Contains: Talking of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Asexuality, Implied Torture, Non-Graphic Violence
Mycroft Holmes was a man with many regrets, but none so much as failing to protect his brother. Mycroft had loved his brother from the day Sherlock had appeared red and screaming into the world. It hadn't mattered that he was a difficult baby, that no matter how hard they'd tried to 'Sherlock-proof' things, he'd always manage to get into them, or that as he'd grown hadn't cared for social niceties or making friends. By age five, Sherlock, after one too many embarrassing observations, had been banned from attending the posh soirées that their parents had put together leaving Mycroft to watch after this brother, often reading to him from his own school work.
While protecting Sherlock had started as a necessity, it had turned into something Mycroft did because he wanted to. Well beyond the time it was proper, Sherlock would crawl into his bed, shaking in terror at the booms of thunder that shook their old house. Mycroft could never quite fathom how Sherlock had managed to remain so skinny when he'd eat the majority of Mycroft's dessert along with his own because Mycroft could deny Sherlock nothing.
Knowing firsthand the cruelties of children who thought you were too different from them and seeing the fights that Sherlock had gotten into, Mycroft had pleaded with his parents to hire a tutor for Sherlock. If he'd known then what would be done to Sherlock, that it would be the beginning of the end of his relationship with Sherlock, Mycroft would have done things differently. The background check they'd done on the man had come back clean, with only the occasional traffic ticket marring his record.
They hadn't dug deeper, hadn't felt the need; Sherlock had paid for that, and Mycroft had never made that mistake again. Sherlock, who had been an exuberant though not overly loud child, had suddenly grown quiet and withdrawn. Mycroft had been concerned of course, but he'd been busy with university, and had attributed the change to puberty, knowing that it could be a trying time, his own having been wrought with difficulties.
Nothing could have prepared Mycroft for what he had found one rainy day evenings after too many days had passed with Sherlock not returning his calls, Sherlock who had once reveled in sharing his latest scientific discovery or lecturing him on closed police cases that were just wrong.
The events of that evening were a bit of a blur, but he would never forget Sherlock's screams or his tears. They were what had prevented him from killing the man right then and there. The blood on his fists had attested to the fact that it would have been so easy. Death would have been far too easy for the man though; there were far crueler things, and while Mycroft hadn't had the power to order any of those things yet, he'd known people that could. He'd used up quite a few favors, setting it all up, but it had been worth it.
Mycroft hadn't been sure what to do for Sherlock, how to react, sick with the thought of what had been done to his little brother. The clues that he'd overlooked for so long, the questions that he'd never asked all suddenly fell into place with horrible clarity. But in the end, as people often did when presented with things that disturbed them, he'd decided that it was better to pretend that that night had never happened. At least where Sherlock was concerned.
That had been a mistake. Sherlock's face the one time he'd tried to bring it up and been rebuffed, would haunt Mycroft for years. Mycroft had tried to rationalize it, of course, but in the end it had come back to his own fear, and Sherlock would pay the price for that for years to come. Following the incident, Sherlock had been sent off to a boarding school and not long after had fallen into drugs. By the time Mycroft realized what had happened, it was too late.
Mycroft had already lost him, lost any chance of his brother ever trusting him. He didn't know how to protect Sherlock from himself. So he'd watched, his heart breaking a little more each time his surveillance team would bring an overdosing Sherlock to the A & E and knowing that it was in part his fault for sending Sherlock down this road.
Finally one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had entered Sherlock's life, and had presented him with a challenge, but one he had to be well and truly clean for. Mycroft had been suspicious because there had been no reason for the man to trust someone like Sherlock, just another addict in a city full of them. Upon searching Mycroft found that Lestrade had lost a younger sister to that lifestyle and then struggled with alcohol addiction himself after his now ex-wife had lost their baby, who he would find out years later likely wasn't even his own, but the aftermath of a steady string of lovers.
The only black marks on his record were a number of insubordination reports, which, as they tended to appear around the time of year that reviews happened, Mycroft would guess had been intentional to keep him in his current position. Mycroft had approached the man, seeking information on Sherlock, just the little things that his surveillance team wouldn't take note of or a more general question of his state of mind. Lestrade had been leery at first, but after a few meetings, he'd recognized a bit of himself in Mycroft, an older sibling looking out for someone that wouldn't ever ask them for help no matter how much they might need it.
Mycroft worried about the lack of close bonds Sherlock had; other than his landlady and the Inspector, Sherlock had no one. He had hundreds of acquaintances, people he'd gotten out of charges, and the homeless network that seemed to flock around him. Mycroft knew why. If you really looked, Sherlock had a draw about him. He'd used it to his advantage as a child, but it had never been malicious, never been so full of intent, as the weapon that Sherlock had honed it into as an adult. But that wasn't the same. Mycroft had told Sherlock once when he was young and upset by a classmate that caring wasn't an advantage, that the boy's opinion wouldn't matter; Sherlock had taken that to heart.
The sudden entrance of Doctor John Watson, previously an army captain with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was unexpected. That Sherlock would let a stranger so close so fast, inviting him to live with him, was a shock. But after meeting him, Mycroft had understood what had captured Sherlock's attention so fully.
John could be the making of Sherlock…or make him worse than ever. And Mycroft would be there, watching, waiting, always in the shadows doing the best to protect his brother even if Sherlock didn't want it.