My Protector

by Maplefrost

Young Sherlock was different, and his father didn't approve. Mycroft is Sherlock's one protector, the only one he can trust when Father's gotten angry. But, somewhere along the line, Mycroft stops protecting, and starts regretting. Please R&R!

Title: My Protector
Rating: T
Pairing: Lightly Implied Anthea/Mycroft
Spoilers: 'The Great Game'
Warnings: Violence, child abuse, suicide, mild language.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any of its characters. If I did, Sherlock would either be madly in love with John or an out asexual. And there'd be more Sherlock/Mycroft brother bonding time.
Summary: Young Sherlock was different, and his father didn't approve. Mycroft is Sherlock's one protector, the only one he can trust when Father's gotten angry. But, somewhere along the line, Mycroft stops protecting, and starts regretting. Please R&R!
Author's Notes: FIRST SHERLOCK FIC EVERRR. Whoop whoop! I would love some feedback on this, guys. I hope you enjoy it!

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Mycroft remembers life before Sherlock. He remembers it well.

Life before Sherlock was fine. Mister and Misses Holmes got along perfectly well, and were well-loved in the community. Warwick Holmes was a personal accountant, who did most of his work from home. Helen Holmes was a neurosurgeon, who worked long hours, often at night. Both were paid well, and they had a very large house in the outskirts of London. Mycroft would come home from school, home to his father, who taught him things like chess and finance. Things that would be useful in the future.

Warwick was a very strict man. He liked rules and disliked those who didn't obey them. He was determined that Mycroft would go far. He showed potential, and that's what he liked. Warwick had a horrible temper, but he never let it get the best of him. Mycroft hardly misbehaved, so there was little need for punishment. He was a smart kid, who loved to please others, especially his parents. Everything was perfect.

When Mycroft was five years old, Sherlock was born.

Sherlock's birth didn't change Warwick much. He had high hopes for Sherlock, as he did for Mycroft, but it quicky became clear that Sherlock was...different. He didn't speak until the age of three and a half, and when he did, he was able to form coherent sentences, far too complex for a three and a half year old. Helen assured her husband that it was most likely a phase, and that he would soon grow out of it and find less strange interests.

Once Sherlock began school, it became clear that he had social problems. His teachers sent him home with letters expressing concern for Sherlock's well-being. He was a little shy, and whenever he tried to make friends, he used words so large that his classmates couldn't understand him. When asked by the teacher to simplify his language, he tried again, but the children had already labeled Sherlock a freak, and he became the most popular victim of playground teasing.

Warwick could understand Mycroft. His eldest son was a good kid. He got good marks, he understood arithmetic, he played outside with friends. Sherlock, however, he did not understand. He asked strange questions. He was horrible with people. He performed gruesome experiments in the backyard. Warwick found what little patience he had growing thin. Helen saw Sherlock as charming, albeit eccentric. Warwick thought he was on his way to a mental institution, and needed to change his attitude before it was too late. But he kept his poise, and restrained from harming, as Helen called it, Sherlock's 'growing process'. But he couldn't keep quiet forever.

Warwick snapped when Sherlock was around six years old.

Warwick was looking for his younger son when he found him in his usual place. The young genius was in Warwick's study, with a large book on the floor in front of him. Warwick walked into the room, already disappointed.

"What are you doing, son?"

Sherlock's eyes acknowledged his father only a moment; a flash of silver, and then, back to the book. "Reading."

Warwick sighed, running a hand through his hair. Why was Sherlock so difficult? "Reading what?" he asked, straining to keep his voice calm.

Sherlock tipped the book up so that his father could read the title. 'The Philosophy Behind the Human Brain.'

"Umm, Sherlock..." Warwick muttered. According to Helen, Sherlock was 'delicate'. He needed to be handled softly, spoken to on his own terms. Warwick thought it was nonsense. Helen was hardly home, and never had to deal with their youngest son's idiosyncrasies. She didn't find Sherlock dissecting animals on the kitchen floor, or have to explain to him that he couldn't just set things on fire to see how fast they'd burn. But, Helen was the more intelligent one when it came to the children, so he'd try her method. "Don't you think that's a little...confusing?"

