more only to be grabbed under the arm and hauled back over to the table.

'Skin and bones, the both of you,' Tobias cried, thrusting a downright alarmingly large muffin into his hands. 'Now eat.'

'I really can't,' Mycroft replied, smiling uneasily as Tobias manhandled him into the chair.

'Why not?!' Tiberius cried (Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Mycroft discreetly winced at the outburst).

'Well you see I'm on a diet and-'

'Oh what utter rot!'

'A Diet! There's nothing to you!'

Sherlock tuned them out in favour of searching for clues to disprove John's theory.

Okay, so his hands were shaking a bit, but that could be down to anything: fatigue; lingering nerves from the day before; too much coffee.
Having said that, his hands had been perfectly steady all morning, right up until their Father had been mentioned.

What else?

Well he'd made the call, or at least a call, although Sherlock couldn't see any reason why his brother would call anybody but the pilots (he'd been emailing his office all morning). So his reason for leaving the room had been genuine.

Other than that he had re-tucked his shirt, put on a tie and waist-coat and… good lord, he'd put on a shinier pair of shoes. Sherlock struggled to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
The sad part was that wasn't even all that out of the ordinary for Mycroft, who had been known to change suits before leaving the house. Having said that, on those occasions he was usually trying to impress someone. Out here there were only family around, family who he had been perfectly happy walking around in shirtsleeves before.

Seeing as the only recent change to their plans was their father's presence, it stood to reason that it was him who had inspired Mycroft to change into more formal outfit, which did not sit well with Sherlock.

But then, he had already known that they didn't get on, so it didn't really make a great deal of importance in the grand scheme of things.

There had to be more, surely- well that's interesting.

There were droplets of water littering the shoulders and collar of his crisp white shirt. There was no sign of moisture on his grey waist-coat, so whatever had happened occurred before he put it on.

He could have wet the comb to brush back his hair… but his hair was quite dry… and not brushed back. There were however quite a few patches of moisture beneath his chin, the sides of his neck and the shells of his ears.

Sherlock frowned at that. It wasn't hot, so he hadn't done so to cool down. He hadn't shown any real signs of fatigue throughout the morning and surely he'd drunk enough tea and coffee to stave off any that he'd managed to keep hidden. He wasn't a messy eater, so he wasn't washing his face. It could be nothing of course, but the only other reason for such behaviour Sherlock could think of was as an attempt to calm down a racing mind.

And he was nervous. The instant the announcement had been made, or rather, the second Mycroft worked it out, the behaviour from the wake had returned with full force. Where he had been acting more and more like himself all morning, he was now wincing and flinching and sitting stiffly and avoiding contact with everyone (a difficult task whilst one was in the sights of Tobias or Tiberius Vernet, let alone the both of them).

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully.

This was second time he'd seen Mycroft take a sudden and uncharacteristic turn to nervousness and both times it had been triggered by the mention of their father's impending arrival.

An uncomfortably heavy weight had begun to settle in Sherlock's stomach as John's theory began to sound all the more believable whilst his own reasoning became feebler and feebler.

'It is very nice,' Mycroft politely remarked, smiling up at the men who loomed over him at both sides.

'We did tell you that you would like it,' Tobias replied, chuckling cheerfully as Tiberius clapped his shoulder again (this time Mycroft actually jumped in his seat (Tiberius promptly apologised for knocking what he assumed to be a bruise)).

'Yes,' Mycroft chuckled, smiling tightly again. 'You did. Well, I think I'll go and get those bags now.'

And somehow slipping past the quite profoundly large men, he fled the room without another word.

Sherlock sighed as his Uncle's returned their focus on him.

The facts may not have proved John's theory right, but they had done nothing to disprove it either, which was worrying.

He would just have to pay really close attention when the two main subjects of this conundrum finally met.

Sherlock had never been to a hospital before. A proper hospital that is, not the doctor's surgery in town that liked to call itself a hospital.

He should have been excited, interested at the very least. They were only ten feet from the elevator and he'd already seen someone having their IV readjusted, someone else in the middle of a physiotherapy session and somebody else vomit all over a nurse (who, he had to admit, took it with surprising grace and lack of fuss).

And yet he wasn't excited, he wasn't fascinated. Instead, he was terrified.

It was the first time he was going to see Mycroft for three days, after he almost murdered him at the dinner table (no, not murder, manslaughter. Sherlock hadn't intended for it to- he'd never dreamt-).

What if Mycroft hated him?

Surely he shouldn't care. He hated Mycroft after all.

But the thought of Mycroft hating him, actually hating him, Sherlock found it left a bad taste in his mouth and his tummy feeling funny.

'Come on sweetheart,' she murmured, smiling reassuringly.

Sherlock bit his lip, but followed obediently.

She squeezed his hand and whispered, 'It's alright sweetie.'

Sherlock's eye widened as he realised that his grip on her hand had tightened in his distress.

With a blush creeping over his cheeks, he quickly dropped it and snapped, 'I know it is.'

Mummy sighed.

'It's okay to be scared-'

'I'm not scared!' Sherlock snapped with a dark scowled, stuffing his hand into his pockets as he turned to glare moodily at the ward floor.

Shaking her head, Mummy reached down and ran her fingers through his curly hair, a gesture Sherlock had always found comforting.

'Well come along then darling,' she murmured, gently nudging him along with her. 'Let's go and find Mycroft, shall we?'

'Whatever,' Sherlock muttered with a shrug. 'I don't care.'

Mummy's brow arched, but before she could reprimand him for his attitude, a large man with a stethoscope around his neck popped out of an open office door with a big smile spreading slowly across his dark face.

'Oh, Ms. Vernet, I thought that was your voice,' he rumbled, his voice soothingly deep and slow.

'Dr. King,' Mummy replied, smiling in returning and quickly shaking the man's hand. 'We were just on our way to see Mycroft. This is my youngest son. Sherlock, say hello.'

Sherlock frowned and pressed himself back against his mother's side, fixing the doctor with a calculating stare instead.

Mummy sighed.

'He's a bit shy,' she attempted.

'I am not!' Sherlock snapped.

'A bit rude then,' Mummy replied with a put upon sigh and roll of her eyes. 'Apologies Doctor.'

Dr. King laughed.

'Nothing to worry about Ms Vernet, I'm afraid young Sherlock here is going to have to work a lot harder to shock me in regards of bad manners.'

'Is that a challenge?'

'Hush, Sherlock. Is there anything you wanted to talk about, Doctor?'

'There is actually, if I could just have a quick word in my office?'

'Of course,' Mummy replied, glancing down at Sherlock. 'Sweetheart, could you go and sit by the nurses' station for a moment? The doctor and I won't be long.'

'But I don't want-'

'Sherlock. Now.'

'Fine,' Sherlock sighed, stomping off across the hall and plopping down of the plastic chair with a moody huff.

Mummy didn't spare him another glance, following the doctor quickly around the corner.

Sherlock sighed, slumping in his seat. This was going to take forever, he could tell, and the nurses weren't being very interesting at all, just talking about Melissa's relationship with Tom from Oncology (which apparently, is very obvious even though both participants think they've been quite sneaky and managed to hide it).

Sherlock groaned and slumped further in his seat, kicking his legs.

What would the doctor want to talk to Mummy about anyway? She already knew everything about what was wrong with Mycroft surely. Unless something had changed. But he hadn't seemed worried, so it might not be bad. Then again, doctors weren't supposed to panic about these things, were they? And they delivered bad news all the time, they'd get used to it.

He couldn't tell with just that to go on, he needed more data.

Sherlock glanced over the counter.

'It's sweet to watch really,' one nurse, Trudy, chuckled as she set about filling out the sheets on her clipboard. 'Ducking into storage cupboards, making eyes at each other across the ward, he's even started catching the same bus as her, sweet thing'

Another pressed her fingers to her chest and loudly sighed, 'Oh, young love.'

Sherlock grinned and silently slipped out of his chair.

They wouldn't notice he was gone for a while, if they ever noticed he's been there to begin with (he hadn't really made himself known, after all).

He crept down the white and grey hall, past four doors, before finally finding a Doctor C. King's office.

The door was open and Sherlock could hear the man's deep voice.

'- have some concerns, regarding how quickly the infection in his lungs developed. You did say that he'd been sick for about a week, maybe a little longer, correct?'

'Yes,' Mummy anxiously replied. 'At least, I believe it is.'

'That's alright Ms. Vernet,' Dr. King murmured consolingly. 'Ordinarily that would have given us enough time to catch it in its early stages, for someone of your son's age. He probably could have gone straight home with antibiotics.'

'Ordinarily?'

Sherlock frowned as the doctor hummed grimly.

'Indeed. I was finally able to track down some of his earlier hospital records,' he solemnly replied. 'Were you aware that he has suffered from illness three other times in the past four years.'

Mummy gasped.

'I wasn't even aware he had any other records,' she uttered. 'He's 14. How on Earth?'

'We're not sure ourselves,' King replied. 'We're running tests to see if there is something predispositioning him to the infection, but nothing has turned up positive yet. We have detected some scarring on his lungs,'

'Oh my-'

'It is no doubt a result of the past infections. Ms. Vernet, would you like a moment?'

'No, no, please,' Mrs Holmes all but whispered. 'I want to know.'

Sherlock wasn't sure he did. His heart was pounding against his ribs and he was feeling lightheaded. This was all sounding terribly serious. He wasn't sure he wanted to know just how bad-

No, don't be stupid- he needed to know.

Gulping thickly, he crept even closer to the door.

'I've tried talking to him,' the doctor continued, 'To see why he didn't report it in the early stages; after all, by now he should have recognised the signs.'

Mummy sighed.

'I've tried myself,' she confessed. 'He just keeps saying he didn't want to cause a fuss.'

Dr. King hummed again.

'Yes, he said very much the same to me. Regardless, delaying medical attention as long as he did, especially considering his history, has allowed the infection to become a great deal worse than it needed to be. I'm not telling you this to scare you Ms. Vernet.'

'Oh, I understand,' Mummy replied, though she sounded really sad.

Sherlock's heart began to pound harder still. Why was she upset?

'It is a serious illness, Pneumonia,' King continued. 'It's not something to be taken lightly. Though it's not nearly as fatal as it used to be, considering how bad it has become this time around, Mycroft may very well be the exception-'

Sherlock felt like his heart had stopped beating.

As a rule, Sherlock didn't like anybody the instant he met them. That wasn't to say that he disliked them. Rather he liked to approach introductions the way he did crime scenes, with a clear mind and sharp senses. To do otherwise, so far as he could see, was almost unforgivably stupid (and would inevitably end in embarrassment).

