Brothers

*Author's note* This is basically my shot at the reason why Sherlock and Mycroft have such a terribly cold relationship.

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.


He was in a meeting, surrounded by the highest men in the country, when his phone gave three short beeps. He stiffened. There was only one person who sent him text.

Muttering an excuse, he reached for his jacket and pulled out the phone. Still worrying about me? -SH He let out a sigh of relief. Not for one second had he believed that

Sherlock was dead, but he didn't think that his brother would be able to make it on his own. Always, Sherlock -MH

The response came immediately. Why would you? -SH

Mycroft closed his eyes for a second. Why did he want to protect him? What a question.

Heavy rain splashed on his umbrella as he walked up to the big old house. The gravel was crunching under his feet just like it always had. He had almost reached the door when he noticed the dark silhouettes of two people in the living room. And something didn't seem right at all. He ran up to the front door, fumbled with the key for a second and then hurried across the hall. Panting slightly, he ripped open the door and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his father's raised fist and the panic in Sherlock's eyes.

His little brother ducked the first punch and there was so much routine in his movements that it could impossibly be the first time their father had a go at him. Mycroft froze.

For how long had he been missing the signs? He should have never moved out.

The next punch hit Sherlock in the chest, the third one caught his jaw. "Mycroft," he heard his little brother wail. Another punch. Sherlock staggered backwards and right into the wall. He was cornered, no way to escape. "Mycroft!" He couldn't move. He couldn't believe that he- he of all people - should have made such a basic mistake. Their father launched himself at his son again. His fist made contact with Sherlock's nose and it started to bleed.

"Do something," he yelled and stared desperately at Mycroft. But he could just stand there and watch his little brother's blood drip on the carpet. Move, idiot, he thought. For god's sake, move, you have to help. He felt his breath go much too fast, but for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes had entirely lost control. "Stop it," he whispered, but nobody heard him. "Stop."

The next moment, the door burst open and one of the staff members dragged their father away from the sunken little creature in the corner.

Mycroft stumbled over to him and pulled him to his feet, but Sherlock pushed him away and gave him a look that made him feel like he had been punched, too. His little brother rushed out and left behind a silence that ringed in Mycroft's ears.

He stepped over to his father very slowly, allowing his anger to take over him. Not entirely, just enough to make him do what he had to.

"Sir, it's no use, he's drunk," said the butler who had gone slightly pale at the sight of the elder Holmes and the look on his face.

"Not drunk enough to forget what I'm about to tell him. And not nearly drunk enough to be forgiven." He waved an impatient hand at the butler and said, in a voice that was used to giving orders: "Leave."

The man seemed almost grateful.

"This wasn't the first time. For how long has this been going on?" Mycroft demanded quietly. His father didn't answer. He took a few steps closer. "For how long?"

"I don't know."

"I'll make this easy for you, father. If you touch my brother ever again, I will have you killed. You are well aware of the fact that I could easily arrange that. I'd do it myself if the situation required it."

"You couldn't pull the trigger," his father said and laughed.

"You'd be surprised," he responded calmly, pleased to see fear flicker in the older man's eyes. "I should have never left. But believe me, if you ever even think of laying hand on Sherlock again, I will know about it. And I will see to the consequences. Goodnight." He strode out of the room and went upstairs, where he slumped next to his brother's door. He didn't knock, Sherlock didn't want to talk to him. Who knew if he would ever want to again.

So he just sat there and guarded that door.

He would not allow himself to fail like that anymore.

Because I'm your brother. -MH Countenance, he told himself firmly and pushed the memory from his mind. Divorce yourself from feelings, that was what he had always preached his brother in order to protect him. Of course, that showed just how much difficulty he himself was having with that rule…

I need your help. -SH Despite everything that his brother went through at this moment, Mycroft caught himself smiling at the fact that he was coming to him for help.

What do you need? -MH


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