A/N: Yuuuuuuup, it's weekend so it's updating time! (rubs hands together) BUT, before letting the story of our brothers continue…

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for that amazing flood of reviews, listings and love! My gosh. It just blows my mind how many friends this story has gained! I PROMISE to do my best to ensure that you'll be just as pleased with what's to come.

Awkay, because I know what you came here for… Let's go! I truly hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

Three Soldiers

/ Sherlock's very first day of school wasn't a good one. After catching his still lingering foreign accent the other children mocked him. He bit back with venomous words that got him into even more trouble.

By the time he made it home he was dangerously close to tears. Ignoring the calls of his so called parents he rushed into his room and slammed the door, then hid himself to his bed under a blanket. Maybe if he'd just stay there long enough they wouldn't bother harassing him about going to school anymore.

Sherlock didn't have any idea how long he spent there. Or that eventually the tears did break free, rolling silently down his cheek. He was just about to doze off when the room's door opened and familiar steps entered. The alluring scent of a sure to be delicious chicken dish met his nose, almost breaking his resolve to remain unseen.

"You can't just hide here forever, Sherlock", Mycroft pointed out. "I know that it isn't easy. But the world is going to find you eventually."

Sherlock unleashed a sob, despite himself. "They're still mean, Mycroft. It was supposed to be different here."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "Most people are idiots. It's a cross we have to bear." There was a brief pause, during which the older boy sat to his bedside. "Now come out of hiding. Surely starving yourself isn't the answer."

Sherlock frowned. Worry twisted in his stomach although he was a little too young to understand exactly why. "You haven't eaten, either", he pointed out.

"Irrelavant. Now eat. Mommy made your favorite." They'd started calling Mrs. Holmes mommy whenever she might hear because it seemed to be something she liked. And they wanted to make her happy to ensure that she wouldn't send them away, too. It was starting to feel disturbingly natural to call her that.

Slowly, with a bit of reluctance, Sherlock obeyed. He crawled out from underneath the bedcovers and sat as close to his brother as possible, then began to eat although he wasn't really hungry. Somewhere along the way his wiped at his cheek, surprised to find it moist. "Do you think she still misses us?" It didn't have to be elaborated who he meant.

Mycroft tensed up instantly. Like he always did when she was brought up. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm pretty sure that she does."

Sherlock looked at his brother who seemed a little pale all of a sudden. He frowned. Usually he was pretty good at reading people but the older Reid had always been a mystery to him. "Do you miss her?"

Mycroft swallowed loudly and wouldn't look at him. "Stop stalling and focus on eating. And if you try to skip the broccoli again I'll tell mommy."

Sherlock made a face but obeyed. /

There was a massive, firmly bolted room in Sherlock's Mind Palace. He must've locked it up years ago but he'd deleted the reason. Obviously. Against his natural curiosity he'd even tried to avoid imagining what that room might conceal.

But he hadn't had the heart to delete the name Diana Reid because he couldn't let himself forget who he really was and where he came from. Even if both she and Mycroft stopped fighting to bring their family together he refused to let go completely. So he kept that name, storaged it amongst the greatest treasures of his Mind Palace, and kept it as his own secret. Kept it where no one would be able to take it away from him, even if people with kind, deceiving smiles and sad eyes had robbed away his parents and home.

And now, for the first time since his early childhood, her name was brought up.

John refused to publish Sherlock's phone number on his very much public blog. But as it turned out such wasn't even necessary. Because thirty tedious, pacing filled minutes after the doctor posted Sherlock's demand to contact the detective the dial tone of a cell phone could be heard. Sure enough, it was an unfamiliar number.

Blatantly ignoring John's worried questions as mere annoying white noise Sherlock picked up. If his hand wasn't exactly steady he refused to acknowledge it. "Hello?"

"Is… this Sherlock Holmes?" At Sherlock's grunt Spencer somehow seemed to gather that it was time to continue. Perhaps this one wasn't completely hopeless. "A friend of mine searched your number for me." The caller cleared his throat. "I… found some letters and cards that had your name, so… I decided to contact you. Because you deserve to know."

During that relatively short speech Sherlock let his mind tick on, willed himself to gather everything possible. This Spencer Reid sounded fairly young. And he was definitely from the United States. As well as very, very nervous. Clearly this wasn't a pleasant phone call, even without the threat of British government.

"Know what?" Sherlock bit out. He was growing severely irritated. Irritated, because he didn't do anxious. "How do you know Diana Reid?" And how had this person been able trace her to him, even with the supposed letters and cards? He'd imagined that especially since the threat of James Moriarty Mycroft had been careful to erase absolutely all leads that might connect them to their birth mother.

There was a very long pause. When Spencer spoke again the man's voice broke. "My full name… It's Spencer Sherrinford Erik Reid. Diana… She's… was my mom. Or, uh, I guess our mother." Was that a sob? Sherlock couldn't really tell with how ice cold water seemed to be filling his entire body, baiting his breath. "She, um… She passed away a few days ago."