And yet, the second Siger Holmes stepped out of his luxury Rolls Royce, Italian loafers crunching against the pebbled drive, a sneer already twisting his puffy, red face into something entirely unpleasant, Sherlock found himself instantly experiencing intense and alarming sensations of loathing towards the man.

He hadn't the slightest idea where his uncles had drawn the comparison between him and his brother. Siger Holmes looked nothing at all like Mycroft.

Where Mycroft was tall, Siger was more so. Not only that, he was just generally large. Not overweight, per se, although there was a distinctive bulge around the old man's middle, implying a sedentary lifestyle and fondness for rich food and liquor (whisky today, if the man's breath was anything to go by); but overall larger featured, and more muscular than Mycroft could ever hope to be.

His features were sharper, his eyes greyer (if Sherlock were the poetic sort, he'd describe them as infinitely colder) and his wide mouth was turned down in an unimpressed sneer that didn't seem to ever shift but to become all the more unimpressed.

No, in comparison to this man, Sherlock would describe his brother as a relatively soft and friendly looking man (which, considering the subject, was really quite telling).

He didn't let any of his distaste show, of course. His first and foremost goal for the morning was determining if their father had: a) attacked Mycroft the other day; and, b) abused him as a child. He needed to gather more evidence and people were always more difficult to read when they were hostile.

So when Tobias enthusiastically waved him over, Sherlock chose to bide his time and just grin and bear it.

Mycroft, had all but fled the second the car had come to a stop, announcing he would fetch the bags. Ordinarily he wouldn't do that, as it could be considered impolite. Therefor he was probably trying to avoid the old man for as long as possible. Sherlock filed the information away.

Siger himself seemed just about as interested in having a big Father/Son moment with Sherlock, as Sherlock was with him, but shook his hand and made brisk small talk regardless, in order to appease their overly-sentimental onlookers (which Sherlock appreciated).

All the while, Mycroft had fetched the bags, helped the driver pack them into the boot, discussed where they were going and how they should get there, apologised for the inconvenience, enquired if he could assist with anything else, insisted that it really was no problem, before finally running out of excuses to avoid becoming a part the touching family moment and reluctantly coming to join them.

Sherlock promptly sent his uncles back into the house, on a wild goose chase searching for the laptop he insisted was in the bedroom, but was in fact safely in his suitcase. The fewer distractions he had, the better.

'Ah, the prodigal son returns,' Siger drawled, as his customary sneer twisted further still.

'Father,' Mycroft replied, smiling politely and offering a (still slightly trembling) hand to the man.

Siger looked down his nose at it for a moment, before sniffing dismissively and retrieving his phone instead.

Mycroft let his hand drop back to his side.

Sherlock frowned.

Mycroft wouldn't usually take that without comment, and he wouldn't usually just stand there, waiting to be acknowledged the way he was doing right before Sherlock's eyes.

He'd avoided interacting with the man for as long as he possibly could, and Sherlock hadn't seen him so tense in years, since the cocaine days perhaps… no, it was worse than that even.

It may not prove John's theory, but Sherlock couldn't honestly say that it disproved it either.

They had an unhealthy relationship, more so than Sherlock had anticipated, that was obvious. Where Mycroft was making an effort at civility, their father openly, unabashedly and unnecessarily rudely rebuffed all of those efforts, which was enough for Sherlock to feel justified in disliking him.

But it still wasn't enough to determine abuse… not yet.

And what was Sherlock supposed to do if it did turn out Mycroft had been abused? The thought was just so foreign, he had been so convinced of its impossibility he hadn't even considered it.

What do people do in such situations?

He was broken from his contemplations by another disdainful sniff from their father.

Glancing up from the Blackberry, Siger turned back to Mycroft and, narrowing his eyes, snapped, 'What happened to your face?'

Mycroft blinked.

'Pardon?'

'Your face. Boy. What happened to it?' Siger snapped again, arching a bushy brow significantly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Mycroft had been asked by everybody he'd passed what had happened, he'd not hesitated once. Surely their father's interest should not have come as such a surprise.

Siger's grey brow arched sharply as he snapped a gruff, 'Well?'

He watched as, once again, the proverbial walls came up around his brother as he cleared his throat and obediently told his story, all diplomatic-smiles and self-depreciation.

'You tripped,' Siger scathingly drawled.

Mycroft paused, cleared his throat and cautiously replied, 'Yes, Father,' before pulling his biggest fake-smile yet.

Their father stared for a long moment, waiting until the smile began to waver, before letting out yet another disdainful sniff, turning on his heel and marching away without so much as a word of acknowledgment to either of them.

Mycroft finally allowed the smile to drop entirely.

Sherlock frowned. Well that all got him nowhere.

'Has he always been like that?' he asked.

Mycroft scoffed bitterly.

'This is him on a good day,' he replied mildly, although the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke of nothing but hatred.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and promptly announced, 'I haven't the slightest idea what Mummy saw in him.'

Mycroft scoffed again, but less bitterly and more amused than the last time.

'Nor do I,' he muttered, shaking his head.

Turning to face his brother, Sherlock decided that it was time to dive in head first. Observation was not getting him all that far in way of new information, he was just confirming what he already knew.

'Why are you so scared of him?' he asked, in an attempt to startle a response out of his brother.

It failed.

'I'm not scared of him,' he calmly replied. 'Weary, perhaps. He's a wearisome man. It's a long trip to the air-field. I'd rather not spend it in a confined space with him in a mood the whole way.'

Sherlock scowled.

'I'm not an idiot, Mycroft,' he said.

'I never suggested you were,' Mycroft replied, frowning.

'You are scared of him.

Mycroft laughed.

'I'm really not,' he said. 'We have a history, Brother-Mine, that is all. You and I have a history as well-'

'Our history doesn't result in you being terrified of me,' Sherlock stubbornly argued.

'If only you knew.'

'Stop it,' he hissed. 'I am being serious.'

'Well that certainly makes a nice change.'

'Shut. Up. Mycroft,' Sherlock irritably snapped. 'You're just trying to distract me. I'm not-'

'And idiot, you said,' Mycroft drawled, rolling his eyes.

Arching his brow significantly, Mycroft calmly assured, 'There really is nothing to distract you from, Brother. Let's just let it go, shall we?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously and opened his mouth to announce, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be letting it go and Mycroft's lack of co-operation was merely an annoyance, not a deterrent, but was cut off when the front door swung open and Tiberius and Tobias bustled out, announcing their failure to locate the laptop.

Mycroft stepped in before Sherlock could send them off again, suddenly 'remembering' that he had packed it away with his own belongings and apologising from the mix-up.

Before Sherlock could negate that, the driver stepped up and announced that everything was ready to go.

'Excellent,' their father boomed, strolling back over. 'We will leave now them.'

'Are you so eager to get rid of your boys already, Old Man?' Tiberius teased.

Siger turned, smirked, and smoothly replied, 'Of course not.'

He clapped a hand on Mycroft's shoulder (and where his brother had been beginning to relax again, he was suddenly rigid once more).

'We just don't want to be late. Do we boys?'

Mycroft obediently smiled stiffly and uttered the expected, 'Of course not. Things to do.,' before somewhat sagging with relief the second he was released.

'I'm even less convinced now, than I was before,' Sherlock hissed under his breath as they waved farewell to their Uncles and headed over to the car. 'Why are you playing along?'

'It's for the best,' Mycroft grumbled.

'Bollocks,' Sherlock snapped

He stooped to climb into the car only to be pulled back upright by the upper sleeve of his coat, which was clenched tight in his brother's fist.

Eyes narrowing dangerously, Mycroft leant forward so his mouth was level with Sherlock's ear, and hissed, 'Considering that in this instance, I am the one who knows our parent the best, perhaps we can safely assume that my opinion is the more reliable one, don't you think, Brother?'

Sherlock frowned and turned to face him.

'And if I don't?' he asked, the acid that question would ordinarily be dripping with notably absent.

Mycroft, before he could stop himself, glanced over at their father, lumbering towards them.

'Just mind your tongue for once in your life, Sherlock,' he hissed, before pushing him into the back of the car and climbing in himself.

Sherlock's cautious stare did not waver as he readjusted himself and buckled in.

'What are you so scared of?' he whispered.

Mycroft froze.

Seeing his chance for something resembling fact, Sherlock leaned forward and announced, perhaps a bit more vehemently than he had planned, 'I won't let him touch you. I swear.'

Mycroft glanced over at him.

The passenger side door swung open and the as their Father's conversation with Tobias and Tiberius came to an end.

'It's not me I'm worried about,' he whispered, before Siger dropped into his seat, closing the door with a loud bang (Mycroft promptly shut his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath).

Sherlock's widened. Confirmation. That was his confirmation. Mycroft was scared of their Father, he saw him as a threat, not only to himself, but Sherlock too, all of the facts added up.

He opened his mouth to reply only to be cut off by Mycroft's hushed, 'Not now-'

'What are you whispering about, Mycroft?!' Siger snapped, shooting a sharp glare over his shoulder.

Mycroft immediately averted his eyes to avoid the old man's.

'Nothing, Father,' he swiftly replied.

Siger turned in his seat, eyes narrowed and brows drawn sharply down and together.

Sherlock's eyes widened further still, until narrowing into furious slits.

The leather gloves he'd been wearing throughout their earlier conversation had been removed and the purple-red bruises dusted across his knuckles were displayed for all to see.

There was no denying it now. Siger had definitely been the attacker from the day before.

'When I ask a question, Mycroft,' he said, dangerously quiet, 'I expect an honest answer.'

And the childhood abuse wasn't looking all that ridiculous anymore either.

Mycroft nervously cleared his throat again, and quickly murmured, 'We were just revising our schedule, Father.'

'Speak up, boy,' Siger growled with frustration.

Sherlock watched, astonished as his brother obediently repeated himself louder, a bright red blush creeping up from beneath the colour of his shirt.

Siger shook his head and gave a disgusted snort.

'You've not changed,' he grumbled.

Mycroft sighed and turned to stare out the window, a blush tinting his neck, cheeks and ears a bright red whilst his hands balled into tight fists on top of his thighs all the while.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and held his tongue, biding his time. Siger Holmes would not be getting away with that.

The exception?! Mycroft was the exception? They thought Mycroft was dying?! The stupid git was dying just because he had to go and make a point to Sherlock and… well that wasn't entirely true was it.

Biting back a gasp he scrambled away from the door.

He was dying because Sherlock had gone and run him out of the house. He'd killed his own brother.

The doctor was still talking but Sherlock didn't stay to hear anymore.

He haltingly stumbled back to his feet.

What was he supposed to do now? Would the police come for him, when it was discovered who was really to

blame? What would Mummy do – with one son in the ground and the other locked up for putting him there. Gulping thickly, he decided it would be best if he ran for it, best for everybody. That way, Mummy wouldn't have to feel obligated to visit her son's murderer.

