When Sherlock was six years old, and Mycroft was sixteen years old; Sherlock discovered something about Mycroft's brother that the older boy hoped no one would ever know.

…

Sherlock walked into Mycroft's bedroom unannounced, looking for help with an experiment, and found Mycroft sitting on the window seat; wearing a pure white blouse, a pink knee-length skirt, and light pink socks topped with lacy frills.

Mycroft wasn't aware of their little brother's presence and they looked almost… comfortable. More than they had the last few days, anyway. That was until they turned around.

Sherlock saw Mycroft's neck pale and made-up eyes widen. "Sherlock!" Mycroft startled.

"Mycroft? What are you doing in girls' clothes?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock; you mustn't tell mummy and father…" Mycroft began.

"But –"

"Sherlock! Please…" Mycroft pleaded, "You mustn't tell them…"

"Sherlock looked into their eyes and nodded. "But can you explain why you're wearing those clothes?" Sherlock prompted, not sounding as angry or disgusted or anything Mycroft would think.

They sighed, "It's quite complex, brother mine…"

"I want to understand," Sherlock gave him an encouraging smile, or as close as he could manage to one.

"If I'm honest, Sherlock; even I don't really understand it."

"Try and explain your thought process."

Mycroft sighed again. "I think I'm a freak…" they whispered.

Sherlock startled at the word; he had heard it so often, but only when he was described; Mycroft was the 'normal' one. "Why?"

Mycroft thought very hard about how to verbalise it. "Some days are fine; I feel like my skin belongs and I am as I should be; which is fine, those are good days. But there are other times… Times where I just feel wrong; like I'm… in the wrong body, I suppose; and my skin crawls and everything's so… wrong. There are other times too; where I don't know how I feel, but it still feels wrong. I don't really know how to better describe it…"

"Like you're… In the wrong body…" Sherlock repeated, trying to understand the concept, "In what way?" Sherlock was being surprisingly understanding.

"It… It feels like I have the wrong… biology…" Mycroft ventured, cautiously.

It took a second or two for Sherlock to understand what they meant. "Oh! You want to be a girl!" Sherlock exclaimed, it wasn't malicious.

Well… That was blunt. Mind, this was Sherlock. "Uh… I suppose… sort of. But only some of the time. I don't really know… I just think I'm a freak." Mycroft hugged themselves subconsciously.

"You aren't a freak, My," Sherlock frowned.

"On the contrary, brother mine; I rather think I am. I've tried to find books about this but I… can't."

"You're not a freak," Sherlock insisted. Before Mycroft had a chance to argue, Sherlock changed the focus of the subject, "So… Wearing girls' clothes helps?"

"To an extent, I suppose. My physical being still feels… alien, though," Mycroft clarified.

Sherlock nodded, understanding a little better, now the information had sunken in. "But why don't you want mummy and father to know? If you explain it –"

"It doesn't work like that, Sherlock. They'll hate me… They'll disown me…" Mycroft began to panic.

"Mycroft, they won't; I promise –"

"You can't make promises for them Sherlock."

"Please! They should know…" Sherlock said please. Damn his insistence.

"Fine! But they aren't going to like this, Sherlock!" Mycroft took a breath, "Sorry… Let's just get this over with…"

…

Mummy was sitting in front of the fireplace knitting while their father was completing a crossword puzzle in his armchair.

Sherlock ran in, the little ball of energy he was. "Mummy, father; Mycroft has something… uh… they want to tell you."

"Well where is he?" their father questioned.

"Uh… They're coming now. But, you can't be mad, ok? I won't like it and My really won't like it."

"Sherlock, what is it?" Mummy asked.

Luckily, Sherlock didn't have to answer as Mycroft stepped gingerly into the room; their skirt fluttering gently as the air moved. Their parents wore identical looks of shock, horror and anger. Sherlock looked between them with a confused look; bless the naive boy.

Mycroft opened his mouth to explain, but the words dried on their tongue. They just stood there wordlessly, opening and closing his mouth. Sherlock looked at them pleadingly; begging them to say something.

It was Mr Holmes that found his voice first. "Out," he muttered darkly.

Mycroft managed to find their voice, "Wha–what?"

"I said out!" their father yelled.

"Mother? Father?"

"You heard your father, you tranny! Get out!" Mycroft's mouth dropped open. They'd never heard their mother say such a thing.

"But –"

Their father stormed upstairs, stuffing Mycroft's suitcase, not caring if he creased the clothes.

"Mummy! Father! I thought you'd understand!" Sherlock yelled.

"This is wrong Sherlock! Mycroft is a boy!" Their mother growled.

The next few minutes passed in a blur for Mycroft. They vaguely felt the pain and sensations of being dragged to the door and – literally – being kicked out. They face-planted into the muddy lawn, spitting out grass as his suitcase landed on his back.

"Don't come back here until you learn to be a good boy!" Their father yelled before slamming the door. Mycroft heard the click of the door lock and Sherlock's frantic attempts to open it as the young boy shouted apologies through the door.

Mycroft scrambled to their feet, inspected their torn and muddy skirt and blouse, and turned their back on the house. They would walk the mile to Anthea's house; she was the only one who knew and understood, other than Sherlock.

…

Mycroft knocked on the door to Anthea's house; aware they were sniffling and had puffy, red eyes and had smudges of mud and makeup all over.

The door opened. "Hello, Anthea," Mycroft sniffed.

"Mycroft? What happened?! Your clothes are torn and muddy and… oh God, have you been crying?"

They nodded. "I told my parents… Well, showed them; I wasn't able to speak at the time… They kicked me out."

"But why are your clothes so muddy and torn?"

"When I said they kicked me out – it was quite literal…" Mycroft sighed.

Anthea drew Mycroft into a tight hug, "God… How did Sherlock react?"

"He was very understanding, but it was all his fault. He told me they'd be fine; he practically begged me to tell them. I knew it was a bad idea."

"Come inside – you're shivering…" Anthea lead Mycroft through the door and closed it behind them.

"You can borrow some of my clothes if you want; I see you have some too but not enough. You can also borrow my make-up. I'm sure mum will let you stay…" Anthea smiled.

"If you're sure…"

"I am. I don't want you anywhere near your parents."

"Thank you…"

...

Poor Mycroft! Please review. If this offends you, please do say so I can edit it; I don't mean any offence and certainly don't wish for this to be taken that way.