A/N: Hey, hey thanks for your reviews!


Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC and the Godtiss.


Mycroft was fourteen when he found out. He remembers that day clearly, down to the smallest details. He remembers that, as he returned to the house, he was slightly red-faced from having just kissed Greg for the first time. He hadn't expected it; he seldom does when Greg's concerned. The other boy had run back shortly after bidding Mycroft goodbye and quickly kissed him before running back to his parents' car.

It was Sherlock he saw first when he entered. Body tense, head down, shoulders squared as he walked past Mycroft. They were all wrong and Mycroft was immediately brought down from his high. He pushed all thoughts of Greg aside and grabbed Sherlock's arm, forcing him to turn around.

"What's wrong—oh, Sherlock."

There was blood running down his brother's nose and chin and there was a dark bruise directly below his left eye. His hair had been cut roughly by a pair of scissors. Sharp, Mycroft noted when he saw the deep cut on the top of Sherlock's right ear. But it wasn't what worried Mycroft. It was Sherlock's eyes. The usual gleam of eagerness in them had faded and Sherlock looked lost and confused and for the first time, quite his age.

It explained things: Sherlock's determination not to go to school, that stiff smile he put on when he went through the gates, the lashing out when Greg jokingly tried to push him in the pond, that look of fear when Mummy told him he'd been invited to a classmate's birthday party. Mycroft pushed the sleeves of his coat up to his elbows and saw the bruises, some old, some new.

Stupid. He should have noticed.

"I ran," Sherlock said, his voice off. It explained why he was home earlier than expected.

"I'll tell Father." It really was bad; Sherlock didn't even bother to stop him. Mycroft touched his head. Mummy was better at these things but she was at their aunt's place. Still, Mycroft thought that this wasn't something he should bother dealing with alone. "Go to your room."

Father was in his office, talking to someone on the phone. Mycroft had no idea why but instead of knocking immediately, he pressed his ear against the door. He could hear Father was laughing and saying things. Father was telling someone he loved them and Mycroft backed away from the door, heart pounding, his hand still raised. Slowly, he dropped his arm to his side then walked away.

Sherlock was seated on his bed when Mycroft entered his room, sniffing and rubbing his eyes with a blood-caked fist. "Stop that," Mycroft ordered and for once, Sherlock actually listened to him.

"Okay." Sherlock drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He looked so achingly small that Mycroft had to avert his eyes. He could feel a lump in his throat and he swallowed thickly. He hadn't cried in years and he certainly wouldn't do so in front of Sherlock.

"They don't like me. They say I'm weird and everyone hates me." Sherlock's voice was hollow and Mycroft remembered himself at this age, struggling to fit in, learning that the best way to cope with it was to look like he wasn't better than the others. But Sherlock wasn't Mycroft. Even then, he knew that Sherlock would never learn to stay under the radar. He was too proud, too smart for his own good.

"Is Father not coming to talk to me?"

He'd tensed once more, his expression guarded, but Mycroft could see the anxiety threatening to show. So Mycroft did something he would later find was something he often did when Sherlock was concerned.

He lied.

"Father stepped out. I'm sorry."

"Oh." Sherlock frowned but Mycroft could see the tension disappear from his small body. "He'll be mad. He always says I'm too weak."

You're not. You don't pretend to be someone you're not.

"You shouldn't care what they say." Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft averted his eyes. "Caring's not an advantage."


Mycroft is eighteen when Sherlock finds out, not only about the other woman, but also about something Mycroft hadn't even dared think of. Sherlock was, and is, his top priority, and between him and his relationship with Greg, Mycroft hasn't thought much about their father's affair. But when Sherlock brings him the photograph, looking far too pleased with himself, Mycroft finds that he can't think of anything else.

He sets the picture down and looks at Sherlock for signs of distress. But his brother has that smug smile on his face, the one he wears when he's discovered something to his advantage. It clicks before Sherlock even says it.

"No."

"But, Mycroft," Sherlock whines and Mycroft immediately grits his teeth. "It's perfect!"

