---
title: "Shot Birds, Falling Fast"
author: "Basser"
lang: en
id: "CRV-08"
series: "Can't Rewind Verse"
series_part: 8
fandom: "Sherlock (TV)"
rating: "Teen And Up Audiences"
warnings: ["Graphic Depictions Of Violence"]
words: 14711
chapters: 4
date: 2014-12-09
status: "complete"
written_by: human
summary: "Sherlock doesn't adjust particularly well to living with his brother. Mycroft doesn't either. But then no one ever said escaping home would solve anything."
---

# Shot Birds, Falling Fast

## Chapter 1: Sherlock

**««**

Knuckles scraped bloody, shoes a complete loss and his tailcoat ruined, he stood at the brink of a fatal drop and smiled.

Far below the masses bustled to and fro, leading their silly little pointless lives, completely unaware of the figure lording high above them all. Their new king, grinning like a giddy child for the recklessness of it all. Because he'd done it. He'd honestly *done* it. He'd climbed a bloody building. No one had stopped him. No one even *knew.*

Stood there on the very edge he could look down and see the pavement far, far below. Imagine the consequences should he fall - all the torn flesh and smashed bones, the pain, the near-certainty of death. And with those thoughts a bolt of adrenaline shot through his system. One which, for just that brief instant, made everything feel clear. Thoughts normally scattered to the winds began to take recognisable shapes. Things he'd been avoiding for so long now seemed so reasonable, linear, simple.

He leant as far forward as he could without falling, then jolted back before he could overbalance, laughed for the first time in months. Real, genuine laughter. Sparked by the utterly alien feeling of being... well, *happy*, he supposed. If this was what happiness felt like, anyway. He didn't have much to compare against. Felt fine with both himself and his place in the world, though, and that was enough. He wasn't a Freak, not up here. Up here he was absolute, the all and the one of reality. Up here the world was an inconsequential diorama of tiny ants.

Soon, though… soon he'd have to go back down.

His smile dropped a few notches, and he glanced back over his shoulder, the crumpled heap of his uniform coat discarded on the roof.

All this clarity and optimistic sense of purpose would diminish gradually with the altitude until he hit the ground. Always did. Back to the hard shell of his usual existence. Bullies and brothers and grades. Everything that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things because there were buildings that, yes, *were* possible to climb. And the sunset over London. Human beings like insects far below. All the misery of the world was naught but a passing daydream. Only on the cusp of death could he ever seem to remember that.

He shook his head and turned back to stare out over the city instead. Said a mental farewell to the vestige of contentment which, sure enough, began to dissipate the second he stepped back from the ledge. Had to leave, even if he never wanted to. The sun was beginning to set and he needed the light to pick the lock on the stairwell. Not quite at the level yet where he trusted himself to do it blind. And he'd exhausted all his strength climbing up, nothing left for down, so the stairs were really his only option if he didn't want to fall to his death. Which, honestly, he didn't.

No, he'd had quite enough close brushes with his own mortality to know he *really* did not want to kill himself. Even if the world was horrible and cruel and full of utter bastards. A low, constant grind of misery seemed better overall than that stabbing terror of nearly dying. The animal instincts thrashing about screaming *no no no no* whilst your brain shut down all function... ugh, never again. Not if he could help it.

Shaking his head at his own useless thoughts he turned to the business of picking the roof's door lock. A disappointingly short time later, without even a close call getting caught to break the solitude, he found himself back to his natural level. Hollow and angry once more, and now for some reason besot with a sense of directionless annoyance for the world at large. Christ, why couldn't he just have the adrenaline, the clarity and peace, whilst safe on the ground? Without having to be dangling half over a precipice? There had to be some way to replicate that contented feeling. Something he'd not thought to try yet.

Thoughts were pushed aside as he came to the door of the flat he'd been sharing with his brother since last year, not far from the office block he'd decided to scale. Back to the dull routine of life. Still… maybe he could wring *some* amusement out of it.

"I climbed a building today."

Mycroft looked up from the packet of papers in his hand, gaze flicking once over Sherlock's scraped knuckles and battered coat, and paused only a microsecond before turning his attention back to whatever he was reading.

"Apparently so," he remarked blandly. "You do know you're meant to be at school right now?"

Sherlock shrugged. He tossed his coat off to the side, not caring where it landed, and let himself fall backwards over the arm of Mycroft's leather sofa so he was lying draped across the cushions, staring up into the shadows of the ceiling. After a short moment of silence he turned his head to instead regard his brother. Still sitting in his armchair, reading. So much for providing amusement.

"Don't you want to know how I managed to skive off without you finding out?" Sherlock asked, voice somewhat teasing. He'd been utterly brilliant this time. Mycroft would *have* to acknowledge it.

But the man only lifted a brow, eyes ever scanning his document.

"You changed my contact information in the school directory. Pickpocketed cleaning staff for keys to the administrative offices and made use of an unsecured computer terminal during morning assembly. I'm sure whatever lewd joke you overwrote the data with was very clever." Mycroft's voice was a flat, disinterested monotone. Sherlock's triumphant little smirk evaporated. Fuck, how'd he-? But he'd thought… he'd been *smart* about it, hadn't he?

"What gave it away?" Sherlock refused to acknowledge the undertone of disappointment in his voice.

"Mostly the fact that you haven't yet smugly corrected me," Mycroft replied drolly. He finally deigned to look up from his document and fixed Sherlock with an unimpressed look.

Abruptly Sherlock frowned, a flash of insulted anger shooting through him. "That's not fair!" he snapped. "You can't just *guess*."

"A correct guess is no less the truth than a deduced fact." Finally Mycroft exhaled a breath that wasn't quite a sigh, and glanced over to Sherlock's abandoned tailcoat in the middle of the entryway. An expression that might have been exasperation crossed his face before it smoothed away once more to leave his countenance its usual bland mask. "You couldn't have at least left the coat at school? It's rather tiresome to replace."

"It's rather tiresome to wear," Sherlock retorted petulantly. Mycroft half-rolled his eyes.

"As if you'd even know. You've been written up for improper dress eight times this month."

Sherlock allowed a bit of a smile for that, admittedly somewhat proud of himself. *Hah* - finally Mycroft verbally acknowledged something as annoying. Have to remember to ditch the coat more often, now. Maybe he could actually manage to piss the man off.

That would have to be a long-con sort of game, though. Not interesting at the moment. Sherlock shifted his head back to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds more. Didn't really have a good comeback for Myc's jab. And anyway he was a bit sick of snide sniping - that was the only sort of conversation they ever seemed to have these days. Getting repetitive. Perhaps they could do something else.

"Want to play a board game?"

He ignored the note of pathetic hopefulness in his own voice. Like he even *cared*, really... Mycroft could do whatever. It was just that a game might be sort of fun, that was all. And maybe Mycroft was bored as well. Wouldn't be a big deal if he refused.

But then, "Has it completely escaped your notice that I'm occupied?" Mycroft's tone had dropped to one of uncharacteristic frustration. He flicked his gaze up towards his little brother and fixed him with a flat, irritated look. "Go read a book. Or maybe do your coursework, for a change. I'm sure your professors would have a collective heart attack if you were to actually complete an assignment on time for once."

Sherlock had been about to speak again – suggest which game would be best, actually – but immediately snapped his mouth shut. Mycroft went back to his report without so much as a second glance.

A minute or so of silence passed. Finally Sherlock hefted himself up on his arms, wincing for the soreness of abused muscles, and glanced over at his brother. No need to mask the hurt expression, pretend to be haughty or sarcastic or angry. Mycroft wasn't looking.

With a quiet sigh Sherlock got up off the sofa and headed for his bedroom.

**««**

It was curious, he supposed, that the more he found himself being ignored the unhappier he got.

Should have been the opposite, shouldn't it? He was finally free to do whatever he liked. Even smoking, the transgression that had sparked this whole debacle in the first place, never elicited more than a few mocking words about his having an appalling lack of willpower. And under a barrage of sarcastic derision from his brother Sherlock had, indeed, managed to kick the habit. Mostly. Which was good, he supposed. But now he had nothing to dampen the gnawing sense of boredom and isolation that continued to writhe unabated in his chest.

Naively he'd thought… or *hoped,* maybe, that things would change living in London. He wouldn't be as crushingly lonely, wouldn't need nicotine to make the emptiness bearable. He'd have his big brother instead, wouldn't he? Someone to talk to, play games with, trade snide jokes.

But of course things hadn't really worked out that way. Mycroft was busy. Sherlock was annoying. They rarely had any conversation that didn't end in Sherlock being summarily dismissed from the room.

Which was fine. Obviously it was. Sherlock understood that his brother had a demanding position, and that he himself was an irritating sixteen year old. Nobody could reasonably expect a career-oriented twenty-something to waste time entertaining the stupid whims of a teenager. And besides which Sherlock had a lifetime of practise with solitude, didn't he? Hardly needed *Mycroft* to keep himself occupied.

But he'd just thought that… you know, maybe he wouldn't have to be so alone anymore.