He shook his head roughly as his vision began to blur.

He had to see Mycroft first. Whether he was on death's door or merely approaching it, he had to know that Sherlock was sorry.

The blood continued to roar in his ears as he, almost in a daze, stumbled down the hall in search of him.

Room 17: Not Mycroft.

Room 16: Not Mycroft

Room 15: Not Mycroft

Room 14: Not Mycroft

Room 13: Not Mycr- wait! Bed 6 looked-

'Mycroft?' he called hesitantly, inching through the door.

The sheets shifted and Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed.

His terror increased tenfold as he chewed at his lower lip and crept over to the bed in question, dragging over the chair standing beside it for visitors.

Climbing on top and he tentatively peered over the edge, feeling his heart leap up into his throat the second he did.

Mycroft was really pale. That was the first thing that struck Sherlock. Really, really pale, except around his eyes and lips, which looked bruised, like someone had punched him. And there were things hanging out of him, needles stuck in his hands and tubes coming out of his nose and… Sherlock gulped and squeezed his eyes shut, only to snap them open a second later.

'Hello,' Mycroft croaked. 'Wasn't expecting to see you here.'

Clearing his throat, which felt like it was shrinking, Sherlock slowly murmured, 'Mummy brought me.'

'I figured,' Mycroft huskily replied. 'Where is she?'

Sherlock gulped again.

'T-talking to the doctor.'

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed.

'Ah.'

Sherlock bowed his head and, sniffling a little, mumbled, 'I'm sorry, Mycroft.'

Mycroft blinked, and if Sherlock had been looking he would have witnessed a rare show of profound shock flash across his brother's face.

'Um, it's alright,' he awkwardly replied, carefully clearing his throat before asking, 'Why are you apologising?'

Biting his lips, Sherlock glanced up and guiltily replied, 'You'd have never got sick if I wasn't trying to keep you outside all the time.'

Mycroft slowly inclined his head.

'Perhaps not,' he conceded.

Sherlock sniffled again.

'I didn't mean for this to happen,' he whispered just a tad tearfully.

Mycroft sighed.

'Although I really do appreciate the remorse, it's really is alright, Sherlock,' he murmured. 'I get sick easily, that's all. It's not your fault.'

'It is!' Sherlock keened.

'Sherlock-'

'I didn't mean it!'

'Sherlock.'

'I mean, if I knew it would kill yo-'

'I'm sorry, wait a moment… kill me?'

And for the second time that day, Sherlock's heart felt like it had stopped beating.

His head snapped up and his eyes widened with horror.

'Nobody's told you?'

'That I'm dying?' Mycroft coughed as he pushed himself into a more upright position. 'No, nobody's told me that. I think I would remember.'

Sherlock didn't think it was possible, but he felt even worse than before.

'Oh no,' he uttered, almost inaudibly.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft sternly snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. 'Who has been telling you that?'

Sherlock gulped.

'Sherlock, tell me now!'

Dropping his gaze down to his hands, which he was wringing in his lap, Sherlock softly whispered, 'I- uh, I… the doctor wanted to talk to Mummy alone. S-She told me to wait with the nurse's, but it was boring and I was curious. So, I found the doctor's office, and they were talking inside, and they were talking about how sick you were, a-and how much worse than usual it was a-a-and how pneumonia wasn't very fatal these days, but because of how bad it is, you… you…' he cleared his throat, 'Y-you are one of the exceptions. That means you're going to die. I'm sorry.'

Mycroft allowed himself to collapse back against his pillows, and when Sherlock finally gathered the courage to glance up, was shocked to find him smiling.

'Why are you smiling?!' he cried. 'I just told you you're dying and you're smiling?!'

Mycroft let out what looked to be a painful laugh.

'Mycroft?!'

'Sherlock, did you actually hear the doctor say that?' he asked, still grinning even as he rubbed circles over his chest.

Sherlock scowled and snapped, 'Yes!'

'Exactly that?' he asked. 'Pneumonia is rarely fatal, but I am the exception?'

Sherlock nodded quickly, before stopping and frowning as he thought it over again.

Actually, he didn't really hear him say that he Mycroft's case was definitely fatal, had he?

'He said it 'very well may be',' he murmured, glancing up at Mycroft with wide eyes. 'That still means you might die.'

Mycroft grinned.

'The doctor did actually talk to me earlier,' he murmured soothingly. 'Not about me dying, but he's still a bit cross with me for not taking it as seriously as I ought to have. So he told me that if I carried on ignoring the symptoms if this happened again, although pneumonia's not nearly as fatal these days-'

'You might be the exception,' Sherlock slowly finished.

Mycroft chuckled.

'-Next time, yes,' he replied.

Biting his lip, Sherlock warily asked, 'So, you're not going to die?'

Mycroft's rueful smile softened.

'I'm not going to die,' he confirmed. 'Not this time at least. Sorry.'

'S'okay,' Sherlock mumbled, sniffling a little.

Mycroft leaned over and gently ruffled his hair (and Sherlock, surprisingly, found it just as comforting as when Mummy did it), before sinking back into his pillows, murmuring, 'It's nice to know you care.'

'Yeah, well don't do it again!' Sherlock snapped, shuffling up to his knees and promptly flicking his big, fat nose with one hand whilst the other rubbed roughly at his own eyes. 'You great big, fat, stupid, drama queen! You scared Mummy!'

'Ow! You were remorseful a second ago, don't spoil it.'

'That's until I realized you're just being cry-baby again!'

'I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you! You said so yourself!'

'You're just doing it for attention!'

'Unbelievable- hey! Give me back my book!'

20 minutes later an incredibly irate Mummy dashed into the room with Doctor King hot on her heels, both almost collapsing with relief upon spotting Sherlock, although neither acted on it as at the time, he'd been standing on the end of Mycroft's bed, gleefully threatening the safety of his copy of 'Animal Farm' in spite of the former's spluttered objections and orders to return it.

Nobody other than the two of them ever learned of Sherlock's first real display of true affection and regard for Mycroft, and though their day to day interaction never changed all that much, neither of them ever really forgot it.

The very high quality umbrella Mycroft found laying across his pillow upon arrival back home, the one that cost one little boy the entire contents of his money tin and went on to guard its recipient from the elements for years to come, was testament to that.

By the time the car was moving, Siger had poured himself three fingers of whisky (without so much as glancing to see if Sherlock or Mycroft might have been interested in a glass, naturally) and had drunk a third of that before the tyres had touched the cracked bitumen of the country road. He kept that pace up for the length of their journey together.

And as the liquor flowed, so did the old man's words, bitter and scathing each and every one of them.

'How long will it take for us to reach the air field Richards?' he eventually asked after his fifth glass.

'A little under an hour, Sir?'

'Of course,' he spat, twisting around in his seat to snap at them, 'You two ought be bloody grateful.'

'We are, Father,' Mycroft replied, before Sherlock could get a word in (and feeling the way he was, it would have been quite a choice few words of that).

'I'm taking time out of my schedule for this,' he carried on, oblivious to his youngest son's flaring temper.

'I assure you, Father, we appreciate it,' Mycroft insisted, his tone earnest in spite of the muscle twitching defiantly in his jaw.

'Don't get smart with me,' Siger snarled, eyes flashing dangerously.

Mycroft tensed reflexively at the man's anger, and promptly averted his eyes again.

'My apologies. I didn't mean to be,' he softly replied.

Siger sniffed and turned back around to sit properly in his seat.

Sherlock had never hated someone as much as he did that man.

'You should have thought ahead. Stupid boy.'

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he too glared down at his clenched fists.

Sherlock knew that his brother had always hated being called 'boy', even when he was one, and yet he'd not said a word voicing his distaste for the term.

Instead he calmly, if not somewhat meekly, pointed out, 'The car broke down, Father.'

'Excuse me?!' Siger snarled, twisting back around sharply.

Once again, Mycroft went rigid at the action, but repeated himself regardless.

'The car broke down.' He said again, his tone calm in spite of the pronounced twitch in his jaw. 'It was unavoidable. If it were inconvenient, we could have called-'

'Do not talk back to me!' Siger hissed, eyes flashing dangerously.

For a brief moment, Mycroft defiantly held his Father's gaze and quietly stood his ground.

Of course, it didn't last. Sherlock watched with wide eyes as the old man's steely grey eyes flashed dangerously, the muscles in his large hand visibly shifted beneath his skin, and his brother's ordinarily iron-strong will, deserted him entirely.

Sherlock's fists clenched of their own volition as he watched him shamefacedly avert his eyes once more and murmur another apology.

Siger was still not satisfied.

'Speak clearly,' he sneered.

Mycroft sighed, and obliged.

'And sit up straight,' he hissed, turning back in his seat. 'I didn't raise you to slouch like some sullen adolescent.'

Sherlock grit his teeth and tried to stop himself from saying something that would make the situation worse.

He'd bide his time and wait until they reached the air-field, that way he could confront the bastard without Mycroft around, or at least give his brother the option of leaving.

That was the smart thing to do. But it wasn't easy.

He had never, never, seen his brother beaten down and downright humiliated, the way he was at the hands of that man, their father.

He'd seen people try, he'd seen many try. Each and every one of them failed. Mycroft had always managed to outwit them or fight them off somehow. Even when on the rare occasion he didn't come off all that great from a fight, they never managed to truly defeat him. He always got the last word or had some master-plan in mind. With him, it was very much win a battle, lose a war. It was one of the few things that he and Sherlock had in common.

But this, Sherlock had never seen, he'd never wanted to see his brother like this, humiliated, broken, defeated.

And Siger showed no inclination of letting the matter rest. In fact, he seemed to just be warming up.

'What do you do with yourself, Sherlock?' the old man asked, glancing over at him.

'Sherlock's a consultant for Scotland Yard,' Mycroft swiftly replied, before Sherlock could let loose a less than polite reply. 'He helps the homicide division solve their most obscure cases-'

'Is he mute?' Siger asked, cutting him off.

Mycroft blinked.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Your brother, is he mute?' Siger asked, deceptively calm.

The twitch returned.

'No, Father. He is not.'

'Then cease being impertinent and let him speak for himself,' he sneered.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, jaw clenched tight enough to warrant another visit to the dentist in the near future, before clearing his throating and smoothly replying, 'Yes, of course. My apologies.'

Sherlock's frown darkened.

Mycroft glanced over at him, arching his brow significantly.

He got the message implied in the gesture. 'Tread carefully, Brother'.

And going completely against his nature and desire, he obeyed and dutifully carried on where Mycroft left off.

