Another oneshot. This time it reflects on Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship growing up and the development of Sherlock. Small mini fics in one fic.

Warnings: Family problems, drug use and light slash (not between the brothers) . Rated for safety. Please be aware that in my ongoing story, Sherlock and Mycroft don't hate each other. In fact, they get along quite fine. I don't care if it's not canon, because neither are most of these fictions. Just go along with it.

Disclaimer: I don't own the brotherly connection between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Or the actual programme.

*If you see this * refer to the authors note at the bottom of the page*

Endless nights

For Mycroft, having a little brother was both good and bad. Good in the fact he could raise a genius younger brother, teach him about the wrongs and rights, have some much deserved alone time when their parents were distracted with him, and gain more respect.

The bad thing was the nights. Dear God, Mycroft hated the nights. For the first six months of being a big brother, Mycroft was kept awake with the piercing cry of the baby down the hall. The first time it happened was fine; Mycroft told himself it would end soon. The next few times he just grit his teeth, shut his eyes tight and reminded himself he would get used to it.

But he never did. He spent six months sleeping with half of his pillow shoved against his outer ear and thinking up political things in his mind. Well, he was a Holmes, and Holmes's never thought of anything particularly ordinary when trying to get to sleep.

Talking and walking

Sherlock began to talk at seven months. Which was, according to their Mummy, earlier than Mycroft who began to speak at eleven months. His first word was 'horrific'. He still blames Mycroft for that, and is absolutely positive the older of the two had called the baby Sherlock horrific. Mycroft denied this, put when Sherlock's back was turned he knew his younger brother was absolutely correct.

Walking came at about a year. This time, it was later than Mycroft (by a month; he began to speak the same time he walked.) His first steps were because of Mycroft too. His older brother had taken on the role of parent, as their actual parents were too busy being abroad most of the time and the nannies were knitting jumpers for their own children. Mycroft had taken the year old Sherlock down to the stream. It was there, after setting Sherlock down on his knees, did Mycroft simply run away exclaiming "I cannot carry you forever!"

Of course, even as a baby, Sherlock was determined to prove Mycroft wrong. He simply got off his knees, wobbled around on his feet and toddled in the direction of his older brother. Toddling turned into a run and Mycroft stopped, got down on his hunkers, and opened his arms for Sherlock.

Thunder

One thing scared Sherlock as a child; thunder. The poor child found this out the hard way. At barely four years old, Sherlock was already reading two-hundred page books, encyclopaedias, dictionaries, and gazing at violins in shop windows. His parents had a banquet to attend and they had given Mycroft full responsibility of Sherlock. After tucking into bed his younger brother, the fourteen year old Mycroft turned out the light and closed the door; Sherlock didn't like sleeping with the light on or having his door open.

Everything was going okay for Sherlock. He was curled up under his bedsheets and his eyes were following the zigzag patterns on his curtains – which were illuminated by the moon outside. And then there was a flash. It was barely visible but Sherlock had noticed it. At first, he thought Mycroft might have snook in and taken a sneaky picture of him in his starry footie pyjamas. But Mycroft wasn't in the room. Intrigued, he stood carefully out of his bed and padded over to the large window, pulling back the curtains cautiously. Another flash, this time actually seen by Sherlock. He was amazed, pressing his nose right up to the glass.

And then there was silence… Before a deep rumble above. It scared the wits out of the child and he took a careful step back. Then another rumble, this one he could feel rolling through his body. Terrified, he ran away from the window and out of his bedroom door, all but sprinting down the hallway to Mycroft's bedroom. He ran to his brother and clung to his leg, crying out as the thunder growled again. Mycroft just smiled, sat down with his little brother and held him until it was all over.

Why they hate maids

Mycroft knew there was something up. That new maid they had suddenly hired in place of the former one was much prettier. Her skin was a creamy caramel tan and her eyes smoulderingly brown. Not to mention she was wearing a very skimpy outfit. That wasn't the strangest thing though. No, the strangest thing was their father. Why, Mycroft had questioned, was he spending more time at home?

Most seventeen year old boys would have been fawning over this woman with her curves and legs and breasts. But not Mycroft. He would watch, with obvious distaste, as she took away her father's plate and then "accidentally" knocked over the salt. Which meant, of course, bending over to pick it back up. The older brother simply scowled and got rid of his plate himself.

But Sherlock was the one who saw the worst. Coming down the staircase at two in the morning while the rest of his house was asleep. His father's study door was open just a crack and there were obvious giggling noises coming from inside (that weren't his mother's.) Being seven meant Sherlock was extremely curious… And so he investigated. Looking back, the detective wished he had kept his business to himself and ran back upstairs. He wished he hadn't peeked through the door crack. He wished he hadn't seen his father and the maid doing "adult things" together. And he really wished he hadn't told Mycroft.