The ceiling above his bed was speckled with tiny glowing dots in the darkness. Stars and planets – childrens' toys, just stupid decorations meant for toddlers. He'd found them in a corner shop during one of his semi-frequent bouts of wandering away from school and decided to steal them. Something a bit ironic in that, he figured. Stealing a toy. Innocence and corruption all in one.

He didn't really know why he liked the stars so much. Maybe it was the soft glow, warm and friendly despite being an odd, otherworldly shade of green. Or just that they gave him something to look at. Whatever the reason he often found himself staring at them for hours on end.

Should have been sleeping, really. It was late, he'd exhausted himself with pointless physical exertion, and he'd have to go back to school tomorrow. But... sleeping would probably mean dreaming. And dreaming hadn't been a very pleasant experience of late. With the nicotine withdrawal had come the expected period of neurological upset, which carried with it... well, *nightmares*, he supposed. The term sounded childish, but then he *was* currently staring at a festoon of little plastic glowing stars on his ceiling, so maybe that wasn't so far off the mark.

Eventually he'd fall asleep without meaning to, jolt awake two or three hours later utterly convinced he'd heard Father passing down the hall. Go through the same tired routine of berating himself out of being frightened, keeping his head buried under the blankets to block out whatever evils he still felt lurking about. It was just the autonomic nervous system, he'd remind himself. A glitch, that was all. Adrenaline cycle tripped by false signals. And just like a computer one should theoretically be able to debug their body's faulty software. Somehow.

He'd not yet found a method to do that, however, and so he was reduced to simply doing his best to avoid the problem. Never sleep.

Obviously an impossible goal, but at least he could usually manage to draw out the safe periods between wakefulness and a hellish dream-world to several days at a stretch. This practise left him feeling constantly half-dead of exhaustion, of course, but that was fine. Hardly anyone noticed. He'd managed to build such a bubble of infamy around himself at school as to be functionally invisible, so it wasn't as if his being quiet and withdrawn would arouse any suspicion from students or faculty. They didn't care.

Mycroft, though, he'd thought might catch on. Had to eventually. And at the very least he'd have a go at Sherlock for being ridiculous, right? Avoiding sleep altogether just to dodge a few bad dreams. Melodramatic nonsense.

But... Mycroft hadn't said so much as a word about it. He'd been too busy with work.

Sherlock sighed and tossed an arm over his eyes, blocking out the soft glow of the stars. It didn't matter. *Really,* it didn't. He was entirely capable of dealing with his own problems. Should just be thankful to Mycroft for letting him live here. Being ignored was an acceptable trade-off for finally escaping Father, wasn't it? Shouldn't bother him. *Didn't* bother him.

Only... it did. A lot. And he couldn't seem to make it stop.

He took a deep breath, held a moment, then let it out again.

One of these days he'd learn not to care.

**««**

## Chapter 2: Mycroft

**««**

It must have been some exceptionally cruel joke of the universe that Mycroft should find himself having to deal with this *now*, of all times.

Right at the cusp of everything he'd soon become, poised to take hold of the entire country. With the work he'd put in over the course of university, the contacts he'd made, he was beginning to think he might very well be able to place himself in unofficial command of MI5 within the decade. Conceivably in as little as a few years, even, if he played his cards right. Mycroft rarely got excited by anything, but this was shaping up to leave him positively giddy.

Now, though, there was this. Right there in the bloody middle of it all was his brother. Usurping Mycroft's time and attention with a storm of drama, as usual.

Such sentiments were unfair, Mycroft knew that well enough. Obviously Sherlock hadn't meant to intrude upon his life. But where one might be technically innocent by intent, there was still the reality to deal with. And that reality now consisted of a maladjusted sixteen year old quite abruptly thrust into the sole care of a man with neither the time nor inclination to look after him.

Surely, though, Sherlock was old enough to fend for himself? He was only a few years away from legal adulthood, honestly. Didn't need someone dictating his every action. Regardless of said actions tending to be spectacularly stupid or dangerous. Like climbing a bloody building... how in hell's name had the idiot even managed such a stunt without falling to his death?

Mycroft sighed irritably as he found his gaze straying away from the report. Settled on the crumpled tailcoat in the entryway. And there lay yet another impossible dilemma. Because whilst one would have to be blind not to recognise all this poor behaviour as a bid for attention, one would also require the patience of a saint to avoid getting fed up with it. And Mycroft, with his career goals growing ever-more complex, severely lacked such patience. Wasn't sure he'd ever had it to begin with.

Perhaps he should work on building that virtue, then. Provide a steady constant in resolving whatever issues his brother might have. That would likely be the more adult path.

But then for *god's sake*, he was trying to read up on current international surveillance networks. Defending the strategic interests of an entire nation was about as adult a path as one might take, wasn't it? Seemed a *bit* more important than playing board games with his little brother, in any case. As if anyone would choose the mental health of a single teenager over the security of sixty million people, honestly.

And yet. There was still the bloody Problem. That being that no one else on the planet was willing to put up with Sherlock long enough to help him. If helping him were even possible. Which, to be fair, might be a rather debatable point.

Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps he was only fooling himself into believing as much. A convenient loophole to slip through, because if Mycroft had already done the most he could in giving his brother a safe haven to call home, then he'd be absolved the responsibility of dealing with anything else. Not beholden to monitoring a teenager for signs of psychosis or self-destruction or whatever else might reasonably afflict a, er... mistreated... child.

Oh good lord, but he was ridiculous. Avoiding the word even in his thoughts. *Abuse.* There, christ.

Such a hollow term, though. Nothing but a distant stereotype. Images of television PSAs showing some doe-eyed urchin overshadowed by a caricaturized demon of a parent. Child abuse was the sort of thing that only existed in clichéd dramas and waiting room pamphlets, shoddy government budget films made for schoolchildren. It didn't happen to anyone you *knew.* Certainly not one's irritating younger brother.

Some small mercy, he supposed, that he didn't know any particulars. Sherlock would sooner die than discuss the matter, and Mycroft had no desire to press things, which had resulted in a strangely comforting dearth of information. With no solid facts to work with he'd never have to take imagery of what he knew his father to be capable of and apply it to a nine year old version of his brother. Only... well, now he had, because he'd just thought it. Bollocks.

Still, in his head the child wasn't *Sherlock.* Just some nameless unfortunate. Couldn't be his brother, could it, because a child in such a scenario would have to be terrified, and Sherlock was always haughty, annoying, petulant... never *scared*. Mycroft wasn't even sure the daft idiot was *capable* of fright, considering his complete lack of a sense of self-preservation.

Except. Yet again with the *except...* he'd seen his brother and father interact countless times. Family trips and dinners, school events, concerts, a few odd educational outings. And to his great chagrin he couldn't, in hindsight, conjure up a single situation where Sherlock hadn't spent as much time as possible hovering anxiously at Mycroft's side like a second shadow.

At the time Mycroft hadn't given much thought to the behaviour beyond finding it slightly irritating. His brother was neurotic at the best of times, flatly insane at worst, and so his going inexplicably nervous on occasion hadn't seemed cause for worry. Especially since, yes, Father did tend to get a bit snippy when either of them did something he found improper or annoying. Sherlock was improper and annoying by very nature, so of course he'd prefer to keep his mouth shut and hide behind his big brother when Father was around. Didn't want to get snapped at. Understandable.

Much more understandable now than Mycroft was strictly comfortable with, knowing the truth of things. And abruptly that line of thought shot off of its own accord down a tangent; unhelpfully he found himself reminded of one of the handful of times they'd been told off over something together. A long-ago holiday in France when Sherlock had wanted to go explore a cave he'd spotted near the seashore, and Mycroft had tagged along because he wasn't particularly keen on hanging about with Grand-mère all day. Evidently they'd neglected to tell anyone where they were going. Siger, already annoyed by having to interact with Violet's relatives, hadn't reacted well upon their return.

But it had only been a *lecture*, honestly. Mycroft had found it all a bit dull. Yes, thank you, he understood the importance of adults knowing where you were. He was *fifteen*, however, which at the time had seemed very grown-up, and so it didn't seem reasonable to be so cross over his disappearing for an hour or two. (In retrospect, he now realised, Siger had most likely been concerned about possible retaliation from associates in the area – having his sons killed or abducted would doubtless pose some measure of inconvenience to the man.) Sherlock, meanwhile, had seemed downright *petrified* by the whole ordeal. Which in the moment Mycroft had thought rather silly. They'd just got a stern talking-to, for goodness sake, nothing to panic over.

Only now, years later, did that particular instance of melodrama make sense. And it was terrible, because in some petty, childish way, Mycroft wished it didn't. He wanted to go back to the simple explanations, back to when his baby brother was just prone to overreacting, a bit melodramatic. No reason for any of it beyond a few crossed wires in his odd little brain.

Now, though... now there were reasons. And now Mycroft had years of historical evidence he was forced to re-examine. Memory after memory tainted by the reality of what must really have been going on. How his brother's inexplicable bouts of anxiety or uncharacteristic reticence almost exclusively occurred when Father was home. That in all likelihood his various overreactions hadn't been overreactions at all. That Mycroft had told him multiple times to stop being dramatic over petty transgressions that, for Sherlock, may have easily amounted to a death sentence.

