The 16 year old boy slammed the door of the townhouse and stormed off into the street. No one went out after him. He almost wanted to cry. His mother and father never praised him for his accomplishments. It was always that damned brother of his who got ALL the credit for everything, as though he couldn't accomplish anything without that attention maniac around. Just because the little rat was a child genius didn't mean that Mycroft should be treated any less than their first born son. Today, his kid brother called him "portly" which hit home for Mycroft. He wasn't portly. In fact he was rather well built. Then Sherlock had the gall to tell their parents that Mycroft was getting too fat.

Mycroft felt tears welling in his eyes. He was tall for his age, and had not had his growth spurt yet, and he was 5'8". He didn't have any unnatural body fat on him. And yet, that idiotic child dared to accuse of him of portliness? He even blamed him whenever food went missing that Sherlock himself had eaten.

Mycroft had slowed to a walk as he stood in front of a very old building. He brushed his jet black hair back with his hand and sighed before walking up the door and knocking. A woman in her 40s in a coarse grey dress opened it.

"Ah, young master Holmes!" she said in a high pitched sing song voice. "Clara is just having tea with master Pumley. Would you care to sit with them?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Brie. I would enjoy that thank you," he responded trying to hide his frustration.

The Pumley's maid was always a mother figure to Clara after her mother had passed of a terrible infection of the lungs 10 years prior. Mrs. Brie herself had no children, and her husband had been killed in a work related accident on the ship yard many many years ago, long before she became a maid.

Mrs. Brie eyed Mycroft carefully, knowing that he was brilliant at acting and disguising his feelings. She always knew when something was up, but was always very kind to Mycroft as she understood his feelings of jealousy, being the eldest child herself growing up, with two little sisters and a baby brother.

But Mycroft did not wish to speak to Mrs. Brie right now, fearing that he might snap at her, and he loved her more than his own mother who even before Sherlock's birth, had always held beyond the realm expectations for Mycroft, child genius as he was, he felt that since he was so intelligent, his parents felt that he should be jumping on inventing plans to better the British government and such instead of going out and playing like other boys his age. And now that another child genius was in the family, Mycroft was almost entirely forgotten. Sherlock wasn't a mean boy, but he didn't show too much emotion. Before Sherlock started school, he himself had been feeling neglected by their parents, and would spend nights in Mycroft's room where Mycroft would have to be the big brother he was and comfort Sherlock. But those days were over. Most children Sherlock's age were in primary school, but Sherlock at only age seven was admitted into a special school for gifted children. Mycroft was in the same school, but in university courses. That's where he met Clara Pumley. She had fair skin and large light brown eyes that looked like heated up maple syrup with melted butter. Her black hair curled into lovely little ringlets on it's own, giving her the appearance of a professional grooming every minute of the day. She bore no blemishes, and was a tall girl for her age of only 14. And she had wit to match her pretty looks. Wit and an unsurpassed empathy.

Mrs. Brie let Mycroft in and walked him to the drawing room, and announced him. Mr. Pumley was a stout man, a foreman in architecture. But he was getting old and needed someone to take care of Clara after he was too old. He knew his days were numbered, and he was no fool. He saw how Clara and Mycroft were when they were together. Two intelligent people who could change the world together. They were opposites in many ways, but these opposites attracted. Clara was a free spirited girl, always dreaming and wondering how she could make her dreams a reality. Mycroft was much more strict in his approach to things, he saw the reality of things, he took precautions, and never took anyone lightly. But they balanced each other out wonderfully.

"Aw, Mycroft, wonderful to see you, would you care for some tea?" Mr. Pumley asked him.
"No thank you sir, I finished a cup before I made my way here," Mycroft answered politely.
"Good afternoon, Mycroft," Clara said in her charming girlish voice, with a nod of the head.
"Good afternoon, Clara," Mycroft bowed slightly to her. He couldn't help but smile, as she hid her own behind her kerchief.
"Clara, dear, if you've finished with your tea, you have my permission to go for a stroll with Mycroft," Mr. Pumley told her.
"Thank you, father" she stood, curtsied, and took Mycroft's arm as they left the house.

They walked formally along the street, every now and then looking around to see if anyone was watching. They chattered mindlessly about weather, the dank sky from the factory soot, and their lessons. Finally they came to a small bridge. They stood together at the edge of the bank where a single granite stone was poking out of the mud, an old staircase from before the factories had been built. Mycroft helped her step down and into the secret cavern under the bridge, and he followed. It was dry and had blankets and pictures set up, and a small loveseat that viewed over the Thames. They both sat down and looked at the murky water below.

