Chapter Two: Don't Guess, Deduce

'His name is Noah.'

'And?'

'And I thought you might like to know the name of your nephew.'

'He's Lestrade's nephew, not mine.'

'He's our son.'

'No, he's not.'

'Blood doesn't make a family, Sherlock.'

'And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Mycroft?'

Mycroft sighed and reached for his coffee. It was too early for this... or too late, he was a little fuzzy at the moment. Mycroft had been up two nights before with Noah, who was sick- it was impossible to sleep through a baby's congested coughs when said baby was basically in the same room. Before that he'd had a double shift at Ryan's, the pub where he worked.

After eight solid hours taking care of a baby, he'd had to pull an all-nighter at the art studio to get a portrait of some woman's daughter done. To top it all off, Gregory was falling ill, catching the cold Noah had, and Mycroft was so very close to dropping from sheer exhaustion. He really wasn't equiped to deal with Sherlock.

His brother had grown significantly. He'd had a growth spurt, putting him at Mycroft's chest instead of his stomach. Sherlock had been ten the last time he and Mycroft had spoken face-to-face. He was fourteen now, and still had some growing to do, but he'd definitely grown up.

Matured, no. He was still a sarcastic little brat who apparently smoked and drank copious amounts of coffee. It didn't surprise Mycroft, really. Sherlock had probably learned those habits from him and decided to adopt them when he hit puberty.

The two sat in silence, which wasn't unusual now. This was only the second time they'd met in person since Sherlock had started calling Mycroft after four years of silence. The first time they hadn't even got their drinks before Sherlock had started shouting and Mycroft had walked out. In the past, when they were young, Sherlock would find Mycroft wherever he'd hidden and they'd pretend it didn't happen. It was harder now that Sherlock couldn't simply follow Mycroft to his hiding spot. But they were apparently still practicing the "ignoring" part.

Well, until they started arguing again.

'When did our relationship sour?' Mycroft mused outloud.

'When you decided to run off to fuck knows where with your bit of rough!' Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft had heard those words dozens of times, so they didn't faze him. Maybe Sherlock was too young, or simply ignoring (or deleting) what had happened before Mycroft started dating Gregory. Maybe he'd forgotten Mycroft hiding his sexuality and freaking out because he wanted to be normal and not disappoint the family. Maybe he'd deleted Siger Holmes finding out and shouting, pushing, hitting Mycroft to stop making him a fairy. Maybe he was simply ignoring the fact that without Gregory, Mycroft would either be stuck in a loveless marriage with a woman, or dead.

So many maybes, and Mycroft would probably never get an answer. Sherlock was too young, too stubborn, to ever have a completely honest coversation with his estranged big brother.

Sherlock slouched down in his seat until his head was resting on the back. He'd already had two coffees- he'd guzzled them down quickly, apparently not caring how hot they were- and was currently on his third. Mycroft was on his second... well, his second since meeting with Sherlock, his thirtieth since he'd gotten up three days ago.

'Can we sit outside?' Sherlock suddenly said. 'I want a cigarette.'

Mycroft didn't bother answering, just rose and grabbed his cardboard cup. Sherlock followed and they relocated to the outdoor seating, Sherlock immediately digging through the pocket of his ridiculously large coat to pull out a packet of cigarettes. He didn't offer Mycroft one, not that Mycroft was surprised. He pulled his own cigarettes out and lit one with his own lighter, watching Sherlock eye him from across the table.

He and Gregory had started smoking together, had quit together a dozen times because food was more important than a packet of smokes, and of course they'd started again together when they had the money. Mycroft was still trying to quit, but he had an addictive personality, much like Sherlock.

The brothers were silent as they smoked, looking at the people walking past, their coffees and the ashtray, anything that wasn't the other. Sherlock had been the one to engineer this meeting- well, him and Gregory, who apparently thought Mycroft needed to fix the relationship- so it was Sherlock who should be trying to speak, trying to start a conversation.

Then again, Mycroft was the big brother; he was the one who'd run away and shattered what remained of their relationship. He hadn't been very helpful so far; he'd ignored half of Sherlock's calls, had screamed at him half the time he had picked up, and when they'd finally met in person he'd walked out. He couldn't really blame Sherlock for being a brat.

