Content Note - contains descriptions of: physical and emotional abuse, drug use,illness, and mental health issues. Tread carefully.

Proxy

Mycroft sits on his trunk, trying to ignore the anxiety prickling its way up his spine. He can feel his teachers whispering behind their hands as they look at him. Three hours ago this room was filled with families; parents coming to pick their children up for the holidays. An hour and a half ago the last of them filtered out leaving Mycroft tense, upright, waiting. It isn't like Mummy to be late.

Eventually Mrs Dilmott, the art teacher, makes her way over to him.

"Maybe you had best get back to the dormitory."

"I'm sure they'll be here in a minute. If I could just give my mother a call…."

"We've already rung her, dear. No one's picking up. Don't look so anxious, I'm sure somebody just got their dates mixed up."

Mycroft licks his lips. "I'd rather wait here if you don't mind."

Here, Mycroft has a direct eye line through the door, into the car park. He'll be able to see when Mummy and Sherlock arrive.

It's another hour before a car finally pulls in to the school gates, and not the one Mycroft was expecting. Sleek, black, official looking. One of Father's cars.

Sigur Holmes walks impossibly slowly up the driveway and into the school. Mycroft takes deep breaths trying to restrain himself from catapulting straight into the man, and demanding to know what has happened.

"All right, my boy?" Sigur asks, when he reaches Mycroft at last. "Sorry about the wait – got a bit tied up at the office."

"That's quite all right." Mycroft says as levelly as he can manage. "Are Mummy and Sherlock in the car?"

Sigur looks around the hall interestedly. "Bit different from my day. That all your luggage?"

"Yes," says Mycroft. "But where are…"

"Ah, Mr Preston." Sigur walks off, and begins having what looks like an earnest conversation with the headmaster. Funding, bursaries, political intrigues. The headmaster of a school like this has fingers in a few pies, and Mycroft knows that Sigur has his reasons for wanting to keep him on his side.

Be rational Mycroft tells himself. If it were truly bad news he would have been told, surely. He scans his father, looking for clues. His suit jacket is slightly crumpled. There is a trace of fluff on the collar. It's been on someone's floor. He didn't come straight from the office, then. Judging from he faint glisten at the corner of his father's mouth… woman. Prostitute, most likely, Sigur's mistress wore a more distinctive perfume. Why, why, why would Mummy let him pick Mycroft up? Mycroft knows he isn't as important to Mummy as Sherlock is, but she couldn't have forgotten about him, could she? He's only been away for a term…..

"Come on, boy." Sigur is back now, tugging Mycroft's trunk out of his arms. "Time to get going."

Mycroft waits until they are on the road to ask his father again. Driving always makes puts his father in a good mood, makes him cheerful, expansive.

"Where are Mummy and Sherlock?"

"Ah," Sigur takes a drag on the cigarette he is holding, tapping the tip against the half open window. Mycroft watches the ash drift away on the wind. "Hospital, I'm afraid."

"Hospital?"

"Sherlock's been having a bit of stomach trouble. Nothing serious probably, but Violet didn't want to leave him. You know what she's like."

Mycroft pictures his little brother as he had last seen him, small, sharp chinned, round cheeked, brimming with an almost impossible energy.

"What sort of stomach trouble?"

Sigur sucks in a mouthful of smoke before answering. "Doctors aren't sure. Probably nothing."

"Probably?"

"They thought it might be appendicitis at first, but apparently all's clear there. They're doing some more tests."

Mycroft bites his lip. "Can I see him?"

"Don't have time to drive you, I'm afraid. Got to get back to the office."

"You could drop me off on the way. Please?"

"Sorry son." Sigur reaches out absently to ruffle Mycroft's hair. "I'm sure you can see him tomorrow."

Once at home, Sigur drops a prickly kiss on top of Mycroft's head and leaves again. Mycroft wanders around the empty house. Sherlock's room is disconcertingly tidy, bed made, toys lined up in neat rows. His microscope is tucked into the corner of the desk gathering dust. There is no trace of the vibrant destructive little boy Mycroft remembers. Mycroft climbs into Sherlock's bed, buries his face in the pillow. It smells of disinfectant and, very faintly, of vomit. Mycroft shivers.

He isn't sure how long he waits, only that he is drifting off to sleep when he hears the door slam beneath him. Mycroft clambers out of Sherlock's bed and runs to the top of the stairs. Mummy is standing framed in the doorway, kicking off her shoes. She hums as she walks down the corridor in her stockinged feet. Her eyes are misty, far away, as if she is caught up in a day dream.

"Mummy?" She starts and looks up. Her eyes smile when she sees Mycroft.

"Oh, darling. You frightened me."

"Sorry." Mycroft whispers and sidles down the stairs towards her.

"How was school?" Mummy asks in that low musical voice of hers. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to pick you up."

"It was all right." Mycroft says. "How is Sherlock?"

Mummy sighs, and pats his head. "Very sick, I'm afraid. The doctors don't seem to know what's wrong."

Mycroft bites his lip. "Can I see him?"

"Tomorrow, maybe. Even I've been sent home tonight. Apparently they need to observe him in isolation. I told them, he'll be crying for me all night long." Mummy smiles bitterly. "The idiots don't listen, of course."

"How long has he been ill?"

"It started right after you left for school."

Three months.

"Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"We didn't want to worry you, darling. Now come along, you look exhausted. Let's get you to bed."

Mummy usually shares her bed with Sherlock in the bed since Sigur is so often away. Mummy always says Mycroft is too big for that but today, once he has changed into his pyjamas and brushed his teeth Mummy steers him into her room. He gets into the far side of her bed obediently and she joins him a few minutes later, curling around his, stroking his hair.

"My darling boy."

Mycroft feels a lump rising in his throat, unexpectedly painful. He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.

The next morning Mycroft goes to hospital with Mummy. They stop at the shops on the way and pick up some bottles of pineapple juice (Sherlock's favourite.) Sherlock is on a ward with a lot of other very sick looking children, his bed surrounded by screens. He looks up as Mycroft and Mummy enter, frowning. Mycroft feels a sickening lurch in the stomach when he realises how much his brother has changed; the baby fat has fallen away from his face leaving it pinched and shrunken looking. His dark hair stands out in sharp contrast to his chalky white skin.

"Mycroft?" He asks, in an uncharacteristically hushed voice.

"Hullo." Mycroft says, uncertainly.

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, frowning. "Did you bring me a present?"

Mycroft shuffles. "No."

"Everyone else did." Sherlock points to a little pile of toys and cards in the corner. "Everyone else came sooner than you did, too." He adds, giving Mycroft a hard look.

"I didn't know you were ill."

Sherlock merely looks at him as if to say you should have done.Mycroft can't help but agree with him.

"We bought you some juice, darling." Mummy puts the juice on the table beside Sherlock and then reaches over to envelop him in a hug. "I've missed you, my Love."

Sherlock clutches at the back of her shirt, screwing up his face into her shoulder. "It was boring without you."

"I'm sure it was." Mummy strokes Sherlock's curls. He looks up at her, an intense expression passing between the pair of them. Mycroft looks away. Ever since Sherlock was very little Mycroft has known that Sherlock has a special place in Mummy's heart. Perhaps it is because they look so much alike – Sherlock could be Mummy's little doppelganger, especially now that he has lost all that weight. At home they never like to be far apart, moving around from room to room together, whispering secrets. If Mycroft didn't love his brother he might hate him a little for the cold feeling that spreads over his chest when he sees the two of them together like this.

"Drink your juice, darling."

Sherlock continues looking at Mummy for a long moment, before picking up the bottle and taking a sip.

"I'm going to go and speak to one of the nurses. Mycroft, sit with your brother."

Mycroft nods, and slides into the seat beside Sherlock. Sherlock has tucked up his knees to his chest, frowning down at the bottle of juice in front of him.

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock wriggles a little under the bedclothes. "All right. I haven't been sick yet today."

There is an awkward silence as Mycroft looks at his brother, the way the skin seems suddenly to stretch tight over his cheekbones, the paleness of his cheeks. He wants to reach out a hand, to touch him, make sure he is still warm and real, but he has a feeling Sherlock would just shrug him off. Sherlock doesn't like to be touched by people other than Mummy.

"What's school like?" Sherlock asks.

"Awful."

"Being in hospital is worse."

"It probably is." Mycroft shifts a little closer to the bed, props an arm on Sherlock's pillow. To his surprise Sherlock shuffles closer, leaning his head against Mycroft's arm.