It was utterly infuriating. That was the only term he could put to it. And bloody unfair. To the both of them, because Mycroft didn't want to know these things, and Sherlock shouldn't have had to live them. But lacking a functioning method of time travel they were stuck with their history. No rewinding reality.

With a heavy sigh Mycroft looked back to his intelligence report. Wasn't like him to get distracted, yet he couldn't for the life of him keep focus. Sherlock's scattershot thought processes must be contagious.

Luckily Mycroft seemed to know instinctively how to combat such an infection. Easy enough to take the entire disorganised jumble of concepts relating to his brother, mentally bundle it up into a wad of neutral apathy, and tuck the result into a quarantine zone. There, perfect. Partitioned away from everything else, he'd address it later, when he had the time to untangle the mess. Some point soon. Not now, though, obviously. Because at the moment he had a duty to his nation to tend to, building with it a career and a future. Vastly more important.

Turning the page on his report, he settled back into his usual state of placid disengagement.

**««**

"A month without incident, that's all I ask," he droned tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just one. Or a week, even. Two days."

"It wasn't my fault."

Mycroft dropped his hand and fixed his brother with a flat, unimpressed look. Sherlock was glaring up at him. The boy was somehow managing to convey a sense of indignant petulance despite the large-ish wad of cloth obscuring most of the lower half of his face. Over the past few minutes a rosette of blood had begun to seep out from the centre of the fabric, growing steadily larger with each passing second, and Mycroft was doing his best to ignore a faint sense of nausea over the sight.

"It *wasn't*," Sherlock insisted. His voice came out muted and nasally thanks to the kerchief. "All I did was point out how his-"

"No. There. Stop precisely there," Mycroft snapped. "You *pointed out* some inane personal fact which had absolutely no business being stated aloud, and were punched in the face for the trouble. Can you see how one might, under such circumstances, consider the incident to be *entirely* your fault?"

"I didn't *mean* to, though." Sherlock's voice had gone a bit sulky, peevish. He'd trained a sullen glower on the far wall. "I just... said one more than I was expecting. It was supposed to stop before I got to the bit about his mum."

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a frustrated sigh. "Your speech capacity is not a separate entity from your *brain*, Sherlock."

"I think mine might be." Sherlock's tone was an odd mix of angry and despondent. Plainly unhappy with his own conduct. Most likely telling the truth, then; hadn't meant to start a fight, probably quite upset that he'd done so, victim once again to his own impulsivity.

Unfortunately Mycroft was in no mood to sympathise. Far too frustrated. He'd been phoned by the school at half past nine in the bloody morning with an urgent message that his brother had run off. Sherlock had made something of a habit of doing this, of course, particularly since relocating to London where he could get home and back within an hour, but he generally kept his escapades low-key enough to avoid triggering any alerts. The fact that he hadn't bothered this time had seemed to Mycroft a sure sign that something must be seriously amiss. Addled by concussion, maybe, or off doing something stupidly self-destructive. Against all logical judgement Mycroft had excused himself the second he reasonably could and hurried back to the flat. Surely he'd headed there first, always did.

In a rare moment of fallibility Mycroft had found only one of two deductions proven correct. Sherlock had indeed gone straight home. Instead of being severely injured or otherwise in some sort of significant distress, however, the boy was just sat cross-legged on the kitchen table nursing a bloodied nose. And that was it. By his own admission absolutely nothing else was wrong.

Far from being a relief the good news was utterly infuriating – Mycroft had gone to all the trouble of leaving work on the assumption that his brother wouldn't have bolted over something as minor as a nosebleed. Which meant he'd just cut short a private audience with an influential intelligence official over the *'sudden family emergency*' of his little brother being an overdramatic twat. It was entirely possible he'd never get another chance at that security position now. Months of work wasted on some foolish sense of fraternal concern... ugh, this was precisely the reason key agents were screened for a lack of personal ties.

"Do you have *any* idea what this has done to my schedule?" he snapped. For some reason his voice came out somewhat uncharacteristically irate. Sherlock's glare sparked with a hint of wariness but quickly switched back to indignant.

"How the hell is that my fault?" He'd lowered the cloth from his face in order to speak more clearly, though the nosebleed hadn't quite stopped. A trail of crimson crept nauseatingly towards the floor.

Mycroft glared and opened his mouth to reply – explain, in excruciating detail, precisely *why* every single irritating thing in the world right now may well have been Sherlock's fault. His fault for getting himself into yet another childish fight, for not bothering to cover his tracks skiving off, for being a socially maladjusted delinquent, for continually intruding on Mycroft's life, for sparking this sense of leaden guilt over a justifiable level of resentment, for... god's sake, for *existing.* None of this would be happening if the idiot hadn't been born, would it? Or if Father had just done the logical thing and offed him in infancy.

There was no cold, rational way to explain why he'd just horrified himself by thinking that. Somewhat disconcerting, because the *irrational* explanation was that he'd somehow made himself ill by deeming it logical to murder a baby. Even though that really would have been the most straightforward solution. Easiest. Bloody hell now he felt worse.

But no, honestly. He... obviously he was only queasy because of the *blood*. That was all. Nothing but an automatic, phobic reaction, hardwired into his circuitry. Certainly had no psychological underpinning, no far-off, hazy memory of accompanying Father on a business trip and watching a man plead for his life, the flip of a knife and a slit throat, crimson pouring out like – *no*, stop. He was fine. Perfectly, entirely, *fine.*

Abruptly he took a step back, away from his brother, from all the awful mess of thoughts surrounding him. This was getting ridiculous. His mental space had somehow become a minefield of emotional detritus in response to Sherlock doing something mildly inconvenient. Why...? Stress? Frustration? Didn't matter. Had to switch it all off before he completely overreacted.

A moment passed in silence. Finally, in an almighty effort of willpower, Mycroft managed to shove the whole knot of intrusive inner turmoil straight into a mental quarantine. There, lord. Problem solved. Or avoided, at the very least, which was close enough for now. He shook his head to rid the last scraps of upset clinging like cobwebs to his brain, then checked his pocket watch. Calmly, deliberately. Back to his usual self. Nothing at all interesting had happened. Perfectly normal.

Plenty of time to make the eleven o'clock, it seemed. Have to reschedule the ten, though... perhaps next week?

When he glanced back up Sherlock was staring at him. Probably confused by the abrupt shift from angry to neutral without discernible cause. But then he should be used to that, shouldn't he, as Father regularly did the same.

"Myc...?" the boy hedged after a few seconds. A pale vestige of a glare, but most of the energy fuelling his outrage seemed to be swiftly draining.

Mycroft idly flipped his mobile out of his pocket and began composing a text to his PA as he turned to leave.

"I'll have the school notified to excuse your absence." Succinct, business-like, dismissive. Exactly as he was meant to be.

Behind him Sherlock made a noise of angry disbelief. "Wh- hey! You can't just-"

But Mycroft very much *could,* in fact, and was doing so. Abandoning the conflict entirely, because he hadn't the time for useless arguments sparked by teenaged stupidity, and he wasn't the type to entertain theatrics. If they couldn't remain mutually calm enough to come to a logical compromise they'd simply have to shelve the discussion.

He only got about halfway to the door before he heard Sherlock scramble off the table after him. A second later he found himself yanked nearly off balance by his brother grabbing his arm.

With only the barest hint of frigid irritation Mycroft turned back round.

"I started a fight, ran off from school, made you skip a meeting, and you're not even-?" Sherlock shook his head, frustrated, and took a halting step away. Fidgeting, distraught. His expression when he looked back up was oddly desperate. "You can't just *walk away*."

"No?" Mycroft asked blandly. As if proving otherwise he slipped his mobile back in his pocket and began to do just that.

"*No!*" Sherlock abruptly shouted. Literally *shouted*. Mycroft stopped and looked back, if only to turn a disapproving frown for the unnecessary volume. Sherlock, of course, didn't care in the slightest. "For *god's sake*, what the hell does it take to get you to *care!?*"

Mycroft had no immediate answer. He told himself that was deliberate, however – withholding a response simply because Sherlock had chosen to yell at him. Childish. Wasn't going to reward that sort of behaviour with an acknowledgement. No matter that the question, and the implications underlying it, came dangerously close to dragging a tangled knot of thoughts straight out of quarantine. With a deliberately unimpressed stare he turned, casual as anything, and left the room.

Sherlock didn't follow this time. In the reflection off the door of a glass cabinet Mycroft could briefly see the boy instead just standing there, stock still in the space where the kitchen met the hall. Blood had made a thin line down his chin to drip onto the crisp white of his shirt.

Shocked. He looked shocked. Or... devastated. If one were inclined to drama. Which Mycroft was not.

No, all he was inclined to for the moment was leaving as quickly as possible. Because he was running late. Or perhaps because his schedule might still be salvageable. Or because this really wasn't his problem in the first place, and he should have never left work over some foolish sense of fraternal worry.

Or, perhaps, because he didn't want to face his brother staring at him like the world had come undone.