'How's school?' Mycroft decided to ask as he lit his second cigarette. School was a safe subject.

'Dull,' Sherlock answered in a bored tone.

Apparently not.

'The course work or the people?' Mycroft enquired.

'Both,' Sherlock sniffed, rolling his fag between two long, pale fingers. 'Mother won't let me move ahead; she doesn't want me to graduate, and leave home, too young.'

Mycroft felt the stab right in the heart and swallowed thickly. Sherlock hadn't asked if Mycroft wanted to speak to Mummy during any of his phone calls. Maybe he didn't care if Mycroft and Meghan started speaking again or not. Or, maybe, he knew that Mycroft would refuse. The woman had stood by and let Siger Holmes call Mycroft a fag, a disgrace, unnatural. She'd stood by while Mycroft fell apart and started spending more and more time away from home. She'd stood by and watched as Siger pushed, slapped, punched Mycroft for being gay.

She'd stood by and watched her eldest son break.

Mycroft couldn't forgive her for that. Maybe in twenty years, when he was older, and had been a parent himself for a longer period of time.

Maybe.

'How's work?' Sherlock asked suddenly and Mycroft looked at him, blue eyes meeting identical blue. Was Sherlock actually trying?

'Fine,' Mycroft answered carefully. 'Bartending gives me a chance to deduce people, sometimes for extra tips; people see it as a party trick. Painting clears my mind and brings in more money.'

Sherlock nodded stiffly and ashed his cigarette in the silver tray provided by the coffee shop. 'And Lestrade?'

'He waits tables at the pub when they've got an extra shift, or someone calls in sick,' Mycroft told his brother. 'Otherwise he does odd jobs around the city or plays his guitar in pubs, for other bands, on the street.'

'And you're happy with that?' Sherlock asked. 'Both of you?'

'Yes,' Mycroft answered immediately.

Sherlock frowned and stared hard at the table, smoke curling above his head as he rolled his cigarette. 'You could have had more, Mycroft,' he said softly, and Mycroft had to lean forward slightly to catch his words. 'You could have gone to university, gotten a degree, a good job; money, a house, friends... everything.'

'I wasn't happy, Sherlock,' Mycroft said simply. 'I was suffocating.'

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip. 'Was it really so bad that you'd run away, with barely any money, to live in a strange city? To work in pubs and on street corners?'

Mycroft was silent as he processed his brothers words. For the first time in four years, he realised... maybe Sherlock didn't know the full story. Maybe he didn't know how far their father had gone, just how far Mycroft had fallen before Gregory had suggested an escape.

Maybe Sherlock had made a leap, had guessed, rather than making a deduction. Mycroft had taught Sherlock how to put a person's life together from trivial pieces of information, and he wasn't sure if Sherlock had continued to study and practice after he'd left.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft asked, 'Sherlock, why do you think I left home?'

'Ran away,' Sherlock corrected.

'Ran away,' Mycroft echoed with an eye roll.

'You hated us and wanted to be with your boyfriend,' Sherlock answered immediately.

Mycroft sighed. Fuck, Sherlock actually believed that.

'Lockie-'

'Don't!' Sherlock snapped, blue eyes cold as they flicked to Mycroft's.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft ammended, 'I didn't leave home because I hated you.'

'Why, then?' Sherlock demanded and stubbed his cigarette out viciously.

Mycroft leaned back and sipped his coffee, then took a drag of his own cigarette as he sorted through his thoughts. It seemed like years and years ago that Gregory had first suggested that they run, but really it was little over four years ago. They'd discussed it for a few weeks before settling on the idea, and exactly one month later they'd packed everything they wanted and could carry and left without a word.

Mycroft had never known if his parents had looked for him. Gregory's probably hadn't. His father had been in and out of the house, working some months and blowing all his cash on drugs the next. His mum had given up when Gregory was about eight, leaving his eldest brother to take care of all the kids.

Things had gotten better and worse in different ways, from what Ryley had told Greg when they'd met to discuss adopting Noah. Liam, the eldest, had disappeared about a year after Greg did. A year after that the twins, Daniel and Joshua, moved into a small flat on the opposite side of town after Daniel got his girlfriend pregnant. Apparently they were all living together with Daniel's girlfriend and Greg's neice, Kerry.

