How's the diet going? Four words that Sherlock managed to slip into the once-on-a-blue-moon conversations he'd have with Mycroft, even though they both knew the answer. Mycroft would then purse his lips and reply, very sternly, Fine. And he would stretch the word out, and repeat in his mind, until even he believed it a little.

Mycroft sat at the edge of the bathtub. He hated that the words hurt him so, a simple question, and if it had come from anyone but Sherlock, it would be polite. But this was Sherlock. He didn't ask because he was concerned (Bah! Sherlock? Concerned? Never.) or to make small talk (Something neither of the Holmes brothers appreciated), he did it because he knew it annoyed Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed heavily, and slipped into the warm water that filled the large bathtub. Mycroft had no need for a bathtub of this size, but he bought it because he could. Money was one of the few things he felt he had control of, and if he couldn't control his body figure, at least let him have this. Sherlock always scoffed at money, but Mycroft felt having more of it comforting.

Sherlock. Mycroft sighed again, a deeper sigh, when he thought of his brother. He didn't hate Sherlock, in fact, he cared for him very much, and worried for him. Since the passing of their parents, he had always kept an eye on him, monitoring him all the time. But Sherlock didn't return the feelings, he hated Mycroft with a passion. Mycroft didn't show it, but that killed him a little.

Everyone assumed Mycroft was as cold and hard as he was now as a child, but that was quite different. At seven, when he was told he'd be a big brother, he was ecstatic. Finally, someone who would love him, and want to be with him. That was not the case. When baby Sherlock was born, Mycroft couldn't even be in the same room as him or he'd burst into tears. When he became a toddler, he'd throw things at him, and as he got older, there would be snide comments or he'd just be generally ignored.

Sherlock. If Mycroft dug deep into the back of his mind, he knew that Sherlock was the bases to all of Mycroft's problems. Sherlock had always been the good looking one, the better one, the favourite. He wasn't necessarily the smarter one, but he was extremely clever. And, although Sherlock never seemed to notice (or he was just not interested), he always had somebody falling in love with him. Wither it be the girl who worked in the morgue, or his flat-mate and blogger (Who'd deny it right away, but Mycroft could tell.) or even that Irene Adler woman who popped up every now and then.

And Mycroft? Mycroft had never had anyone fall in love with him. He hadn't even had a girlfriend before.

Mycroft had had his eyes closed, but he opened them again, and looked down at his body. He ran his finger along the scars forever engraved up his stomach, arms and legs. He hated how he hurt himself, how he was destroying his body, but if this was one more thing he could have control over, he'd take it. He couldn't even control his bloody emotions. Unlike Sherlock. Bloody perfect Sherlock.

Mycroft forced Sherlock out his mind, and tried to focus on the scars again. One particular bad scar, ran right across the bottom of his chest, down his stomach (over his belly button) and to the top of his thigh.

It was when he was 16. It had bled so much; he had to be taken to hospital. It was before he'd had the other scars, so he lied and said he'd been mugged and attacked. If Sherlock or his parents had suspected otherwise, they never spoke up.

The ones on his arms looked like a series of cat cuts that had never faded away. That's why he'd always worn long sleeves, if anyone had seen…

Mycroft banged his arm on the side of the bath when he felt tears whelm up in his eyes.

Don't you dare cry, Mycroft Holmes. You don't deserve to cry. You're worthless.

Mycroft bit his lower lip. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault; this was his fault, purely his.

Of course it's your fault, everything is your fault.

Mycroft couldn't control these thoughts, but he could silence them for a little while. Mycroft reached out to the towel next to the bath, and pulled it back. He picked up the sharp instrument, and fell back into the now lukewarm water.

He slid it against his wrist, a comforting pain that silenced the thoughts and stopped him feeling.

Even if it was just for a little while.