Mycroft Holmes folded the paper up again and set it on the coffee table in his living room. He'd read the article a thousand times, it seemed, but each time it hurt more. The title blared in white; a block letter reminder of what had happened: 'Suicide of Fake Detective'. Mycroft stood, stretched his long body, and trudged off to bed. It'd been a horrible day.

The letter from his mother slipped from his hand and came to a rest on the carpeted hall outside of his bedroom. His eyes were red and swollen from the grief and stress, and he had barely laid down before the clamped shut. Behind his sleeping eyes, memories danced in the form of dreams…

Mycroft was looking out the window of their summer home to the lake. Sherlock was running around on the grass and the dock, waving a cardboard sword around in the air, and calling for his 'mateys' to join him on his search for gold. Mycroft smiled and went back to his book, glad that his little brother was happy and occupied with his pirate fantasy.

The story was just getting interesting when a loud noise came from the open window. He looked outside to see a couple of other boys his age cornering Sherlock on the dock, taunting him and telling him that he can't be a pirate when he grew up. Sherlock took a stand and was yelling about how he could and would be a pirate someday. Then the twelve year-olds shoved Sherlock into the lake.

Mycroft leapt up and ran outside, "HEY!" He yelled at the kids. "Leave him alone!"

"Oh come off it." The biggest of the kids said, "We were just having a little fun. I mean, he's gonna find out sooner or later."

"He's SEVEN!" Mycroft yelled, shoving the kid, who had to be twice his size, "Go pick on someone your own size!"

"Like you?" The kid sneered, then reared back and punched Mycroft in the face. The bullies ran off, leaving Mycroft reeling and nursing a bruising eye.

Mycroft pulled his brother out of the water and led him into the house, where their mother got Sherlock a towel, and gave a frozen steak to Mycroft for his eye. While Mycroft held the cold meat to his throbbing eye, he said, "Sherlock, you be whatever you want to be. If you want to be a pirate, you be a pirate. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded vigorously, splaying water all around the kitchen from the mess of hair that was covering his face. Then he grinned. The smile shining through the dark hair, eyes and face invisible to the world, made Mycroft start laugh. Both the brothers giggled and drank the lemonade their mother had made for them.

"Mycroft." He heard his name through the waters of sleep, and pulled himself to the surface of reality. "Mycroft." The whisper came again, and fourteen year-old Mycroft Holmes blinked awake. "Are you up?" The nine year-old Sherlock Holmes whispered, the dark curls falling in his light eyes.

"I am now." Mycroft rubbed his eyes and sat up. "What do you want?"

"I can't sleep. I don't want to go to school tomorrow." Sherlock said.

"Why not?"

Little Sherlock shrugged. "What if the kids make fun of me? Like the last school."

Mycroft rubbed his eyes again then slid over in the bed. Patting the empty space, he said, "Come here, little brother." Sherlock crawled up into the bed; even at nine, he was gangly and tall. Mycroft put an arm around his sibling and said, "No matter what happens tomorrow," He started.

Sherlock sighed loudly and said, "I can't set the bathroom on fire. I know! Mother's said that to me every day for a week now, Croft. I get it." The fourth grader crossed his arms and scowled at the blue bedspread.

"Well, yes," Mycroft said, "But I was going to say that you can't forget who you are. As long as you know, no one else should matter."

Sherlock laid his curly head on his big brother's shoulder. "Ok." He gave Mycroft a quick squeeze, then settled down under the covers. "Can I sleep here tonight?"

Mycroft yawned big, then laid down. "I guess." He turned over and closed his eyes.

"I love you, Mycroft." Sherlock whispered into the dark.

"Love you, too, Sher." Mycroft mumbled, and then he fell asleep.

Mycroft had been walking home from school in a good mood, when he saw Sherlock sitting on the front porch of their house. It was unusual, because Sherlock wasn't the kind of kid to spend much time outdoors. When Mycroft for closer, he saw that the ten year-old had egg knotted in his curls and the shattered remains of a Paper Mache volcano, that Mycroft had helped build, at his feet. A bruise was beginning to form on the kid's left cheekbone, and few forlorn tears were dancing off his long face and onto the volcano.