Sherlock shook his head, unruly curls bouncing. "It's actually quite intriguing, father," he informed him, turning a page.

"Sherlock." Warwick's voice grew firm. "You are six years old. You should not know the word 'intriguing.' And you shouldn't be reading so much. And definitely not books like that."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. Mummy encouraged his reading. She liked to come home from work to see Sherlock engrossed in a book. He didn't understand why his father had a different opinion. Honestly, he didn't understand half of the things his father did.

"I shouldn't?" Sherlock sounded genuinely confused. He had to read. Life without reading sounded dreadful. "What should I be doing then, father?"

"Running around, playing, getting along with other children!" Warwick threw his hands in the air, exasperated. He glared down at his son. "Normal things!"

Sherlock frowned. He was normal. Wasn't he? "But I like reading, father. I learn things. It's fun. And 'playing' is trivial-"

"STOP TALKING LIKE THAT!"

Warwick voice escalated as he stepped closer to Sherlock, pointing a finger at the now frightened little boy. He'd had enough of this. "You shouldn't be using words like 'trivial'! You're SIX YEARS OLD! What in the HELL is wrong with you?"

Sherlock shrunk away from him. His father never swore. He'd get a little frustrated sometimes, but he never swore. "T-there's nothing wrong with m-me, father. I just don't like the other children, t-that's all. They call me names."

"Maybe they wouldn't call you names if you behaved like a normal human child!" Warwick's face was red now, and Sherlock was shaking.

Warwick straightened himself, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down. "Give me the book." It was an order.

Sherlock closed the book, hugging it close to his chest. "Father, I really like the book-"

"Sherlock Cedric Holmes!" Warwick took a step closer, his eyes smoldering. "Give me that book this instant." He reached out, but Sherlock turned to the right, shielding the book with his body. "SHERLOCK! Give me the book, NOW!"

"No!" Warwick had gripped the book and was pulling it away. "Father, please!" Sherlock begged, holding onto the book for all he was worth. It didn't take much effort for Mr. Holmes to free the book from his son's prying hands. He stuck the book on a high shelf.

"You are not allowed in my study until further notice," Warwick ordered. "And I'm taking all of the books from your bedroom before the day is out."

Sherlock stood, still shaking, his face paling as his father spoke. "But father-"

"DON'T QUESTION ME!"

Smack!

The force of the slap threw Sherlock backwards into a bookshelf. Warwick, his hand now a fist, was glaring daggers at his son, who was feeling the side of his face to make sure it was still there. An angry, hand-shaped mark was printed on his cheek, and a tear rolled down his face.

"Father, I-"

"HUSH!" Warwick grabbed his son by his shirt collar, lifting him off the ground. "Mycroft is normal. Mycroft is a good son. What went wrong with you? I will not let MY son become some sort of FREAK! Do you understand me?" Sherlock was shell-shocked, and couldn't find the words to answer. He was rewarded by being thrown across the room, his body colliding painfully with his father's desk. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" Sherlock was lifted again, and his father continued to scream, punching and hitting with each phrase, each shout, each criticism.

"Now," Warwick growled, after giving Sherlock one last toss onto the floor. "Do you understand?" Sherlock hesitated, and he saw his father's boot coming closer. He curled up, hiding his face.

"Yes!" Sherlock practically screamed, his vision blurred with tears. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father's foot stop.

"Yes, what?" Warwick prompted.

"I promise!" Sherlock shrieked. "I promise I'll be normal! I'm sorry I'm a freak! I'm sorry!"

After a few long moments, Warwick grabbed his son by the hair and pulled him up, throwing him out of the study. Sherlock stumbled forward, catching himself before he fell on his face. He crouched on the ground, still shaking.

"You fell down the stairs."

The command was so threatening that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to face his father. "You were running down to show me something and you fell down the stairs. Correct?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, more tears forming in his eyes. "I was going to show you a bug I found in my room."

Warwick nodded. "Very good." He turned on his heel and walked back into his study.

The moment his father was out of sight, Sherlock scrambled to the bathroom to look in the mirror, standing on tip-toe to see over the sink. His eyes were red, and the mark on his face was just beginning to fade. His body was probably bruised, but that was to be expected after 'a fall down the stairs'. His left wrist felt sprained, but that seemed to be the only serious injury.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. His mind was swirling so fast that he couldn't remember what to do for sprains. He had never really been interested in the healing process, just how the human body worked.