'Well yes,' he drawled, lacing his fingers together on top of his lap, lest Father spotted them clenching into fists. 'As Mycroft said, I consult with the detectives of Scotland Yard. I'm the one they call when they're out of their depth. Which is alw-' Mycroft cleared his throat significantly (earning himself a sharp glare from Siger). Sherlock sighed, and irritably grumbled instead, '-Awfully good of them.'

Siger hummed, vaguely impressed.

Sherlock felt a twitch beginning to work in his own jaw.

Was his approval supposed to mean something to him?!

'Engaging work is it?' Siger asked.

'I'd hardly waste my time on it if it weren't,' replied simply, not trusting himself to say more.

Siger rewarded his response with an approving grunt.

Sherlock's irritation grew.

'And it pays well I would expect.'

'I get by.'

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Mycroft's lips twitching with amusement at that.

It didn't last long.

'It's good to see at least one of my sons inherited my intellect,' Siger announced, polishing off yet another snifter of whisky before filling it back up with another three fingers.

Sherlock frowned.

'One of us?' he questioned, ignoring Mycroft's furious signals to stop there.

This man surely couldn't be implying- he certainly could be so idiotic as to-

'I'd have hated to have two useless sons. Plodding along mindlessly after politicians, really, I haven't any idea how you can look at yourself in the mirror, Mycroft. I can hardly bear to see you myself'

He twisted around to face Mycroft again, who, in spite of himself, shrunk back away from him.

'Honestly - pencil-pushing, at your age.'

Sherlock gaped as his brother sighed and took every ridiculous insult their father dealt out.

'I always knew that you would amount to nothing,' he carried on, poison dripping from his thin, twisted lips. 'I told you to mind your place, didn't I? I warned you about biting off more than you could chew. You should have listened to me. But you didn't and look what has become of you, a mere civil-servant who hasn't seen the hint of a promotion in over a decade. Pathetic.'

He hadn't really meant to do it. Of course, he didn't regret it in the slightest, but he had been quite invested in waiting until later, for Mycroft's sake. But there was only so much Sherlock could take. The old bastard being gruff with him was one thing, but Sherlock would not sit by and watch in passive acceptance as he openly belittled his brother.

Mycroft mightn't like it, or appreciate it, but had it been the other way around, he would have done the same. Of that, Sherlock was certain.

With blood pumping furiously in his ears, his eyes narrowed hatefully, he sneered in response, 'You really are a tedious little man.'

Never had he seen Mycroft allow his jaw to hang the way it did in that instant, nor had he believed it was possible for a man's face to go quite the shade of purple-red that their father's had.

'What did you just say to me?' Siger gasped raggedly.

'Oh Christ,' Mycroft uttered.

'I said you are a tedious. Little. I stand firmly by it,' Sherlock retorted, his hands balled into tight fists by his side. 'My only regret is that I forgot to mention how much of an odious tic you are in the same breath. But now I've gotten that out, I'm thoroughly satisfied.'

'Could you pull over, Mr Richards?' Mycroft hurriedly called, unbuckling his seatbelt. 'Now please.'

Sherlock followed suit, but could tell he had already gone too far to avoid the fireworks and decided to get it all over with whilst he had the chance. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that.

'Everything I've been able to deduce about you, every scrap of information I've encountered over the years and most of all, every syllable that has come out of your vile mouth has done nothing but support my assessment,' he announced as the car drew to a stop and Mycroft hurriedly pushed his door open and started pulling on his sleeve.

They were out of the car and the driver was pulling their bags from the boot, shooting them glances that were equal parts confused and alarmed.

'Just be quiet and let me handle this,' Mycroft hissed as the passenger side door swung open so forcefully it bounced back with a loud bang.

'No!' Sherlock cried. 'He's an idiot. Somebody has to say it and clearly you're not going to-'

'Sherlock! Shut up!'

'Why?! What is he going to do?!'

With an outraged snarl, Siger was finally able to pull himself out of the car and was lumbering over to them, with biceps bulging, and fists clenched tight.

'Father,' Mycroft appealed, and edge of panic creeping into his otherwise calm voice as he moved to stand between him and Sherlock.

'Say that to me again, you little bastard?!' Siger panted, outraged to the point of breathlessness already. 'Say it and see what happens.'

'He didn't mean it,' Mycroft insisted, backing both himself and Sherlock away, attempting to put distance between them and Siger. 'He just- '

'Mycroft, stop defending me,' Sherlock snapped. 'I meant exactly what I said.'

Mycroft dared to twist around, hissing another order for silence, only to have Sherlock duck around him, facing off with the man.

'I don't know what exactly it is you've done to my brother to make him so fearful of you,' he snarled, stepping forward so he and his father were practically nose to nose. 'But what I do know, makes me sick-'

'Sherlock-!'

'I know you were the one who attacked him yesterday,' he growled.

Siger hissed, and shot a disgusted glare over Sherlock's head.

'You never could take anything like a man you pathetic excus-'

Acting on impulse, Sherlock shoved him hard, cutting him off mid-sentence and forcing him to stumble back a couple of steps as he, whilst angrily barking, 'No, you're fighting with me now! And if anybody is a pathetic excuse of anything: a husband; Father; Man; Human being, it's you!'

'You little bastar-'

'Oh spare me,' Sherlock hissed. 'Back on topic, I know you attacked him yesterday, and if I didn't, I would after that little outburst. What I have not been able to determine for sure, is whether this has happened before.'

His lips began to twist with disgust.

'So, Father,' he hissed, lifting his chin defiantly, staring the man straight in the eye, 'Is what the facts are telling true? Did you abuse my brother? Are you that sad an excuse of a-'

Suddenly, everything went bright white, and for a second, Sherlock didn't register anything at all. And then he hit the ground… hard.

Sherlock just wanted to go home.

School had been absolutely horrendous. His head hurt, it had been that boring. His hands and knees hurt, scraped as they were, after Katie Solomon tripped him up at break. Even the teachers had been mean to him, shouting at him and calling him a smartarse in class(Sherlock hadn't even been rude, he'd just been answering the questions. Everybody still laughed).

He just wanted to go home and climb into his nest of blankets under his bed to forget that the rest of the human race existed for an hour or two. That was all.

'Ha! Nice one Jamie!' Collins crowed as another pebble collided with the back of Sherlock's skull. 'Head shot!'

'Hand one over. It's my turn!'

Sherlock sighed and hunched his shoulders; miserably pressing on as yet another pebble was thrown.

It would seem that that small mercy was simply too much to ask for.

Collins, Tucker and their merry band of morons had been waiting for him at the doors of his classroom to carry on their campaign against him, having clearly been unsatisfied with the amount of abuse they'd doled out at lunch.

Now, Sherlock couldn't even go home, let alone to his nest, lest the bullying gits discovered where he actually lived (having kept it secret this long had taken all of Sherlock's not inconsiderable skill).

No, he was just going to have to find somewhere to hide, or at the very least, wait it out, until they grew bored and left him alone for the day.

But where should he go?

All of his usual bolt-holds had been discovered (and promptly trashed) the last few times he'd been forced to flee from them, and he didn't want to risk the security of the remaining few.

The woodlands weren't that far off, and if he could get enough distance between them, he could lose them in there. But then he ran the risk of getting lost himself, tripping and hurting himself or by far the worst and most likely possibility; getting caught by a gang of notoriously malicious bullies, without the benefit of being in a semi-public area when it happened.

Sherlock shuddered. The woods were out.

So where?

He could go fence-hopping again and hope that he was fast enough to evade them. But the last time that had happened Ms. Tibbens had dragged him home by his ear and told Mummy she had half a mind to call the police.

The boys were drawing closer.

Maybe it would be worth it, if he just avoided her yard.

But they might still catch him and then he'd be in the same trouble as he would in the woodlands and he would be trespassing too. A kicking and an ASBO.

Probably not the best option, but what else could he do?

'What's he even wearing?!' Collins jeered. 'It's down to his sodding knees!'

Sherlock bowed his head further, hunching his shoulders and wrapping Mycroft's blazer tighter around him. They'd been running late, he wanted to shout. Sherlock had forgotten his coat and jumper. He'd had to wear Mycroft's! It was hardly his fault he was older and fatter and bigger and- OH!

Of course! Mycroft! The park! The park with its lovely, big trees he could climb up and hide in, until the bullied gave up! It wasn't far off, just around the corner.

Another pebble bounced off his head, harder than before. They were getting impatient. His window of opportunity was there but it was closing.

'Guys come on,' one of the elder members of the gang, Tony, sighed. 'This is getting borings. Let's just get it over with.'

'But Tony!' Jaimie Tucker whined. 'This is just the foreplay. Makes it more fun when we really get down to it.'

Oh bravo Jamie. Two sexual innuendos in the one sentence, you devil you. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Well it's too much bloody foreplay,' Tony grumbled. 'I've got training tonight, so if you wanna hang out, just give him a kicking and get it over with, or I'm leaving now.'

Jamie sighed and Sherlock knew his time was rapidly running out.

'Oh, alright then-'

He wasn't going to make it. They were too close. He needed a distraction.

'You're so impatient.'

Throwing rock? No. Evasive manoeuvres? Useless. Kicking dirt? More so. Think Holmes Think! …Ah Ha!

'Hey Holmes! Come here for a second- Jesus Fuc-'

'You little shit!' Collins shrieked from the pavement, groping frantically at his nose which Sherlock suspected (and sorely hoped) had begun to bleed as a result of the sudden impact with the conveniently placed and delightfully springy, overhanging Juneberry tree branch.

He let out a breathless little giggle as he dashed across the road as fast as he could, Jamie and his friends hot on his heels. He'd never expected it would actually work.

'Get back here you little bastard!' Jamie roared, far too close for Sherlock's liking.

He dropped his bag, hoping it would increase his speed and act as an obstacle for his pursuers. Just a little further.

'Holmes!'

Almost there, almost- stars… he was seeing stars.

Rough hands grabbed his arms and hauled his sharply to his feet.

Sherlock cursed. He was never going to leave his shoes untied ever again, no matter how irritating it was to keep tying them. Too impractical. Maybe if he just slipped them off instead of untying them-

A sharp clip around the ear brought his attention back to Jamie and a (Sherlock tried not to smile) bloody face Collins, looming over him.

'Pay attention you freak!' Jamie snapped, whacking his head again.

Sherlock shook it roughly, before turn to fix his glare on the boys.

'Or else you'll do what exactly?' he sneered.

Well he was going to get beaten up anyway, no need to forsake his pride now.

'Hit me? I thought you were going to anyway.'

'You know something,' Jamie growled, grabbing a hold of Sherlock's tie, half strangling him as he pulled him closer. 'You're not half as smart as you think you are.'

'All evidence to the contrary,' Sherlock breathlessly retorted.

