Allow me to say a few words as an apology before I let you read this chapter. I am so sorry it took me so long once again, but there is a good reason for it. My last beta-reader left me, so I had to search for a new one - which I now have found. Yet this chapter isn't corrected or beta-read yet - I'll replace it with the corrected one as soon as it is done - because my beta-reader is correcting a 20k-words oneshot I have written.

But I had to upload it now, because - after several messages and reviews you wrote me, begging me to continue - I don't want you to wait anymore. So, here it is, chapter seven, and a promise to not let you wait this long ever again. I promise.

Have fun with this chapter and ignore the spelling mistakes - they will be edited soon!

"Is there a story behind the brolly?", John asked after a while in which neither of the men had said anything. Greg had been staring at Sherlock who - not like his usual, calm self - still was pacing through the room, muttering incoherent things under his breath. "Had it been a gift, did he buy it on his own?"

Sherlock just shrugged and stopped in his motions. "I have never seen him without it. My earliest memory of him included his brolly."

Greg ran a hand through his hair and made a huffed sound, close to a sigh. "So, let us make some suggestions. Ideas... chimaeras, anything. What makes this brolly so important to him?"

The consulting detective turned to Greg and raised his eyebrows at the older man, snorting. "Don't you think paying to something as unimportant as a brolly is inappropriate?"

"Comes from the man who had no fucking clue that his older brother was cutting himself."

Greg only realised the harshness of his words as both Sherlock and John were staring at him. Sherlock looked twisted, not knowing whether to give a rude reply or to agree. The DI gulped as he saw so many emotions running visibly and wildly through Sherlock's eyes. Guilt, shame, anger and worry - Greg would have never guessed that the younger Holmes was able to express such sentiment.

"I'm sorry", he whispered as an apology and lowered his glance as he saw Sherlock's emotional pain, "That was absolutely wrong to say."

Sherlock shook his head. "You are right", he said quietly and sat down on the ground in front of the fireside. He seemed to be lost in thoughts or memories. "I of all people should have noticed and yet... I'm the last."

"You were angry at him for something", John interrupted softly, letting one of his hands rest on Sherlock's shoulder who unconsciously leant into the touch, "It wasn't your fault."

Greg raised his eyebrow. "Angry at him?"

Of course he had noticed the way the Holmeses were interacting with each other - even a blind man would have been able to at least feel the tenstion flickering in the air around them. Greg always thought it was normal for two geniusses. Or that they maybe hated the fact that both were so similar even though Sherlock obviously tried to bring as many differences between his brother and himself.

But anger? For what? Because of how superior Mycroft's intellect was to Sherlock's? Thousand of thoughts rushed through Greg's mind, but none seemed to fit. All were so childish...

But he had to keep in mind that Sherlock often behaved like a child stuck in the body of a grown-up.

Even John didn't seem to know the answer, the policeman and the doctor both looking at Sherlock who sighed.

"I've been under the impression that he stole our father's attention to completely have him for himself." Sherlock shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he had assumed, now that they all knew the truth. Or at least thought they did. "He always has been with Mycroft. And whenever our father wasn't, he worked or was away celebrating with his own colleagues. I practically never saw him."

Sherlock paused and swallowed, staring into the flames dancing like twisted demons. "But the main reason I've been angry at him was that he left from one day to the other. He went to university and only returned for my birthday or Christmas, even after he finished studying. It felt like betrayal."

Greg narrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Then why does he live here? Because what you described seemed to be a flight. Why coming back?"

John scratched one side of his face. "A matter of habit?", he suggested and looked down on Sherlock, "It's a quite common reaction that victims of abuse... at least we assume it had been abuse... either return to the person who did it to them or to the place."

"Father's dead."

"Then he lives in there because he still thinks he deserves it."

Sherlock lauged dryly and rubbed his face, burying it in his hands. "Mycroft would be smart enough to not believe that."

"If a child is raised up with the belief that a certain group of people are bad, he or she will believe it just because the parents told him or her", John explained, "if your father raised Mycroft under the belief that he deserves punishment, then I daresay he believed it. Because the words of one's parents are rules and the truth. There's absolutely no reason for you not to believe it."

Greg nodded, being able to confirm that. He had seen so many victims of abuse believe what their parents had told them, despise all the therapy and support they got from other people who tried to convince them that they were wrong.

"They blame themselves most of the time", Gregory said quietly, catching John's and Sherlock's attention once again, both men being silent, "Even when they grow up, they carry a terrible burden made not only by the pain someone they trusted - their parents, who are supposed to be the only ones you can trust from the beginning on - but also self-hatred."

Sherlock frowned, rubbing his palms together and narrowing his eyebrows in concentration. "I should have opened the letters. He's been sending them to me since he had left for University, but I have never opened them. I would have been able to tell how long he has been cutting himself."

"We need a plan. We can't allow him to go on like this, one day he'll cut too deep and with no one here he would die."