**««**

## Chapter 3: Sherlock

**««**

As a child he'd learnt not to bother crying.

No one ever reacted positively, if they reacted at all, and crying to oneself just felt pathetic, so in the end tears amounted to nothing but a waste of energy. Wouldn't change anything, certainly never helped... at some point he'd just sworn the act off entirely.

And so, despite a pitiful, juvenile instinct to start bawling, his face remained dry. Save for the blood, of course... and perhaps in some macabre way that might count instead. Slow drip of liquid hitting the floor, wasteful and empty. Same end result.

The sharp sound of the front door slamming shut made him flinch, but aside from that small movement he remained rooted in place. Subconsciously waiting for Mycroft to change his mind, perhaps. Thinking he'd return for whatever reason... could've forgotten something, maybe, or reconsidered? But it wouldn't happen. Mycroft never changed his mind and he never forgot anything, and reconsideration implied the initial decision was at fault. No, that had been it. His final dismissal. Sherlock was well and truly alone.

With a tremble in his limbs which he might have attributed to stress or exhaustion or blood loss were he so inclined, he allowed himself to list to the side. Hit the door jamb with a soft *thunk* and slid down it until he was sat slumped on the floor with his back to the wall.

There was a spattering of blood on the hardwood where he'd stood, another now forming below him. Nose was still bleeding. On autopilot he wiped at his face in an effort to stop the irritating sensation of fluid trickling down, but didn't accomplish much besides smearing blood everywhere. He took his hand away and stared at his skin coated crimson for a moment, then let it drop to the floor. Gazed instead into the middle distance.

Somehow his head felt empty. It was an odd sensation, since ordinarily he could never tell up from down in the chaotic mess of sound and colour he called a mental space. But now there was just... nothing. Total, profound silence.

Under better circumstances that might've been something of a relief. Wasn't often he managed to think of precisely nothing without the aid of nicotine or adrenaline, after all. But, this... no, god, this was just too hideously different. Nothing at all like the pristine clarity of his hyper-excited state. Instead it was muted, hollow and sluggish, marked by a dead void in his chest and a rushing in his ears. Via faint, remnant wisps of cognition he found himself wishing rather fervently for normality to kick back in.

And so by some tiny hidden spark of willpower he forced his mind to reboot. Pieces of data reluctantly came back to life, realigned and shifted until soon enough he found himself sinking back into his brain's familiar cloud of chattering static. Loud and chaotic and exhausting, just like always, but better by far than the silence.

Shouldn't have shouted. Why'd he even...? Ugh, disgustingly emotional. And what a *pathetic* question, christ, who in their right mind would...? But then for fuck's sake why hadn't Mycroft *done* anything? Father would've flung him across the room for half as much...

In a sharp, awful stab of longing Sherlock suddenly found himself missing home. Wanting to go back to his old, harrowing existence, not out of masochism but of a desperate desire to feel like he *mattered* again. Siger had always cared, hadn't he? Arguably to an unreasonable degree. It had been a dark, toxic, misshapen parody of the concept, yes, but at least it had meant something more than outright dismissal. Hatred had to have a *reason*, after all, and with reason he'd always be important in some way. His existence had consequence if only as a thorn in someone's side. And good *christ* but how was it even possible to have become so insignificant as to not even warrant threats, a lecture, disapproval, *anything...*

Amongst the scattered mess his brain was making of itself he somehow managed to register a warning from his lungs. Abruptly he realised he was beginning to hyperventilate. Oh god no, fuck, absolutely *not*, he wasn't going to fucking *panic* over something so stupid as- no no *no no*, stop, breathe. Deep breath, remember to breathe. Don't pass out. This was idiotic, his body was an utter moron. *Breathe.*

Forcing himself to calm down was a hit-and-miss endeavour at the best of times, but in this instance it mercifully seemed to work. Sort of. At the very least he hadn't fainted or started crying, which were the primary concerns, so that was more or less a win. If he was still struggling to fight off a sense of cold shakiness and the urge to be sick it didn't have to mean anything. With another deep, steadying breath he shifted so his elbows rested on his knees, head supported by fingers tangled in dark curls, and set a fixed stare on the hardwood.

An unending chasm of time crept past as he willed himself to stop feeling like the world was about to eat him alive.

At some point the spatters of his blood on the floor began to dry, the rays of morning sun through the windows had shifted towards noon. By degrees he realised he couldn't feel anything beyond the dull ache of bruises and a grating protest from joints held in place for too long. But he refused to move. For some stupid reason he felt like disturbing the silence now would jolt reality into a state of sudden actualisation. Everything would crash in on him at once and he'd surely drown. But so long as he kept perfectly still he could remain safe in the illusion, right? Nothing ever changed here, always fine, normal, boring. Not overwhelming or hopeless or fatal. Existence was a simple quiet moment frozen in perpetuity...

Impossible to stay on the floor forever, though. No matter the edicts of any stupid pseudo-metaphysical comforts he'd invented for himself. Standing up and soldiering on was going to be the same tired inevitability as it always was.

Reluctantly he let go of his hair, allowed his hands to drop, and raised his eyes to meet a blank wall.

Somehow it felt like giving up.

**««**

So this was the truth of it, then. He was a flea. Just some tiny, insignificant irritant skulking through the hide of the world, of no interest to anyone beyond pausing to crush him flat should opportunity present itself.

It was a revelation that seemed like it really should have been evident far earlier than this. Wasn't it patently ridiculous, after all, to think he'd ever fancied himself important? Sheer height of hubris, really. Narcissistic. And besides which it was just plain insulting to ask any member of his family to suffer such a crippling disadvantage as *caring*. Selfish to even consider.

He took a deep drag off his cigarette and dully let his head thunk back against the bricks behind him. Some ways off one could just about hear the sleepy bustle of mid-morning foot traffic, but sequestered in a small side-lane amongst two squat residential buildings the sounds of Eton were barely audible. He had a bubble of peaceful quiet to himself instead. A sturdy wall to lean against, half a pack of fags and a patch of sunshine to take the edge off an early spring chill. Life wasn't ever exactly *good*, per se, but at the moment it at least wasn't all that terrible. Verging on neutral, perhaps. Decent enough, he'd take what he could get.

His state of placid existence was quite rudely broken with the intrusion of a stone. One travelling quite quickly through the air with just the right trajectory and force to ricochet off his skull with a sharp *crack.*

Sherlock yelped loudly and clapped a hand to the side of his head (which he hoped fervently wasn't about to start bleeding), bent over in sudden splitting pain. Grimacing, he looked up to find a small group of boys he vaguely recognised as his school mates standing a few metres off where the side-lane met the road.

"Aright, Holmes!" the one more or less in front called out with a cheeky grin. Sherlock's chest seemed to twist in a ridiculous stab of betrayal at the sight of his face, which was the height of stupidity considering he now knew what the arse had been up to all this time. He couldn't quite stop a glare in response to the boy's wide, mock-friendly smile. Bastard.

The three boys alongside Davies Sherlock only knew by face. Except for that kid who looked like he might be a D or E-blocker – short and awkward, had to be in his early teens. Why'd they have a younger year with them? Someone's little brother? Didn't really matter. Surnames of the C-blockers, though, right... erm... Trask and... Leyton, or something? God, he was rubbish with names.

Much more reliable to function on models and associations over stupid arbitrary noises, was the thing. People weren't their *names*, after all. They were snippets of memory and concepts and colours and scents and sounds all tangled up around the vague idea of a face. Only if they were very lucky would their name ever have anything to do with that. Names didn't carry any information, usually, and kernels lacking data got erased. Concepts, on the other hand, were far too complex to ever fade completely.

Those branching concepts relating to the two boys in front of him now went something along the lines of *'blond hair average build plays cricket definitely pissed him off at some point might've had something to do with a dead dog? Or no that one was the divorced parents...'* and *'dark large heavy-set hiding an effeminate nature behind aggression pretends to hate girlish things but keeps a pressed flower in his maths book really should try not to piss him off cause he's fucking massive but it's actually pretty funny how scared he is of anyone finding out how much he loves ballet...'*

Nothing in those impressions was particularly helpful, nor did they provide him with anything non-suicidal to say, so Sherlock took a few steps back and tried to keep stoic instead. The whole goal here was most likely to get him to betray some sort of emotion, make him embarrass himself. Poking holes in his usual bubble of stone-faced apathy tended to be a favourite pastime of anyone with an hour to kill these days. And for those who happened to hold a grudge it seemed to have become something of a sport to go out of one's way to pull that off in spectacular fashion. Doubtless been a motivation for that whole *false friends* thing... Sherlock grit his teeth at the inadvertent reminder. Damn it, still couldn't swallow how easily he'd fallen for that, fucking idiot.