What had just happened? Sherlock knew his father didn't understand him sometimes, but he never thought he'd resort to violence. And what was he to do? He couldn't tell Mummy, she'd get too upset. She'd be disappointed in him for displeasing Father. But he couldn't just walk around with a sprained wrist. Mummy wouldn't be home for hours.

Suddenly, his brain cleared enough to form an idea. He slowly limped up the stairs and down the hallway.

He knew someone who could help.

Mycroft was placing the last of his clean clothes into his drawer when he heard the knock on his bedroom door. It startled him. Father knocked loudly, and his mother wasn't home. Sherlock never knocked; he'd just walk right in. Concerned, Mycroft walked over to the door and opened it, unprepared for the sight.

"Sherlock!" His baby brother was covered in newly formed bruises, and one side of his face was very red. His eyes were puffy, and he was cradling his left wrist against his chest. He looked up at Mycroft with scared, broken eyes, which was extremely unusual for Sherlock. "What happened to you?"

"I..." Sherlock paused to sniff. "I fell down the stairs. There was an insect in my room and I wanted to tell Father, but I was running too fast and I turned too quick and-"

Mycroft pulled Sherlock into a gentle hug as the young boy started to cry. "Hush, it's alright. Go down to Father, he'll fix you up."

He felt Sherlock tense at the mention of his father. "He's busy," Sherlock muttered quickly, looking away. "And I don't need fixing. It's just..." He held up his left wrist, wincing. "I think I sprained it."

Mycroft smiled softly. It was strange, having a six year old brother who was sometimes smarter than you were, but it was moments like this that reminded him that Sherlock was still just a little kid.

He led the younger Holmes brother down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he gave Sherlock a towel full of ice to put on his wrist. Meanwhile, Mycroft went searching for something to wrap Sherlock's wrist with.

Warwick, finally having calmed himself down after his episode with his youngest son, was walking to the kitchen to grab a drink before returning to his study. He was startled when he heard the soft voices of his children coming from the room. Quietly, he approached the kitchen and listened into the conversation.

"...And keep the ice on there, alright? I'll be right back."

"Yes, Mycroft. Thank you."

Warwick's hand turned into a fist. Sherlock had gone and squealed to his brother! Mycroft, obedient son that he was, would go running to Helen the second she got home. Furious, he stomped into the kitchen once he was sure Mycroft had left.

Sherlock's face paled when he saw his father. He slipped off of the kitchen stool, backing away from Warwick, who's face was plastered with a sickly-sweet smile. He approached his son, slowly, until he was a few feet away. Then, he lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock's injured wrist. The towel filled with ice hit the floor with a soft crack, ice cubes sliding out all over the tile. In one swift movement, he slammed Sherlock's wrist into the wall with one hand whilst covering Sherlock's mouth with the other, effectively muffling the child's scream of agony.

"Did you tell Mycroft what happened?" Warwick's voice was low and threatening. Sherlock, too frightened to answer, said nothing. Warwick leaned forward, increasing the pressure on his sprained wrist. Sherlock's eyes screwed shut, desperately trying to prevent tears from falling. "Did you tell Mycroft?" He repeated.

Sherlock shook his head, With a snort of annoyance, Warwick released his son and strode out of the room. Sherlock slowly gathered the ice with his right hand, holding his left hand against his chest.

Warwick walked back to his study, a smirk on his face. This new brand of discipline seemed to work well on his youngest son.

Over the next year, Mycroft noticed that Sherlock changed. He became more and more clumsy, and spent less time reading. He hardly ever did his little experiments anymore, and he could often be found in the company of other children. However, he would always come to Mycroft when he tripped on the sidewalk, or got hit with a rock, or whatever harm befell the now accident-prone child. Mycroft would just laugh, shake his head, and patch Sherlock up without another question.

The eldest Holmes child didn't discover the truth until Sherlock was seven. He was coming downstairs to ask his father for help with his coursework when he his father's voice coming from the kitchen.

