Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All hail to Moffat, Gatiss and Doyle.

Summary: When he was a child, Mycroft decided to be the perfect host to his brother, based on Ancient Greek customs. Over the years, both he and Sherlock evaluate their relationship by comparing themselves to mythological heroes, while trying to keep each other safe.

Warning: Contains hints of Holmescest. That somehow happened. Can be easily ignored if it's not your thing, ;).

Filia – Chapter 2

The death of the father always tore a family apart. If he'd truly been a man of honour, Mycroft would've moved back home to take care of his mother and sixteen-year-old brother. However, he was twenty-three, not a man, but a student living at University. He was a boy, tasting freedom for the first time. He had friends here, studies that intrigued him and teachers that valued his opinion and sharp intellect. He wasn't stifled by expectations or held back by the desire to fit social norms which he'd outgrown. Mycroft was starting to come into his element and he felt no compulsion to give it up.

It was a quiet afternoon and he was sitting behind his desk in his own rooms, finishing up an essay on Roman politics. A cup of tea was cooling off beside him, a soft breeze came in through the open window. The knock on the door surprised him and he put his pen down mid-sentence, even though he knew he'd regret not finishing his train of thought later. Making his way to the door, he opened it slowly to reveal his younger brother. Sherlock's lip was bloody, he was panting and his face was flushed and angry.

"You should be at school."

It was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock pushed himself roughly past Mycroft into the room and turned back to his brother, practically shaking with rage. "You bastard. You have no idea, do you? You have no idea what it's like to live in that house now, after he … after he died, do you? You came to the fucking funeral, pretended to be the perfect son for three seconds and then swanned off to your posh University to play your little mind-games with your so-called friends."

"Sherlock…"

"And you just left us! You left me, Mycroft. And mummy, she can't cope. You've got no idea what it's like. And every day I go to that shitty school," he briefly touched his busted lip and then drew his hand back in an annoyed gesture, "and then I return to that dark house and you, you should be there! You should either be there, with us, or you should take me with you." He finished his tirade rather more softly than he'd started.

"Sherlock, I can't…"

"No, of course you can't," Sherlock spat bitterly, trying to regain some of his angry bravado to cover the obvious pain in his voice. "Because you're so busy here, right? So busy being all important. So busy trying to be him. He was never there for us either. Glad to see you've taken him as your example."

"Don't talk about father like that!" Mycroft snapped, taking a step towards Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't retreat. In fact, he took a stride towards Mycroft himself. "I'll talk about him any way I like. He was my father too, you know. Even though he probably didn't want to be. And I'll tell you what I thought of him: he was a dick." Sherlock came right up to his brother now. They were almost the same height now. "He was an absent, ambitious, cruel dick."

Mycroft pushed him. He couldn't ever remember laying his hands on his brother before in anger, especially not as an adult. Sherlock stumbled back in surprise, but quickly regained his footing. There was a moment of silence in which the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Then he threw himself at his brother.

Mycroft went down hard and Sherlock landed right on top of him, punching wherever he could. Eteocles and Polyneikes. They were the names that shot through Mycroft's head as the back of his skull banged mercilessly against the carpeted floor. Father Oedipus was dead and the family descended from one Greek tragedy into the next. Two brothers first agreeing in harmony to rule together and then Eteocles refused to hand over the throne after one year. Polyneikes gathered the Seven generals against Thebes and marched on his brother.

Mycroft punched back, but with restraint. He hit in defence, but was careful not to really hurt his brother. Sherlock, however, had clearly made no such promises. The brothers rolled around over the floor, knocking against the desk, upsetting the cup of tea and ruining Mycroft's paper. It went on for several minutes, but Sherlock was skinnier than Mycroft and the elder brother finally managed to pin the younger one's hands above his head.

"Stop it!"

Sherlock panted, his eyes still glistening, but slowly Mycroft felt his muscles relax beneath his grip. When it was clear Sherlock wasn't going to fight again, Mycroft let him go and set himself a little apart from his brother, leaning with his back against his bed. He carefully pressed a handkerchief to his nose, which was bleeding, but luckily remained unbroken. "What happened to your lip?"

Sherlock snorted. "Guy at school insulted mummy. Believe me, he looks worse." He grimaced. "Anyway, they suspended me for two days, so you're wrong, I shouldn't be at school right now."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. "They suspend me all the time. Don't really care."

"Not about that," Mycroft said impatiently. "You were right. About what you said earlier. I'm sorry, I should've been there."

Sherlock got up from the floor and walked over to the bed, seating himself next to Mycroft, so close that their shoulders touched. "You were always a better host than a guest anyway."

Mycroft carefully placed his hand on his brother's knee. "Eteocles and Polyneikes."

Sherlock grinned. "I didn't bring the Seven. It's just me."

"You know what happened at the end, right?"

"They killed each other at the same time."

"Yes."

"You haven't killed me, Mycroft. Neither has he."

Mycroft sighed. "It's why I haven't come. I'd turn into him. You know that. I'd try to take his place and I'd turn into him. You don't deserve that."

"I want you."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock's thin fingers closed themselves tightly around Mycroft's wrist. "I want you," he reiterated slowly. "And you could never be him."

TBC