Warning: references to abuse. Mild violence.


Lestrade's case only took twenty-four hours to solve. His post-case crash came right on time, and by the time he returned to Baker Street his brain felt like mush. All he wanted was to lie down and stare at the ceiling for hours, alone.

Which was why his heart fell when he noticed Mycroft was in his sitting room. His brother was sitting in an armchair, umbrella bouncing against the floor.

"Out," Sherlock ordered as soon as he entered the room.

"Good to see you too," his brother muttered.

Mycroft didn't look up, which made Sherlock all the more curious. As he stepped closer he noticed how vacant his brother's eyes looked. It was as though he were a million miles away- or perhaps fifteen years. John was right, Mycroft not only looked tired but mentally exhausted. He suspected he hadn't slept since hearing the news about their father.

"I'm not talking to you," Sherlock declared.

"You are," Mycroft said, "sit." Sherlock continued to stare at him; Mycroft sighed. "Just give me five minutes of your time, Sherlock, and I'll be on my way."

Sherlock let out a drastic sigh and threw himself onto the couch. His eyes trailed to the ceiling, where they remained throughout the conversation.

"I would like to talk to you about the last day we saw Father."

"I'm not talking about this," Sherlock mumbled.

"Then listen!" Mycroft shot. His brother sighed and paused a moment before admitting: "That wasn't the last day that I saw him."

His heart skipped a beat as he took in what Mycroft said, but he refused to let his brother see the effect of his words.

"He came to me two years ago. He was…not in the best state of mind. He told me had been forced to sell his estate. Father was living out of a flat in Manchester."

"Manchester?"

"He found work there," Mycroft explained.

"He was working?" Sherlock laughed. "You mean he didn't try to hire someone to do his job for him?"

Mycroft didn't laugh back.

"He used the last of his wages for a train to London," Mycroft continued. He stopped to draw in a deep breath. "He wanted me to give him a job."

Sherlock was certain he had stopped breathing. He couldn't even begin to picture his father turning into the man Mycroft was talking about. Some of the last memories he had of his father were lectures about how crucial university was to his future. He very clearly laid out what kind of path he should take in life, and no matter how rough the past fifteen years had been, Sherlock always took pride in knowing he didn't follow that path.

"Did you?" Sherlock asked, his voice too hoarse.

"I called a few people," Mycroft admitted. "I'm not proud of it, but I knew it would get him off my back."

"Did you offer him any more money?"

Mycroft didn't answer.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, "Mycroft Holmes. Always there to save the day."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock leapt up from the couch.

"Is that why you're here?" He shot. "To brag about how you saved our father from his own failure? Congratulations, Mye. You saved our whole family, didn't you?"

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous! I never wanted to help him out after all he's done, but he's our father. I couldn't let him end up on the streets!"

Mycroft froze, falling silent immediately. Sherlock swirled around, his eyes fueled with anger.

"I didn't mean it like that," Mycroft whispered. "I only meant-"

"I'm sorry that I made you feel so guilty-"

"Sherlock, stop it!"

"Next time I'm going through a rough patch, I'll work harder to make sure I'm not inconveniencing you."

"You didn't want my help!" Mycroft exclaimed, jumping to his feet. They were only inches away now, their eyes glued to each other in anger. "I still don't know how father ended up the way he did, but-"

"The apple must not fall far from the tree," Sherlock said, his voice low and cold. "Is that what you want to say? That you're sorry he turned into me? Or rather, perhaps I turned into him."

"No. I thought you might be curious about his case...and his will."

"So you assumed I was after his money?" Sherlock said, astounded. "Mycroft, I wouldn't take his money if it was falling at my feet from the sky. I don't want his money. I don't want to go to his funeral. I don't want to stand here, listening to you trying to make me feel sorry for a man who couldn't bother to remember he had second son."

"He wasn't exactly good to me, either."

Sherlock was surprised to hear Mycroft's voice cracked. His brothers' eyes shot to the floor as he ran a hand over his head, as though figuring out how he could take back what he just admitted.

"You never really knew him, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "You could never know how much of a disappointment he was. Do you know how much it killed me, to see him treat you the way he did?"

Sherlock didn't reply for a moment as he wondered if he had the guts to ask his brother what he really wanted to ask; what he had always wanted to ask.

"Did he ever hit you?"

He spoke so quietly he wasn't sure he actually said anything. He knew he did when Mycroft's eyes closed and his face contorted into pain. Sherlock was shocked when his brother raised his hands against his eyes- pushing back tears, he realized.

"The day Mother died, I didn't know how I was going to go on. And I felt so badly for you…you were only twelve. I always felt like you were cheated out of a childhood. It's no wonder the way you ended up."

Mycroft stopped, looking horrified as he realized what he said, but Sherlock only laughed.

"Thanks, Mye," he muttered. He drew in a deep breath as his eyes darted around the room; he realized that he himself was having a heart time keeping his emotions at bay. "Did he ask about me, when he came and saw you?"