Bloody Davies with his impish grin over there had spent the entire past month maintaining a stupid, bewildering campaign of friendliness towards Sherlock. Greeting him in passing, buddying up in class, asking if he wanted get a coffee or if he could bum a cig or whatever other ludicrous nonsense. Sherlock had been thoroughly confused. And justifiably suspicious, because there was no way he wasn't up to something. But... a month was a long time. And after two solid weeks of sustained, positive attention, unable to come up with any reason why someone would want to *pretend* to be extending an olive branch, Sherlock had warily begun to reciprocate. Said hello back a few times, agreed to help with an assignment. Against all odds there'd seemed a small sliver of hope that he might actually be able to get on with someone for a change.

Of course then he'd gone and been enough of a bloody idiot to start lowering his guard. Mentioned at one point that he'd always thought frogs were interesting. Just one muttered comment, utterly inane, hadn't even really been participating in the conversation... but it was enough. It gave Davies an excuse to ask Sherlock to follow him to the riverbank on insistence that there was an enormous toad down there he'd want to see. Sherlock had been suspicious at first. Didn't seem quite sincere. But, then... well, who the hell would lie about finding a stupid toad? There couldn't be anything to gain by that. Might as well go have a look.

Except there was *absolutely* something to gain by lying about a stupid toad – that being the ability to lead Sherlock Holmes into a trap. Davies had hung back cackling like a hyena whilst a gang of his halfwit friends attempted to chuck Sherlock into the water. Maybe trying to drown him, or perhaps just ruin his school dress, who knew. Didn't matter. Had to focus on saving himself. Wasn't much of a challenge to distract them with a few deductions, set them against each other, but, shit... one too far. Slipped past distracting into enraging. And the straw-haired cricketer had retaliated with an unanticipated right hook to the nose, which had nearly gotten Sherlock trampled by the others, but luckily if there was one thing in the world he was good at it was getting the hell out of dodge. Even with a bloodied face he managed a perfect duck and roll into a full-pelt sprint, securing his freedom.

Easy enough to flee the physical conflict. But much more difficult, it turned out, to escape the mental. That image of Davies cackling at him... he tried to beat down the sick sense of irrational, sinking disappointment at the realisation that he'd been right all along. That the only person who'd been halfway amicable to him in *months* had only been doing so in a bid to get him drowned... fucking hell... it didn't matter, really, it *didn't*...

Going back to face them just hadn't been bloody possible, not then. He couldn't stand the thought of them gloating over how easily he'd been tricked, how everyone else would react when the news inevitably got round, what new strains of mockery they'd invent. Fuck. Just... no. He'd left. Run home like a little kid.

A terrible choice, as it turned out, considering the mess he'd made of things there. But then the point of buying cigarettes had been to block all that out, hadn't it. So don't think. Don't think, don't react, just stare at Davies and his little friends and pretend like nothing mattered.

"Is that him?" the younger of the four boys piped up dubiously. Probably he'd been fed some over-embellished version of events from the day previous and built up a mental image of Sherlock Holmes as some sort of threatening menace. Must've been quite the disappointment to instead see some lanky, rail-thin berk smoking Marlboros alone in a side-street get beaned in the skull with a rock. Terrifying.

In lieu of answering, Trask *(or was that one Leyton...?)* grinned wickedly.

"Been hiding from us, Holmes?"

Sherlock responded with a vaguely confused look – hiding? He was stood here perfectly visible from the street, leaning against a pale brick wall in a patch of sunlight, wearing full tails. That wasn't exactly what he'd call *hiding*. Though if Trask/Leyton was attempting to make some sort of snide reference to the fact that he'd scarpered from school yesterday... well that wasn't really hiding, either, was it? Retreat, if anything. Strategic withdrawal. If he'd wanted to *hide* he wouldn't've run straight for the first place he knew his brother would look for him.

"Did you... have trouble finding me?" he asked, thinking he'd go for a mocking tone but ending up somewhere more in the vicinity of faintly nonplussed. He'd *really* not expected to find his morning interrupted by getting smacked upside the head with a stone. And, speaking of, it was proving something of a challenge now to pretend that hadn't hurt like hell. *Just leave the bruise alone, christ, stop wincing.*

Whichever of the Trask/Leyton superposition was the one with the pronounced musculature had stepped forward and was now cracking his knuckles in what he evidently thought was a menacing gesture. Sherlock, for his part, responded by taking a perplexed drag off his cig. How was that supposed to be a threat...? Popping air out his joints? Someone'd been watching too many gangster films, looked like.

"I'll give you five seconds," the bulky idiot growled. Definitely too many films. Sherlock tilted his head and blankly studied the four of them, all smirking in varying degrees of smug self-assuredness. The hell was the point of all this, then? Hadn't they already had their fun trying to drown him yesterday? He couldn't possibly have angered anyone enough to incite violence in the scant few hours since morning assembly.

"So... have I actually pissed someone off," he risked asking, "or are you lot just bored?"

Didn't know if he expected an answer, but it seemed more imposing to calmly chit-chat in the face of oncoming violence than to immediately turn tail. Running wasn't exactly a valid option right now, anyway. For one because it'd be pathetic, and for another because he'd just smoked two and a half Reds on an empty stomach and wasn't sure he'd be able to sprint without falling flat on his face in a haze of nicotine vertigo.

"Five... four... three..."

As their cohort counted down the two elder boys behind him were wearing identical smug smirks. The younger lad with them looked expectant, interested... ah, so *that* was it. Putting on a show. Kid must be related to someone influential, one of the C-blockers was looking to get in good graces by impressing him. They'd apparently chosen to accomplish this by making themselves out to be a group of daring vigilantes exacting revenge for whatever crime they'd declared Sherlock guilty of. Quite the audacious plan.

Couldn't really blame anyone for choosing him, of course. If you were going to do that sort of thing Sherlock Holmes made a perfect target. Underweight, distractible, often hurt or overtired; and he never really fought back. Preferred instead to weasel out with long-winded distractions and running away, because he'd learnt ages ago not to retaliate. Too dangerous. Just one hit to the wrong person's son leading to a key politician or wealthy socialite ringing Father up in a rage... god, no, that scenario had only needed to happen once. He'd immediately sworn off self-defence as not remotely worth the risk.

Now, though...

Trask *(he was very nearly sure the other one was Leyton)* had gotten close enough now to grab Sherlock's collar, and though they were nearly the same height he made out like he was looming ominously over some smaller prey. Sherlock regarded him with flat dispassion. Usually at this point he'd start talking. Surprise his aggressor with a psychological analysis, probably point out the floral scent of his deodorant, the attention paid to his hairline, shiny chip of red varnish still clinging to the side of a fingernail. That'd almost certainly create enough of an opening to bolt. Easy escape down the other end of the lane, and from there it'd be a simple matter of keeping himself out of their sight for a few days, sticking close to areas frequented by the beaks so they couldn't attack him without getting punished. Nice and straightforward, like always.

But, then... that familiar strategy had been born of having to ensure his primary guardian wouldn't be contacted in the event of an altercation, hadn't it? An effort to avoid pissing off his father. But Siger Holmes wasn't his guardian anymore. Mycroft was.

And Mycroft... didn't care.

A sudden bolt of ice-cold anger seemed to explode through his chest. Something dark and painful and empty and incomprehensibly heavy came spreading in its wake, pressing down on his lungs. Shouldn't have to fucking *run* from them, should he? Shouldn't even have to cope with this shit, the incessant threat of violence, ignored half the other time, and he hadn't even fucking *done* anything, just... god's *sake* he'd just asked a *bloody question!* That was all, a stupid question, and *yes* alright maybe he'd shouted it and maybe Mycroft hadn't ever approved of raising one's voice but it wasn't like he'd *meant* to and he hadn't known it'd come out like that wasn't planning to ask something so inappropriate didn't mean to sound angry either it'd just *happened* and maybe he'd have apologised if he'd been given half the chance but bloody christ *how could he have just turned and left!?*

Uncertain if he was even occupying the correct version of reality Sherlock abruptly snarled. He grabbed hold of Trask's wrist and dug into a pressure point between the joints at an angle he knew from experience hurt like hell, then in the same movement wrenched the limb around so the fingers would be forced to loosen. Trask screeched like a shot hare. Hadn't expected Sherlock to defend himself, much less to actually know *how.*

It wasn't hard to decide what to do next – every possible action may as well have been printed in neat white text over Trask's form, loudly as he broadcast his movements. The great ape went for another grab, meaning to follow with a right hook, but Sherlock easily dodged. As he straightened back up he caught hold of an elbow and twisted the joint down the wrong way, eliciting another inelegant shrieking noise, then used Trask's now-thrown balance to fling him head-first into an unforgiving stone wall. Went down like a sack of bricks.

Sherlock stared down at the crumpled heap of a body at his feet, panting slightly. He felt hollow and light and strangely powerful all at once. Ice forming like a shield through his veins – didn't remotely care that he'd likely just given someone a severe concussion. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, make an example of anyone who touched him, because he *could* and he should've been able to years ago...

"Y-you fucking killed him!" someone, perhaps Davies, shrieked. Sherlock glanced up from the groaning heap below him – wasn't dead, just stunned, hadn't hit the wall hard enough – and regarded the other three with a steady glare. In his head he imagined a barrier of frigid steel forming between him and them. Go ahead, you fucks, try something. Sherlock Holmes was entirely of ice and metal and somewhere deep inside a pit of white-hot anger, and he'd destroy the next idiot who so much as moved.