"I do experiments," he whispers. "In my head. I can't use my microscope in here. I imagine all the outcomes, and try to figure out which one is most likely."

"That's good."

"I hate it. I want to go home."

"You will do soon. They'll figure out what's wrong with you and make you better."

Sherlock shakes his head minutely, then rubs his face on Mycroft's shoulder.

"Don't go away for so long again."

"I'll try not to." Mycroft promises. "I didn't want to, you know."

Sherlock shrugs, continuing to hide his face against Mycroft. After a while Mycroft realises there is a troubling dampness against his shoulder. Is Sherlock crying? It is an alarming thought. Unlike most small children Sherlock rarely gives in to tears. Mycroft searches for something that might distract his brother.

"Hey. Do you want some more juice?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "My stomach hurts."

Mycroft pulls back to look at him. Sherlock's face is screwed up. He has become if possible even paler, every remaining scrap of colour fleeing his face.

"I'll get a nurse." Mycroft says frightened, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"Don't." He presses his face back into Mycroft's arm, and Mycroft wiping his snotty tear stained face against it again.

"That's disgusting." Mycroft says, gently, but he places a hand on the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock digs his small fingers into Mycroft's arm.

"It'll be all right." Mycroft tells him as soothingly as he can manage. "Just give it a minute. You'll feel better."

Without warning Sherlock convulses and he throws up all over Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft can smell pineapple juice and bitter stomach acid.

"All right, all right, all right." He continues muttering as Sherlock hiccups. "Nurse!"

"Don't," Sherlock whispers again. His grip on Mycroft is slackening as he falls backwards onto the pillow.

The nurse hurries into view, accompanied by Mummy.

"Oh, goodness me." The nurse says when she sees Sherlock. "Don't worry, we'll get you cleaned up."

"I'm here, darling." Mummy pushes Mycroft gently aside and begins to cover Sherlock's face with kisses. "Oh, my love, don't worry. I'll make it better."

"I don't understand it." The nurse says, putting a hand to Sherlock's forehead. "He was doing so much better this morning."

"We'd like to put Sherlock under close supervision for a while." The doctor tells Mummy a little later. "It's a standard provision in a case like this."

"Is it?"

"We need to isolate any environmental factors that might be causing his illness." The doctor says blandly. "It's nothing to be concerned about. You'll still be able to see him, but there will be a nurse in the room at all times."

You're lying, Mycroft thinks, but he can't figure out what the doctor could be lying about. His wet shirt clings to his arm unpleasantly. He had tried to wash it in the toilets, but it still smells. His chest aches unpleasantly as he thinks about Sherlock, small and pale and asleep in the bed nearby.

"Very well." Mummy says icily. "I can only hope you know what you are doing. You don't seem to have made much progress so far."

"We believe that this is the swiftest way to discover the truth." The doctor replies.

Mycroft can feel Mummy's anger surrounding them like a storm cloud as they drive home. As soon as they get in she stalks off to the bedroom and slams the door hard. Mycroft tries to read for a while, then makes himself dinner. He knocks on Mummy's door before bed, in case she wants him with her again, but she doesn't reply. Mycroft goes to sleep in Sherlock's room instead.

The next morning Sherlock is sitting up in bed when they arrive, reading a chemistry text book. A nurse sits next to him, watching as they approach.

"He looks better." Mycroft says to Mummy. Mummy shakes her head sadly.

"He often looks better in the mornings. We'll see how the day goes."

But Sherlock doesn't sicken again that day. He is still weak and pale but he doesn't appear to be in pain. He leans into Mummy's arms and talks to Mycroft about the experiments he is planning. After a while Sherlock's words begin to slur into each other and he drifts off to sleep.

"His vital signs are improving." The doctor says later when he comes by to check on Sherlock that evening. He looks at Mummy as he says this and Mummy looks defiantly back.

After a while Mycroft, feeling stiff and sleepy from long hours spent in a hospital chair, gets up for a walk. On the way back he sees Sherlock's doctor deep in conversation with another man.

"...Sigur Holmes' wife, for God's sake. This hospital simply cannot afford…"

Mycroft moves closer straining to hear more of the conversation. "I am not saying that should be a consideration, if you have evidencebut this is pure conjecture…."

"Give me a little more time," the doctor says. "If the child continues to improve…"

The second doctor huffs, ruffles a hand though his moustache. Then he looks up and catches Mycroft staring.

"Oh, hello there." He says awkwardly.

"Hello," says Mycroft. "Are you talking about my brother?"

The doctors exchange looks.

"We'd better get you back to your family, hadn't we?" The older man says, all false heartiness. Mycroft ignores him.

"What's wrong with him?"

"We aren't sure at the moment." The younger doctor says kindly. "Don't worry though, we'll figure it out."

"Tell me what you think." Mycroft says. "I'm very intelligent, I can understand."

"I'm sure you are." The older doctor says with a sigh and a sympathetic look. "I promise we'll let you and your Mother know as soon as there are any developments." He reached out a hand to pat Mycroft on the head but Mycroft takes a step back, eyes narrowing.

"You'd better hurry up. He's very sick."

"We're doing all we can." The younger doctor says quietly. He is looking at Mycroft with an odd expression, half sad, half speculative. It makes Mycroft feel uneasy so he turns around and walks back to Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock is asleep, limbs sprawled out around him in that restless way of his. Mummy has curled around Sherlock in the bed and is stroking his hair Mycroft sits in the chair and watches them. He imagines himself as a satellite spinning around a warm centre. He can't imagine what would happen if that warmth were to fade. Get better, Sherlock, please.

It's clear from the moment they arrive the next day that Sherlock has had a bad night. He sits curled around a sick bowl, eyes bloodshot and only half focused.

"Oh, my poor baby." Mummy says, and hurries over to him. Sherlock shudders and leans into her.

The younger doctor comes by to examine Sherlock later. His face is grave.

"Are you convinced now?" Mummy snaps at him.

The doctor opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

"I want my son moved to another hospital. He has only got worse in your care."

"Mrs Holmes, I think that would be very unwise…."

"And I think that you are wasting my son's time." Mummy gets out a phone. "I am going to call my husband and he will arrange for my son to be transferred immediately."

The doctor holds up his hands. "Very well. As you wish."

Mycroft sits down next to Sherlock, and puts a tentative hand on his back. "Do you want to go to another hospital?"

"Don't care." Sherlock whispers, and then leans into Mycroft. Mycroft doesn't like the way Sherlock's head seems to roll on his neck as if he is having difficulty holding it up. "I want to go home."

Sherlock appears to get a bit better in the new hospital. The doctors still don't seem to know what is wrong with him but he appears to be improving slowly, able to eat more, and the colour is returning to his face. At last the doctors suggest that Sherlock may be well enough to go home, which earns a dazzling smile from Mummy.

"Oh, thank you so much, doctor. I was so worried about him…"

"It was probably a virus of some sort, vicious thing, but these things can sometimes start to clear up by themselves. I'll give you some medications to take home with you."

Mummy follows the doctor, talking enthusiastically. Her face is flushed with colour, smile bright, and Mycroft can't remember having ever seen her look so happy before. To his surprise when he looks at Sherlock he is staring at his bedspread, his expression oddly blank.

"You'll be home soon. We can get to work on some of those experiments if you like."

"Yes." Sherlock says quietly, and picks at his sheets.

"You aren't glad to be leaving."

"I am." Sherlock smiles warmly. If Mycroft didn't know what a good mimic Sherlock was he'd be convinced. Sherlock is silent for a while.

"When will you go back to school?"

"In two weeks."

"Oh." Then Sherlock leans back against his pillow and steeples his fingers under his chin. "Which experiment shall we do first?"

The first week after Sherlock is back home is wonderful. The three of them spend a lot of time together, Mycroft and Mummy and Sherlock. Mummy supervises their experiments, and after they have finished, reads them stories. Sherlock is almost back to his old self again, tearing around the house and breaking things, reading all of Mycroft's textbooks and annotating them with mocking phrases.

After a while though, an atmosphere seems to settle over the house, a thickness in the air that makes Mycroft uncomfortable. Sherlock and Mummy seem to spend more time together alone, Sherlock tucked close into Mummy's side, Mummy whispering to him.

"Don't you have homework to do, dear?" Mummy asks him as he comes to join them in the sitting room. They are curled up together on the couch and Mummy is reading Voyage of the Dawn Treader to Sherlock.

"I wanted to hear the next chapter of the story."