If John was fully honest with himself he had absolutely no bloody clue what was going on. At first this stranger, Spencer, appeared, mentioning some Diana's name. Then Sherlock was pacing around like a caged wild beast, muttering incoherently under his breath. Did the detective know that he was doing that? John's questions, which eventually escalated to shouts, didn't seem to be getting through. After about fifteen minutes the younger man marched into his room and slammed the door, leaving John beyond confused.

John didn't know how long passed. It felt like a small eternity, really. During the torturous wait he sent Mary a text, announcing that his little visit might take quite a bit longer than he'd originally intended.

'Need a hand?'' was her immediate response.

John couldn't resist the tiny smile that appeared to his lips. 'No. But something's telling me that I'll be needing a stiff drink when this is all over.'

John's dark deductions were proven correct when Sherlock finally showed himself. A frown made it to his face when he watched the detective storming past. That expression… It was nothing short of torn. The last time he saw it was with Magnussen. An occasion he preferred not remembering. "Sherlock?" he tried although he knew that he was wasting his breath. "What's wrong?"

The slam of a door answered him.

It didn't take long before John's phone rang. He wasn't exactly surprised to discover that it was Mycroft. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose before picking up. "If you're looking for Sherlock…"

"I'm perfectly capable of tracking my own brother, thank you." Did the older Holmes actually sound offended? "I'm under the assumption that my brother… received some news. And I'm going to ask you to do something for him."

John's eyebrow arched with suspicion. A shiver of well justified dread went through him. Why did he have a feeling that he wasn't going to like this? "And what would that be?" he inquired with patience that he didn't really feel.

"Prepare yourself for a visit to the United States."

It took Mycroft less than half an hour to find Sherlock. There were five or, if he widened his criteria, seven places where to look. A curiously low number, really. It was almost like Sherlock wanted to be found.

In the end they stood side by side on the rooftop of Bart's. Their eyes were atypically dark and thoughtful while they stared down at the world that was rushing on so quickly that it was tripping on its own feet. Both trying not to think and ending up processing too much.

They pulled out and lit cigarettes almost simultaneously. It was the same brand their birth mother used to prefer. Well, they say that scent memory is the strongest.

"John wasn't very impressed with your dramatic exit", Mycroft pointed out at last. He took a deep drag and held it in although the urge to cough was almost overwhelming. "I'd imagine that he wouldn't be any happier if he knew that you came here." His nose wrinkled while he tapped off some ash, letting the wind carry it away. "Sentiment."

"She's dead."

It came out so unexpectedly, so sharply, that for a few moments they both froze. As though actually realizing those words to be true for the first time. The wind biting them seemed to turn colder.

Mycroft lifted his gaze towards the sky, focusing on the heavy clouds. It would rain soon. "Yes", he murmured. He realized, with a degree of surprise, that it made him feel sadder than it should've. She hadn't been a part of his life since he was a boy. What was the point in feeling a thing? Instead of the infuriating gnawing deep inside he chose to focus on his brother. "And how, exactly, did you find out?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed in a nearly hazardous manner. The following words were spat out like the most bitter poison. "Our brother contacted me. His name is Spencer Reid."

It was shocking, really, that those words managed to surprise Mycroft. Yes, they'd known that their real mother gave birth to a third son. A… friend owed Mycroft a favor, allowing him to see some information that he should've had no business scrolling through. But until now they'd imagined that the said brother had also grown up away from her. The familiar surname, however, proved that theory false.

Mycroft gritted his teeth, then coughed. In full reality he wasn't sure what to do. "We'll need to have that information confirmed", he pointed out. There was no point in trusting some hypothetical brother who came out of nowhere right after her death. No theories were to be made without all the facts.

"It is confirmed", Sherlock all but hissed. Eyeing on his rapidly draining cigarette like it'd been his mortal enemy. The younger man then threw it to the street below, watching with apparent satisfaction how it spiraled down to its doom. The sight made Mycroft's stomach turn a little.

Mycroft's eyebrow arched. He dumped his own cigaratte in a far less dramatic manner, content to crush it with his shoe. "I suppose that there's no point in asking how you can be so sure", he mused out loud. Somehow he managed to keep his tone detached. Years of good practice.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear. Was the man shaking, just a little? His younger brother's jawline was so tight that it had to hurt. "She fought for him, Mycroft." That was the whole problem of it, wasn't it?

Mycroft looked at his brother. Really looked. And once more he saw the little boy that he could still distinctly remember. The one who cried and shouted for his mother. The one who couldn't understand why he'd been abandoned in such a way. Back then he fought so very hard to protect Sherlock's innocence. Yet somehow it all came to this.

Sherlock was the only one who never gave up, not really, and this was what it cost him.

Mycroft sighed. His shoulders slumped with a bizarre sense of defeat and weakness. "Diana Reid was a very sick woman. Her decisions… She had very little control over them." Subconsciously his hand went to a scar that'd mar his leg for the rest of his life.

Sherlock snorted. Like the man had just heard a particularly bad joke. "So now you're the one defending her?"

