Mycroft sat in front of several banks of screens, sole occupant and sole maker of the ironically named 'Strangers Room' at the Diogenes. For no man was a stranger to him, not once Mycroft took note:
Their future was only a sequence of events waiting to be confirmed in their own actions; coalesced and coordinated from an already staggering array of assigned sequences within another's mind.
It was all about control.
Sherlock snorted through a bloody nose. "You already know what happened." He then gave out a frustrated whine that made Mycroft react instantly and violently: mentally reigning in the lines around Sherlock tight.
"They said I could read minds! Even Headmaster didn't correct the idiots until I broke Simon's nose. And then I got suspended! It was self defence! Obviously!" Sherlock glared, clearly rebelling against his bonds. And so Mycroft continued to pull and tug, tug and pull even tighter.
"We've been over this before, little brother."
"But you never get accused of anything! How is it I get punished for things you taught me and yet you get away with everything… even knowing the future? It's just not fair!"
Mycroft suppressed a little flutter of amused surprise at Sherlock's angered display of ignorance. He was managing, at fourteen, to start getting his own emotions fully under control but it was still a conscious struggle. Particularly when it concerned Sherlock. And it constantly concerned him.
"I do not foretell the future in precisely the same way you are not telepathic, Sherlock, as well you understand. I observe, closely, then make a series of predictions based on probability." Mycroft moved then, nearer to Sherlock; all the while under a quiet, impenetrable, pretence of guidance.
"It is, in principle, the same methods as deducting events of the past through observation, except it is slightly more… complicated because it has yet to occur. You have to deduce the most probable outcome and keep watching."
"But if you already have an idea of what is the most probable outcome, isn't it just boring for you to keep watching?" Sherlock, ever antsy, had started to fidget with Mycroft's shirt tails once his brother arrived in front of him, yet tilted his head upwards with steadily questioning, smoky eyes.
Mycroft hummed.
"On the contrary. I keep watching because the probabilities increase or decrease based on what continues to occur. There are always an incredible amount of outcomes, Sherlock, dependent on stimulus and various types of conditions, some of which constantly change. Do you see?"
Sherlock pulled a face, and rather unsuccessfully tried to suppress the 'ouch' rendered. There was another flutter within the older boy.
Though this one was located at the base of him and it felt almost like pleasure. Blood trickled over lips then down Sherlock's chin.
Mycroft cleared his throat and handed down a handkerchief which was snatched from his fingers. "The first step, little brother, is to map it out, like a massive network of lines. Then, you are more able to anticipate further changes and conditions as and when they occur. Do you understand?"
"Like a spiders web… where the vibrations from the trapped fly indicates outcome of food?"
Mycroft smiled then. It was not at all warm, but neither was it a schooled response. The boy was already obsessed with such - morbid - imagery.
Mycroft wondered what Sherlock would say if he could actually see the collapsing of avenues in the array, or, as in his own analogy, Mycroft spinning that cocoon of web ever tighter and tighter around them both.
"That could be both an outcome or yet another condition that occurs. The spider moves because of the vibrations, anticipating the kill and food as an outcome." Mycroft knelt on one knee to bring himself to Sherlock's level. Then, after claiming back his hankie, he began to stroke over the still raw wounds.
"Though, what if those vibrations were but you tapping the threads with a stick?"
This was a key component of comprehension and the older brother urged the younger one to understand. He had started to feel so alone.
Mycroft understood what was happening to his body, yet cursed his hormones silently whilst in the sanctity of his own bedroom; one fist bunching sheets into his mouth to muffle any noise as the other pulled and tugged in a bestial mockery of fulfilment.
"I already told you it was a fly" Sherlock pouted, blood drying over lips. It annoyed the seven year old that he could not figure out what his older brother was trying to tell him. He normally could.
Mycroft stood and merely sighed, holding out his hand for his younger brother to take.
He did not have to look down as Sherlock took the offering.
And he has never really let go.
"So you did, Sherlock. So you did."
Mycroft has been ever patient, both man and boy.
He tapped another time, the focus shifted.
He continued to watch, in his solitude, as the army medic blinked back at him from every smeared surface.
Eventually, and after the designated moment, Mycroft lifted the handset.