"You're a little old for Narnia, love." Mummy says. "Now run along, we don't want you falling behind."

Sherlock's eyes follow him as he leaves the room.

Later that night Mycroft is woken by a sharp elbow to the chest. Sherlock is climbing into bed with him.

"What are you doing?"

"'It's cold." Sherlock says, settling beside him. "Give me more blanket."

Mycroft obligingly tugs the duvet over him. "Aren't you sleeping with Mummy tonight?"

"You're so fat," Sherlock says. "I thought you'd make a better pillow."

Mycroft notices that Sherlock is still shivering, even though the duvet ought to have warmed him up by now.

"Are you feeling ill again?"

"No," Sherlock says. "Shut up and go to sleep."

But, as it happens, both brothers lie awake for a long time.

"Mycroft, darling," Mummy says over breakfast the next morning. "You'd better make sure your trunk is ready. I'm driving you into school tomorrow morning."

"But term doesn't start til Monday!"

"But it would be good for you to make a start on your studies early, wouldn't it?" Mummy says. "You haven't been doing much here, have you? Not that I blame you. All this anxiety about Sherlock, it's distracting." She rests a hand on Sherlock's curls gently.

"But I can help here." Mycroft says. "Sherlock doesn't want me to go, do you?"

Sherlock shrugs, looking down at his plate.

"Sherlock is much better now. And I'm taking care of him." Mummy ruffles his hair. "You're a good boy, really. But you mustn't put your schooling in jeopardy. Now. Run and pack, love."

School is hateful, of course. Mycroft sits through the boring lessons to which he already knows all the answers, and pays tribute to the students most likely to make life difficult for him if their egos aren't appropriately inflated.

Mycroft is halfway through his third week when an office runner interrupts his biology class to tell him that he is wanted at reception. Mycroft feels his stomach tighten.

Sigur is standing straight-backed and tight-lipped in the school foyer. Mycroft feels a sudden and irrational urge to turn around and run away. Instead he takes a deep breath and walks towards towards his father.

"Your brother has been taken in for surgery. They think there might be some kind of blockage in his stomach. He asked for you." Sigur says tersely. His face is pale, fists jammed fast in his jacket pocket. This, more than anything, scares Mycroft. Things must be bad if Sigur is showing paternal feeling.

When Sigur and Mycroft arrive at the hospital Sherlock is already in the operating theatre. Mummy meets them in the corridor, face pale, eyes too bright. She gives Mycroft a hug and then turns to Sigur.

"They've been in there an hour, do you think…?"

Sigur puts his arm around his wife. "He'll be all right." He says, voice low and scratchy.

Finally a doctor comes up to tell them that Sherlock is out of surgery.

"We found some damage to the gut although the source is not clear." He tells them. "We'd like to keep him in for further tests."

Mummy's bottom lip trembles. "We thought he was getting better."

The surgeon touches Mummy sympathetically on the arm. "You can go in and see him now." He says. "But he might not be awake for a while."

Sherlock is wakes up slowly, leaning to one side to throw up.

"It's a common reaction to anaesthetic." The nurse tells them. She brings him some camomile tea to drink. Sherlock doesn't speak much but watches them all hazily. Mycroft isn't sure if he imagines Sherlock's eyes lingering on him.

Mummy is allowed to stay in the hospital with Sherlock that night but Sigur and Mycroft have to go home. They return in the morning to find Sherlock sitting up, scowling at the puzzle which is sitting on his bed tray.

"The nurse gave it to me." He says by way of greeting. "It's stupid."

"You did keep telling her you were bored." Mummy says indulgently.

"Meaning I wanted to do something interesting, not that I wanted to be bored me even further. Sigur, fetch me a newspaper." Sherlock says imperiously.

Sigur Holmes raises his eyebrows at his son's demand, but, after a glance at his wife, acquiesces.

"You shouldn't speak to your father like that," Mummy says mildly.

"When you're sick, people do whatever you want." Sherlock says. "Isn't that the general idea?"

Mummy's smile hardens a little at the edges. "Don't think any of this is an excuse to be a brat, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares back at her for a long moment and then drops his gaze.

"I got you something," Mycroft says, and Sherlock looks at him for the first time since he arrived. "Last time you complained I didn't bring you a present. Here."

Mycroft hands him the cleaned skull of a curlew he had found when he was supposed practising long distance running at school (Mycroft knew of a shortcut to the usual route. No point in unnecessary legwork.)

"I'm not sure that will be allowed in a hospital…" Mummy admonishes as Sherlock reaches out for it with bright eyes. The movement is obviously too abrupt for him, because he winces, and pales, but it doesn't stop him from examining the skull.

"I boiled it clean in the school laboratory." Mycroft says. "It is perfectly sanitary."

Sherlock has turned it over and is examining the inner chambers of the bird's skull. "Did you see the rest of the skeleton too?"

"Couldn't find it."

Sherlock frowns at Mycroft, as if to say you should have made a better effort.Then he relaxes a little. "I want a human skull one day."

"Dear goodness," Mummy says, "You are a morbid child." She strokes his hair.

"There's one in the school biology lab," Mycroft says. "I'm not sure if it's real though."

"I want to go to school." Sherlock says.

"You're too young." Mummy says. "Anyway, you have to get better first."

Sherlock scowls. "I don't want to have another operation. It's horrible."

"Well, we hope you won't have to have another, don't we?" Mummy says. "Mycroft, will you sit with him for a while? I want to go and speak to the doctor."

Mycroft sits with Sherlock. After about fifteen minutes Sigur arrives with a newspaper. He sits with his sons awkwardly for a few moments before claiming that he has 'things to see to at the office' (Sherlock rolls his eyes at Mycroft.). Mycroft reads to Sherlock from the newspaper, although he is never allowed to get far with into an article before Sherlock complains that he is bored and insists that Mycroft start reading another. As time passes Sherlock's objections grow more frequent and high pitched. He is shifting uncomfortably in his sheets, faced pinched.

"Is the pain getting worse?" Mycroft asks.

"I want some more of the medicine," Sherlock says tightly. "It's wearing off."

"I'll tell them…"

"I want this to stop, Mycroft."

Mycroft looks helplessly down at his brother for a moment.

"I'll get a nurse."

Sherlock recovers from surgery more slowly than expected, partly due to his utter refusal to eat. The nurses start to look strained as Sherlock sends plate after plate of food away untouched. He refuses to drink even when his lips are dry and cracked, and his throat is so dry he rasps when he talks. The doctors look grave and add 'anorexia' to his growing list of symptoms. Mummy is distraught, spending hours sitting by Sherlock, softly trying to persuade him to eat a little. Eventually the doctors put him on a drip, all vital nutrients delivered by tube.

"You look like an alien." Mycroft informs him as he looks down at his little brother, hooked up to a dozen machines with tubes draping their way over his bed.

"I'm a cyborg." Sherlock rasps. "Half man, half machine." He looks rather satisfied with himself.

"You should eat." Mycroft points out dutifully, because Mummy keeps telling him to persuade his brother.

"Eating's boring."

"You'll be in here forever, then."

Sherlock shrugs. "Did you bring a newspaper?"

Naturally, it is Mummy that manages to persuade Sherlock to start eating again. Mycroft and Sigur walk on to the ward one day to find Sherlock and Mummy sharing a bowl of soup.

"A bite for you and a bite for me." Mummy says, taking a mouthful and then handing the spoon to Sherlock. Her eyes are dancing with amusement. "It's like having a toddler again."

Sherlock takes a mouthful of soup, his eyes fixed on Mummy.

"There's a good lad." Sigur says, his tone full of relief, and ruffles his hand through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock flinches as he always does when someone other than Mummy touches him.

"Can I go home soon?" he asks, once the soup bowl is empty.

"Well, we'll have to see what the doctor says," says Mummy. "I'm sure it won't be long, once they see how much better you're doing." She drops a kiss into Sherlock's hair, her face radiant. "I'm so proud of you."

"Mrs Holmes, you are a miracle worker." The doctor says later, when examining Sherlock. "How did you do it?"

"Oh, it was nothing." Mummy says. "I studied psychology at University, you know, it's a simple enough concept. Monkey see, monkey do." She smiles down at Sherlock affectionately. "I wanted to be a doctor. But my father thought it was too heavy a subject for a girl."

"Is that right?" The doctor says absently, as he scribbles in his chart. "Well, Mrs Holmes, we will want to run some more tests on the boy, but hopefully he will be able to go home soon."

"Oh, that would be wonderful."