John's words fell like a thick fog suddenly falling over the three men. The imagination of finding Mycroft dead was shocking enough to make them all go silent, all lost in their thoughts. Sherlock's posture spoke of sorrow and pain, shoulders sunken down and whole body tiny, almost vulnerable. It wasn't hard to see how much this was affecting him, the weight of this whole drama and chaos heavy on his shoulders.

Gregory felt the same, and he wasn't related to Mycroft, wasn't probably one of the many causes for the cutting and the depression. Sherlock was blaming himself, it was obvious and hurt Gregory's heart, made it sing in empathy and pity for the younger Holmes.

"I've always seen him as some kind of god. No one could hurt him, no one could touch him. I hated him for that, for being untouchable and so far away from me and my petty problems", Sherlock whispered, taking a deep breath, "I can't let him die. He helped me through my addictions, forced me to get clean and supports me with his money and his influence. I never thanked him for that."

The DI's glance fell on the consulting detective once more, after staring on the razors and needles lying on the table. The situation was urgent, he was perfectly aware of that. It couldn't be good for the body to loose so much blood so often. He had no idea how often Mycroft hurt himself, or if it always was as bloody as the time Gregory had witnessed, but it didn't surprise him anymore how pale Mycroft was.

So much blood loss, and so many scars, some permanent and never fading. They would forever scar Mycroft, mark him as someone who had lost control after desperately fighting for it.

He blinked.

Control.

This was about control, somehow.

"Sherlock, your father, how was he towards you and your education? Was he more the bossy type of father?", Gregory asked, eyes wide as he stared at Sherlock who blinked, thinking about it, "Maybe this is about control. Mycroft feels out of control, so he hurts himself, because he can directly control where he cuts, when he does it, how, how often… this is somehow part of it."

"I don't know", Sherlock sighed and ran his thin fingers through his hair, gripping it desperately, "Mycroft always seemed to be in control in my eyes. He talked about wanting to become a politician, about wanting to go to Eton or Oxford, but…" He jumped on his feet, closing his eyes and making a few waves with his hand.

Gregory frowned and was about to ask what the hell he was doing, but John shook his head and gestured him to be silent. For several moments, nothing happened. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, the fire making shadows dance over his features, illuminating his pale face with reddish light. Greg leant backwards and tapped with his fingers on his knee, waiting impatiently.

It took Sherlock seven minutes and forty-five seconds, Gregory had stared on the clock on the wall, to do whatever he had been doing, but he suddenly turned around to the other two men and opened his eyes in a beat.

"I always assumed it were his decisions. But I remember his glance. His eyes were dead, cold, sad. He had tried to smile and to appear enthusiastic, but had never really been. My brother has never shown genuine emotions, Lestrade, especially not when he talked about his future and the career he wanted to make."

"So…", Gregory began, rolling his shoulders, "Let's just imagine what happened. Your father controlled everything Mycroft did, apparently. He chose his schools, his university and the job Mycroft would have as an adult, correct?"

Sherlock nodded, sitting down on the ground again and rubbing his eyes. "Correct."

"Did Mycroft have friends? Classmates he brought home now and then to learn with, or did he go out to meet them, to play or have fun?"

"He never had fun. Most of the time he has been with me, running with me through the garden and doing whatever he could to please me. He even cut open his arm once to give me some blood to experiment with." A somehow happy smile spread out on Sherlock's features, and for a moment, he looked as if everything was fine. As if the whole chaos with his brother never had happened, he appeared… human. This expression, however, disappeared again, and he bit his lower lip until it started to bleed. "It was like he didn't care what he had to do, he did everything I wanted from him to keep me busy."

John sighed, folding his hands. "Perhaps… maybe he wanted to keep you busy so you would be safe from your father? When you were, as you said, out in the garden almost the whole time, and your father was inside when he wasn't working, Mycroft could have done everything to give you the childhood he never had by taking you as far as possible away from your father?"

Gregory frowned at the idea, but after seconds of consideration, he nodded. "Good, so this had been going on since his childhood. He has been pretty young on the picture. Your father abused him, then you came into the family and Mycroft did everything in his power to keep your father's attention on himself. By distracting you and letting your father do whatever he wanted to."

Sherlock let out a long sigh, taking one of the razors and turning it around in his hand. He appeared to be lost in thoughts, not here but in his past. Gregory felt the urge to take him in his arms and to comfort the younger man, to tell him everything would be alright and that he would be fine. But he would never lie to Sherlock - and he had no idea if it would be fine.

Currently, he doubted it. Mycroft was so perfectly in control of the situation, there would be no way the three of them would find a way to help him. To get through those thick walls of emotionless and numbness, only occasionally broken down by a breakdown like the one Gregory had witnessed.

A feeling of bleakness made Gregory sigh quietly, rubbing his face with his hands and shaking his head.