Davies chose to be that idiot.

He took a few steps forward, furious, like he was meaning to avenge his friend. Wouldn't happen. Sherlock closed the distance first in a few long strides and slammed Davies' head sideways with a solid punch before the other could think to block. A swift kick to sweep the legs out, a knee directly to the lowest rib, he felt the crunch of what might have been cartilage tearing. Davies collapsed. The fight was over in seconds.

Sherlock looked back up, see who'd volunteer to be next, but when he met the eyes of the last two boys all he saw was terror.

The D-blocker had paled and made a strange sort of squeaking sound. A second later he'd fled. Leyton was left alone. Wide-eyed he shook his head and backed away.

"Look, Holmes, I... I didn't even want to go along with this, really..."

Liar. Body language betrayed it like a neon sign. And compounded with things Sherlock had seen yesterday, what he knew of the three of them... all the pieces slotted neatly together. Leyton had been the one to suggest the fake kindness strategy – only one of them devious enough to come up with it. And of course he'd been the one Sherlock pissed off yesterday, hadn't he? Accidental slip about his mum filing for divorce, picked up in some half-forgotten skim over a letter left on a table... bastard had reacted to a simple unpleasant fact by punching Sherlock square in the face like the hyper-aggressive neanderthal he was. And then not even a day later he'd decided to coerce all his halfwit friends in for another go? The arrogant prick.

It'd be so ridiculously easy to take a few strides forward, knock the arsehole down with a blow straight to the nose in an exact mirror of what he'd done to Sherlock yesterday. Beautiful symmetry. With steel glare darkening Sherlock took a step over Davies' prone body.

But the moment was lost. Leyton turned tail and ran.

Off to fetch an adult, most likely. Would doubtless accuse Sherlock of being a murderous psychopath out to kill them all. And of course he'd lie and claim the fight was unprovoked. *Clearly* they'd not done anything wrong, couldn't have brought it on themselves, ever the good lads. Holmes was just a violent lunatic. Yet more evidence for why everyone was right to despise him, keep their distance, wall him off from any chance at normality and never ever let him forget he was an utter freak of nature.

And it'd work, too, because nobody was about to listen to anything Sherlock might say in his defence. Couldn't risk putting themselves on his side.

But that was all fine. He didn't care. Because his veins were solid ice and his mind was cold steel and nothing in the universe fucking mattered. Except for him, now.

Two people's lives had changed from today onwards thanks to Sherlock's existence. A concussion, ripped tendon, wrenched elbow... they'd remember what he'd done for *years*. And the rest would soon find out just how dangerous he could be, too, with no one left to judge his actions. Wouldn't take more than a few violent confrontations before the whole school finally learnt to leave him well and truly the fuck alone.

A throbbing pain had begun to radiate slowly up his arm. Glancing down, he found he'd been clenching his hands into tight fists at his sides for the past several minutes; the sustained tension was making some sort of pulsing, stabbing ache creep out from the bones of his right hand. In the silence between two fallen foes he loosened his fingers. Blotches of vivid red were spreading out like an ugly stain under paper-white skin.

He'd smashed his knuckles, he realised, against Davies' skull. Deep bruises were forming along the impact line.

They'd take forever to heal.

**««**

## Chapter 4: Mycroft

**««**

Mycroft had been phoned by the school three separate times over the day, two of which his PA had fielded, the last she'd practically bullied him into taking, only for him to find himself immediately pulled away by urgent business. Something about an incident between Sherlock and a group of schoolmates. Another fight? For god's sake, it hadn't even been a day since the last one. Surely they'd no need to be ringing up the boy's guardian over every minor scuffle.

And so it was that he came to his flat at the end of a very long day, mind so abuzz with work matters that he hardly registered the doorman saying something about a guest having come round. Ugh. Well, whoever it had been they'd simply have to drop by tomorrow. He certainly wasn't in the mood for company tonight.

As he entered his flat, however, he realised with a sickening jolt that the doorman hadn't meant he'd turned anyone  *away*  - he wouldn't have been permitted to, because the guest had been accompanied by a resident. Sat by the coffee table overlooking the flat's overlarge skyline windows were his father and brother.

Mycroft stopped short for an interminable beat as he entered the room. Met his father's gaze. The man was sat in Mycroft's favourite chair, foot hooked over one knee and a glass of scotch in hand. Exactly as if he were in his own sitting room back home. He was afforded a polite smile, but some primal part of Mycroft's psyche could sense a sharp edge of irritation hidden underneath. Knew it was directed at him, at least partially.

And though he'd never been threatened by any adult in his life, was in fact now an adult  *himself*  and thus hardly in any real danger, he was still struck through by a bolt of fear. Siger may have never harmed his eldest son, but he'd made no secret of the harm he was capable of doing should the need arise. Mycroft had spent his life subconsciously ensuring such a day would never come - perfect manners, perfect marks, the right uni and prescribed career. Safety in the form of slotting neatly into place.

Others, of course, hadn't the luxury of fitting into such a mould. Reluctantly he tore his eyes away from Father, trained them on the other occupant of the room.

Sherlock sat upon the sofa, locked into the familiar state of tense discomfort he always took up around Father. He spared Mycroft a single glance, then dropped into a vacant stare.

Nausea bloomed at the sight of blood - a cut on the boy's forehead which had been patched up some hours ago and begun to soak through the plaster.

Focussing downwards revealed a crumpled shirt collar, a button near the top hanging by a thread, specks of blood and dirt on his sleeves… but the only sign of further injury was a splash of angry red over the knuckles of his right hand. Strike points. Won the fight, then, clearly. Must have been against the son of someone with the means to contact Siger directly. Someone Siger considered useful enough to agree to see to the matter himself.

Which meant someone devastatingly influential, of course. And within Mycroft's sphere, as Siger's decision to return Sherlock to his care with such needlessly dramatic pomp meant the man must have managed to twist the situation into a deranged test of his eldest's diplomacy skills. Placed blame on Mycroft's shoulders somehow, ensuring his professional reputation would suffer should he fail to bring his intransigent sibling to heel. Fantastic. As if he hadn't enough on his plate already.

He kept the anger off his face as he turned back to Father. Packaged all the roiling emotions up and locked them away. No need for theatrics.

Siger took a calm sip of scotch and raised a brow at him. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Mycroft replied archly. He went to set his papers in their usual spot, determined to go about his normal routine as if his father hadn't invaded his flat.

"A bit of thanks would seem to be in order."

A dozen childish retorts sprang to mind, but he managed to pack them away with the rest. Calm. Collected.

"You weren't asked to intervene."

"Unfortunately I very much was," Siger said drolly. Another sip of scotch. "Your brother put two boys in hospital this morning, one of whom happened to be Richard Davies' eldest son."

Ah, and there it was: Davies. Diplomat involved in the Moldova affair. Must have phoned Siger in a rage and demanded resolution in exchange for his continued cooperation with intelligence operations, hence why Siger had seen fit to go to all the trouble of travelling out to Eton. Which, all else being equal, actually meant that Mycroft's failure to anticipate or prevent the incident had uncovered valuable information regarding Davies' activities. One doubted his brother would consider that sufficient trade-off for having let the situation default to Father's oversight, of course.

Speaking of his brother…

"Are you-?" Mycroft started, turning his attention to the boy. Siger cut him off.

"He's fine."

Mycroft turned an acid glance to his father, received a raised brow back. A placid sip of scotch. Unspoken message that he wouldn't be permitted to speak directly with his brother, and should stop trying lest the order be enforced by other means. A sick bolt of anxiety - he was drawing perilously close to breaking the pact, straying beyond the safety of perfection. Had to regain favour.

"Well, I trust your handling of the situation was… efficient." As he spoke his gaze strayed around the room. Wrinkled throw rug, a pen knocked off a side table, smudges on the windowpane where a hand might land to break a fall. Reluctantly calculated how long his brother would've been alone with the man. A few hours, at most. An eternity.

"I should hope so, by this point," Siger replied with a snort. "Talked those morons out of expelling him a half-dozen times already, what's one more on the pile?"

He turned his gaze to Sherlock, who was still staring at nothing. A brief flash of something vicious in Siger's eyes made Mycroft's stomach flip, but it was gone in an instant. Replaced by easy nonchalance. The man snapped his fingers as if summoning a dog, and Sherlock blinked, refocussed, then in response to a small hand gesture reluctantly stood.

"Tell your brother what we've agreed upon."

Sherlock answered robotically. "I will remain in Mycroft's custody until such time as his negligence results in another behavioural incident, at which point I will be returned to Father's oversight."

Mycroft did his level best not to become unnerved, but it was a losing battle. He shifted focus to Father instead. Made a reasonable attempt at a glare despite primordial parts of his brain screaming to appease the man.

"I will  *not*  be relinquishing guardianship."

Siger's only reply was a bemused smirk, which was somehow more terrifying than any reaction Mycroft might have braced for. The man raised his glass to both take a sip and gesture lazily towards Sherlock.