"What's bothering you, Mycroft?" Clara asked him.
"Sherlock."
"What's the infamous deviant done?"
"Don't mock me, please. I'm tired...I'm fed up with my parents thinking I'll never amount to anything...and the fat jokes."
"Nonsense, your parents want the best for you. And Sherlock is only nine, he's just a child."
"A child who understands basic physics and medecinal properties? Oh yeah that makes so much sense."
"You should try being more positive. It will give you a better outlook on life, you can stop and smell the roses, and not be so stiff all the time."
"Clara, when has being positive ever been a successful asset to my life?"
"Well, it gave you a devious brother who's finest life ambition is to surpass you in everything."

Mycroft couldn't help but laugh.

Eight years later.

"Clara, I want you to stay out of this ridiculous magic act Sherlock is trying to perform," Mycroft told her sternly.
"Mycroft, dear," she smiled. "The killer is going to be hear tonight, after all we did promise your brother that we'd assist him, didn't we?"
"Dear, Sherlock believes that the killer will be in the audience, doesn't he? And Sherlock himself is administering the serum."
"Clara...I need you to listen to me. Sherlock isn't in his right mind."
"I promise, this will be the last time."
"And then?"

Clara thought about it. Her honey brown eyes still melted Mycroft's heart. He put a hand to her fair cheek and she smiled that smile that would send any man into madness. And perhaps Mycroft was indeed mad; for what is love but a madness that affects one's mind body and soul?

"And then we go to Cambridge and do our work from there," Clara told him.
"Cambridge? Are you sure?"
"It's my favorite. One day we'll be able to travel the world, with no criminal masterminds to bother us."

Mycroft smiled.

"Very well...this is the last time. Put on a good show for them, Clara."

"And now, without further ado! We give you the Master of Illusion!" Sherlock announced in one of his many disguises.

It was at this point that the curtains were pulled open and a man in an Oriental mask and a dragon robe stood in the center stage. In the audience, Clara was awaiting her cue. Right before the act, Sherlock administered the serum, and antidote to the poison the killer's victims were injected with on stage. At all circus' and magic acts, the victims were having seizures. All the magicians and illusionists were clean, and had no reason to harm any of the people who had been killed. Which led Sherlock to the conclusion that someone in the audience was doing it, and he knew who it was.

The "Master of Illusion" was actually a member of Scotland Yard, and everything was set up perfectly. He knew who to pick and how they would catch the culprit. He asked for assistance from the audience, and made a fine job of making it appear to be a random selection. Clara was called upon and acted surprised. As she made her way to the stage, she felt a prick on her neck. She turned and saw a man with a long gray beard. She put a hand to her earlobe and pulled slightly signaling to Sherlock that she had found him. Scotland Yard sprung into action, as the man tried to run, however he was detained.

Mycroft was at Clara's side, and Sherlock had revealed himself. The man with the gray beard began laughing maniacally.

"I changed the serum! I changed the serum! She's a dead woman! She's dead!" he chortled.

As if on cue, Clara felt her heart pump faster and faster. Her lungs were being crushed, her stomach contracted and her back felt as though it was breaking in two. Veins in her throat began to pop. Her eyes turned bloodshot and her fair skin began to turn an ugly grayish white. Mycroft was at her side, she saw his mouth moving but all sound had fled her. She wanted scream for him to help her, to make this ugly pain leave her forever. She couldn't cry, and she wanted more than anything to just scream. Then just when she was sure that she would pop, that her eyes would fall out, that the poisonous air, and the dire need to scream, cry, and hear Mycroft's words would be too much for her to bare, the pain left her. It was as though she'd been dipped in the sea, she was clean and pure. Then her hearing returned and the last thing she heard was "You killed her you bastard."

"You killed Mycroft's wife?" John Watson asked Sherlock in disbelief.
"It was an unfortunate accident," Sherlock explained. "I never wished for Clara Holmes to die. She was family. I was young, Watson. I'd barely begun my work. I did not comprehend such consequences at the time."
"Do you comprehend them now?" a strained voice asked.

Sherlock and Watson turned to find Mycroft standing in the doorway. It was many years after the accident. Mycroft slowly walked into the room. Sherlock and Watson were sitting on the exact loveseat from his and Clara's cave under the bridge. Across from it was the table from the Pumley drawing room. Upon it was a sketch of Mycroft and Clara from when they were children, and another of Clara from just a couple days before the accident.

"Sherlock has never thought of the consequences of his actions. He still doesn't. He justifies his actions with the idea that he was serving justice."
"Mycroft, I never thought that you would hate your brother," Watson thought aloud.
"I don't hate him, I hate his decisions. But he is my brother. He is all I have left of my family. I hope one day he will stop this nonsense and come live with me before he gets himself killed. I can't bring Clara back," he paused. Watson noticed the overwhelming sadness that was now taking over Mycroft's normally stern exterior. Mycroft cleared his throat and continued. "I don't want to lose my brother too."