When Mycroft remained silent, he knew his answer. Sherlock closed his eyes in an attempt to hide the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew he should feel nothing upon hearing this but somehow, somehow it just fueled his anger even more. Somehow, he felt more hurt than ever.

"Did I do something wrong, Mycroft?" He asked quietly.

He was terrified to hear his own voice break. It was something he had always wondered, when he was younger. Even now, as an adult he struggled with figuring out why his life ended up the way it did. He knew why he made some of his choices, even the bad ones, but he always couldn't help but to wonder if there was a reason he always ended up on the darker side of things. It was like he was cursed to have this life, from so early on.

"If it's any consolation, I always felt Mother loved you more than she did me," Mycroft replied. "It would have broken her heart to know the money she saved for your university was being used to pay for rehab."

He felt as though something cold and metal were trapped in his heart. His throat felt dry, as though drops of sand lined the back of his mouth.

"I'm sure she would have been so proud of you," Sherlock shot. "How was I ever supposed to compare to the great Mycroft Holmes? You always had to outshine me. The spotlight was never enough for you."

Sherlock wasn't sure where this was coming from, but once he started he found it hard to stop. Of course Mycroft would drag their mother into this. Their mother- the one person in his family Sherlock never felt ashamed to be connected to. Some days as a teenager he was almost grateful she wasn't there to see the kind of family they turned into- and he was most certainly relieved she would never know how he turned out. This was something he struggled with more than Mycroft would ever know.

"Did I ruin everything for you, then?" He said. "I suppose it would have been so much better if you were an only child. Isn't that what you always dreamed of?"

"You're being completely irrational-"

"Mummy would have been so proud of you, Mycroft, knowing who you are now," he shot, his eyes so cold it was though they might break into pieces of ice. "If you're so sorry about Father, why didn't you do anything about it then? You didn't seem so sorry when you left for university and waltzed down the path to success. You didn't seem so sorry when you were buying your first home when you were just twenty-three or when you hardly came home except for Christmas. You waited far too late to save me, Mycroft, so forgive me if I hesitate to break out into tears over your kindness."

"Sherlock-"

Mycroft held up his hand, as though he were a teacher telling him off for speaking out of turn.

"Don't you dare stand here and talk about how sorry you are," Sherlock finished,

Despite his warning, Sherlock was aware his eyes were glistening with tears. His entire body was shaking. Mycroft gazed at him, looking so much like his father, so much like he just pitied him, that when he opened his mouth to speak Sherlock's fist went flying through the air.

He stopped as soon as his hand scraped Mycroft's jaw. His breathing was harsh and shallow. His hand hung in mid-air, waiting to be told what to do next. Suddenly his outburst seemed too surreal. He knew he didn't truly mean half of what he just said, but it was like he knew no other way to express what he was feeling.

Not that he had any idea what it was he was feeling.

Mycroft's hand moved forward, and for a split moment Sherlock thought his brother might hit him back. On instinct he grabbed Mycroft's fist, forcing him back until he shoved him to the ground. He collapsed on top his brother, too weak from the frustration and anger rushing through him to stand on his own feet.

"Going to hit me again?" Mycroft spat. "Does that solve your problems?"

Sherlock told himself not to, but he again found his fist shooting forward, this time knocking against his brother's eye. Mycroft only smirked, and when Sherlock tried to hit him again he grabbed his hand. Sherlock found himself being forced to roll underneath him, and as soon as Mycroft was on top of him he threw his hands over his face, blocking the hit that never came.

"Hey!" Sherlock was shocked to hear John's voice cry out. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

He pried an eye open as he felt Mycroft being pulled away from him. His brother straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, hiding all traces of the fight- save for the bloodied lip and blackening eye. Sherlock simply glared at him, too ashamed to admit that when Mycroft was on top of him he suddenly felt sixteen again. He felt afraid.

"For god's sake you two are adults!" John exclaimed. His eyes landed on Sherlock, and he swallowed nervously, hoping his flatmate couldn't see through him and tell what was really going through his mind. "Or at least I thought one of you was."

"Just a little sibling rivalry," Mycroft replied.

Mycroft had that all-knowing look in his eye, and Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized his brother must have sensed his fear. He was relieved when Mycroft didn't say anything about it.

"Thursday morning, Sherlock," Mycroft said, without taking his eyes off him. A shiver went down his spine just at the thought of what Mycroft was talking about. "Be there. You'll never hear the end of it if you aren't."

Sherlock let out a few deep breaths, contemplating what to do. He couldn't stay here, with John asking him even more questions. He couldn't find an explanation for anything he just did, which was almost as confusing as the emotions running through him. He felt out of control.

So he did the only thing he knew to do.

He ignored his brother's angry glares, ignored hearing John mumble:

"And you wanted me to keep an eye on him."

He fled from the flat. Once he was outside he ran, and he kept running for miles, until he stumbled across the only thing he knew would help.