Jamie scowled and drew his fist back.

'You need to learn,' he snarled, 'When to shut up.'

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain of the punch to slam into him and make him see white like it always did… but it didn't come.

Everything had suddenly gone quiet and- were they waiting for him to open his eyes to hit him. Was that it?

'What the hell?!' Jamie cried.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and the scene that met him did nothing to convince him that he was not unconscious already, or at the very least, suffering from concussion, because Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes, his boring, lazy, won't lay a finger on anybody big brother Mycroft, was clutching Jamie's wrist so tight that his knuckles had gone white and Jamie's hand was beginning to turn a dark red.

'Get off me you creep,' Jamie cried, as he unsuccessfully tried to shake him off. 'This hasn't got anything to do with you.'

'Well I'm afraid it does actually,' Mycroft smoothly replied, eyes narrowing. 'So I suggest you unhand my brother this instant.'

Sherlock's eyes widened.

This was… new. Nobody had stood up for him before. Ever. Especially not to Jamie Tucker.

Unfortunately, the reason why nobody stood up to Jamie Tucker was lumbering over with all his upper sixth goons in tow.

'Then I suggest you unhand mine,' Shane Tucker sneered, drawing closer, until he and Mycroft were nose to nose.

'You're his brother?' Mycroft asked, releasing Jamie, who in turn, had let go of Sherlock, in favour stepping back so to watch the bigger fight in the making.

Tucker drew himself up to his full (impressive) height, puffing out his muscled chest and clenching his fists (Like a Gorilla, a voice in the back of Sherlock's head supplied).

'Well I sure aint his sister,' he growled.

Mycroft smiled.

'Most amusing,' he quipped, not backing down (and if he weren't about to get the stuffing beaten out of him, Sherlock would be impressed.)

'I suggest,' He drawled, 'That you control your brother.'

'Control him?' Tucker echoed, a scowl darkening his thickset features.

'Oh I see, you're incapable of simple comprehension,' Mycroft retorted. 'Very well. I do not want to see or hear or even suspect that my brother is being hassled by yours any longer. Is that clear?'

Tucker sneered.

'Leave the kids to their business,' he snarled. 'You're brother's a mouthy shit. He deserves what he gets.'

Sherlock scowled.

Mycroft didn't though. Instead he lifted his chin up defiantly and retorted, 'And yours is a bully and a coward and deserves everything he will get. But his future demise, though a vague solace, is of no real use right now. So I'll tell you again. Control him, or I will be coming after you. Are we clear?'

Tucker laughed.

'We're clear,' he scoffed. 'You're a mouthy shit too.'

Mycroft smirked.

'I see we do understand each other.'

Sherlock could see it coming. The muscles of his arms suddenly tensed, he was stepping back to give himself room to move, this wasn't going to end well.

However before he could begin to shout a warning, Tucker was already moving.

He drew his arm back, his muscles positively bulging, and swung a punch, aiming to hit Mycroft square in the jaw.

But he missed.

Mycroft had swiftly leant backwards, far enough for Tucker's swing to just fall short, knocking him off balance enough and providing him, Mycroft, with enough momentum to swing him fully around, twist his arm up sharply behind his back, before roughly pushing him against the trunk of the tree Sherlock had not minutes ago attempted to escape up.

'Tucker!' one of the sixth formers cried, rushing forward to grab Mycroft.

'Piss off!' Tucker snarled. 'I can handle this!'

The boy stopped dead.

'Eh?!'

'I said fuck off!'

Holding up his hands, the boy stepped back and re-joined the group.

Mycroft smirked.

'How convenient.'

Tucker growled.

'I know you,' he hissed. 'You're in the year below me. House, or Howard or something.'

'Holmes,' Mycroft replied. 'A pleasure I'm sure.'

'You think you're going to get away with this you weirdo?!' Tucker growled. 'I'll make you wish you were never fucking born!'

Mycroft smirk.

'Is that a fact?' he murmured. 'You'd hardly be the first to try. And certainly not the first to fail.'

'I know how to get to losers like you,' Tucker laughed nastily.

Mycroft laughed himself.

'I'm sure you do. However, you see, the problem is, I too know how to get to losers like you.'

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as Mycroft tightened his grip on the bully and leant forwards so his mouth was level with Tucker's ear.

'You see,' he whispered, quiet enough for only Tucker, Jamie and Sherlock to hear, 'I know everything about you. I know that your name is Shane William Tucker. I know you live in 456 O'Brian Drive. I know your mother's name is Melanie and that she's a paralegal for White and Son's in town. I know that you have a West Highland Terrier and a Ginger Tabby cat as pets. I know that your father lives in Edinburgh, practicing as a lawyer, which is probably how your parents met in the first place. I know that they're separated. I know that you're not upset about that. He made you feel worthless, abusive no doubt, to you and your brother I expect – ah yes, he's given you away. Is that why you both attack and torment those who can't fight back? To get that power back, to make yourself feel like a god after feeling so little for so long? Well, let me tell you something, it might not mean much now, right now it might still just be swept under the rug of 'boys being boys', but these things don't stop, they deteriorate, they fester. If you keep going down this road you will end up becoming your father and your children will suffer how you suffered, worse even. And if you don't step up and actually be a big brother to him, your brother will end up that way too.'

'I will not!' Jamie shrieked. 'I'm nothing like him!'

'You're beating up children younger than you, not even because you're angry or upset but because you find it fun,' Mycroft retorted. 'You're worse than him.'

'You don't know what you're talking about!' Tucker snarled, bucking against the tree in an attempt to break free, only to be held in place by Mycroft.

He chuckled.

'Incorrect once again,' he coolly replied. 'Either way, all of that is of no importance to me. If you grow up to beat your children, I truly couldn't care less. No, what I care about it that you are harassing my brother. So just think about this, I know where you live, I know where your mother works, I know where your father is, I know how to contact him and I have no issue with using that knowledge to my advantage if I ever hear that Sherlock has been hassled by you, your brother or any of your friends. Are we clear?'

'I can get you done for that!' Tucker snarled. 'You're threatening my family. The cops can knick you for that.'

'They could. But you've not got any evidence.'

'I heard it!' he snapped. 'I'll file a report.'

'Shane, you can carve it in stone for all I care, I will still deny it,' Mycroft laughed. 'It will be your word against ours and we will be making a counter claim. Really, who do you think they're going to believe was the one making threats… or promises?'

Tucker growled and began to thrash against the tree.

'I'll fucking get you for this you bastard!'

'And you're welcome to,' Mycroft replied, releasing his hold on the elder boy, stepping back as he sprang away from the tree and stumbled back to join his goons, who'd had the good sense to keep well out of it. 'Just keep in mind, I will be getting my own back for whatever grievance either I or Sherlock here suffer, so if I were you, I'd break the habit of a lifetime and do something clever.'

Tucker's fists were still clenched at his side as his chest heaved with each breath.

Mycroft smiled pleasantly, tilting his head to the side.

'Well?' he prompted.

Sherlock could see the muscles in his biceps working, tensing and relaxing sporadically, but he didn't make any move to act on those impulses.

Mycroft's smile widened, in something almost predatory and, Sherlock thought, really quite scary.

Tucker snarled.

'Come on, Jamie.'

'What?!' Jamie squawked.

'I said come on!' Tucker snapped, making Jamie flinch and scurry to obey.

'Good choice, Tucker,' Mycroft drawled, stooping down to collect Sherlock's belongings before calling, 'Come along, Sherlock. We can't spend the entire afternoon loitering in the park.'

Sherlock idled a moment longer, watching as the Tucker's and their gangs moodily retreated, before letting out an astonished laugh, turning tail and dashing off after his brother.

'How did you do that?!' he demanded the second he reached him. 'You've never met him before! How?!'

Mycroft smirked, a stark contrast to the sickly green pallor his skin had taken.

'I merely observed,' he replied. 'Just as you do.'

'Yeah, but I've never been able to do it like that!' Sherlock cried. 'I always get things wrong. You didn't get even one!'

'I've had more practice,' Mycroft replied with a shrug.

'Can Father do it? Can he do what we can do?' Sherlock asked. 'Did he teach you?'

Mycroft grimaced, hunching his shoulders as a chilly breeze blew around them.

'I did learn a lot from him,' he hesitantly murmured. 'He's very good at it, of course. There's nothing that can be hidden from him. He sees it all.'

Sherlock grinned.

Mycroft didn't return it, but then, Sherlock didn't care all that much.

'You need to tutor me,' he announced as the turned down the lane where their house stood. 'It's only fair.'

Mycroft scoffed.

'That would require you actually spending time with me,' he murmured. 'And listening to me. I don't hold out much hope.'

'I will,' Sherlock promised. 'I'll listen to everything. I swear.'

Mycroft's brows arched.

'And why exactly does this mean so much to you?' he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, stuffed his hands into his pockets and said nothing.

'Gone shy have we?' Mycroft laughed.

'I am not shy!'

'Don't I know it,' Mycroft retorted. 'So, do enlighten me. Why does the science of deduction appeal to you so much?'

Focusing steadfastly on the pebble he was kicking down the path, Sherlock boldly replied, 'If I can do all that, nobody would ever pick on me ever again.'

Mycroft blinked.

'Do people pick on you often?' he asked.

Sherlock shrugged again.

'Sometimes,' he murmured. 'Most of the time they don't bother me much. But every now and then…'

Mycroft grimaced.

'Let me know,' he said, 'Next time anybody… takes an interest.'

Sherlock's face darkened into a scowl.

'I can manage on my own,' he sneered. 'I don't need your help.'

'Doesn't mean you can't use it,' Mycroft reasoned.

Sherlock snapped. 'I don't need anyone. I'm better on my own. Safer.'

Mycroft shrugged.

'Tough,' he replied. 'You're not alone anymore. Neither of us are. We're brothers and brothers are supposed to stick together.'

Sherlock scowled.

'That's stupid,' he grumbled.

'Oh yes,' chuckled Mycroft, 'These things are rarely anything but.'

'I don't do stupid things.'

'I beg to differ.'

Sherlock hissed his disapproval and Mycroft chuckled once more.

'Ordinarily neither do I,' he continued, 'But while this Fraternal Loyalty lark means nothing to you, it means a great deal to me. So next time someone starts on you, you tell me and I'll take care of it. Either that or I'm simply going to have to find out for myself.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'You're such a control freak,' he grumbled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his school blazer.

Mycroft smirked.

'I am partial to a little of it, I confess,' he retorted.

'Control or Freaks?' Sherlock shot back.

Mycroft grinned.

'Both.'

Sherlock allowed himself a small, answering grin once Mycroft turned and began to lead the way home once more.

'Come on Sherlock, Mummy will be cross if we're late for tea.'