Not your fault*

He ran. He ran as far away as his ten year old legs would allow him, sprinting across fields and ducking under hedges and avoiding the mucky patches. Tears stung the corner of Sherlock's eyes but he refused to let them fall, pushing them away with the palms of his hands.

He stopped under the oak tree. His oak tree. The one he had climbed every summer in the Kent house. But this time it was different; he wasn't up there feeling calm and watching the clouds drift by. He wasn't sitting in his tree house. No, Sherlock climbed up there and shrunk into the corner of a low branch. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his face was hidden in his knees.

"Sherlock." Mycroft panted and stopped under the branch. "Sherloc-"

"Go away Mycroft!" Sherlock turned so he was facing the other way. Once again, tears were pricking at the corner of his eyes again, and Mycroft climbed up beside him.

"She's okay. They're both… He's gone, but she's okay." Sherlock raised his head to glance at his older brother.

"I hope he never comes back." Sherlock finally let those tears escape and Mycroft instinctively pulled him close. "It's my fault… It's my fault…" And, hiding his face into Mycroft's jumper, Sherlock allowed himself to cry the most heartfelt cry of his life.

"No. It was never your fault."

Mummy

Their mother was fine without their father. That's what she told them after he left. But up until Sherlock turned fourteen he knew she was lying. He could see it in the red rawness of her eyes every morning. He could smell the sneaky cigarettes off her, even though she was a 'non smoker'. There was an obvious mark on her left ring finger; her ring was obviously worn at night then. But Sherlock never said a word.

When he was fourteen, he noticed the change. She gave up smoking, bought her old perfume which gave a distinct "Mummy smell", threw her ring out and, finally, got rid of the wedding photos. Well, "got rid" as in "put them in a box under her bed". But still, Mummy was back.

Drugs, sex and cigarettes

It started at seventeen. The sex anyway, or lack of it. He didn't know why, but the thought of sex just put him off. It wasn't that there was no girls (or boys, Sherlock did have a craving for boys), just the fact that Sherlock never seemed to find any interest in going to that level. It pissed them off to put it lightly. But then again, Sherlock had to look on the bright side; no accidental pregnancies, no diseases and the best part; no commitment.

Mycroft was different. He was twenty-seven, already in his final year of University and had a steady relationship going with a man called Hugh. Before Hugh was a girl called Edwina, and before her was another girl called Ùna. Not that Sherlock cared for his brother's lovers, but he was more jealous of his brother's relationships with them. Sometimes, the younger Holmes brother wished he could feel love. Or lust, or whatever it was that kept Mycroft going.

He was beginning to think he would never find love or be able to have sex. And that was why he was suddenly resentful of his older brother. Resentment led to cigarettes. Sherlock couldn't resist the temptation. Despite the fact he was just seventeen, he looked a lot older and so got served no matter where he went.

The drugs came just after he moved to London. He lost all contact with his family, had not a single friend in sight, and every potential flatmate was scared off by how much Sherlock knew about them in one glance. So he turned to drugs when cigarettes and whiskey was simply not enough.

Saviour

Gregory Lestrade was like a guardian angel – a very strict, in-the-police-force guardian angel. He was the one who found Sherlock on the side of the road. Any other time the man would have walked by or given a warning. But he could see by the designer shoes and well dressed appearance that this was no homeless man. Nor was he a bad man. He was simply troubled.

When Sherlock woke up, he was attached to an IV drip in the hospital. One look around and he knew this was it; he was going to jail. But Lestrade had a soft side and, after a long lecture about the dangers of drugs, a knock on the door was heard. Mycroft.

With help from them both, Sherlock got clean. For the moment, anyway. Lestrade took him on after some talking to by Mycroft. But he had to be proven that taking on this "Sherlock Holmes" was a good idea. Five minutes and a full description of his lifestyle later (courtesy of seemingly clean Sherlock), Gregory Lestrade offered him a job. But Sherlock was not with the patience for a job. No, he was a detective. A consulting detective, actually.

The only one in the world. All thanks to Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft's intervention.

One time thing*

The second time Lestrade found Sherlock overdosing of drugs was in the detective's own home. Sherlock was only twenty-five and vulnerable. He was angry, of course, but took pity on the younger Holmes brother.

There wasn't much else he could do but take the detective to his bed and wait until he woke up. When he finally did, Lestrade was fast asleep on the bed beside him, facing the opposite way. Sherlock was groggy and annoyed and simply confused as to why Lestrade was in his bed in the first place. Instead of waking him up and asking him like any other person would do, Sherlock got curious again.