"What in the HELL do you think you're doing?"

Mycroft, concerned, hurried towards the noise and hid behind a table, watching.

Inside the kitchen, Sherlock was sitting on the floor, a jug of orange juice to his left and a box of antacid tablets to his right. In front of him was a glass. Mycroft watched as his brother's eyes grew wide, and he jumped to his feet, edging away from the little experiment set up on the floor.

"I didn't m-mean to experiment, Father, I promise!" Sherlock pleaded, backing up until his back hit the wall. "I was g-getting a glass of orange juice, and the tablets were on t-the counter, and I just wanted to see what would happen..." Mycroft was confused. Why did Sherlock look so scared?

Warwick stepped forward, picking up the glass and examining it. His face contorted with rage as he drew his arm back and flung the glass forward.

"LIAR!"

The glass shattered next to Sherlock's head just as the boy covered his eyes. Orange juice splattered onto the wall and the young genius, glass cutting his right hand and cheek. Mycroft had to cover his mouth to silence a gasp of horror. Had this happened before? His mind flashed back to a younger Sherlock, who 'fell down the stairs' and came to Mycroft for help. Had he told him the truth? Had that been the first time? Or had this been going on for years?

"I'm sorry, Father, I'm so sorry..." Sherlock crept across the floor, grabbing a towel from the counter and going back to the wall. He started to pick up the glass with his left hand. "I'll clean it all up."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to run forward and beat his father's face in. Sherlock shouldn't be apoligizing - he'd done nothing wrong! He was just curious. A curious little kid who wanted to know how things worked and why. People said that the smartest kids were curious, and Sherlock was definetely intelligent.

Warwick huffed, folding his arms against his chest and glaring down at his injured son. There wasn't even a shred of remorse in his eyes, which looked colder and blacker than any Mycroft had ever seen. "And no more experiments?"

"No more experiments."

Satisfied, Warwick departed. After he was sure the man was out of earshot, Mycroft walked into the kitchen, bending down and picking up the orange juice. Sherlock's head shot up, but his muscles relaxed slightly as he saw it was only his brother. He stiffened once more as he came across a thought.

"You saw..." Sherlock murmured. Mycroft nodded, walking across the room to pull his brother into a gentle hug.

"He always hurts me." Sherlock was speaking into Mycroft's chest, where his head was currently resting, but Mycroft could understand him. "I want to tell but he says he'll hurt Mummy. It's all my fault. I'm a bad son."

Mycroft's fists curled once more as he felt rage bubbling up inside him. "This is not your fault, Sherlock. You are not a bad son."

"Yes I am." Sherlock was crying harder now, his breaths coming in short, wheezy gasps. "I'm a f-freak. I'm not n-normal. I perform experiments and r-read too much and I'm not g-good enough! F-Father wouldn't p-punish me if I was a g-good son..."

The storm of rage brewing in Mycroft's chest was replaced by a cold chill of horror. His father looked at Sherlock, a seven year old child who liked to read and used too many big words, and had the heart to do this to him? To make him believe he was a freak just because he was different?

He didn't understand.

After the incident with the orange juice, Sherlock was a lot less reluctant to ask for Mycroft's help. As he grew older, Warwick's discipline became more and more extreme. On some nights, if Sherlock had been performing an experiment in secret, Warwick mysteriously forgot to feed him. Other nights, Sherlock would stumble into Mycroft's room, his face red and his neck bruised from being throttled.

When Sherlock was ten years old, Mycroft almost lost it. Over Christmas holiday, Sherlock's teacher had sent a letter to his house, which arrived while Helen was at work. Teachers sent letters to the Holmes' house often, but they were usual found and read by Helen, who was considerably more understanding than her husband.

Warwick read the letter in his study, after indulging in one too many glasses of wine. The teacher's letter explained that, lately, Sherlock had been making progress with his self esteem. He was very involved in class, and seemed to know a lot more than he should at his age. However, he was often bullied by his peers, and the teacher was afraid that the verbal slurs may have turned physical. She had spotted a large bruise on his upper arm as he was taking off his jacket one morning. Enraged, Warwick crumpled the paper and threw it into the trash.

