AN: Thanks if you're still reading this! The chapters will get shorter soon, I swear D:
Is it alright to assume that Sherlock and Mycroft are now about 9 and 16 respectively?


The boy's heels tapped on the wooden floor as he strode down the corridor. Mycroft liked hearing the hollow clock-clock of his own footfall; it made him feel important – intimidating, even.

Sherlock said he sounded like girl in high heels.

The jibe resurfaced in Mycroft's thoughts and made him hesitate outside the door. Tempting though it was to turn back the way he'd come – with no one any the wiser – he really needed to deal with this. So he took a deep breath and tried to mask his disgust as he stepped into Sherlock's school sports hall.

He hated sports halls. It was the smell, of course; the stale cocktail of sweat, plastic and sodden clothing slammed into him as ruthlessly as those rugby balls had done during his own PE lessons, not too long ago.

And like most places Mycroft had ever visited, this hall was infused with the sharp tang of wealth. The finest equipment money could buy lined the walls in the form of shiny new basketball hoops and badminton nets. And there, right at the back, bound to an impressive, metal behemoth of a children's climbing frame, was Sherlock.

Disgust was quickly swept aside by a swooping sensation of dread.

Sherlock resembled a kind of improvised, half-finished chrysalis: up to two - no, three - rolls of Sellotape had been used to secure him, from the shoulders down, to the thickest pole of the frame. As a deliciously cruel finishing touch, someone had knotted his scarf neatly around his ankles.

Mycroft almost marvelled at the accomplishment. It must have taken several of the little devils to restrain him like this, although they'd obviously started running out of tape once they'd got to the legs. Sherlock wasn't easy to contain at the best of times, but Mycroft had seen him consume three whole bowls of Frosted Shreddies that morning; to say the boy was an explosive vessel of pure, sugary energy would have been an understatement.

Sherlock's captors were clearly benefiting from their private education.

It was just a shame they hadn't thought to gag him.

"What are you doing here?"

Whether Sherlock's crimson cheeks were due to anger, embarrassment, or the exertion of struggling against his binds, it was difficult to tell. The loathing in his voice, however, was unmistakeable, as his words bounced violently around the walls.

Apart from the two brothers, the hall was deserted. Snatches of the playground noise wafted through the hall entrance, lunch hour rife with the excited shrieks of the free, unburdened children outside. Mycroft continued to stroll casually towards him, only speaking when he had come to a halt some inches away, knowing he was safe from attack.

"Given the circumstances, that question would be more appropriate coming from me, don't you think?"

"I asked first."

Mycroft continued to look down at him and sighed. "Very well." A large brown envelope appeared in his hands. "I was on my way to discuss your school report with your teacher. Mummy was concerned about it."

"Why didn't she come then?"

"She had more important things to do," he replied briskly. "The school knows who I am and were willing to talk to me instead." He frowned, subtle topic change not his strong point. "Now, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," he repeated softly, eyebrows soaring. Muffled footsteps in the corridor outside rose and fell in volume as an oblivious teacher walked straight past. "You weren't calling out for help," he mused. "How long were you planning on waiting here?"

"I can usually sort this myself." The tape rustled and squeaked as Sherlock wriggled determinedly, to no avail. His head slumped in tired exasperation. "How did you know I was even here? Spying on me again?"

"Well, yes, there is that," Mycroft admitted, carefully avoiding the full force of his brother's death glare by scrutinising the ceiling. A football was stuck in the beams of the roof. "And I happened to overhear some of your… friends… discussing you in the playground as I came in." He lowered his eyes. "Bragging, I suppose. But quite convenient for me, really."

Bastards, he thought, before he could stop himself.

He had indeed been receiving reports over the past couple of months about his brother's… misfortunes, but they didn't tell him more than he already knew. There were obvious signs: school tie mysteriously vanishing, books being clumsily dropped into puddles… but when Sherlock's head had accidentally managed to soak itself under the cold taps in the toilets, Mycroft began to worry. A lot.

He'd always believed in letting children deal with these things themselves, toughening up, and besides, which member of the prestigious Holmes family would allow themselves to be victimised in such a way? But this was a step too far. It was ridiculous, it was embarrassing, and above all, it was his bloody brother.