His pale, thin fingers reached out to the sliver of exposed skin on Lestrade's back. They smoothed across the area and finally ghosted up under his shirt, up his back and back down again. Lestrade woke up and turned over to where Sherlock was gazing at him. Something sparked off in them both. Pure lust.

There was hands grabbing, touching, opening buttons and sliding up naked skin. There was the sudden feeling of mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue and nipping, biting, sucking. Neither of them could say they actually wanted it, but there was something just driving them to finish. But they couldn't. Not yet, it was far too soon. And so, that was the start of the something-like-a-relationship of Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade.

Single again

Lestrade was not a patient man. He was patient, however, when it came to dealing with Sherlock's snarky comments about Scotland Yard's ineptitude and inability to observe. He was patient with the bitchy little fights between Anderson and Sherlock, which usually ended up in Lestrade dragging Sherlock home by the collar. He was also patient and quite happy with helping Sherlock successfully become clean again. For good this time.

But he was not patient with their relationship. Sherlock demanded their secrecy. He was sensitive when it came to the topic about sex (maybe it was because of his inexperience or what he saw when he was seven) and told Lestrade week after week to "wait". But Lestrade wasn't patient.

After a month and a half of only touching, Lestrade grew bored. He needed release and sure enough Sherlock wasn't going to give it to him at the rate of their relationship. So he left and Sherlock was a single man again. Like in the past, when something upset him, he locked it up. Until Mycroft came over for a visit (how he even knew was a mystery, but Sherlock wasn't going to question it.)

Like he had done on the rare occasion as a child when he cried, Sherlock allowed Mycroft to hold him until the tears stopped and tell him it wasn't his fault. To tell him everything would be okay. And it was.

Anarmy doctor

Mycroft knew, when he saw the arrival of John Watson into his younger brother's life that it would be the best thing to ever happen to him. His patience with the man, his amazement at Sherlock's ability to tell him his life story (the latest one, anyway), and the fact he didn't tell Sherlock to piss off was signal enough.

This good vibe emitting from John Watson was confirmed when he flat out denied to spy on Sherlock. And that made Mycroft happy. The look on his brother's face when John praised him, the fact they were already living together and the doctor had not run away within the first week, and Mrs. Hudson's presuming they were a couple were all evidence enough for Mycroft.

And that was good enough for him.

Good to see you, Gregory

Mycroft left Hugh after University. Years later, he was bored. And he had his eye on a certain detective inspector in Scotland Yard. It all started with a crime scene; A Study In Pink as it would later be called.

John and Sherlock, having left for some dinner, and the rest of Scotland Yard packed up and leaving for their own homes, meant Mycroft was alone with Lestrade.

"Good to see you after all these years, detective inspector Lestrade." Mycroft gave a thin lipped smile and offered his hand.

"Mister Holmes." Lestrade grasped the hand and shook hard.

"Please, call me Mycroft. I certainly intend to call you Gregory from now on." Their hands were still connected. They were both aware and simultaneously unaware of this. Lestrade smiled back and felt a shiver run up his spine. Maybe he had a thing for falling for a Holmes? Or else he was just a Holmes magnet.

"Mycroft." He smiled back and finally their hands disconnected. But, as they said goodnight to each other, their hands were still tingling.

"Anthea," Mycroft started, settling into his car. "Get me more information of one Gregory Lestrade."

"Anything in particular, Sir?"

"His love life. And the days he won't be working." Mycroft smiled to himself and relaxed into the soft leather seat.

I feel like a fucking boss.

Phew! I had to write this because my fingers were itching to type and my legs are sore from rowing, so it was the best sitting-down option. Anyway, this CAN be connected to my story "Rated M" in a way. It's all Sherlock's childhood and pre-John.

Now, to explain the titles with an asterix*

Not your fault* - As you could probably guess from the previous chapter, their father had an affair with the maid. In "Not your faut", the Holmes family were holidaying in their countryside summer home in Kent (mentioned in Rated M), when their parents broke up. Sherlock blames himself for being the one to discover the affair and telling Mycroft (who confronted his father and demanded he tell his mother). And so he feels like crap basically.

One time thing* - I always think that before John came along, there was a brief thing between Sherlock and Lestrade. The fact they didn't have sex was because Sherlock deep down didn't feel right about it. So he broke up and was still a virgin. Well, until John came along… ehe. But yeah, it was just some pre-John relationship.

Please R&R. I might do one of these for our favourite ex army doctor.