"What about your mother?", John suddenly asked, causing Gregory and Sherlock to flinch in surprise about the suddenly broken silence, "Did she ever show any signs of knowing about it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She and father always gave the impression of a perfect, married couple. They slept in different bedrooms, and only kissed or acknowledged each other's presence when we had guests or when the servants were around."

"Your servants, has no one ever shown a sign of knowing what was going on? Has no one mentioned hearing crying or sobbing, maybe groaning or screaming in pain? God, Sherlock, I saw the scars, they looked so nasty and that after so many years!"

Once again, Sherlock shook his head. "No one. Or they didn't tell me. Everything appeared to be so perfect and beautiful." He snorted. "It was so boring. Nothing happened to me or the family, no sudden deaths, no drama, nothing. Little did I know what Mycroft went through."

"What did I go through, Sherlock, pray to tell?"

No one had noticed Mycroft entering the room. Gregory hadn't heard any footsteps, nor had heard the door being opened, a car coming - nothing. Mycroft had experience in being silent, Gregory thought, his stomach turning at the thought of what he had used those skills in his childhood for. All three men turned their heads towards Mycroft, who was standing in the doorframe with his brolly in his right hand, in the other a few paper files.

Sherlock stood up, approaching his brother with a blank expression. Gregory and John stayed where they were, not wanting to interrupt this moment between the two brothers. Mycroft raised his eyebrow at Sherlock, who stopped a few inches away from the elder, both staring in each other's eyes.

Suddenly, Sherlock lifted his hand, turning it to offer Mycroft his palm. With confusion, Gregory watched Mycroft copy the action, not once breaking the eye contact. Sherlock's fingers wrapped themselves around Mycroft's wrist and again, Mycroft copied the gesture. Whatever they were doing, it wasn't the first time they did it.

"You know exactly what I mean, Mycroft", Sherlock said, tapping something on Mycroft's wrist with his index finger while speaking.

Gregory's eyes went wide as he realised what they did. Morse code. He had once heard John saying that Sherlock had been tapping in an irregular rhythm on his knee as Mycroft and Sherlock had talked to each other. It didn't take the deduction skills to know that they were having a conversation in both spoken words and Morse code, whatever they were talking about, they didn't want John and Gregory to hear it.

"I'm afraid I do not, brother-dear, please enlighten me."

Mycroft lowered his glance on his wrist, waiting until Sherlock had tapped his message, then began to tap on Sherlock's wrist with his fingertip. It was a curious sight, to watch them standing in front of each other, talking and tapping in Morse code. Wouldn't the situation have been so serious, then it would have been interesting.

Just like John, Gregory tried to figure out what it was what they were tapping. His Morse code-knowledge was limited, he only knew how to blink S.O.S. and a few curses he had been taught by a friend of his. It was hard to follow the quickly tapped words, he understood nothing while he fully concentrated on the tapping - how were Sherlock and Mycroft even able to tap and talk?

Sherlock let his hand sink down as Mycroft stopped, both taking a step away from each other. The younger Holmes had a sad expression on his face, tears shining in his eyes. "I'm so sorry", he whispered, almost not audible for Gregory nor John.

But Mycroft had understood, apparently. He smiled, but Gregory saw that it was faked. It didn't reach his eyes which were cold, blank. Gregory unconsciously compared them to the eyes of a puppet, staring at his brother who returned to his place on the ground.

"There is nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock", Mycroft said softly - at least in comparison to his usual voice - then turned his head in Gregory's direction, "If you'd excuse me again, I have to go into my office now."

The elder Holmes left, leaving Sherlock, John and Gregory alone once again. Sherlock waited for several minutes before he turned to Gregory, narrowing his eyebrows. "You can't let him out of sight when he is here. Please, Lestrade, I have the feeling that he won't be able to keep on living like this…"

"You realise that he hates me?"

"He doesn't hate you, Lestrade. He hates persons who interfere with his routine and invade his personal bubble."

Gregory nodded, folding his hands and letting them rest on his lap. "Which I do. What did you talk with him about in Morse code?"

Sherlock smirked. "Nothing of importance, I only asked if it was true what you said and he said no, of course. I knew that he would say that, though." He took his left hand, which he had hidden in his pocket since the conversation with Mycroft, out and showed what he held inside it.

Gregory's eyes went wide in surprise, and John shook his head with a slight smile. Sherlock held the picture Mycroft had taken from him in his hand, carefully smoothing it out with his hands to properly look at it.

"You stole the picture back", Gregory stated and blinked, smiling as Sherlock beamed at him proudly, "Fantastic."

"That's John's part." Sherlock looked at the photo, wetting his lips in concentration. His fingertip trailed over it, stopping at the figure of his brother. Almost softly, gently, he let it move over Mycroft's head, then pointed at the bloody scratch on the other's cheek. "Nails. The person… I'd say an adult, male. The angle looks as if the person had been above Mycroft, probably had leant down."

"Your father?"

Sherlock nodded and looked up, his glance meeting Gregory's, both equally concerned. "Yes, father."