'His text book. That's how you knew his name wasn't it?'

'Of course.'

'And the mother?'

'The upper sixth have a trip coming soon, somewhere up north I believe. He had the permission form tucked inside it, but the top half had slipped out, which is convenient considering that's where all the contact details are. His home address, his mother and father's names and contact details were both there, including work numbers. If their mother knew he was abusive, chances are she wouldn't have listed him, but she did. White and Son's is a small firm in town, I've seen it. It was one of the places I considered for work experience, as an alternative if I wasn't able to swing Linklaters. The only lawyers employed are the titular Brian White and his three sons Isaac, George and Jonathon. Besides, Ms Tucker doesn't earn a lawyer's salary, as seen by the state of Shane's shoes, which are a couple years old and too small for him, or James' trousers, which are hand-me-downs. This would make her one of the two other employees there – the receptionist or the paralegal. I know for a fact that the receptionist is a woman of Indian decent approaching her 70s, seeing as James and Shane have rather Anglo-Saxon features, the odds were that it was the paralegal.'

'The father?'

'The phone number had a Scottish area code, Edinburgh to be exact, 131. He also works in an establishment named Tucker Lawyers, not incredibly imaginative, but there you are.'

Sherlock nodded.

'Assuming he is 'Tucker' we can assume that he is a lawyer rather than a paralegal or something thereabout. The father's details included both a work and home number?'

'Yes.'

'Which means they're living in different countries, so the chances of them still being married are lessened… but not entirely impossible. He could split his time between the office and home. He could have inherited the firm.'

Mycroft smiled.

'Very true. But you need to watch for tells as well, whilst you're revealing what you know. That's the hard part,' he said. 'Their reaction to their father was negative. Not a good relationship, significantly more so than your average head-butting between father and sons. They seemed to not only hate him, but fear him too. It seemed most likely that this was the result of abuse, of them or their mother I couldn't tell, but both leaves its mark on the child. Their parents live in different countries and it's likely the father was abusive, I'd wagered that they'd separated and it paid off.'

Sherlock agreed.

'Why would she list him if he was abusive?' he asked.

Mycroft shrugged.

'Court order,' he suggested. 'Obligation. Perhaps she's a believer of the 'a boy needs his father, no matter what' philosophy. Perhaps she blames herself for the abuse, not him. Perhaps she didn't know he abused them. Or perhaps a combination of some or all of that. I can't tell from the facts I have.'

Sherlock nodded his understanding.

'And the cat and dog fur was on their uniform. White on the leg but no higher. Dog. Small. Ginger both on the trousers and sleeves, Cat.' he finished off. 'Obvious.'

'It all is,' Mycroft replied, opening the door for him. 'You just need to practice. Don't make too big a leap in judgement. Never theorise without data because you will, without fail, end up twisting facts to suit theories, rather than theories to suit facts. And most importantly, learn from your mistakes.'

Sherlock grinned.

'I can do that.'

Strong right hooks seemed to be a hereditary trait, if the ringing in Sherlock's ears was anything to go by.

Mycroft was on his knees, by his side, not a second later.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock muttered, as he helped him sit up.

He dabbed gingerly at his tender lip, and found a thin film of bright red blood coating his fingers when he pulled them back.

He scoffed.

'Would you look at that,' he murmured, smirking as he lifted them up to show his brother. 'We match. Blood brothe- Mycroft?'

With a low growl, Mycroft rose from the dirt.

'Mycroft?' Sherlock tried again, but his brother didn't seem to hear him.

Laying there, in the dirt, Sherlock watch eyed wide eyed as his brother, his stupid, fat, lazy, annoying, dull as mud, never-lay-a-hand-on-anybody big brother, stalked over to his father and, without so much as the illusion of hesitation, pulled back his fist and punched him hard in the nose.

'Christ!' their father howled, as he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Mycroft dropped down beside him, grabbed a hold of his collar, and promptly punched him again.

Scrambling to his feet, Sherlock ran over to the pair and, wrapping his arms around his chest, pulled his brother off and back away from the old man, who was hissing and spitting on the ground.

'Don't you ever touch him again!' Mycroft snarled, struggling to break free from Sherlock's grasp to have another go at the brute. 'Do you hear me?! If you do, I will kill you myself! Just see if I don't!'

Their father, having staggered back to his feet with the haphazard aid of his driver (who was promptly ordered back to the car in no uncertain terms) spat in response, 'You ungrateful little bastard!'

'Gratitude?!' Mycroft laughed (almost hysterically, Sherlock thought), before redoubling his efforts to break free. 'I'll show you just how grateful I am- let go of me Sherlock!'

'I don't think that's wise,' Sherlock huffed, holding firm. 'Not when you may do something you'll regret.'

'I assure you, I won't regret it,' he hissed, glaring hatefully over at their father. 'I've waited years for this.'

'You're all talk now, aren't you?' their father scoffed (though somewhat nasally). 'Takes a real big man to act tough when he's being held back, doesn't it Mycroft? You weren't that brave yesterday, were you? Just the same snivelling waste of space you always were.'

Mycroft was shaking with rage in his arms, and by the time the old man had stopped talking, Sherlock had half a mind to not only release him, but race him to see who could reach the bastard first.

'Well,' Siger drawled, pocketing his bloodied handkerchief. 'Do you have nothing to say?'

With and almost inhuman display of control, Mycroft took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock whispered, loosening his hold.

'Let's go,' Mycroft growled in reply, glancing over his shoulder and nodding sharply, an assurance that he would not make any further attempts on their father's life. 'He's not worth it.'

With a nod of his own, Sherlock let his arms fall back to his sides.

For a moment longer, Mycroft lingered, glaring resentfully at the man who raised him, every muscle in his body tensed, before finally summoning the willpower to go and retrieve their luggage from the dirt.

'Running away are we?' Siger jeered as Mycroft shouldered his bag, after handing Sherlock his, and turned to walk again.

They made it all of six steps.

'You always have been a coward.'

Mycroft stopped dead.

'Excuse me?' he scoffed, turning around.

'You heard me, boy,' Siger sneered.

Chuckling quietly, Mycroft shook his head and, to Sherlock's growing alarm, drew closer to the man once more.

'Coward,' he mused. 'What an interesting definition you must have of that word, Father.'

'Mycroft,' Sherlock hissed, stepping closer as Mycroft stopped, not a foot from Siger (well within striking distance). 'Brother, let's go-'

'Shut up!' Siger spat, waving an irritated hand in Sherlock's general direction, like one would whilst swatting away a persistent fly. 'If he's got something to say. Let him say it.'

Sherlock glowered, but fell silent (for his brother's sake, not Siger's).

'Well, Mycroft,' the old man growled, drawing himself up to his full height. 'Speak.'

Mycroft merely smiled politely in the face of the brute's posturing.

'It's just, most people would consider a man who bullied, beat, humiliated and degraded a child, for years no less, infinitely more cowardly than the one who merely chose to walk away from a poisonous situation.'

'How dare you?!' Siger hissed, his meaty fists clenching tight at his sides.

'How dare I what, Father?' Mycroft wearily sighed. 'So much of what I say and do causes you insult. We must be specific.'

Sherlock subtly shifted his footing, so he was more ready to jump between the two of them, because their father looked just about ready to tackle Mycroft to the ground and strangle him with his bare hands.

But for the time being, he remained where he was.

Instead, he merely snapped between outraged huffs and puffs, 'How dare you insinuate that I… mistreated you?!'

Mycroft blinked.

'Did I insinuate that? I apologise,' he drawled. 'I meant to say it outright.'

'How dare you?!' Siger roared again, taking a step forward, so there was nose to nose. 'You filthy little liar. I did no such thing.'

The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched upwards into a small, proud smiled, when Mycroft stood firm in response, making no move to back down this time.

'You didn't?' he calmly asked, lifting his chin up defiantly. 'So when you would strike me for not sitting straight, for dirtying my clothes, for talking to loudly, then not loud enough… that was what? Good parenting? Maybe it was, I couldn't say,' he shrugged. ' However when you would back me into a corner and scream at me, or when you'd throw things at me, when you would bloody my lip for crying, I dare say that was a little excessive.'

With a disgusted snarl, Siger stepped back and began to pace furiously, spitting the odd, 'How dare you?!' and 'Utter rot!' as Mycroft carried on.

'When you beat me until I couldn't move, until I bled, was that not abuse?' he asked, voice cold and hard as steel.

Pausing his pacing long enough to whirl around and jab a thick finger in Mycroft's direction, Siger snarled, 'You always have been a self-pitying little bastard. Everything I ever did to you was for your own benefit.'

Mycroft blinked.

'If you truly believe that,' he slowly replied, 'Then you are more deluded that I ever gave you credit for.'

With an angry scoff, Siger resumed his pacing.

'You have nothing to say?' Mycroft snapped, eye narrowed and blazing with quiet fury.

'You are being wilfully ignorant,' Siger snapped, fling a hand up in the air hopelessly. 'What more is there to be said?'

'Wilfully ignorant?!' Mycroft cried, before controlling himself one more.

'Alright,' he seethed, clenching and un-clenching his fist by his sides, 'Explain to me then, Father, when you would make me sleep in the yard - like the dog, how was that supposed to benefit me? Or when you would tell me it was my fault Mother left.'

Siger stopped dead at that, and Sherlock watched, wide eyed, as he slowly turned back around to face Mycroft, ice cold hatred burning bright in his beady, grey eyes.

Mycroft mirrored it, stepping closer himself.

'When you told me that there was something wrong with me, that I was broken, that I was poison and that's the reason she left and never came back for me, that was all for my benefit?'

'That,' Siger snarled, 'Was the truth.'

Mycroft fists clenched tight by his sides, but Siger took no notice as he stepped closer still.

'Now you listen here boy, and you listen well,' he murmured, dangerously calm. 'You can delude yourself with whatever stories help you sleep at night, but I never did lie to you. The truth hurts, and if you're not strong enough to take it, then I clearly should have schooled you harder.'

Mycroft angrily scoffed.

'You have something to say?' Siger growled, eyes narrowing dangerously in spite of his voice remaining quiet and seemingly calm.

Mycroft's mouth twisted into a disgusted smirk.

'I cannot believe that I spent so many years terrified of the mere thought of you,' he murmured, holding the old man's venomous gaze unflinchingly. 'Even yesterday, you held that power over me, and I can't understand it the slightest bit anymore, because now… now I see you for what you really are. A bitter, lonely, pathetic old man who ruined the one thing he ever gave a damn about, and simply couldn't take responsibility for it, not even to himself.'

With a snarl, Siger grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and jerked him forward roughly.

'Keep talking Mycroft,' he snarled, looming over his son. 'Keep talking, and just see what happens to you.'