"Tell me, Mycroft - what do you imagine led to your brother beating two schoolmates into the ground?"

Mycroft blinked, tried to think how to regain control of the conversation and quite soundly failed.

"He… picks fights. He's always done."

Siger chuckled. "No, my boy. Quite the opposite - his social incompetence drives others to violence, but he doesn't  *fight*  them. He knows the consequences of kicking up too much of a fuss."

Implications sat heavy. Mycroft swallowed. Siger carried on speaking without a care in the world.

"Evidently, however, his short time under your guardianship has managed to shift his balance of motivation. He's lost all concern for punishment." Siger swirled his glass, considering Sherlock as if he were a puzzle to be solved. Sherlock, for his part, had slipped back into a dead-eyed stare. Swiftly snapped back to awareness however when Siger addressed him. "Sherlock. Explain your actions."

"I…" Sherlock hesitated, glanced at Mycroft. Swallowed. A tense silence, then he shook his head as if to say he couldn't.

A flash of cold fury in Siger's eyes, quickly masked by an exaggerated look of long-suffering exasperation. With one last sip of his scotch he set the empty glass down and got to his feet. Shifted towards Sherlock with an arm raised as if to give a friendly pat on the arm. Sherlock's flinch when the man's hand entered his field of view was gut-wrenching.

No blow came, however. Not even a pat. Instead Siger draped an arm across the boy's shoulders and drew him in close in a bizarre facsimile of a fatherly side-hug. Sherlock appeared to have no idea what to think of this. He fell to a fixed stare straight ahead, the faintest hint of baffled confusion.

Mycroft, of course, went on high alert. Sudden change of character, disarming friendliness. Setting up a trap.

"Well, it's no great loss for the moment," Siger remarked, giving Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze which might have passed for affectionate in any other circumstance. "Davies was never mission-critical, and I daresay that obnoxious brat of his deserved the lesson in humility." He flashed a bland smile to Sherlock, getting no reaction beyond a pale-faced stare. Siger behaved as if he found this quite normal, however, and turned his smile back to Mycroft. "We can't overlook the liability of your brother's unpredictable behaviour, however. If you continue to coddle him I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to step in."

Mycroft was beginning to feel nearly as powerless as his brother. Nevertheless his brain conjured up the correct response, delivered in an appropriate tone of mild offence.

"I've not coddled him."

Siger snorted. "No, of course not. I'm sure this recent turn to delinquency has nothing whatsoever to do with your childish refusal to implement proper discipline."

"And what would you consider proper discipline?" Mycroft asked, his acid delivery transforming the question into a snide prompt for the man to confess his sins. Knew in all truth he wanted no such thing; much preferred to let the details stay buried, sketched out only by their lingering effects. His mind had got ahead of him, however, and supplied the only decent response to maintain even footing. Siger was aiming to unsettle him, that much was obvious. One found themselves obliged to pretend it wasn't working. Rules of the game. Even if Siger doubtless saw straight through the false bravado.

Sure enough, Father gave him an indulgent smirk. Proud of his boy for saving face. The pleasant flush of satisfaction through Mycroft's psyche for having met expectations was, in retrospect, sickening.

"What  *would*  I consider proper discipline?" Siger spoke as if he'd just been asked an interesting question about some minor news event, or perhaps the local sports team. "Difficult to find anything that sticks in a child so recalcitrant, of course," he went on casually, his grip round Sherlock's shoulders tightening in a way which seemed to carry a subtle edge of threat. "The boy's got the attention span of a gnat, you see, so swift consequence is of utmost importance. Verbal admonishment would be simplest, except that he's prone to quite literally not listening to a word anyone says. Inflicting pain becomes the only real option for day-to-day affairs."

Mycroft was becoming rather distracted fighting back the urge to be ill - between the blood on his brother's face and the boy's thousand-yard stare in response to Father's monologue he found himself scarcely able to breathe. Made a valiant effort to quash the roiling emotions, however. Had to keep control of  *something,* even if only himself.

"I won't be inflicting pain on  *anyone,*  thank you," he bit out.

Father chuckled. "Ah, yes. Your unfortunate distaste for violence. Inefficient, but… workable, I suppose. Always the option of psychological pressure instead - exploit his phobia."

"Phobia?" Mycroft repeated, baffled. What could his brother possibly be  *phobic*  of? Lack of fear was arguably the child's core personality defect. The boy had gone and climbed a bloody *building* within the past week alone, for god's sake.

But Siger's smile took on a dark edge, his hold around Sherlock's shoulders now firmly unyielding, and suddenly Mycroft understood. From early childhood his brother had always been irrationally averse to anything resembling physical restraint, often pitching childish fits over basic necessities like being asked to wear a seatbelt. Just another of the boy's irritating quirks, he'd always thought.

Now, though… well, now he really was fighting the urge to vomit.

He hoped the compulsive swallow didn't come off as vulnerable as he felt. "Let him go."

Predictably, Siger did no such thing. The three of them stood in stalemate for a long moment.

A shift from the corner of Mycroft's vision - his brother's expression hardening, empty gaze set alight by a gathering storm of emotion. Anxious, then annoyed, frustrated, angry. A sidelong look to Father before a flash of white-hot rage. Hands abruptly clenching. Mycroft could only watch with mounting dread. Knew his brother well enough to guess what was about to happen.

Siger evidently knew as well, because as he glanced towards his youngest the mask abruptly dropped. False geniality to frigid steel.

Quick as lightning the boy whipped his arm up and drove the butt of his hand into Siger's nearest shoulder. Site of an old bullet wound which had left lasting damage to the joint, a fact Mycroft only knew from reading the man's personnel file. Couldn't imagine how his brother had learnt of that particular weakness, let alone how best to exploit it.

Upon landing the hit Sherlock immediately dropped out from under Father's arm as the man recoiled. Only managed to put a scant few steps between them before Siger's decades of hand-to-hand combat kicked in - lost hold of the teenager for just an instant before catching the edge of Sherlock's shirt, then his arm. Redirected his momentum to throw the boy into the hardwood, where he landed hard on his back. Siger then pinned him there by means of a heavy foot on a narrow, heaving chest.

All of this had transpired in an instant, meaning Mycroft had only the chance to shout *"stop!"* and nothing else. He stood now in sudden stillness, trying desperately to quell a surge of panic.

"G-get off him," he was somehow able to stammer. To his great chagrin his father paid him no heed whatsoever. The man's face had twisted into a demonic snarl, a remorseless predator gazing down upon its prey. This was the monster Mycroft had spent his life trying to avoid by means of impossible perfection. His body felt paralysed.

On the floor Sherlock had managed to catch a few shallow breaths despite the weight on his ribs. He swallowed down a grimace and glared, defiant, up at Father.

Absolutely inconceivable. To be  *defiant*  in the face of a visage like that? To know the man could kill you without a thought and still find the bloody audacity?

And, yet, Sherlock had locked eyes with their father without so much as a flinch. Ruthless fury to bitter hatred.

There was absolutely nothing Mycroft could do - he could only stand petrified and hope he wasn't about to witness a murder.

An eternity passed before, mercifully, Siger's face smoothed over. He stepped back, straightened his coat, and turned a pleasant smile Mycroft's way. One could just spot the red-hot ember of rage burning bright beneath his mask.

No words were exchanged. Merely a polite nod to Mycroft's stunned silence, and Father turned smartly and left.

For a small eternity he continued to stand frozen, staring at the space where his father had just been.

The sound of his brother coughing finally caught his attention. He snapped himself out of what felt very much like a trance, looked down to the floor to find the boy had let his head flop back onto the hardwood, arms draped boneless over his stomach, eyes closed with a slight wince. The plaster on his forehead had come loose in the scuffle; a trickle of blood leaking from the reopened cut.

Swallowing back a flood of nausea, Mycroft knelt down and reached out to his brother. He'd meant to touch his shoulder, a silent offer of help getting up, but the second his hand came in range Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he caught Mycroft's wrist in a visegrip. They both froze. Mycroft found himself looking into the same vicious, hunted glare the boy had turned on Father.

Paralysed, again. In a question of fight or flight he'd always defaulted to freeze.

Thankfully the stalemate broke within a few tense beats - Sherlock's glare dissolved, shifted to something far more world-weary than a sixteen year old should have been capable of. He released Mycroft's wrist with a muttered, "sorry". Rubbed a hand down his face, then shook his head and set to pushing himself upright. Mycroft resisted the impulse to try to help again. Clearly the boy preferred a bit of space.

"What on earth are you apologising for?" he heard himself ask. The words came out sounding strangely detached, as if said by another. He felt unmoored, set adrift in a numbing sea.

Sherlock didn't answer. He'd stopped at the stage of having got himself sitting mostly upright, slouched forward over his knees. He'd fallen to staring at the floor between his feet, and the deep exhaustion in his eyes felt like a knife to the gut. Doubly so when Mycroft could think of nothing whatsoever to say. All he could do was kneel there, useless, as his baby brother took a quiet breath and let it out again.

"I didn't think he'd leave me here," he muttered, almost too softly to hear. He sounded almost… disappointed.