"When we go home," Sherlock says later as Mycroft reads to him from New Scientist. "Will you help me recreate that frogspawn experiment?"

"If I can." Mycroft says. "Now that you're better, they'll probably send me back to school."

Sherlock frowns deeply at this. "But I don't want you to go back. You can learn things from home. You're always studying."

"I know," says Mycroft. "I can't help it, Sherlock."

Sherlock throws him an irritated look. "Carry on reading," he says coldly.

Mycroft thinks about this exchange on the way home, and he thinks about Sherlock and Mummy sharing a soup bowl and Sherlock climbing into bed with him that and the smell of pineapple juice.

"I don't want to go back to school." He informs his father as they arrive home.

Sigur looks at Mycroft wearily and shrugs. "Talk to your mother about it."

"She won't like it. But you could tell her."

Sigur looks sideways at Mycroft. "Being picked on, are you?"

I was, until I figured out a way to manipulate them.

"No," Mycroft injects enough of a hesitation that Sigur will believe he is bravely holding back on his trauma. (Sigur was bullied at school. Mycroft can tell from the way he knots his tie.)

Sigur sighs heavily. "I'll have a word with Violet, see if we can sort something out."

Mummy is implacable.

"You have to go back, darling." She says firmly. "Education always comes first. I'll speak to the headmaster about those horrible bullies."

"You could get me a tutor," Mycroft says. "If I stayed here I could help look after Sherlock."

"Nonsense. Private tuition is very expensive. And Sherlock will be fine. You are such a worrier!" Mummy pats the side of his face a little too hard. "You must have got it from your father. You didn't get it from me."

Sigur drives Mycroft back to school the day after Sherlock comes home from hospital. Sherlock is quieter this time, and doesn't say much, merely curling up on the sofa with his head on Mummy's lap, watching as Mycroft packs.

"Tell me if he gets any worse." Mycroft begs Mummy as they leave. Mummy just smiles at him.

"I'm sure it won't be as bad as you think." Sigur says half heartedly, as they pull in to the school car park.

Mycroft looks at his father for a long moment. "I hope not."

The boys in the dormitory look curiously at Mycroft as he enters but Mycroft can't be bothered to pander to their curiousity. Flopping onto his front on the bed Mycroft tries to relax and ignore the clawing anxiety in his gut. He rolls onto his side and feels something sharp in his pocket. He pulls it out to examine it – it is the curlew skull he gave Sherlock. Sherlock must have slipped it into his pocket without him noticing. Why?

After a few seconds of staring down at the skull, Mycroft's brow unknots. He knows what he has to do.

"Holmes," the Headmaster looks at him, bushy eyebrows raised. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"That would defeat the purpose," says Mycroft. "Sir, if you would be so kind, I would like you to expel me."

"What?"

"I can go and break some rules, spray some graffiti on the chapel walls, or somesuch, but I'd rather save us both the bother. Expel me please."

The Headmaster's expression softens a little. "Now, Holmes, I know you've been having a difficult time at home lately, but I'm not going to…"

"If you don't," Mycroft says quietly and distinctly. "I'll tell everyone that you've been having an affair with your secretary."

"You'll…."

Mycroft tosses a bundle of photos onto the table. "I've kept the negatives."

There is a long silence as the Headmaster flicks through the photos. He looks at Mycroft calculatingly, hands steepled.

"Are you certain you want to do this, boy?" He says. "You are capable of a great deal – and if I do this it will put rather a blot on your copybook."

"I am quite prepared to deal with the consequences." Mycroft says. "Are you, if these photos get out?"

The Headmaster looks at Mycroft for a very long time. "I'll need those negatives," he says, at last.

"Once I'm home again, I'll send them to you."

"If you don't, I'll tell you parents exactly what you've been up to."

"Of course you will." Mycroft says loftily. "I'll expect you to call my mother by the end of the day, shall I?"

The Headmaster's only response is a grimace and a tilt of his head.

Mummy's eyes are huge and sorrowful. "Oh, Mycroft," she says, as he enters the sitting room. "How could you do a thing like this, and at such a time?"

Mycroft shrugs and looks at Sherlock who is lounging on the sofa, a sick bowl on the floor beside him.

"Did you bring my skull?" Sherlock asks, in a tone that to anyone else would sound indifferent, but Mycroft knows gratitude when he sees it.

"Here." Mycroft hands it over.

Sherlock tucks it under his pillow.

"Read to me, then." Sherlock commands, and Mycroft tucks himself into the corner of the sofa not occupied by Sherlock's feet and pulls out one of his old biology textbooks. Mummy watches both of them with narrowed eyes, then turns and stalks out of the room.

That evening Sigur comes to find Mycroft in his room. He stands awkwardly on the threshold, looking down at his oldest son. Mycroft tries to imagine what he is thinking. Sigur hasn't entered this room for years – last time he was here it was full of stuffed toys and Enid Blyton books. Now Mycroft's room is largely empty, spare with only a large stack of books and a framed map of the old British Empire on the wall.

"That was rather a quick turn around, wasn't it?" He says, mildly, at last. "You were only in school a couple of days."

Mycroft shrugs.

"What happened, son?"

"I was caught with drugs in my possession. Marchmont Heights has a zero tolerance drugs policy." Mycroft says mechanically.

To his surprise, Sigur smiles. "Now I know why Violet always says that you take after me. How did you do it, really? Preston wouldn't have expelled you for drugs, he's far too afraid of my influence."

Mycroft considers for a moment. "I blackmailed him," he admits at last.

Sigur nods, as if this is the answer he expected. "You know, Violet wants me to get you into Harrow."

"If you send me away to another school, I'll only find another way to get expelled." Mycroft says. "You don't want that scandal hanging over our heads, do you?"

Sigur laughs. "I'll hire a private tutor," he says. "But stay out from under Violet's feet, all right? I'm already getting enough shit from her."

"You'd probably get a bit less if you broke it off with your whore in the City." Mycroft says coolly.

Sigur raises his eyebrows in amusement. "You'll understand when you're older. You really are a chip off the old block." He says admiringly.

I'm not. Mycroft thinks resentfully, but says nothing and Sigur, smiling to himself, pats Mycroft on the head before leaving the room.

Mummy takes the task of finding Mycroft a private tutor extremely seriously and by the end of the week Sarah Bateman, a recent Oxford graduate with a double first in Education has been hired to supervise Mycroft's education. She is a tall, painfully thin girl, with long mouse coloured hair and chalky white skin. Mycroft is surprised to find that he likes her immensely. She is much cleverer than any of the teachers Mycroft has encountered in the past and proves to be surprisingly willing to stray off the beaten path of the National Curriculum. When she finds Mycroft has an interest in history she checks out a large stack of books from the British Library and they pore over them together, side by side.

Mummy insists that Mycroft keep a strict schedule for his studies, and gives him and Sarah a room to study in on the far side of the house. Mycroft sees Sherlock in the evenings, and they spend a couple of hours reading, or discussing Sherlock's experiments together. Sherlock's episodes of nausea appear to be abating. He is able to run about the house the way he did before he got sick, running experiments and watching people, though he moves slower than Mycroft remembers, and seems rather more cautious. Once or twice he catches Sherlock spying on his lessons. When he points it out to his tutor Sarah asks if he wants to join them, but Sherlock only scowls and slinks off again.

"Isn't it good that Sherlock is so much better?" Mycroft asks Mummy experimentally at dinner.

She rewards him with a wide smile and a kiss on the forehead. "It's the miracle we've all been praying for."

A couple of days later Mycroft is walking past Mummy's room to go to the loo when he hears a muffled sound from inside.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft pauses, then turns around and begin to head along the corridor. The sound is repeated a little more quietly and Mycroft hesitates only a second before pushing open the door to Mummy's room. Mummy is propping up a limp Sherlock in her arms. His lips look blue.

"He seems to have stopped breathing."

Mycroft is at their side in seconds, heart pounding in his throat. He puts his fingers to the pulse point in his brother's neck - it is beating, but painfully slowly.

"We'd better call an ambulance, hadn't we?" Mummy says, thoughtfully.

Mycroft puts a hand to Sherlock's chest, tries to remember what he has read about first aid procedures. He pushes down hard on Sherlock's chest and then leans over to force a breath into his brother's lungs. He is rewarded by feeling a thin thread of a breath against his face.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says. "Sherlock, please, open your eyes."

Sherlock's eyelids flutter and suddenly he is leaning forward, taking ragged gasps of air.