As quietly as possible, Warwick found a rag. Mycroft had turned in early to work on a school project and then sleep, while Sherlock was already in bed.

He'd have to talk to his youngest son.

Mycroft awoke to a strange noise. Being a light sleeper, he immediately stirred at the strange sound of his doorknob shaking violently. He reached over to his bedside table, fumbling for the light switch as his door opened.

He jumped as he saw what - or rather, who- had opened his door. It was Sherlock. The ten year old was shivering violently, dripping from head to toe. His already alabaster skin was practically translucent.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft jumped out of his bed, terrified. He'd never seen his brother so pale. The soaked child was visibly trembling, and appeared more fragile than Mycroft had ever seen him. "Stay there." He hurried out into the hallway and opened the linen closet. Carrying as many blankets and towels as he could, he silently made his way back to his room and shut the door.

He handed the towels to Sherlock, along with a pair of his own pajamas, and turned away. A few minutes later, Sherlock was dry, his dark curls of hair plastered on his forehead. Mycroft wrapped Sherlock in two of the large blankets he'd brought and placed him on the bed, lying down next to him and pulling up the covers.

"Sherlock, what happened?"

It wasn't until they were laying in the bed, Sherlock's face highlighted by the light from the ceiling fan, that Mycroft saw. Sherlock had a little sore on each side of his lips. The marks looked similar to rope burn.

"I d-d-don't think h-he meant t-t-to do it-t-t-t..." Sherlock stuttered, his teeth still chattering. Mycroft's eyes widened.

"Sherlock." Mycroft took his brother's face in his hands. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, his head leaning closer to the warmth radiating from Mycroft. "What did he do to you this time?"

"G-g-gagged me," Sherlock murmured. "S-s-said I needed t-t-t-to learn to d-d-defend myself..." Sherlock stopped talking for a moment, before muttering something incoherent.

"What? Sherlock, speak up."

"...Threw m-m-me in the T-T-T-Thames-"

"He did WHAT?" Mycroft jerked back, eyes wide. "In the middle of December? Sherlock, you could have DROWNED!"

Sherlock flinched. "Father r-r-reeked of alcohol. I d-d-don't think he w-w-was sober-"

"I don't care if he was sober or drunk or glowing orange!" Mycroft spat. "This is too far, Sherlock! He can't do this!"

Sherlock shivered again. Mycroft sighed, pulling his younger brother into his arms. He whispered words of comfort, holding Sherlock long after he stopped shaking.

"Can you make him stop?"

Sherlock looked at his brother, his eyes wide. "I don't want you or Mummy to get hurt, but I'm scared. What if he goes too far?" His bottom lip quivered, and he buried his face in Mycroft's chest. Then, very softly, he whispered, "I don't want to die, Mycroft."

"I know..." Mycroft pulled away a bit so he could look Sherlock in the eye, his emotions conflicted. Sherlock didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to be beaten for being himself. "But you've got to be strong. Be strong for Mummy, alright? I promise, once I'm a little bigger, and I think of a way, we'll tell someone, and Father will go away to jail for a long time for doing this to you." He smiled softly. "I'll protect you, Sherlock."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Sherlock was twelve years old.

Mycroft came home from school to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, shaking. His eyes were fixed on the floor.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft set his bag down on the floor, concerned. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" He walked forward to stand in front of his brother, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "I deduced in class today." He looked away, his expression guilty.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "You...deduced..." Sherlock had told hims about his 'deductions', in which he was able to figure out a lot about a person just by observing them for a few seconds. He found it interesting; Warwick found it abnormal and insulting. "That's not so bad."

Sherlock shook his head." You don't understand..." He paused. "I could tell Mrs. Reeves was upset, but when I asked her if she was alright, she didn't answer. So I just hugged her and said I was sorry that she and Mr. Reeves were fighting."

"And how did you know they were fighting?" Mycroft inquired.

Sherlock looked away again. "She wasn't wearing her wedding ring, bags under her eyes, upset. It was obvious, really."

Mycroft chuckled, patting his brother on the head. "Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm sure she won't say anything to Father. Now, go water the plants. You know I'll kill them if I do it."

Sherlock smiled softly, his eyes brightening a bit before hopping up and running to do as he was told.