Sherlock moved to intervene, only to be stilled by his brother's raised hand, a silent plea for inaction.

Muscles tense, ready to move when necessary, he relented to the request.

Without breaking the old man's gaze, Mycroft calmly replied, 'Mum didn't leave because of me, Father. She left because of you. She left because of how you are and how you treated her, how you treated me. She left so my brother wouldn't have to be raised like that. She hates you-'

He didn't even flinch when the back of their father's large hand struck his cheek with a loud crack.

Sherlock leapt into action, forcing the old man to release his brother (through a series of short jabs and kicks to vulnerable points), leaving him huffing furiously, but no worse off than before (he'd have loved to rip him limb from limb, but he got the impression Mycroft wanted to say more, and believed he had the right to do so to a living audience).

'I'm fine, Sherlock,' he chuckled, turning back to face Siger. 'It would appear the truth really does hurt.'

Siger's lips curled in a disgusted sneer.

'She never came back for you, did she?!' he panted, resuming his furious pacing once more, like a caged lion. 'If I'm such a menace, why did she leave you with me?'

Mycroft laughed.

'Because you wouldn't let her take me,' he answered. 'You fought for custody, took it to court and drew it all out until she was nearly bankrupt and had to give up. You threatened to take Sherlock.'

'And you're construing my fight to keep you as abuse?!' Siger scoffed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'It was a power play; an idiot could work that out,' he sneered. 'How do you get to a mother, through her children, elementary… and incredibly unoriginal.'

'She could have come back,' Siger hissed. 'If she cared so much about you, she would have come back for you. But she didn't, did she Mycroft? She didn't come back for you! You weren't good enough for her to come back for!'

Mycroft rolled his eyes again.

'As amusing a display of projection as that was,' he drawled, 'It is worth noting how intensely grateful I am to her, for doing the smart thing and staying away.'

Both Sherlock and Siger turned to stare at him, eyes wide and shocked.

A weary smile twitched at Mycroft lips.

'I never thought I would get away from you,' he murmured, almost to himself. 'It just seemed like it would never end. If she had come back, to be there for me, it wouldn't have. Sherlock would have had to have grown up like I did, under your thumb. Heaven knows, he's far more defiant than I ever was, perhaps you would have treated him even worse. So for that, I am glad. It would have ruined Mummy, I know it would have. She would cry when you weren't there, Father. She would cry for hours, and it was because of you, what you had said or what you had done or threatened to do. She would of grown even more resentful of you. Perhaps she would have grown to resent us as well, for keeping her there, we'll never know. But she got away, and the price may have been high… maybe it wasn't, but either way, I am glad that she did. If she hadn't done that, or if she'd come back, I would have been responsible for that happening. None of us would have ever escaped.'

For the first time throughout the entire exchange (Sherlock suspected that it may very well be for the first time, full stop), Siger Holmes was struck absolutely speechless.

Mycroft took advantage of this.

Readjusting his shirt and blazer, he calmly announced, 'If your plan is to try and convince me that everything I know to be true - isn't, and that you are the innocent out of the whole ordeal, then I really think it is time we go our separate ways… in fact, I think it's time we do that regardless… Sherlock?'

'Past time,' Sherlock replied with a sharp nod.

Mycroft smiled as their father began to bluster indignantly at his utter loss of control.

'Very well,' he coolly replied, turning his attention back to the old man once more. 'Father, I want you to know that you are well and truly dead to me. The next time I am contacted in regards to you, it had better be in order to inform me of the time and location of your funeral. Also, Mother's restraining order is still valid, I had it made permanent. So it would be in your best interest to call off this crusade you have with tracking her down. If you don't, she will follow through a press charges, I promise you. My brother is to also be left alone, unless he is the one to make contact.'

'I won't,' Sherlock firmly announced.

Mycroft nodded sharply.

'There you are then. Is that all very clear to you, Father?'

'How dare you?!' Siger snarled furiously, lunging forward grabbing Mycroft's shirt again.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'It really isn't all that daring,' he drawled. 'You can strike me all you like, it's not going to change those conditions.'

Siger's lips curled even further back, making his snarl appear almost animalistic, but made no move to act any further.

Mycroft merely arched his brow in response.

'Consider this your final warning - if you disregard my orders, I will be coming after you,' he announced, his voice calm, quiet and yet incredibly intimidating. 'And that would be a decision you would live to regret, although perhaps, not for very long. I am a very dangerous man to make an enemy of. For your own sake, take my word for it.'

For a long, tense moment, Mycroft held their father's gaze, meeting the old man's silent fury and hatred with a steady resolve that only served to emphasize just how serious he was.

Finally, with a disgusted snarl, Siger released his hold on Mycroft's shirt and stepped away.

'You were never worth the trouble,' he spat, his face twisting into a hateful sneer.

Mycroft merely inclined his head in polite acknowledgment.

And with one last disgusted glare, Siger Holmes spun on his heel, marched back to his car, and drove out of his sons' life for the last time.

Mycroft sighed as he and Sherlock watched the Rolls Royce speed down the dirt road, fading into nothing but the clichéd spec upon the horizon.

'So that is how it all ends,' he mused as Sherlock stepped up beside him. ''Not with a bang, but a whimper' indeed.'

Sherlock frowned.

'That wasn't a bang?'

Mycroft chuckled, and glanced over at him.

'More of a pop,' he replied with a half-hearted shrug. 'You'd know a bang when you see one. Trust me.'

Sherlock grimaced.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft murmured, turning to face him, 'What you did back there, was not very wise.'

Sherlock ducked his head and scowled at the hard packed dirt beneath their feet.

'He was being stupid,' he grumbled in response.

'He split your lip with a single punch,' Mycroft reasoned. 'What would you have done if he wasn't content with just that? You need to learn when to pick your battles.'

Sherlock's scowl darkened.

'I know how to pick battles, Mycroft,' he grit out.

Mycroft sighed.

Rubbing tiredly at his bruised face, Mycroft asked, 'And what aspect of this particular encounter made it worthy of battle, pray tell?'

'He attacked you yesterday,' Sherlock hissed, his eyes snapping up to meet Mycroft's surprised ones. 'He attacked you, I could see all the signs, he didn't even try to hide them. I was going to leave it until we got to the air field, because you were so worked up about an encounter in the car – but then he started threatening you and belittling you, in front of me! I lost my cool, I admit, but he deserved more than the earful I gave him.'

Mycroft sighed, reaching over and squeezing Sherlock's shoulder.

'I don't need you fighting for me, Sherlock,' he murmured.

'Ordinarily, that's true,' Sherlock retorted. 'But that's because normally you can take care of them yourself.'

'Exactl-'

'But you weren't, Mycroft!' he snapped. 'You were just letting him walk all over you. In hindsight, I understand why, but he had no right to and somebody needed to say so.'

'Sherlock,' his brother sighed. 'That really doesn't matter-'

'It matters to me!' Sherlock shouted, surprising himself as much as his brother.

Mycroft promptly fell absolutely silent and stared at Sherlock like he was seeing him for the first time.

Sherlock averted his eyes, before continuing through gritted teeth, 'I was not just going to sit there and let him get away with treating you like that, for hurting you like he has, without doing anything.'

Squaring his jaw, he lifted his head up again and firmly announced, 'I don't regret it.'

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing, instead choosing to fix him with a calculating stare.

Lifting his chin defiantly, Sherlock met his eye resolutely and added, without any shade of doubt, 'You would have done the same for me.'

Slowly, a small smile began to spread across Mycroft's battered face in response.

'Yes,' he murmured, shaking his head 'Of course I would have.'

Sherlock sighed, and allowed a small smile of his own to creep into existence.

'I think it's time we get going,' Mycroft finally announced, pulling his mobile from his blazer pocket and tapping it back to life, only to frown down at it.

'Have you got a signal?' he asked, glancing up at Sherlock, who obediently found his own and discovered that he too, appeared to be out of range.

'No,' he sighed, scrubbing tiredly at his face.

Mycroft glanced heavenwards, smiling disbelievingly.

'What now?' Sherlock asked.

Shaking his head again, Mycroft stooped to retrieve their bags from the dirt one last time, handed Sherlock his, and announced, 'Well I suppose we're just going to have to walk until we find one.'

Sherlock grimaced.

Mycroft's smile widened further still.

'Come along, Brother-Mine.'

For a little while, they walked in silence, both trying to digest everything that had happened minutes earlier. The airing of all that dirty laundry that had been left to fester for so many years, decades, it wasn't something that normal people took in their stride, and for once in their lives, it would seem that Sherlock and Mycroft were not the exception to the rule.

Sherlock simply couldn't believe that it had taken him so long to piece it all together. He should have been able to work it out the second he opened the door to find the big brother that his mother would always become so teary over. He should have known! How could he have missed it?!

'Sherlock,' Mycroft murmured, glancing over at him, his brow furrowed with concern. 'Are you alright?'

Sherlock's scoffed.

'You are asking me if I'm alright?' he asked incredulously.

The crease between his brother's brows deepened.

'You were just assaulted,' he pointed out. 'It seems a reasonable question, no?'

Shaking his head, Sherlock smiled bitterly and quietly murmured, 'I'm fine.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and slowly replied, 'I'm not entirely sure that I believe you.'

Sherlock scoffed again.

Mycroft sighed.

'What's on your mind, Brother?' he asked.

Sherlock bowed his head briefly, wracking his brains, searching for words that would begin to express the turmoil going on inside his head.

'It was all true then,' he finally murmured, glancing up again, feeling utterly numb.

Mycroft merely nodded.

Sherlock's heart sank. He'd known of course, but the solid confirmation eradicated any childish hope he had of it all being a big misunderstanding on his behalf, and the world would obligingly go back to spinning on its axis.

'The scars?' he hesitantly asked.

Mycroft grimaced, but answered regardless.

'Father was President of Pop back in Eton,' he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 'He knew how to wield a cane, and was rather fond of doing so.'

Sherlock winced.

'And the Pneumonia, it was from when he'd make you sleep in the yard?'

Mycroft smiled reminiscently.

'Yes,' he murmured. 'Only after the divorce, of course. Mummy would have never allowed it. I was alright for the first few years. He had this dog you see, a massive, fearsome looking beast, Neapolitan Mastiff, the biggest dog I have ever seen and was nothing but muscle.'

Sherlock's eyes widened with horror.

Mycroft laughed.

'I called him Nanny,' he chuckled. 'He was a most accommodating beast. I fear I was somewhat of a pup to him. Fortunately, that meant I was allowed to sleep in his kennel with him whenever Father locked me out for the night. Of course, he passed away after a few years, an underlying heart condition I was told. The next time I was put out, it was raining and without his warmth, I fell sick. I told Father, but he was convinced I was putting it on for attention and repeated the exercise until I stopped pretending. Of course, after a week or so the maid found me feverish, struggling to breathe and promptly became hysterical.