Mycroft sighed solely because groaning would've been beneath him. "Please, Sherlock. One musn't speak ill of the dead. Mommy taught us better than that."
Sherlock's eyes were sharper than any blade in the world as they clashed with his. Full of desperate fury that should've belonged to a injured wild animal. "Which one?" the detective spat out.

Mycroft looked up once more just as the rain finally began to fall. Moisture filled his eyes. "Both", he stated in a voice that didn't sound like his. He then took a deep breath. Detached himself. Hardened his heart. He had things to do, a brother to protect. He began to leave, his umbrella's aggressive swing being the only sing of the turmoil inside. "Now, I have to catch a flight to Las Vegas."

He felt Sherlock's eyes on him even without looking. "You're going to her funeral." It wasn't a question. Perhaps rather an accusation.

"Yes", Mycroft affirmed, not letting his brother's tone wound him. "Of course I am. And perhaps you should come as well."

Sherlock snorted. "Why would I want to do that? I don't even know her."

Those words stung far worse and deeper than Mycroft could fully process. His jaw clenched. "Well, isn't that just another reason to attend? Besides, we have the case of a potential brother to solve." He knew Sherlock well enough to deduce that his words were already enough of a bait. But he decided not to chance anything. "It might also answer the question that's been haunting you almost all your life."

There was a brief pause. The tension in the air could've been sliced by a knife. "Well, since you seem to imagine that you know me better than I know myself, do humor me. What would that question be?"

"'Why'." And he knew that Sherlock wouldn't refuse. "The jet takes off in six hours and eighteen minutes. John will be there waiting." Well, just in case all else failed having John involved would certainly do the trick.

Spencer, who'd been staring at his cell phone ever since Sherlock hung up on him, eventually took a very deep, uneven breath and buried his face into his hands. His breaths were loud and laboured but at very least he wasn't sobbing.

He didn't dare to start because if he did…

There was a soft knock that barely managed to drag him out of those thoughts. "Spencer?" Jennifer Jareau blinked twice at the sight she discovered upon entering, then sighed. "Oh…"

Spencer knew that the room looked like a bomb had gone off there. Unsent letters and cards… They were everywhere.

Spencer focused on the pieces of paper because he couldn't face his friend's sympathy. Not when he was barely holding it together. "Until now… I always imagined that Charles and William…" He cleared his throat when his voice threatened to break. "I thought that they were… all inside mom's head. A part of her illness." He wiped at his eyes roughly. "All those years she… She kept trying to tell me but… I always thought…"

All her longing… All her pain… He'd had no idea. He'd never paused, for even a second, to consider that perhaps his brothers weren't a trick of her head.

"Stop that, right now." JJ's hand was gentle but firm when she laid it to his shoulder. "There was no way you could've known."

"What if I did? On some level." Painful memories flashed through Spencer's head. Each of them stinging hellishly. "Sometimes… Sometimes she looked at me and her eyes… It was like she wasn't really seeing me. And… She called me Will, a few times." He swallowed hard. "I thought that she was hallucinating. Or missing dad." Were her missing sons all she saw when looking at him? Did she ever wish that…?

His train of thought, however, derailed spectacularly when all of a sudden a pair of arms wrapped around him. Folding him into a firm and tender hug. He emitted a small, slightly moist squeak of surprise, his arms flailing for a couple of seconds until he slowly melted into the embrace. His eyes stung and he had to grit his teeth together to keep tears from overflowing.

"You were thinking too much", JJ answered his unvoiced question. "And it looked like you needed a good hug. So let me."

Spencer couldn't bring himself to say 'no'. Didn't even really want to. So he rested his forehead against her shoulder, trying to salvage some dignity with hiding his face, and let her hold soothe down some of the ache. Even if only momentarily.

The moment lasted until Spencer's cell phone announced a new text message. He cleared his throat and blinked rapidly several times before feeling composed enough to read it. The words he found made his head spin a little.

'I believe that a family reunion is in oder.

Mycroft Holmes'

TBC

A/N: Oh dear, we're close to THE meeting, now. We'll see how that goes… (grins) But seriously, those poor brothers! They've had it REALLY rough and they still are. Let's hope there'll be some sunshine and comfort soon.

Soooo… Any good, at all? Deletion material? The vote is yours! There's a box down below, waiting to hear your opinion… (Oh, c'mon, I'm NOT hinting anything!)

Until next time, folks! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!

who-wants-to-know: You're very welcome, too! The pleasure's definitely all mine.

How will they react indeed?! John, the brothers' adoptive parents, Spencer's team… And how will the meeting go? Because there's bound to be some rumble when these three slightly messed up souls meet one another…

I'm THRILLED to hear that you enjoyed the chapter! Guess what? I was already planning on making those flashbacks a regular thing. So, I'm very glad that you seem to enjoy them! What can I say? I'm a sucker for typing those two as kids.

The brothers are so adorable, pretending that they don't care although they obviously do, deeply. (smiles fondly) I just couldn't resist including that line.

Colossal thank yous for the review!