Beth, Ross and Ryley were the last ones left, and Beth had gotten a job at the local library. She'd eventually moved out of home and rented a small flat near their childhood home and taken Ryley with her. Then Ryley got pregnant, and Noah had arrived. Ross was still living at home according to Ryley, though he was mostly in and out of the house, spending most nights roaming the streets with his friends.

So the Lestrades were all over the place, but Gregory wasn't shocked. His family had a habbit of running off all the time. The three youngest seemed to be the only ones who could stay in one place, and even Greg had taken off when he was seventeen. So he was't exactly the best example of his family's stability. Still, he and Mycroft had been in London for four years, and Gregory had no plans to leave.

Mycroft's family, on the other hand, had lived in the Manor where Mycroft had grown up for three generations. Three generations of stuck-up, posh, bigoted arseholes who thought they could beat the queer out of their sons. Sherlock had never been around when Siger had screamed. Siger knew better than to have any witnesses, apart from Meghan, and his wife never did anything to help Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, and Sherlock still wanted an answer. Would the truth change anything?

'Father found out I was gay,' he found himself saying, and kept his eyes on his coffee. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one, deciding he needed the extra dose of nicotine to get him through the conversation. 'He wasn't happy, to put it mildly,' Mycroft continued. 'At first he screamed. Then he pushed. Then... I think you can see where I'm going with this, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's eyes had widened slightly, enough that Mycroft could see the surprise raging through his body. 'He...' Sherlock swallowed, 'he hit you?'

Mycroft inclined his head. 'It got worse when he found out about Gregory... a few of the boys from our school spread it around after we were caught snogging behind the lunch hall. Siger heard it from one of the other parents, and...' He trailed off and took a deep drag of his cigarette, letting Sherlock draw the conclusions he needed.

'That's why you left?' Sherlock asked.

'Gregory was having a rough time at home, too,' Mycroft said. 'He suggested we run, more as a joke than anything. But when things got worse... we figured nothing could be as bad as what we were living through. If we starved on the streets, at least it wouldn't be because our fathers had hit too hard, or hadn't stopped when they normally did. We'd be ourselves, living how we wanted, not ashamed or afraid of who we were.'

Mycroft paused and sipped his coffee again, more for the break it offered than the liquid. His stomach was churning and he realised he should have eaten something before smoking three cigarettes in quick succession.

He could see Sherlock's mind whirring into life, the cogs clunking as he raced through everything. Sherlock didn't have an eidetic memory, not like Mycroft, but when he did remember something, he remembered it with sharp clarity. If he'd retained the memories from when Mycroft had run away, he was no doubt comparing it to the new information.

'Mother?' Sherlock asked after a long beat, looking up at Mycroft slowly.

'Stood by and watched,' Mycroft said simply, bitterness creeping into his tone. He didn't think he could ever forgive her for watching Siger throw him into a table and doing nothing to try and stop it.

Sherlock wet his lips slowly and sipped his own coffee, grimacing as the drink hit his stomach. He pushed the cup away and frowned hard at it.

'You didn't say goodbye.'

Mycroft closed his eyes. He remembered the night he'd run. Gregory was waiting on his bike- he'd saved for years to buy the crappy thing, and it had died two weeks after they got to London- Siger and Meghan asleep, Sherlock curled up in his bed, looking so very young. Mycroft had debated waking his brother to say goodbye, but knew questions would be asked, and Sherlock would probably have woken their parents. No, Gregory and Mycroft had to get as far away as they could before anyone realised they were gone.

'I wanted to,' Mycroft admitted quietly, eyes still closed. 'But you wouldn't have let me go. You would have woke Meghan and Siger.'

Sherlock nodded jerkily, understanding flashing through his eyes, bitterness quickly following. There was nothing Mycroft could do to make up for the past. He'd done what he thought was best for himself. He hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock with Siger, but Sherlock hadn't yet hit puberity, and the chances of him being gay too were slim. If he passed his subjects and didn't cause too much trouble, he'd be safe.

Mycroft couldn't offer him that. Not then, not now, maybe not ever.

