I do not own Sherlock Holmes.


The first time Sherlock saw it, he was four. He burst into the bathroom, hands full of a mass of things that was supposed to come together to create a wonderful result, when he saw Mycroft sitting on the toilet seat. His brother had one pristine shirt sleeve rolled up while the other held a small scalpel. Mycroft's head as bent in deep concentration as the scalpel carved out tiny intricate patterns on his forearm. As the blood spilled over onto the thick wad of napkins that Mycroft had on his lap Sherlock gasped. Mycroft jerked his head up. Grey eyes locked with blue ones for what felt like an eternity. Then Mycroft sighed; flipped the wad of napkins onto his cut forearm with the air of long practice, got up and came to stand in front of Sherlock.

"When you are a little older," Mycroft said seriously, "I'll explain it to you."

With that he closed the door.


The second time Sherlock saw it, he was thirteen. He was going through one of his resentful moods after a particularly bad Christmas dinner and decided that he was going to take it out on Mycroft by planting some nasty concoction in his room. He sneaked into Mycroft's room and decided that the wardrobe was the best place to plant it. It would foul all of Mycroft's clothes and that would make his day just peachy. He swung open the door with beaker in hand to find Mycroft curled up in ball, scalpel flashing as Mycroft carved tiny symbols into his hand, grunting with the effort. Mycroft cast one look up at Sherlock, eyes filled with such rage, pain and frustration that Sherlock actually stepped back.

"Mycroft..." he began, forgetting all about his ploy. Mycroft cast him another glare and Sherlock shut up. He stood there waiting till Mycroft was done, had uncurled himself and stepped out of the wardrobe. Rivulets of blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the floor. Sherlock tried to tear his eyes away from the sight but couldn't.

"I suppose that you are old enough for me to tell you now," Mycroft began. This time Sherlock stopped him.

"I know what this is..." he said, then paused, "What i don't know is...why...why are you doing it?"

"It helps me," Mycroft said simply. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, then smirked slowly.

"Awww, poor brother Mycroft going through a bout of depression and self depreciation..." Sherlock sassed. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Don't be more of a fool Sherlock, I am not depressed," Mycroft said condescendingly, "It helps me to think about what bothers me." He put his arm out for Sherlock to see. Sherlock saw beneath the blood, the tiny symbols. He deduced that it was Mycroft's secrets code, but he couldn't decipher it. "When i write it down here," Mycroft said as he shook his arm, "It makes me focus on the problem. It helps me to solve it faster."

Sherlock snorted, "Could you have not come up with a better way to solve them?"

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock and tilted his head, "And couldn't you have found a better way to fix your boredom and social awkwardness issues?" Sherlock knew that Mycroft's eyes flickered to the small puncture wounds that lay hidden behind Sherlock's long sleeves.

The brothers stared at each other and then Sherlock left.


The last time Sherlock saw it he didn't remember anything but the feeling of overwhelming fear and helplessness as he screamed Mycroft's name and dropped beside his brother. He cradled Mycroft's head in his arms, screaming for anyone to come and help him because Mycroft was lying on his bedroom floor, with both arms covered in code and there was blood in pools around him. Mycroft's skin was cold and paler than normal. His lips kept moving, repeating the same words over and over; "Need more space...no solution yet."


Years later Sherlock was all grown up and Mycroft was now his arc-enemy. He had just gained a friend in the man John Watson and they were solving cases together. They had just walked into a crime scene with Sherlock primed and ready to do his best when the scene stopped him dead in his tracks. The man was lying in pools of blood, both arms covered in code and note on the dresser saying 'Help me find the solution' Sherlock's memory overlapped for a few seconds with the scene and he saw himself kneeling beside Mycroft, screaming. Then John's hand was on his shoulder breaking him out of his trance.

"Are you alright there Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock smiled once weakly, looking back at the body. Then he pulled himself together and got on with the Work. It was wrapped up rather quickly and they got back to their Baker Street home early in the morning. John went to bed and Sherlock stepped into dark safety of his bedroom. He pulled out his phone, stared at the screen for a few seconds before dialing a memorized number.

"Brother dear," Mycroft's pompous voice came over the speakers, "To what do i owe this pleasure?" Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him at the sound of his brother's voice.

"I...I just..." Sherlock began but couldn't finish it. There was silence as both brothers waited.

"What is bothering you Sherlock?" Mycroft said softly and gently. Sherlock took a breath in.

"Do you remember that day?" Sherlock said. The silence at the other end meant that Mycroft certainly knew of what day Sherlock was talking about.

"What brought this on?" Mycroft asked carefully.

"I was on a case today," Sherlock replied, "It was...similar to what happened and i just needed to..." There was silence again.

"I know that you may not have saved this man's life Sherlock," Mycroft finally replied, "But you found out who did. You found the solution." There was another silence.

"Did you ever find the solution?" Sherlock asked. There was a more tense pause this time.

"You saved my life that day Sherlock and for that I am grateful," Mycroft replied, "I remember you screaming my name and calling for help. In that moment the solution to my problem became significantly less important when compared to the importance of the situation at hand."

"So you never found it," Sherlock mused.

"The problem resolved itself," Mycroft said softly, "I have never had it again." there was silence once more then Sherlock sputtered out.

"I am really glad to hear that you are alright Mycroft." SHerlock could not see the small smile on his brother's face.

"Thank you brother dear," Mycroft said, "Now i really must be going, duty calls and all that."

Sherlock muttered his goodbyes and hung up. Just then he heard a soft knock on his door.

"Sherlock you up?" John's voice came through, "I can't sleep dammit. You wanna go get something to eat?" Sherlock smiled before pulling the door open.

"Starving," he replied.