A couple of hours later, Sherlock had retreated into the shaking shell he had been when Mycroft had arrived home. Their father had been gone all afternoon, celebrating a friend's birthday, and would be home in about an hour.

Mycroft had gotten a call from a friend who lived close by, who needed help with a trigonometry concept. Having nothing better to do, he agreed to ride over on his bicycle to help. He checked to make sure the house was perfect before he got read to leave, for he'd learned that if the house was clean, Warwick was less likely to use Sherlock as a punching bag. The happier their father was, the better. Grabbing an umbrella, he turned the doorknob.

"Mycroft?"

The elder brother turned around to see Sherlock standing behind him, his skin paler than usual. "You aren't leaving, are you?"

Mycroft sighed. "I'm going to see Andrew, Sherlock. I promise I'll be back in a little bit, alright?" He smiled softly, trying to reassure the frightened child.

"But Father's coming home soon," Sherlock reminded him, looking up at him with sad eyes. "He's probably been at the pub, Mycroft. What if he's intoxicated? Remember what happened last time?" Sherlock's voice grew quieter, physically shaking at the memory of that cold, December night.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, you don't even know if he's been drinking. And he's usually the designated driver when he goes out with friends. Don't worry, you'll be fine." Mycroft turned and left, trying not to look back, but he glanced over his shoulder to see a hurt, very small Sherlock standing in the hall.

As he rode his bike down the driveway, he failed to notice that his father's car was parked in the driveway.

Sirens. Sirens blaring loudly in his ears.

Mycroft, having spent about forty-five minutes at Andrew's house, was almost home when he first heard the racket. As he got closer, he realized that it was coming from behind him. He quickly pulled over, letting the vehicles pass. It was a police car, followed closely by two ambulances. With growing horror, Mycroft realized they were headed for Kensington Street.

His street.

Mycroft picked up his pace, pedaling as fast as he could. His legs burned, but he didn't care. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe someone had pulled a prank. He prayed, prayed to God, Jesus, and anyone else who might have been listening. Sherlock couldn't be hurt. He'd told Sherlock it'd be okay...

His bicycle screeched to a halt, his tires leaving faint skidmarks on the asphalt. His eyes quickly darted across the scene. The front door of the Holmes' residence had been rammed open, most likely by the police. Paramedics had unloaded a stretcher, waiting by the door until they were needed.

"Mycroft!"

The familiar voice of his neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, called out to him. He turned, to see Laura Jenkins and her husband, Robert, hurrying towards him. "Oh, thank heavens you're alive!" Mrs. Jenkins hugged him close, tears pricking her eyes.

Mycroft blinked. The only thing he could think to ask was, "What happened?"

"Oh, Mycroft, I don't know!" Mrs. Jenkins was shaking. "Robert and I were relaxing, watching a bit of telly, when we heard gunshots coming from your house!"

"G-Gunshots?" Mycroft took a step back. He knew his father kept a pistol in his study, but he only had it for self defense purposes, heaven forbid he ever need it.

Before he could think anymore, a loud shout came from within the house. The paramedics rushed in with the stretcher, barking commands to each other. Mycroft tried to run after them, but Mr. Jenkins grabbed his shoulder.

"Wait, son," he murmured, looking down at him with pitiful eyes. "Let them do their job."

Mycroft nodded solemnly, watching the door impatiently. He waited. It seemed like hours as he stood there, eyes glued to the front door. 'Please, let them come out with a scared Sherlock and a mildly injured Father...'

More shouts came from the house. Perhaps there were coming to tell them everyone was fine? Mycroft's hope was dashed when the paramedics rushed out, carrying the stretcher before lowering it on the ground. It was only when the stretcher was rolling that Mycroft could see who it was.

"SHERLOCK!"

Mycroft renched himself out of the Jenkins' grip, running towards the paramedics. A police officer, headed for the house, grabbed him. "Whoa, kid! Where are you-"

"THAT'S MY BROTHER!" Mycroft screamed, pulling against the police officer, trying to break free. "LET ME GO!"

"Alright, alright!" The police officer let him go. "Where is your mother?"

"Our mother is working," Mycroft informed him. "She's a neurosurgeon. At Newham. Are they taking them to Newham?"