The fifteen year-old sat down on the porch and waited for his brother to tell him what had happened. Eventually, Sherlock sniffed and said slowly, "Mycroft, I have no volcano. It got first place, and now it's all squished."

Sherlock looked up, his light blue eyes shining with tears. Mycroft picked through the rubble and pulled up the piece of the volcano that still had the blue ribbon attached. "Well, you still have this piece, right? It'll be easier to keep than a whole volcano." Sherlock sniffed again and nodded, taking the volcano piece in his hands. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"I'm clever, and the other kids don't like it. They didn't like that I'd gotten first place because my volcano didn't use baking soda and vinegar, but rather used biochemistry and reactants to illustrate the effects of lava on surrounding terrain. So on my way home they called me 'egg head', and smashed an egg into my hair. Then they crushed my volcano and pushed me into the ground. I hit my face on the cement." He pointed to the bruise under his eye and sniffed again.

Mycroft nodded and said, "Who are you?"

Sherlock grinned, recognizing the comforting game, "I am Sherlock Holmes!" He yelled, "Greatest, and most clever, mind in all of England!"

"Damn right you are!" Mycroft said, "And what does that mean?"

"It means I'm cooler than everyone else!"

"And why are you cooler?"

"Because I know who I am!"

"And don't forget it."

"And because I have you, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled and stood up. "What do you say we get you cleaned up, then go get ready for dinner?" He lead Sherlock around to the side of the house and turned on the house. He then began to douse the ten year-old in the freezing water while Sherlock succumbed to delighted giggles. "Come on, let's go get you dried off."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's hand and said, "Thank you."

It was Christmas, and twelve year-old Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the floor of the Holmes residence, a glittering tree above his head and his seventeen year-old brother beside him.

"Go ahead and open it, Sherlock," their mother urged sweetly.

Sherlock tore through the blue wrapping paper and yanked open the white box. Inside was an expensive magnifying glass with a gold handle and a red ribbon tied around it. Sherlock's jaw dropped and the kid was frozen in awe of his gift. It had cost Mycroft two months worth of wages, but it was worth it. Sherlock got over his shock and tackled his brother into a hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He exclaimed.

"You're welcome!" Mycroft laughed. "Read the inscription."

"SH, Don't forget who you are. –MH." Sherlock smiled, "I won't."

Mycroft was in his dorm room at the university when he got a call on his cell phone. "Hello?" He answered.

"Mycroft? Can you help me?" It was Sherlock.

Mycroft glanced at Amelia, his girlfriend, who was over for a little 'alone time' before the next class. "No. I'm a little busy right now."

"But I really need your help." Sherlock whined.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, starting to get annoyed. "Can't it wait?"

"No. These rugby players are bullying me into doing their homework and I'm done with it. How should I tell them off? Without getting punched, though."

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose. Amelia stood up and grabbed her shirt. "I'll just see you later, Mycroft."

"No, wait!" He called after her, but she was already out the door. He got frustrated and snapped into the phone, "My god, Sherlock! You're sixteen years-old! Figure it out yourself. I'm NOT your babysitter!" Then he snapped the phone shut and tossed it on his bed as he buttoned up his shirt and left for his next class. Later that evening, he read Sherlock's text: 'Fine. I won't ask for your help again.'

Mycroft sat up in bed, tears threatening to spill down his face. The last memory still had a fresh sting. He'd hurt Sherlock more than he'd intended to that day, and every time he'd tried to make it up, Sherlock only pushed him farther away. At least with John, Sher had had someone he could trust, because Mycroft knew he'd botched his chance long ago.

And again when he'd talked to Jim…

In his sudden grief, Mycroft threw himself out of bed and stumbled into the hall. The words from his mother's letter rattled around in his head. 'You were supposed to watch out for him.' 'My baby's dead.' 'How could you not see the signs?'Mycroft dropped his hands into his hands and tried not to cry. When he looked up again, he saw Sherlock, glowing with afterlife, standing near him. Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, "You forgot who you were….. And it was all my fault."

Sherlock reached out towards Mycroft, but before he reached him, the phantom disappeared, leaving only the cold chill of loneliness behind.