"It's all right, you're all right, you're all right." Mycroft chants, rubbing at his brother's back.

"Muh-" Sherlock gasps. "Mummy." He reaches out a thin arm, past Mycroft, to where Mummy stands speaking into the phone. Mummy drops the phone and pushes Mycroft out of the way, gathering Sherlock into her arms. He clings to her hard, clutching at handfuls of her dressing gown. In between hitching, sobbing breaths Sherlock is muttering something into Mummy's ear – Mycroft can't hear properly but thinks he sees Sherlock mouth the word 'Sorry'.

"There, there, my pet." Mummy strokes his hair. "You'll feel better soon."

What happens next is rather a blur. Mycroft remembers watching Sherlock crying, clinging to Mummy and then the paramedics arriving, a blur of dark green uniforms and urgent questions, and then Sarah is there, gently steering Mycroft out of the room.

"Let's get you a cup of tea." She says.

Mycroft stands back awkwardly against the kitchen counter as he watches Sarah prepare the tea. His face is unexpectedly wet, and tastes of salt, he discovers. He doesn't remember crying.

"The medics think your brother will be OK." Sarah was saying seriously. "Your mum is going with him to the hospital."

"I want to go with them." Mycroft says.

"They usually only take one other person in the ambulance." Sarah says. "But maybe you and I can go in by bus a bit later."

Mycroft finds himself shivering a little. Sarah pushes him into a seat, wraps his hands around a mug of tea.

"Deep breaths. Just sip the tea slowly."

"I don't understand." Mycroft says, through inexplicably chattering teeth. "Why would he apologise?"

Much later, when Mycroft has slowly pulled himself back together, he and Sarah get a taxi to the hospital. Sherlock is in a bed again, waiting on the results of some lab tests. He is leaning against Mummy, one hand entwined with hers. When Mycroft and Sarah enter, Sherlock looks at them for a brief moment, before turning to bury his face in Mummy's side.

"Hello, darling." Mummy says to Mycroft. "You really didn't have to come all this way."

"Mycroft was very anxious about his brother." Sarah explains. "I thought it might be best if he could see for himself that he was all right."

"He's fine now." Mummy says. "They're planning to keep him in overnight, running an apnea test. I'll stay with him, I suppose. Oh, Mycroft, there really is no need to look so long faced."

"He wasn't breathing." Mycroft finds himself saying, almost against his will. "He could have died."

Sherlock's hand tightens around Mummy's, knuckles whitening. Mummy shoots Mycroft a disapproving look.

"Why don't you do something useful," she says coldly. "Sit with your brother while I go and speak to the doctors."

Sherlock's head snaps up, alarmed. "Don't go," he says.

"It's only for a moment, precious." Mummy drops a kiss on his forehead. "Stay with your brother. He's the one you were so desperate to see, isn't he?"

"No," Sherlock says. "I don't want you to leave. Stay with me, please!" But Mummy deliberately disentangles her hand from Sherlock's, wiping it against her skirt.

"I'll be two minutes."

Sherlock watches her go, face very pale.

"I can read to you if you like?" Mycroft offers.

Sherlock looks at him, shakes his head, and then curls up into a ball. He turns his face deliberately away from Mycroft, hiding it with his pillow. Mycroft looks helplessly at Sarah, who shrugs back at him, perplexed.

Mummy is gone half an hour, during which time Sherlock shivers into his pillow and refuses to respond when either Mycroft or Sarah try to speak to him. When Mummy returns he scrambles down the bed to her, grabbing at her hand.

"It's OK, sweetie." Mummy says, amused. "The doctor says he can't find anything wrong but they are going to put you on a machine tonight to monitor your breathing." She looks up at Sarah. "I think you'd better be getting Mycroft home, hadn't you? I do pay you to teach him, after all, not cart him round hospitals." Mummy says, lightly.

Sarah blinks. "Oh – yes, of course. Only I thought…"

Mummy waves a hand. "I'm not criticising, dear. I just think the boy needs to go home now."

"I'll come and see you tomorrow." Mycroft says to Sherlock, who doesn't even look at him.

Mycroft can't sleep that night. He tosses and turns and tries not to think about Sherlock's lips turning blue. In the end he ends up getting up and searching for their copy of 'The Manual of Family Health' and sits cross legged on the floor, flicking though it. He isn't stupid enough to think that he will find something that the doctors have missed – however intelligent he is, he can't make up for years of medical training. But perhaps if he can understand a bit better he can lift this uneasy feeling that sits across his chest.

The manual doesn't tell him much but Mycroft makes a list of references for further reading, including (and he hesitates a long while before adding this to the list) a book the effects of common poisons. He will get Sarah to take him to the British Library later, find some way of stealing her card and then distracting her so that he can take the books out. Eventually, Mycroft falls asleep pillowed on the medical book, with the greyish dawn light streaming in through the windows.

Mycroft isn't allowed to see Sherlock for the next few days – Mummy tells him that Sherlock is feeling very nervous and having too many people around upsets him. He gathers, from the scent on Mummy's clothes when she returns from the hospital, that Sherlock's stomach problems have returned.

Mycroft manages to get the medical textbooks out from the Library that week. Sarah raises her eyebrows when she catches him sneaking one into the centrefold of his Tudor history textbook, but to his surprise she doesn't say anything, allowing him to carry on reading it in class.

On Saturday Sherlock is finally declared ready to see visitors other than Mummy. Sigur and Mycroft go into the hospital to meet a white faced and very quiet Sherlock. Mycroft has brought a stack of newspaper clippings, to which Sherlock listens to with no apparent interest. He doesn't take his eyes off Mummy the entire time she is in the room. When at last she and Sigur go off to speak to the doctors, Mycroft puts down the papers and moves a little closer to his brother.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"I've stopped breathing," Sherlock whispers. "Twice, in the night, since I've been here."

"What happened?"

"I could see lights. It hurt."

"Were you asleep?"

Sherlock flicks at the corner of his sheet. "When is Mummy coming back?"

"Soon, I expect." Mycroft says. "Can I have a sip of your pineapple juice?"

He reaches out a hand to take the carton of juice, but Sherlock blocks him, winding painfully fragile fingers around Mycroft's wrist.

"No," Sherlock says. "It's not for you."

Mycroft sits back in his chair, his heart beating unevenly. "That's all right." He says, not entirely sure whether he is speaking to Sherlock or himself.

Mycroft waits until his parents are busy, tending to another attack of nausea on Sherlock's part, before he slips away. He finds one of Sherlock's doctors deep in conversation with the ward nurse. He clears his throat loudly, and they both look up.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you," Mycroft says. "But I'm Sherlock Holmes's brother, and I wanted to know, have you considered poison?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think that he could be being poisoned. I've read up on his symptoms you see and a combination of arsenic and…"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"I can show you my readings." Mycroft pulls out a page from one of his books that he'd torn out and highlighted. "He always gets sick shortly after eating or drinking. It fits the facts."

The doctor takes the slip of paper out of Mycroft's hands with a bemused glance.

"That's a little far-fetched, dear." The nurse says kindly. "Who'd want to poison a little boy?"

Mycroft takes a breath and tries to ignore the way the room seems to waver around him, as if he is seeing through a heat haze.

"My mother might."

The doctor's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, really." He crumples Mycroft's paper in his fist. "I don't know what your problem is young man, but believe me, I know a case of poisoning when I see it. And to accuse Mrs Holmes…."

The nurse lays a restraining hand on the doctor's arm. She bends down so that her face is on Mycroft's level, face creasing sympathetically.

"It must be very difficult having a brother who is so sick." She says kindly. "I don't suppose you've been getting much attention these days, have you?"

"No," says Mycroft, "That isn't why…"

"Believe me sweetheart, this isn't the best way to get people to notice you. Now, don't worry, I won't tell your parents what you said. Your mother has enough on her plate right now. That poor woman, sitting by that boy's bed every day…."

"Yes, quite." The doctor coughs.

"Right." Mycroft looks down at his shoes, dully. He had thought it might be difficult getting people to investigate but he hadn't thought they would dismiss him out of hand so entirely. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Sigur," Mycroft says to his father tentatively that evening. Mummy is still in the hospital with Sherlock, and it is only the thought of that that persuades Mycroft to even approach his father.

"Hmmmm?" Sigur doesn't look up from the stack of papers he is browsing through.

"Do you ever think there could be something strange about Sherlock's illness?"

"Hmmmph? Of course it's strange. Doctors can't seem to get to the bottom of it, can they? Bloody useless things."