'I see,' Sherlock eventually settled on saying and slouched back in his seat. The two fell into silence, passing the time by smoking, people-watching, and mulling over their conversation. Eventually Sherlock cleared his throat and Mycroft looked at him. 'Noah, did you say?'

Mycroft nodded.

'And... you've formally adopted him? Legally?'

'Yes,' Mycroft said. 'We had to pass an inspection by child services, as well as appear in court. Ryley signed over all her rights and Gregory and I legally adopted Noah after we were deemed fit parents and granted custody.'

'I see,' Sherlock repeated, though this time his eyes were slightly lighter, less pained. 'Do you plan on teaching him how to deduce people?'

Mycroft raised a slim eyebrow.

'I remember everything you taught me,' Sherlock said. 'Deducing people, it's... it's not something I can switch off.'

'I know,' Mycroft said. He'd tried, in the past. When people had bullied him for what he could see, he tried to stop it. But he couldn't. He saw everything whether he wanted to or not.

'Are you going to teach Noah?' Sherlock asked.

'I'll try,' Mycroft said, 'but if it doesn't take, I'll still be happy. As long as Noah's happy, healthy, and safe, I'll be proud.'

'Unlike Father?'

'Unlike Siger.'

Sherlock noted that Mycroft didn't refer to either parent as Mother or Father, but he brushed it aside. 'He's a Lestrade, though,' he pointed out.

'I don't think people are necessarily born intelligent, Sherlock,' Mycroft said. 'Yes, some are born with signficant advantages to others, like a quicker thought process, a knack for mathematics, etcetera. But everybody can be taught, if they apply themselves.'

Sherlock just nodded, clearly not agreeing with his brother. He was only fourteen, though; Mycroft doubted he'd agree with anybody at his current age... he probably wouldn't agree with anybody at any age, he was still a stubborn little bastard.

'Full name?' Sherlock asked suddenly.

'Noah Ryley Lestrade-Holmes,' Mycroft answered.

'Birthday?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'I'm his uncle,' Sherlock explained, 'I want to make sure he learns properly, and doesn't pick up too many mannerisms from Lestrade.'

Mycroft snorted and shook his head. 'April 14th,' he said. He was grinning inwardly; Sherlock had acknowledged that he was Noah's uncle. That was a step forward.

'That woman, over there,' Sherlock said and pointed to a tall red-headed woman in a blue business suit. 'She's on the phone to her brother.'

'Lover,' Mycroft corrected.

Sherlock looked at him.

'Notice how she's playing with her hair?' Mycroft said and waited until Sherlock was looking at her before speaking again. 'A lot of women do that when they're flirting, or interested, in a possible sexual partner. She also keeps smoothing down her jacket and skirt, and she's making sure her lipstick is neat.'

'But she's on the phone; he can't see her.'

'True, but they're habits. She does the same thing when she's with him, and it transfers over when she's on the phone; like when you nod, despite the fact that the person on the other end of the phone can't hear you; force of habit, a reflex.'

Sherlock nodded slowly, still looking at the woman.

'If it was a sibling, her entire body language would be different,' Mycroft continued. 'You jumped to the conclusion that it was her brother based on too little facts. She could have been speaking to a sister, an aunt, a mother; don't guess, Sherlock, deduce.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but tried harder next time, and got it mostly right. He grinned smugly under Mycroft's praise, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile. Maybe their relationship was salvagable after all.

Sherlock called him a twat five minutes later.

But that wasn't anything unusual, so Mycroft called him a brat and moved on.

The brothers sat at the small coffee shop, drinking caffeine, eating muffins, and deducing what they could about the people around them. The air had lifted; there was still an underlying tension, a palpable struggle to their relationship, but after four years it was to be expected.

A few hours spent together in relative comfort was a step forward.

Author's Note: ... so... I, uh... remember that time, in the last chapter, when I said this was a one-shot? Yeah... I'm a fucking liar. See, the thing is, I had coffee, and listened to punk-rock music, and that gets Johnny rolling, and I randomly write Holmes brothers bonding/angsting.

So... I have no idea if there will be any more to this story, I really don't. But I wrote this. So there.

And even as I review this, I'm getting ideas for another chapter. Fuck it.

Cheers,

{Dreamer}