Mycroft frowned. After a brief pause to consider he let himself drop down from the half-kneel he'd been in to instead sit on the floor. Uncomfortable, especially in the suit. And horribly undignified. Some things were more important, however.

He'd thought Sherlock might glance his direction, make some snide comment about sitting on the hardwood like a child. But he didn't even turn his head.

"Did you…  *want*  to go with him?"

There was a long pause before Sherlock answered. "I don't know."

Not the response he'd been expecting. Internally he was running through every psychology text he'd ever read, trying to understand why an abuse victim would want to return to their tormentor. Pages upon pages of theories and explanations but none of it felt like it could possibly apply, not to his baby brother.

In the silence Sherlock closed his eyes, took as deep a breath as bruised ribs would allow. When he opened them again he appeared to have detached once more. No emotion beyond profound exhaustion.

"May I go to my room?" he asked quietly. Still hadn't lifted his head.

"... no one's stopping you," was all Mycroft could think to say. As the boy painfully pushed himself up to his feet, he remained sat on the floor.

Paralysis had set in once more. Couldn't bring himself to move, to speak. To take any action which might risk a turn for the worse.

All he could do was watch this brother leave.

**««**

It was half past eight in the evening by the time he finally returned home the next day. He'd not meant to be out so long, but his current skillset and focus area tended to demand his presence for any discussions related to the Chechnya conflict, of which there had been several. Being roped in to consult with the Americans about their bloody spy plane hadn't helped matters, but he was glad of the opportunity regardless. Always eager to expand further into Chinese relations, given the trajectory of Russia's current regime.

Scraps of political intrigue swirling about his mental space were enough distraction to temporarily put the events of the previous evening out of his mind. It wasn't until he'd stepped through the door of the flat and saw his brother's coat on the hook that he was hit by recollection of yesterday's scene in full detail. A knot of sudden anxiety in his gut. Where was his brother? Had he been wrong to leave the boy on his own all day after such a traumatic event? What if he'd run off?

With the very thought, of course, he realised it was absurd. Sherlock hadn't anything to gain from absconding into the city. They both knew Father had the means to track the boy down no matter how far he fled. No, he would be home. Skulking about the flat somewhere, sullen as any other teenager. Working through his emotions in solitude. Hopefully.

Details jumped out as Mycroft ventured into the sitting room. A spot of blood on the floor from yesterday had been wiped up, the smudged window cleaned and throw rug straightened. Laundry set aside to be collected by the housekeeping service. Smell of coffee from the kitchen.

As he approached the latter room he spotted his brother stood leaning against the counter. The boy's face was in profile, leaving visible his expression of quiet weariness. He held a cup of coffee in his hands and was staring into the middle distance, clothes the loose shirt and trouser affair he typically wore round the flat. Without the defining structure of a shirtcollar his shoulders seemed far too thin for his frame. Willowy.

"Ahem," Mycroft cleared his throat, just to make his presence known. Sherlock startled and looked over to him. The cut on his forehead had progressed to the beginnings of an ugly bruise.

"Oh, erm… hello," he muttered. Dropped his gaze for a fraction, then gave a jerky little shake of his head and raised it again as if forcing himself to maintain eye contact, expression a mask of polite neutrality.

Mycroft frowned. For some reason Sherlock was behaving as if Father's strict code of social conduct suddenly applied between the two of them. Despite his formidable interpersonal analysis skills he couldn't make sense of it.

"Kindly drop the false decorum. It's unsettling," Mycroft drawled as he moved to examine the coffee pot. Wanted to know who'd prepared it. To his surprise he saw no evidence to suggest anyone but Sherlock had been in the kitchen all day. "Did you make this?"

His brother just nodded in silent confirmation. Mycroft poured a bit into a mug and took an experimental sip. Didn't drink coffee regularly enough to have strong opinions on the matter, but it seemed quite good, especially for a dark roast. Which itself was baffling, really.

"When did you learn to make coffee?"

Sherlock blinked, shrugged. "I don't know."

Belatedly the penny dropped. Father was fond of dark roast.

"Father taught you," Mycroft concluded unhappily. Did his best to keep the tide of anger in check. No reason to get snippy over coffee, of all things.

Sherlock fidgeted with his mug. "Oh… yeah, probably."

"You don't remember?"

Another shrug, dropped eye contact as the boy took an awkward sip of coffee. Buried in his mannerisms was the implication that there were a lot of things he didn't remember. Or, perhaps more accurately, had managed to forget.

Alongside that dark thought came a tide of others - all the things he'd been successfully burying whilst distracted by work. He'd witnessed the violence now, or at least a snapshot. Saw the ease with which Siger threw his son to the ground, the resigned acceptance in the way Sherlock had picked himself back up. No trace of shock, surprise, anger. That had been a fully normal interaction, to him. Precisely what he expected.

As usual, Mycroft's gut met such revelations with a wave of nausea.

"It was… wildly inappropriate, you know," he started, for once in his life having failed to plan his words before he said them. Sherlock glanced up questioningly, so he valiantly struggled to clarify. "Father hurting you like that. I'm… sorry I let it happen."

Sherlock just blinked at him. Didn't look to know quite what to do with that statement.

"Um… it's fine?" he tried, looking baffled. "I deserved it."

Good lord. What an absolutely hideous thing to say.

And, yet, the boy didn't look like he'd been fishing for a reaction - just sipped his coffee again and studied Mycroft's appalled expression with mild puzzlement, as if the horrifying nature of his own words hadn't occurred to him.

"You did  *not*  deserve that," Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock shifted to looking very confused. "I… what? You saw what I did, you were standing right there."

"Justifiable self-defence does not warrant-"

Evidently his brother wasn't finished speaking, however, as the boy just carried on directly over Mycroft's words.

"... honestly it's lucky you were, I got off really light for that. Last time I went for his shoulder he-"

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. Mycroft, having cut himself off when he realised his brother wasn't listening, now watched with faint alarm as his expression dropped into a vacant, empty stare.

The concept of traumatic dissociation was nothing new to him, of course - he was an intelligence analyst, for god's sake, he'd more than enough psychiatric knowledge to grasp on an intellectual level what was happening. Primal defence of the human brain, shutting down surface-level affect to prevent a panic cascade.

Not a surprise to find his brother had developed such a coping mechanism. He'd have been trained into it from earliest childhood by Father. Ever disdainful of emotional displays. And then had it further reinforced… by Mycroft.

In his brother's absent gaze he now saw a hundred little moments between them. Every time Mycroft shushed him, told him off for snivelling, every moment he'd dismissed concerns and refused to engage with outbursts. How his brother had become more withdrawn over the years, stopped having tantrums, stopped showing any emotion at all really beyond annoyance or bitter sarcasm. And how grateful Mycroft had been watching it happen, thinking the boy was growing more mature.

Hesitantly he reached out to touch his brother's arm. Sherlock blinked with the contact, life returning to his gaze, and took a sip of coffee as if nothing had happened. He spared a bemused glance down to Mycroft's hand before shrugging it off and wandering over to lean against the edge of the kitchen table.

"Erm… anyway," Sherlock continued. No hint of concern, nor even acknowledgment of what to him must have seemed a brief gap in awareness. Plainly he'd grown so used to it he hardly noticed anymore. "Sorry for shouting at you the other day, Myc. That was inappropriate."

"You don't-" Mycroft cut himself off, frustrated, and shook his head. He'd somehow only just clued in to what was likely going on. "For god's sake, stop."

A hint of anxiety flitted across his brother's face. "Stop what?"

"Being so bloody agreeable!" Mycroft snapped. As if confirming his unvoiced deduction his brother dropped the casual stance almost immediately, fell to something much more guarded. This only served to make Mycroft feel worse. He did his best to prevent the unease translating into anger, as was his usual habit. Wasn't even sure why he was upset, to be honest - wasn't this exactly what he'd wanted? His brother being pleasant for once? But it felt horrific, somehow. He wanted the petulant brat back. His  *real*  brother, not this wretched automaton.

Sherlock was staring at him. All trace of affability had gone from his stance, leaving him tense and guarded like a cornered fox.

Silence stretched far too long between them. Finally Mycroft could bear it no longer and bit out an angry sigh before turning to set his mug smartly atop the counter. As with countless prior spats between them he turned to head off down the hallway. Get clear of this mess of destructive emotion and reorient himself in solitude.

Same as the last time, though, he looked up and caught the reflection of the kitchen in the cabinet down the hall. A ghostly mirror image of his brother suspended in the glass. Watching Mycroft leave with an expression far worse than any glare would've been - resigned acceptance. This was what he expected, now. What he thought he deserved.

Mycroft stopped. Every instinct in his body told him to flee from the gathering storm of anxiety. With an almighty force of will he forced himself to turn back around instead. Found his brother watching him. Tired, faintly puzzled. Holding the coffee mug in both hands like a shield. Wine-red stain of bruised knuckles stark over white ceramic.

Feeling as if he were taking a stand against some towering foe, he drew a deep, steadying breath, and met his brother's eyes.

"Do you… want to play a board game?"

**««**