But even such matters as bullying were never simple when it came to Sherlock. According to the books Mycroft had read on the subject, it was normal for a bullied child to keep silent about their difficulties, but Sherlock wasn't exactly shy when it came to grassing on his classmates - in fact, nothing gave him greater pleasure.

Nor did he skip school, or make excuses like a more wimpish Mycroft had done with his PE lessons. Something wasn't right. Either pride was keeping his silence, or he wasn't entirely blameless in the matter.

A strained cough snapped Mycroft out of his thoughts. Sherlock was looking at him wretchedly, words tumbling reluctantly from his mouth. "Are you going to untie me, then, or what?"

"Ah, I thought you'd never ask." Almost lazily, Mycroft slipped a miniature Swiss army knife from his jacket pocket, flicked out a blade and stooped over his brother, eyes flickering over the unrelenting layers of plastic, judging where best to begin.

"So," he said airily, starting to hack away at the tape around Sherlock's wrists, but talking for all the world as though he was holding a polite conversation in the barber's, "how many were there?"

"I dunno. Seven. Eight."

Essentially the whole bloody class then.

"Hmm." Mycroft freed one of the bony hands, and then clamped his own thicker fingers over the wrist.

"OW, what – what're you doing?" As the hand twisted in his grasp, Mycroft squinted at it. Bruising was beginning to appear on the knuckles and flakes of skin – no doubt somebody else's – were visible under the fingernails, confirming his suspicions that his brother appeared to give as good as he got.

On a more pleasing note, there were the beginnings of small calluses forming on the fingertips. At least he was keeping up with the violin practice.

The hand squirmed free and Mycroft looked up. "Do you know why they did this to you?"

Sherlock tossed his head in what he probably thought was an indifferent manner. "Ohh, they just don't like me for some reason…"

"Yes, you're rude, disrespectful and demanding, apparently."

"Yeah, well, they would make up stuff like that –"

"That was what your teacher wrote in your report," said Mycroft shortly.

"Oh."

Mycroft turned his attention to the shoulders, bending closer to make sure he didn't snag the blade on Sherlock's uniform. "I can't say I'm surprised. But for a supposedly intelligent individual, I don't know what possesses you to pick fights when you're hopelessly outnumbered."

"I don't pick fights," Sherlock retorted. "Things just… get out of hand. Like today, all I did was tell someone to give me a pen –"

"You told them. You didn't ask?"

"I don't have to ask at home." Again, that seemingly arrogant toss of the head. "OW! Look, you almost cut me there!"

"Stop wriggling then. What happened after you demanded a pen?"

"They called me names, the usual ones…" he trailed off, reddening again.

Now wrenching at the arms, Mycroft didn't press for details, but kept slicing at the tape as though completely engrossed in his own task. "And then…?"

"And nothin – OWowowow –"

"Ah, sorry… you were saying?"

"And – and so I called them names back and…"

…and that's how you dealt with it. And the other children saw how it wound you up. So they kept calling you names, prodding you, poking you, but subtly of course, because the teacher only notices when you lash out, because you, Sherlock, like a freak, you stand out like a sore thumb, don't you?

And of course there's no one to defend you, no friends to turn to, so you become more isolated, more angry, your actions become more violent, but the other children still love it because you're their plaything, you're fun to watch, and it's all fine anyway, isn't it, because you're badly behaved and even the teachers don't really like you, so it's not really bullying, is it? So they keep pushing your buttons until you hit them, and bite them, and threaten to take them all on, because what have you got to lose?

And they're wondering how far they can push you, and wouldn't it be really funny if…

"…they wrapped me up to this thing." Arms now liberated, Sherlock took the opportunity to enthusiastically cross them. "I always thought it was the fat kids like you that got bullied."

"What I lack in physical elegance, I more than make up for with social graces, dear brother," said Mycroft, with as much dignity as possible, whilst thunking to his knees to better cut away at Sherlock's chest. "I also find that people are of greater use to me as allies than they are tying me up to gym equipment."

"I don't need people."

"You needed me."

Mycroft paused, though Sherlock decided to tug and twist aggressively at the bonds around his legs.

"People are effort. Too much effort. Boring boring boring –"

"And being treated like this is a preferable alternative?" Mycroft took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "You need people to educate you. You need people to give you their pens. And you need people to get you out of… sticky… situations like this."