"Them?" The police office was startled a moment. Then, he sighed. "Son...I'm afraid you're father's...dead. And I don't think your brother's going to last much longer...Just, come with me."

Mycroft wasn't listening as the police officer explained the situation to the paramedics. Dead. His father was dead. And Sherlock wasn't far behind. His eyes darted from Sherlock's stretcher, to the ambulance, to the house. He waited until he heard the words, "alright, he can ride with us to the hospital," to come back to the land of the living. He was led into the ambulance by a gentle woman, who said her name was Sally, and that everything was going to be alright.

Sitting in the front seat, he listend as the paramedics yelled orders in the back of the ambulance, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Sherlock was dying.

Mycroft sat by Sherlock's bed for about an hour. Sherlock had been badly beaten and shot in the stomach. He'd lost a lot of blood, but somehow he'd been able to hold on until they could get him hooked up to a blood transfusion. Helen was sitting next to Mycroft, holding Sherlock's hand and crying profusely. The whole experience in the hospital had been a blur. Sherlock had gone into surgery to remove the bullet from his stomach, and he was sporting two fractured ribs, along with plenty of bruises.

Finally, while Helen was going to the bathroom, Sherlock stirred. He blinked a few times, before looking over at his brother.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's voice was hoarse. "Where's Father? Is he alright?"

Mycroft swallowed, and then shook his head. "No, Sherlock. He...he's dead. They think he shot himself, after he..." he trailed off, unable to utter the phrase, 'after he shot you.' Silence followed. Then, a soft statement came from the hospital bed.

"You weren't there."

Mycroft sighed. He stood up, walking up to the edge of the bed. "Sherlock, I-"

"YOU WEREN'T THERE!" Sherlock's voice scratched violently, turning his cry into a screech. "Father came home and grabbed me and threw me against the wall. He hit me and threw me and kicked me. 'You FREAK!', he screamed. 'You inhuman THING!' Punch after slap, kick after kick. He choked me until I couldn't see and I thought I was going to die. And the whole time, I'm screaming. Screaming..." Sherlock stops then, his tyrade coming to a screeching halt. He quickly picks it back up. "'Mycroft, help! Mycroft, where are you? Mycroft, please help me!'"

Another pause. Sherlock bit his lip, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "But you never answered. You never came. You said you'd protect me, but you didn't, and now Father's dead." He probably would've continued, but he started to cough. Mycroft stepped back, his eyes wide with horror. He turned and ran out of the room, tears streaming down his face.

Anthea finds out first.

Her jaw drops, and she leans over and prods Mycroft in the arm. They're sitting in their parlor, waiting for news from Sherlock on the West case. He hears her gasp before she prods him, so he's already expecting bad new.

"What is it?"

Anthea doesn't speak; she merely shows him the screen of her blackberry. It's a text from someone in their intelligence network; it could be anyone in London, Mycroft hardly bothers with names anymore.

'School building on Trenton Avenue bombed. Sherlock and Dr. Watson inside. Emergency vehicles on the way.'

It takes them about two minutes to get there by car. Mycroft stands far away from the crowds, watching as Sherlock is wheeled out on a stretcher. His mind travels back to that night, almost twenty years ago. He strides across the street, flicking an I.D. at anyone who approaches him. He makes his way to the paramedics, and pulls one aside.

"Will he be alright?" he asks. "Please, I'm his brother."

"We don't know." The man's answer was hurried. "His companion pushed them both into the water as the bomb detonated. It's what may have saved his life. You'll have to drive to the hospital on your own, our policy doesn't allow anyone to ride with us, even family members. I'm sorry."

Mycroft nods grimly. He says something along the lines of 'I understand' or 'That's perfectly fine', but he doesn't care enough to even notice. He remains there, standing on the sidewalk until Anthea herds him back into the car. Their driver follows the ambulance. Mycroft is stoic, his face devoid of emotion.

John was able to protect him. John may have saved him. If it wasn't for John, Sherlock would have been blown to bits. What had Mycroft done? He had done nothing. He didn't even know they'd left their flat. He blinked, a tear falling without permission as he was flooded with painful memories.

'You said you'd protect me, but you didn't...'