"I meant," Mycroft persists. "Do you think that someone could be making him sick deliberately?"

Sigur looks up at this. "Why would anyone do that?"

"Mummy," Mycroft says, heavily. "Likes speaking to the doctors. I've seen her smiling about it. And she…"

Mycroft trails off at the look of fury that passes across his father's face.

"What the hell are you implying?"

"Nothing," Mycroft holds up his hands. "Nothing. I was just joking."

"How dare you even suggest…."

"I told you, I was joking."

"You little – go to your room. This isn't a joking matter. I don't want to hear you speak like this ever again."

Mycroft doesn't go to his room, however. He goes to Mummy's room. Nothing has been touched since the last time Sherlock got ill. The sheets are rumpled, duvet tossed to one side. A pillow has fallen off the bed and lies at Mycroft's feet. He picks it up, examines it closely.

"I'm not making it up." He tells it. It only looks back at him, another mute, useless witness.

There is one other person Mycroft can think of who might believe him.

"Sarah Bateman," he hears his tutor's cool tones on the other side of the phone. He hesitates, unsure of what to say.

"Hello?" Sarah repeats, obviously unnerved by the silence.

"Sarah,"

"Mycroft? Is something wrong?"

Mycroft is silent for a long moment, trying to locate the correct words to speak to her. Somehow this is even harder than trying to speak to Sigur, to the nurses. He likes Sarah. He doesn't want her to think that he is a lying attention seeker.

"I…." he begins, and then stops.

"Do you want me to come and see you?" Sarah asks, and Mycroft swallows.

"Yes, please."

An hour later the doorbell rings, and Mycroft hears Sarah's voice, bright and apologetic, telling Sigur some story about leaving an important file in Mycroft's room. Sigur mutters an indifferent reply and allows Sarah to bound up the stairs towards him.

He meets her at the door to his room, ushering her in silently.

"What happened?" she takes a long serious look at Mycroft's face. "Is it something to do with your brother?"

To his surprise, Mycroft finds his throat has gone all tight, his face too hot. "I think…. I think…"

"Sit down," Sarah steers him into a chair, and kneels beside him. "Tell me slowly."

And so Mycroft tells her, in a meandering and (he will later think) shamefully incoherent style, about the pillow on the floor, and the curlew skull, and Mummy's smiles, and about how Sherlock won't look at him anymore.

Sarah listens with a grave expression. When Mycroft finishes, she nods. "I thought there was something wrong."

"You think I could be right?" Mycroft is half relieved, half terrified by the idea.

"I think those doctors are incompetent," Sarah says crisply. "And that your father is too close to the issue to see it clearly. This needs to be properly investigated. We should speak to the police."

Mycroft can't help flinching at the idea, and Sarah frowns at him. "We are talking about a very serious crime, you know."

"They wouldn't listen to a little boy. And you'll lose your job if you accuse Mummy, even indirectly. An anonymous tip is never anonymous if it involves Sigur Holmes."

Sarah taps her fingers against her mouth, thinking. "They'd have to listen, if we had evidence."

"I could try and get some of Sherlock's juice." Mycroft says doubtfully. "I think that that's where the poison is."

"That wouldn't prove who put it there, though." Sarah points out. "No, I have an idea – a friend of mine works in a technology company. He might have something that could help us."

"I brought you something." Mycroft says, as he approaches Sherlock's bed the next day.

"Goodness," Mummy says. "Not another skull."

"It's a hare's skull." Mycroft tells his brother. "It's unusual to find one so intact."

Mycroft watches the interest flare briefly in his brother's eyes before being replaced by the look of apathy that has dogged it since this last visit to hospital.

"Put it on the table," he croaks. "I'll examine it later."

Mycroft puts the skull down carefully, positioning it so that the camera will have a full view of Sherlock's bedside.

"Now," he says, coming to sit back down by his brother. "Shall I read to you?"

Mycroft has to wind through six and a half hours of footage before he finds what he needs. On the TV screen, the ward nurses have just lowered the lights for the night. Mummy gets up to stand by Sherlock's bedside, smoothing the hair away from his forehead. Sherlock tries to sit up, holding out a hand as if in supplication. Mycroft watches as Mummy lays a hand on Sherlock's chest, pushing back down onto the bed, pressing her other hand over his nose and mouth. Sherlock struggles underneath her, legs and arms jerking, body arching in a desperate attempt to get free. Mycroft glances at the time stamp in the corner of the screen. Four minutes without oxygen can cause brain damage. Mycroft bites his lip hard as his brother's movements become slower and more lethargic, his arms eventually falling to his sides.

When, at last Mummy removes her hand from her son's face, her expression is completely serene. She reaches for a tissue to wipe her hands, straightening her hair before walking away to call the nurse over.

On the screen Mycroft can see Sherlock pick himself up, lurching over to one side of the bed, his shoulders shaking. Cowardly though it is, Mycroft can't help but be glad that he can't see his brother's face.

Mycroft stops the tape. He sits in silence for a long while, staring at the black screen. Then he gets up and rewinds the tape to the pertinent point. He writes a brief note explaining the circumstances, and giving Sherlock's name and the address of the hospital. Then he mails the whole thing to Scotland Yard.

Sigur receives a call from the police station the next afternoon. Mycroft is in lessons with Sarah, and they both stop and look at each other, wide eyed, as they hear Sigur blustering angrily down the phone. All of a sudden he goes very quiet.

"All right." They hear him say, voice cracking uncharacteristically. "I'm on my way."

Sigur isn't back until much later that night. He comes and stands by Mycroft's bed, looking down at him. His eyes are red rimmed.

"I'm sorry," he says at last. "I should have listened to you."

"What will happen to Mummy?"

"I told them I wouldn't pay bail. She tried to kill my son."

Mycroft pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to ignore the sick feeling lying low in his stomach.

"And Sherlock?"

"They'll send him home soon. Now they know what was wrong, it should be easy enough to treat him….. Christ. Why didn't I see it?"

"Did they show you the video?" Mycroft asks curiously.

Sigur looks at his son for a long moment, expression blank. "Go to sleep, Mycroft." He says, at last.

Sherlock comes home the next day. Mycroft wavers anxiously on the threshold of his bedroom, listening to the sounds of car doors slamming, the scratch of the key in the lock. In the end he makes up his mind to go down, moving quickly to the top of the stairs only to find Sherlock half way up them already, one hand clutching at the banister. Both brothers stop short, looking at each other. Sherlock's small face is a mask, completely unreadable.

"How are you?" Mycroft asks after a silence that seems to span centuries. There are scratch marks on Sherlock's cheeks, Mycroft realises. Small nails. Not done by Mummy – self inflicted.

"It was the skull," says Sherlock, at last. "You planted it. There was a wire…."

"Hidden camera."

"Of course. Stupid." Sherlock looks away, for a moment, eyes unfocussed.

"You knew what she was doing all along, didn't you?" Mycroft asks.

Sherlock looks back at him, face empty of expression again.

"Why didn't you say something?"

Sherlock head drops for a brief moment, and all Mycroft can see is his top of his dark hair, his small hands curling into fists. When he looks up again his eyes are dark with anger.

"Because I didn't want to end up like you, Mycroft. Nobody ever loved you."

And suddenly Sherlock is pushing past him, a whirl of too-thin legs and arms and elbows shoving him aside.

"Sherlock," Mycroft tries to catch hold of his brother's arm, but Sherlock shoves him away hard. Mycroft has to grab hold of the banister to keep from falling.

"Don't touch me," Sherlock spits at him, face white and furious. "Don't speak to me. I hate you. You ruined everything."

And Sherlock is away from him, flinging open the door to Mummy's room and slamming it behind him hard. Mycroft stands in the corridor for a long time, staring at the closed door, but Sherlock doesn't emerge again.

Twelve Years Later.

Sherlock's room is a tip. Not that Mycroft is surprised. He's heard the reputation of student digs, although he never stayed in anything but the cleanliest surroundings himself when he was at Oxford. Sherlock's room appears to be a particularly egregious example of poor student hygiene, however. In addition to the overflowing ashtrays, abandoned items of underwear and scum covered mugs, Sherlock has assembled quite a little graveyard of half finished experiments. A pig's heart, half way through dissection, rots in a corner. Mycroft observes a beaker of what he is quite certain is hydrochloric acid half draped over with Sherlock's good suit jacket. Mycroft clears himself a small square of space on Sherlock's bed and sits, waiting patiently for his brother to finish vomiting in the bathroom.