'It happened again, and again he didn't believe me. I was 12 at the time and tried medicating myself with paracetamol and the like, predictably with little success. The maid clued on again, took me to hospital herself and was fired for it.'

'And the third time?' Sherlock asked, eyes wide.

Mycroft smiled reminiscently and replied, 'The third time I kept it to myself and allowed myself to collapse at school instead. Well, he could hardly fire the teachers, could he? Although, again, he was quite angry about it all.'

'And that's why you didn't tell anybody,' Sherlock murmured, eyes wide. 'When you caught it with us. Because you were worried Mummy wouldn't believe you either?'

Mycroft sighed and with a small shrug, replied, 'Not that. I just… didn't want to be a bother. I was older and stronger from the last bout, and whenever it happened Father would make such a fuss and people would get fired or shouted at. I'd hoped it would go away on its own if I gave it time, and everybody would be none the wiser,' he chuckled, 'Unfortunately I overexerted myself keeping up the pretence of good-health and forgot to drink enough water.'

'That was stupid,' Sherlock said firmly.

Mycroft nodded.

'It wasn't a shining moment of foresight for me, no,' he replied, before glancing over at him and smiling. 'I haven't had it since however. Surely that must count for something.'

Sherlock merely continued to stare at him, eyes wide and horrified.

'It's all so obvious, in retrospect,' he whispered.

Mycroft chuckled again.

'These things often are,' he murmured. 'Unfortunately, those that are closest to us are often the hardest to see.'

Sherlock sighed.

'That is no excuse,' he murmured, bowing his head. 'I apologise. I should have spotted it earlier.'

He glanced up as the warm pressure of his brother's hand, squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

'You were a child, Brother,' he said, without a hint of the malice Sherlock believed he probably deserved. 'You weren't to know.'

'Wasn't I?' Sherlock asked, his voice heavy with guilt. 'I saw the signs. Over the years, there were things that didn't sit right, things that I noticed: the flinching; the nightmares; the scars. But I reasoned it all away.'

Mycroft sighed, and squeezed his shoulder again.

'It is alright.'

'No it isn't,' Sherlock argued. 'It's worse than ignorance. I saw the facts, and I twisted them into a theory I was more comfortable with.'

Tilting his chin up, meeting his brother's gaze, he solemnly announced, 'I was an idiot, and I apologise for any additional abuse that you suffered at my hands as a result of that.'

The corners of Mycroft's lips twitched upwards into a small, but uncharacteristically honest smile.

Shaking his head, he merely murmured in response, 'You've always been so dramatic.'

Sherlock frowned.

'Brother,' he sighed, his hand dropping back to his side. 'You are not, and never have been, an idiot.'

Sherlock opened his mouth only to be cut off by Mycroft's raised hand, a silent plea for quiet.

'Your ignoring the truth is not only understandable, but also worked exactly to what I wanted.'

Sherlock's brows knitted together in a confused frown.

'But I was horrible to you,' he said. 'I never stopped being horrible to you, not really. I dedicated all of my energy to making you feel unwelcome, for months. And even when we found some sort of common ground, I didn't make any real effort to rectify it. I made you cry… more than once. I made sure you were so uncomfortable around the house that you would avoid it. I bullied you for no better reason than childish pettiness and some misplaced belief that you were out to steal the mother that it turns out, I had stolen myself. How could that be what you wanted?'

Sherlock watched with ever-increasing confusion and frustration as his brother's incredulity seemed to grow with each word he uttered.

'Do you really think that?' he finally murmured, seemingly perplexed. 'My-my, Brother. 'What a magnificent puzzle you are'.'

'Stop it,' Sherlock sighed. 'I'm being serious.'

'As am I,' Mycroft replied. 'You seem to believe that you've carried on Father's work. Well believe me, you have not. For one thing, you haven't the muscle.'

'But-'

'Enough Sherlock,' Mycroft sharply ordered, holding up his hand again. 'You were a child. It is not unheard of for children to be resentful of additions to the family, especially, I would expect, when they are robbed of the expected compensation of becoming the eldest. You were robbed, you were resentful, I grew to understand that and bear no ill-feelings towards you for it.'

Sherlock scowled.

'I don't want you to just accept it, Mycroft,' he snapped.

'Well I do,' Mycroft retorted. 'As it is, I prefer that you treated me the way you did, rather than the way Mummy did.'

Sherlock's eyes widened.

'What did she do?!' he cried, wracking his mind for shreds of evidence that might expose any abuse his brother's had suffered at their mother's hands as well.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'She didn't mistreat me Sherlock,' he sighed, cutting Sherlock's frenzied recall short.

'Then what?'

Scrubbing tiredly at his face, Mycroft slowly replied, 'Between Father's note, and what I had unwisely let slip in moments of distress, she managed to piece together what my time with him had been like. She felt guilty.'

Sherlock frowned with confusion.

'Of course she did,' he murmured, narrowing his eyes unconsciously, in hopes that it would help reveal his brother's meaning. 'She no doubt felt she ought to have protected you.'

Mycroft nodded.

'That's exactly how she felt,' he said.

'And that's wrong?'

'Not at all,' he replied. 'But her method of remedying that mistreatment was to handle me with kid-gloves from then on. To this day, she still treats me like I might fall to pieces if she were to raise her voice around me.'

Frowning, Sherlock thought back and couldn't think of a single encounter he'd witnessed, where this was not true. Even when she and Mycroft disagreed on something (usually something to do with him), she would rarely allow herself to display her frustration any more overtly than an exasperated sigh.

'Of course, I don't blame her,' he continued. 'Truth be told, I'm quite careful with how I act towards her myself.'

Sherlock frowned.

Mycroft smiled sadly and explained, 'There was a time where we both endured Father's temper, Brother-Mine. I am also told I quite resemble him. I would hate to stir up memories for her, don't look so appalled, Brother, it is a legitimate concern. Regardless, it does begin to grate after a while, being treated with such care. Sometimes I still feel like the scared little boy that got dumped on her doorstep because of it.'

He glanced up at Sherlock and smiled.

'So it's always been something of a relief, to have you there, throwing you weight around, what little of it there was, dancing on my last nerve, enjoying every moment of it. It helped.'

'Helped?' Sherlock echoed, utterly confused.

Mycroft nodded.

'You have to understand, Sherlock, when I met you, it had been drilled into me that defiance would be swiftly met with severe consequences,' he calmly replied. 'I was scared to speak up, to act out, to question those around me… my betters.'

Sherlock grimaced at the term, which only made Mycroft laugh.

'And then I met you, and it was just decided that we were going to be archenemies,' he chuckled. 'You may have been half my age, but you were still challenging enough for me to struggle for a little while, in the beginning.'

'That's what I'm apologising for!' Sherlock cried with frustration.

'But I needed that struggle, Sherlock,' Mycroft cried back. 'Otherwise I would have been scared forever. That little campaign of yours, it forced me to stand up for myself. And when I did, to my shock, I didn't get in trouble for it. You and I could argue, and it was just something brothers did. I didn't get the blame, I didn't get hit, I didn't get sent back to Father. It was like a weight being lifted, because it was the first solid proof that things had really changed.'

'Mummy would have never sent you back,' Sherlock firmly announced.

Mycroft shrugged.

'People say things that prove to be false all the time,' he replied. 'As you well know. She may have not wanted to, but I couldn't be sure at the time. I didn't really know her any more, people change. Perhaps she wouldn't have wanted me if I stirred up too much trouble, or too many memories. Also, keep in mind, Father had been telling me for years that she had left because of me. '

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the thought.

'Either way,' Mycroft calmly continued, 'It's very easy to make promises so long as they go untested. But we tested them, you and I, and it quickly became clear that she was quite content to let me stay no matter what, after all.'

'She would have never-'

'I know that now,' Mycroft announced, cutting him off.

Sherlock sighed.

'You need to understand,' Mycroft murmured, clutching his shoulder once again, 'You've nothing to apologise for. You may be a brat sometimes,' he smirked, 'A lot of the time. But you are my bratty little brother, and that's exactly how I like you. Do you understand?'

Sherlock frowned.

Glancing up at him, he slowly nodded.

'I think so,' he murmured, a smirk of his own tugging at his lips, '…You're a masochist.'

Mycroft blinked, before letting loose a loud bark of laughter.

'Perhaps,' he chuckled, shaking his head as he stooped down and retrieved their bags from the dirt again. 'It certainly would explain a lot.'

Slowly, Sherlock's smirk spread into a small smile.

'Anymore questions,' Mycroft asked, pausing to check his mobile again only to find it still without a signal.

Sherlock shrugged.

'Not many,' he admitted. 'Although… I always have been curious-'

'What did I do?' Mycroft finished for him, nodding slowly. 'I am frankly shocked it has taken you so long to ask.'

Sherlock sniffed.

'I assumed you wouldn't tell me,' he grumbled. 'It must have been catastrophic. Did you do it on purpose? Was it illegal? Did you try to murder him?'

Mycroft laughed.

'Good lord no,' he replied. 'It was quite the anti-climax actually. You'll be very disappointed.'

'Well?'

Smiling indulgently, Mycroft replied, 'A boy in my class, Michael Daniels, kissed me. I kissed him back. A teacher saw and quite excitedly told our parents. Father would not bear the disgrace of having a Fairy for a son, so he finally conceded defeat and dumped me on Mummy's doorstep.'

Sherlock's jaw dropped.

'Oh dear, I've broken you,' Mycroft chuckled to himself. 'Perhaps I should have made something up.'

'Of all the things he could have chosen, THAT is what sealed the deal for him?!' he cried, outraged.

Mycroft chuckled.

'I thought you had done something serious!' Sherlock cried.

'It had been seven years,' he replied simply. 'It had become clear that keeping me wasn't going to bring Mummy back. I think it was the last straw. He gave up and just got rid of me.'

Sherlock scowled.

'I'm hardly complaining,' Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head and muttering, 'No you wouldn't, would you?'

Mycroft chuckled again, before glancing back at his mobile and letting out a quiet hum of satisfaction.

Holding it up for Sherlock to see, he cheerfully announced, 'It would appear that we finally have our signal.'

THE END.

I've finally finished it! :D I can't believe it.

I really hope you all liked it and I would really like to thank everybody again who has followed and reviewed, or simply stumbled across this story in a moment of boredom and decided to start reading. I really can't say how much I appreciate your interest and to the reviewers, you incredibly kind words. Just let me say thank you so much, you really have made my day time and time again, so once more, thank you :D