Chapter Three

Mycroft arrived exactly 19 minutes and 14 seconds after John texted him. Fast - even for Mycroft.

There was a light tap on the door and John got up to open it as Sherlock, who was clearly exhausted, had fallen asleep. He slowly opened it to see Mycroft's austere expression on the other side. They held each other's gaze for a moment before Mycroft's eyes found their way over John's shoulder to his brother's fragile form.

"Sherlock." He whispered to himself, his face suddenly anhuished and grief stricken. John laid a hand on his shoulder lightly but as soon as he made contact Mycroft pushed passed him and moved to his brother's bedside.

Slowly he reached his hand out to tentatively cup Sherlock's face, who awoke immediately and let out a small fearful whimper. It was not the first time John had heard Sherlock make that noise today, but it still stung him. He knew he ought to leave and give them some space, but he just wanted to make sure Sherlock was ok before he did.

"It's ok. It's me, Sherlock." Mycroft spoke more tenderly than John ever would have thought him capable.

Sherlock's expression crumpled again and he hid his face in his hands in a bid to hide the impending sobbing from his elder brother. But it didn't work.

Mycroft sat down on the bed facing Sherlock and firmly gripped both his wrists, pulling his towards him and enveloping him in a fierce hug. Sherlock was crying loudly and uncontrollably once more, gripping Mycroft's lapels, Mycroft was rocking him gently and murmuring soothing words, he could clearly handle this situation. John knew he ought to give them some time, and so left silently, closing the door behind him. But before he left he heard something that perplexed him.

"You said… you said it would never… happen… again." Sherlock cried between sobs.

"I know. I'm sorry." Mycroft replied.

John's head was fuzzy, he was having a hard time processing all this, as he closed the door he suddenly felt the urgent need to sit down.

"John." Lestrade was once again on his feet, standing in front of John, only this time he had questions.

"Will you please tell me what's going on? I've been going crazy out here."

John wanted to punch him in the face, but decided it might be best to save that for the next time he saw Anderson.

"Can we sit down?" John asked, leaning heavily against the wall.

They sat in the faux leather chairs in the corridor, Lestrade gripping his coffee – John his much needed tea, and he told him everything he knew. Lestrade's face grew more and more grave as John went through the list of injuries. Eventually, John had no useful information left, unless you would count the fact that he was going to personally find and kill Moriarty as useful.

"He'll have to give a statement." Lestrade said solemnly.

John nodded. "When?"

"As soon as possible… but it can probably wait till tomorrow. Are they going to keep him in overnight?"

"I would presume so, I would, if it was my call."

"Ok." Lestrade stood up and John followed. "I really need to get back to the Yard, and everything seems to be under control here, though I will be sending an officer over for security purposes." He sighed. "Thank God you're here John," Patting him on the shoulder "if you need anything you know where to get me. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

John just nodded again as Lestrade turned and left.

He fell back into the chair he had been sitting in and rested his head in his hands. He closed his eyes but all he could see was the word viciously carved into Sherlock's chest and so he snapped them back open again, choosing instead to watch the clock, which ticked painfully slowly from 3:17pm to 5:05pm, at which point Mycroft exited Sherlock's room and collapsed into the chair next to John.

"He's asleep." Is all he could seem to say.

John found himself unable to say anything, but instead placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder once again, this time Mycroft allowed it to stay there.

"This… it's not..." he stuttered after a while "…it's not the first time that this has happened… to him." his voice was deep and shaken, and it was clear that he had been crying.

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft sat back in his chair and stared at the door to Sherlock's room for a while, ponderous, mouth opening and closing.

"Our parents were socialites, Mummy was an heiress and our Father was an Earl. They had a very, hectic social life, shall we say. There was rarely a weekend when a party was not being thrown in the old place. Mummy's friends were all darlings and were fond of Sherlock and I, especially Sherlock, you'll be surprised to hear that he was actually a very sensitive, vibrant child – he was impossible not to love." Mycroft seemed almost unaware of John's presence as he spoke. His eyes glazed, his head still facing Sherlock's door.

"A lot of Father's friends were much less pleasant, and even less pleasant still when they got violently drunk – which they would, every time they visited. It always upset Mummy if Sherlock or I were to witness Father and his friends behaving that way, they would fight constantly about it." He suddenly became aware of John again and turned to glance at him.

"I suppose all this is irrelevant really." He sighed heavily. "There was a particularly big party one weekend, I was nineteen at the time, and Sherlock thirteen. I was visiting from Cambridge but I wasn't getting there till late Saturday night, by the time I got there the party was in full swing – literally in some rooms. I decided I wanted nothing to do with another one of those ghastly ordeals, and I certainly didn't want to conduct a conversation with either of my inebriated parents – the only reason I was there anyway was because I had promised Lockie a visit." It took John a moment to realise that by 'Lockie' he meant Sherlock. The idea that Sherlock had a nickname (other than 'freak') was totally unfathomable.

"So I went to his room but he wasn't there, I ended up searching the entire house before I eventually found him in the summerhouse…" Mycroft bowed his head, his eyes closed. "He was lying unconscious, naked and covered in blood. It later transpired that he had been assaulted… raped… by three of my bastard Father's friends." John would have been shocked to hear Mycroft swear were it not for the information he had just imparted. Sherlock had been raped at the age of thirteen. It was just so awful. John's head was spinning and he had to lean forward in a bid not to faint. He was breathing heavily, aware that he ought to say something to Mycroft but found himself unable.

"That's why…" Mycroft began, his voice much more shaken than earlier "…that's why he is the way he is. I think it was all just too much for him. He couldn't handle it, and so his brain shut down any emotion, any remorse and left only reason – a brilliant but broken man. I tried to get though to him for years, but he always pushed me away – I think in part he blamed me for what happened… and he would be right to, I should have got there earlier – I should have been there to protect him." A tear slid down his face.

"It's not your fault Mycroft. It's not." John's own voice was hoarse and distant.

"I had to carry him from the summerhouse to my car and drive him to hospital. He screamed and cried the whole way through the examinations and medical procedures. I couldn't bear it." Tears were now flowing freely down his face. "I promised him that nobody would ever hurt him again, that I would always be there to protect him… I was wrong."

"You couldn't have stopped this. You can't blame yourself." John tried to sound more forceful, more reassuring, but found that he still just sounded lost.

Mycroft took a moment to get his composure back and then turned to face John.

"I need to get to work." He looked at John intently. "Will you stay?"

"Of course." John answered immediately. Mycroft smiled weakly and walked past him down the hallway towards the exit.

"Mycroft…"

John called after him, Mycroft turned momentarily to look at him.

"Find him and kill him… before I do."