"What exactly did you take?" he asks calmly, as his brother stumbles out, red eyed and wild haired.

"Oh, bit of this, bit of that." Sherlock voice sounds raw. He leans against the door is a pose that could be casual and elegant if he hadn't been shaking quite so visibly.

"Do I need to take you to a hospital?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose disgustedly at the idea. "Of course not. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Mycroft asks, looking pointedly up and down the subtly quivering form of his brother in a dirty shirt and bare feet.

"I'm an excellent chemist."

"You're also a first rate drug addict. Forgive me if I don't trust your judgement."

Sherlock fumbles clumsily for a lighter, then lights a cigarette. He waits until he has swallowed down a deep lungful of smoke before speaking again.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"I came to wish you happy birthday." Mycroft says coolly. "Though I can't say I care for your method of celebrating it."

"No. That isn't it." Sherlock taps ash onto the antique desk their father bought him. "You came here to reassert your control over me now that I'm of age and you can't dictate my every move. Make sure I won't go and do something that you disapprove of. Well, you needn't worry your fat head about it. She said no."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "She did?"

Sherlock takes a letter from his pocket, screwing it into a ball before throwing it at Mycroft. Mycroft unfolds it and reads:

Dear Sherlock,

How nice to receive your letter. I am pleased to hear that you are doing well.

Unfortunately I won't be able to accept your visit at this time.

Best of luck with all your studies,

Violet Holmes.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughs, a hard unpleasant sound. Mycroft won't allow himself to flinch.

"I assure you, I am."

"All you ever wanted was to keep me away from her. You and Sigur never let me visit…."

"We were concerned…."

"Yes, yes, you were concerned, that she would find a way to hurt me, through a bulletproof glass wall." Sherlock's roving hand knocks an ashtray flying, scattering dirt over the carpet but Sherlock doesn't appear to notice. Mycroft makes a mental note to search the room thoroughly when his brother is asleep and remove any volatile substances.

"And now she doesn't want to see me. I'm too old." Sherlock continues, sorrowfully, absently, as if he is speaking to himself now.

Mycroft is surprised by the strength of the urge he feels to hit his little brother just once, hard, in the face.

"You'd do better to forget about it, Sherlock." he says, instead "This fixation of yours is childish and damaging."

"Isit?" Sherlock sways rather alarmingly on his feet. "Is that what it is? Well. So glad that you're here to straighten me out, brother dear. You've done a smashing job of it so far, I must say."

"I've done my best for you, Sherlock." Mycroft says. "I really wish you would try to see that."

"Your best. Running off to University all those years and leaving me with strangers."

"I wanted to stay. You made it very clear that you didn't want me near you."

"You took away my mother."

"She tried to kill you."

"Well, you made me wish she'd succeeded."

Mycroft and Sherlock have had many versions of this argument, usually after Sherlock has consumed a disproportionate amount of some mind-deadening substance or other. Mycroft resists the urge to bury his head in his hands.

"Why don't you sit down for a moment."

"You're on my bed."

Sighing Mycroft gets up and Sherlock, tottering past him, collapses inelegantly onto the bedspread.

"Oh, that's better." He sighs.

Mycroft perches carefully on the edge of the bed beside his brother, noting that for once Sherlock doesn't flinch or shove him away. (Too stoned, no doubt.) It's been a long time since they were so close to each other. He can feel the faint heat from his brother's body. It makes him feel a sudden, disturbingly painful pang of nostalgia.

"What would you have done?" he finds himself asking. "If it had been me?"

"It wouldn't have been you," Sherlock says. "Too fat and dull."

"Of course." Mycroft says.

They sit in silence for a long time, and Mycroft thinks that maybe Sherlock has fallen asleep until he hears him say in a low voice.

"I don't know what I would have done."

Mycroft looks down in surprise at his brother, absorbing his words, and the tone in which they were spoken - at the quietness that could almost be tenderness in his voice. In spite of being aware how unwise it is he can't seem to help himself reaching out, laying a hand on his brother's hair.

Sherlock twitches away a little from the touch, flicking him off like a horse stung by a fly.

"When are you leaving?"

"I'll stay until I'm satisfied that you are in a stable condition."

Sherlock snorts derisively. "Well, I'm going to sleep now. You make my head ache."

"Very well." Mycroft stands reluctantly.

"And I'll expect you to be gone by the time I wake up." Sherlock says. "My stomach's had enough upsets for today without having to see your face again."

"You won't know I was here."

6 Months Later

Browncross Medium Security Prison isn't the sort of place a member of the general public can stroll into without an invitation, as a general rule. But then, Mycroft isn't an ordinary member of the public. A lot of doors open for the young man who is well on his way to beingthe British Government.

"She's never given us any trouble," the prison warden says, as she leads him down the corridor to the cell. "Seems like a nice lady. Well educated. You'd expect a posh bint like her to be eaten alive in a place like this, 'specially once it gets around was done for hurting a kid. But she's popular round here. People like her."

"I can believe that." Mycroft says.

"Well, here you are. Sure you don't want someone in there with you?"

"Thank you, no. I'd prefer to do this alone."

"Suit yourself. Like I said, there's no reason to believe she's dangerous."

"Very reassuring."

The warden grins at him, and raps on the door of the cell. "Violet, you've got a visitor." She unlocks the door and pushes it open. Mycroft enters slowly. The cell is spare, but neat, a pile of books placed carefully in one corner. On top of them Mycroft notes a stack of letters tied with ribbon. Even from a distance, Sherlock's handwriting is unmistakable.

Violet Holmes sits, ankles crossed, on her bed, flicking through a magazine. She looks up as Mycroft enters and for a brief moment a look of genuine surprise crosses her face. Then she smiles.

"Mycroft! What a pleasant surprise."

She hasn't changed much, Mycroft thinks. A few stray strands of white working their way through her dark curls are the only indication that any time has passed since he saw her last.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd ever come to visit me. My, but you have grown! Come here, sweetheart, let me take a proper look at you." She pats the space on the bed beside her.

Mycroft stares at her for a moment, before pointedly sitting down on the empty bed opposite her, as far away from her outstretched arm as he can manage. The warden glances between the two of them with a curious expression for a moment, before tactfully withdrawing. Mycroft listens closely to the grind of the key in the lock.

"Well. I'm sorry I can't offer you a cup of tea," Violet says. "Home comforts are rather limited here, as I'm sure you can see."

Mycroft looks at his feet.

"Although, it was ovaltine that you liked, wasn't it? A milky drink before bed. And of course, Sherlock would ask for hot chocolate. He had such a sweet tooth."

Mycroft focuses hard on measuring his breaths. Interesting, this flood of guilt and anxiety, a Pavlovian response to being in her presence again. Even after all these years. He had wondered how he would feel - but there is really no need to feign anything. Violet tilts her head as she looks at him, expression amused.

"Well. You came all this way to see me, darling. Aren't you going to say anything?"

Mycroft clears his throat. "You're looking well."

"Am I?" Violet winds a strand of hair around her finger absently. He'd forgotten she used to do that. She smiles at him. "I suppose I am. It really isn't so bad here once you get used to it - to having your freedom taken away, being surrounded by the criminally insane. Did you know my last cellmate tried to kill herself? The silly thing managed to get hold of a razor blade from somewhere. Made quite a mess on that bed. You know, I'm not sure sitting on there is an entirely sanitary choice."

"I'll manage."

"Of course, I have been here rather longer than expected. Most women in my position are out again in a few years, with good behaviour and a sympathetic psychiatric report. I know I made a good impression on the parole board. I can only assume that I have your father to thank for my continued incarceration."

"Very likely."

There is a long silence during which Mycroft looks down at his knees. "I wanted – I need to ask you some questions."

"Oh, yes?"

Mycroft gets to his feet, rubbing shaking hand over his mouth, as if trying to work up the courage to say something. Not difficult to allow a little of the anguish bubbling its way through his mind show on his face.

Violet watches him with the same level of interest one would devote to a mildly interesting television programme. "Well." She says at last. "I can see this is difficult for you. Do feel free to take your time. I don't suppose you mind if I smoke while I'm waiting?"

"Is that allowed?"

Violet raises her eyebrows mockingly. "Are you going to report me?"

Mycroft looks away.

"And how is my little boy?" she asks, taking a drag of her cigarette.

"I suppose you mean Sherlock? He is doing very well. Studying Natural Sciences at Cambridge. His tutors are very impressed with him."