"So?"

"You need to develop a better method of getting what you want from people. Ordering them around like a spoilt brat does you no favours. It's all about…"

Flattering. Bribing. Intimidating…

"…being a nice person," he finished slowly, the words sounding alien in his mouth.

This was met with an offended stare.

"No, forget I said that. But," Mycroft grimaced as he yanked at the last few strands, "politeness, etiquette and empathy will always be your most valuable weapons."

"Don't be dull, Mycroft. I really can't see the point –"

"This," Mycroft snapped, gesturing to the ribbons of plastic littering the floor, now grey with clothing fibres, "needs to stop. Before I find you beaten to a pulp somewhere."

"And what happens if it doesn't? What are you going to do about it?" Sherlock sneered, pulling a face of mock fear. "Shout at me? Beat me up?"

Good god, this child was incorrigible.

"No." Mycroft fixed his brother with the most malevolent glare he could manage. "I'm going to keep watching you. Spying on you. Monitoring you until this ends. You do the family reputation no good."

He neglected to mention that the thought of someone forcing Sherlock's head down the toilet was keeping him awake at night.

"Oh, leave me alone, Mycroft," the boy whined. "Why do you care?" A shrill whistle could be heard from outside, and the noise of the playground suddenly swelled, signalling the end of lunch.

"I don't." Letting Sherlock fumble with the remaining tape, Mycroft pushed himself up. "But if anything were to happen to you, Mummy would blame me, and you know how terrifying she is when she's angry. And," he said, as an afterthought, "I wouldn't want your blood on my… shoes."

"You mean hands – OW!" A rolled-up envelope had rapped him sharply on the head.

"Time for your lessons," said Mycroft curtly. "Your teacher will be wondering where you are –" not to mention where the Sellotape is "– and my time has been wasted enough for one day."

Like a grumpy, newly hatched chick, his brother took several wobbly, uncertain steps away from the apparatus and stumbled forward. Mycroft caught him impulsively.

"No, Mycroft, I don't need – just geddoff!"

"Forty-five minutes of restricted movement evidently still taking its toll on your muscles, little brother? Not to worry."

It was vaguely entertaining, watching Sherlock's attempts to lash out and fall over at the same time. Eventually he relented, and Mycroft was able to gingerly put an arm around his waist for support. As they shuffled awkwardly towards the entrance, Mycroft wondered if he could tackle the problem from a different angle.

"I suppose it has already occurred to you that you could just ignore the name calling?"

"That's… boring."

"Boring. Right. Of course." But perhaps, Mycroft thought, he'd have a word with those children - he already knew who they were, of course - and just gently inform them that they'd caught his attention. And that he alone owned the rights to persecute his little brother.

By the time they had reached the door, Sherlock was regaining control of his legs and pushing himself away. His eyes lingering curiously on the brown envelope. "My report. Anything good?"

"From what I can remember… disinterested in reading and writing tasks, doesn't bother to learn spellings, disturbing interest in certain aspects of science… and has almost made a conscious effort to forget fundamental facts e.g. the Earth being round, milk coming from cows, don't run with scissors, etc."

"Are you cross about that?"

"Oh yes," said Mycroft, silently thrilled. "Incredibly angry. Forgetting the basics, dear, dear. Total disaster."

"Clears my head."

"And leaves room for the periodic table, I see."

"You saw that?" Sherlock blinked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Etched all over your torso in biro, yes…" Whilst pulling away the tape, Sherlock's shirt had lifted enough for Mycroft to catch a glimpse of the inky, elemental flesh underneath. Most impressively, the table had been sketched, from Sherlock's perspective, upside down.

However, not wishing to inflate his brother's ego any more, Mycroft added some constructive criticism. "You've missed out the noble gases, though."

"Didn't have room. I'm not as wide as you."

Mycroft paused in the doorway.

"Oh dear, you seem to have forgotten your scarf, Sherlock."

"No." Sherlock turned his head to look back. "I haven't. You've got it, haven't –"

In one swift movement, Mycroft had looped the scarf over his little brother's mouth and knotted it tightly into his curly hair.

"Mmph," said Sherlock.

"Much better," smiled Mycroft.