Violet leans back, eyes half closed, exhaling a long plume of smoke. "Yes? Well, I'm glad he's doing well. Apart from the drug habit, of course."

Mycroft feels his eyes widen.

Violet chuckles at him. "You really should have changed your jacket before you came here if you didn't want me to know. Honestly. You didn't think you got your observational skills from your father, did you?"

"I didn't know." Mycroft looks away. "There are a lot of questions I find it difficult to find the answers to when I look back on my childhood."

"It's a common condition, darling. You'll get used to it."

Mycroft gets to his feet, walking to the cell door. He stands for a moment, looking out of the little window onto the blank grey wall opposite, forcing his thoughts under control. He cannot allow his anger to take over just yet.

"I want you to tell me," he says, in tones that only tremble a little. "I- I need to know. Why did you do it?"

Behind him he hears Violet let out a soft sigh.

"This why you're here?"

Mycroft forces himself to turn around and look at her. "I'm good at what I do. I'm considered intelligent, useful, well respected. But every day when I look in the mirror I can't help thinking about it. Asking myself… why? Sometimes I can't sleep a night remembering... I really - I don't think I can stand wondering about it anymore."

"I see." Violet says, quietly. She looks smaller from this angle, her head bent a little, thin shoulders hunched. "To be honest with you, Myky, I don't know how to explain what happened. My little Sherlock. I loved him so much but when I was with him I used to feel this – compulsion. I don't know where it came from, but I couldn't seem to fight it. It felt like being trapped in a nightmare, looking on at all these horrifying things I was doing, and not being able to stop myself. I used to pray that someone would come along and stop me. And then of course, you did. My poor baby." Violet looks up at him, blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Mycroft merely looks back at her, face expressionless.

Abruptly Violet's shoulders straighten. She smiles. "No?" she says. "Pity. It seemed to work on my psychiatrist. But then you always were an exceptionally bright child."

"As you said, I inherited my intelligence from you."

Violet laughs softly at this, getting to her feet and moving to the far wall of her cell, tapping her cigarette into an ashtray as she goes.

"I'm surprised you insist on asking such an asinine questions, then. Why did I do it."

"You don't think I have a right to know?"

"I think you know already."

Mycroft continues to look at her blankly.

Violet rolls her eyes. "I did it for the same reason anybody does anything: I liked it." She sucks in another mouthful of smoke, looking at him speculatively. "I'd have thought you of all people would understand."

"Why I of all people?"

Violet raises her eyebrows. "Don't play coy, darling. I know what you do. You've got half the world at your fingers, haven't you? Dancing like puppets on a string. You tell yourself that you're acting for the greater good, that someone has to do it, but the truth is that you enjoy it."

"You do know that you could have killed him?" Mycroft asks. "One slip of the hand when you were sprinkling his food with poison, a few extra seconds spent on one of your little suffocation sessions and he would have died."

"Yes, or one day he would have grown up and left me." Violet shrugs. "All good things must come to an end. Come, sweetheart, drop the self righteous act. This isn't why you're really here. This isn't what you're really thinking about when you look in the mirror in the mornings."

"Isn't it?"

"No." Violet is smiling now, looking at him with an expression Mycroft might once have classified as fond. He isn't quite sure what to call it now. "What you really want to know is, why I chose him and not you."

Mycroft is silent for a moment, considering this. "Sherlock has informed me that it was because I was too fat and boring."

Violet throws back her head and laughs heartily. Mycroft tries not to remember that there was a time when he would have done anything to be the cause of that sound. "Did he say that? Well. He always was a little jealous of you, I think."

"I'm sure you cultivated that."

"Maybe I did." Violet's eyes are dancing.

"Well then." Mycroft says, "Why didn't you chose me?"

Violet smiles and leans back against the far wall. For a moment Mycroft thinks she isn't going to answer.

"You know," She says dreamily, at last. "Everyone always used to tell me what a difficult child Sherlock was. Even when he was a baby, he'd scream his head off any time Sigur or the Nanny tried to pick him up. And I believe he drove his kindergarten teacher almost to distraction. But when he was with me, he was quite a different child - as pliable as anything. Such a good little lamb."

"He was afraid of you."

"No. He adored me." She looks at Mycroft and her smile hardens little. "You on the other hand... you were always a little teacher's pet. Running around trying to curry favour with any adult that so much as looked as you. Drawing pictures for your Nanny's birthday, asking your teachers for extra homework. You even tried to butter up the old woman in the corner shop. So very desperate for somebody, anybody, to pay attention to you. Like one of your father's little whores. It was really very unattractive."

Mycroft's mouth is unaccountably dry. He has to swallow twice before speaking again."I still valued your attention, you know. More than anyone's."

"Really? Is that why you went and tattled on me to the police?"

Mycroft stares at her. "I'm surprised that you didn't allow Sherlock to come and see you." he says, at last. "Since you consider him to be such a perfect victim."

Mummy shrugs. "Maybe I don't need to see him now."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I've always thought it rather enchanting," she says. "The suggestibility of the human mind. If you plant a thought deep enough in someone's mind, you no longer need to act upon it yourself. You can't kill an idea, can you? Would you say that your brother had a self destructive streak? Does he take unnecessary risks? I gather it rather amuses him to cook up his own little recreational substances. How long do you think it will be before his hand slips, hmmm?"

"Are you honestly telling me," Mycroft says slowly. "That you take pleasure in the idea of your own child dying from an overdose?"

"Enjoy is a strong word." Violet says. "But I have to admit, it would amuse me to see your face when it happened. All those years of care and attention, all those little sacrifices you made – all for nothing. I wonder if I could bribe someone to take me a photograph?"

"So," Mycroft says quietly. "This is who my mother truly is. I see."

Mycroft draws himself, and steps forward, looking down at his mother, who for the first time shows a flicker of anxiety in her eyes.

"I am afraid that I have deceived you," he says "About the motive for my visit. This was never about my own peace of mind."

"No?"

"No." Mycroft says firmly. "I regret to inform you, Mother, that Sigur is dead."

There is a silence during which Mycroft could have heard a pin drop.

"I see." Violet says eventually.

"As you can no doubt deduce," Mycroft says coldly. "I am doing rather well in my chosen career. My own power and influence will soon far overtake anything Sigur ever achieved. And now that he is dead, your fate is effectively in my hands. I came here to gather information about how best to use that power."

"Ah," Violet says, and her face is very pale. "This was – some kind of unofficial parole board hearing, was it?"

"If you like," Mycroft smiles. "I regret to say that on this occasion, you did not pass with flying colours. I wouldn't expect to see the outside of a prison cell for the next, oh, fifty years, at least."

"You won't give me a second chance?" Violet's voice is low, eyelashes lowered. A subtle suggestion of deference, vulnerability. Too late.

"I very much doubt it."

"Well." Violet turns away, collecting herself, "I suppose I deserve that."

"Yes," Mycroft says thoughtfully. "I rather think that you do."

Violet turns back to him, smiling a thin, bitter smile. " Don't imagine keeping me in here will make it any easier to protect him. One small slip of the hand, remember?"

Mycroft turns and raps sharply on the cell door.

"Warden! I'm believe I'm finished here." He turns back to look at his mother. "I think you'll find that Sherlock is much stronger than you think."

Violet's smile broadens. "We'll see about that."

"Difficult visit, was it? Want a cup of tea before you go?" The warden says sympathetically as she leads him back along the corridor out of the prison. Mycroft looks at her and wonders what she is seeing. For all he may have won a technical victory over his mother he doesn't feel like the collected and impregnable mind of the British Government that he'd been when he came in. Apparently he doesn't look like it either.

"I am perfectly well." He says. "Though I may need a word with your superiors. I think Mrs Holmes might benefit from a stay in solitary confinement."

"Right-o."

Later that evening Mycroft pulls in to the car park of his brother's college in Cambridge. From here he can see his brother's window, a distant square of yellow light. Sherlock is at his desk tonight – Mycroft can just about make out the dark smudge that is his brother's head bent low over a textbook.

Mycroft is aware that his presence here is unnecessary. Sherlock appears absorbed in what he is doing; he rarely wreaks havoc upon himself when his mind is occupied. The sensible thing to do would be to turn away, drive home, and monitor his brother from afar as he always does. And yet.

How long exactly before his hand slips?

Mycroft sits in the darkened car park for a long time, watching the darkness deepen in the shadows under Sherlock's window. He takes a deep breath and tries not to panic when his brother finally gets up, closing his books and the light in the far off window finally goes out.