"You're not blackmailing Father just so he'll allow you to go to boarding school." Mycroft pulls a drawer open and drops the picture on top of his old research papers. He doesn't bother locking it. Sherlock can pick locks faster than paid burglars.

It isn't the end of the argument. Sherlock is now standing in a way that makes him seem taller. Too small, too thin, Mycroft notices with a wince. His brother looks as if a gust of wind can blow him away. It's no wonder people often stare at him when they pass by, then glare at Mycroft accusingly.

I try. He's just too stubborn.

"But it's not allowed," Sherlock argues. "It's the law—I know it, Mycroft, I read about it last night. You're not allowed to have children outside of a bond."

"The picture was taken thirteen years ago. Mummy and Father wouldn't have been married at the time. He's a child out of wedlock."

Sherlock snorts. "Mummy and Father had a pre-bond, which, weak as it may be is still a bond so Father broke the law." He grins, hands raised, and slumps back in his chair. "It's brilliant! It's like Christmas come early!"

Mycroft can see through it easily. Beneath the glee is a burning desire for revenge. Sherlock and Father have never liked each other and bonding Sherlock to John made matters much worse. They've always had Alphas in the family until Sherlock. Father thinks he's too weak while Sherlock will do anything to rile Father up. Mycroft knows it's one of the reasons why Sherlock dislikes him. It's always him who gets praised, him who gets Father's attention. Sometimes Mycroft wants to turn Father around and make him face Sherlock and say I'm not the only genius in the family!

But Father never listens. It's ironic that in spite of their hatred for each other, they're equally stubborn.

Mycroft shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but no."

"You just don't want me to be happy!"

"Stop being so dramatic!" Mycroft counts to ten before he continues. "Think about what will happen if you tell Father you know his secret."

"Mummy knows about it. I heard him say. And he knows you know. What difference will it make if he knows that I know, too?"

Nothing. It's been going on for too long and Mycroft knows that, even though their father has never been someone you'd call affectionate, he's still capable of loving someone. And clearly he loves this woman and this brother of Mycroft and Sherlock, even more than he does them. And if Mummy and Father were to have their bond severed, nothing much will change, only now Sherlock will have more freedom in the house. But it's the idea, the fact that Sherlock doesn't seem the least perturbed by it, that bothers Mycroft. It's not healthy and Mycroft has to admit that it makes him a little afraid. Not for him, but for Sherlock. He's never been normal but this is far from being a little strange.

"Aren't you upset?"

"No."

Mycroft has to admit that he's annoyed as well. How can Sherlock brush it off so easily when it bothered Mycroft for days until he realized that it was normal? Not socially accepted, of course, but his father's not the first person to have an affair out of his bond.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Why would I be?"

That's it.

"Out," Mycroft hisses. Sherlock looks at him and Mycroft sighs. "Go get dressed already and see if John's ready as well. You can't be late to your own recital."

Sherlock huffs but obliges. "I hate you," he mutters at the threshold before he slams the door shut with enough force that the mirror beside it actually tilts. He doesn't mean it. Mycroft knows it. In his own twisted way, Sherlock loves him. He doesn't like him but he loves him in a you're-my-brother-and-you're-smart-enough-to-under stand-me way.

Mycroft smells the earthy scent he's come to identify as Greg's before he even has time to knock on the door. "Come in," he says and the door swings open.

Mycroft blinks.

"What did you do with your hair?"

Greg shrugs but there's a guilty look on his face. "It was my friend Chuck." Mycroft settles back in his mind and conjures up an image of this Chuck. Oh yes, Beta, tall, skinny, shaved head, tattoo of piano keys twisted around his arm, Scottish accent but really an Irish man. Sings—Greg's back up and lead guitar. "He insisted, you know? Does it look that bad?"

In a charcoal suit and dove grey tie, yes, it looks horrid. Greg's hair which is usually gelled in small spikes now lays flat on his head but it doesn't look any better because it's no longer the dark brown colour Mycroft is so used to seeing. No, now, it's a bright blue, the kind that makes your eyes hurt if you stare too long.

Mycroft's eye begins to twitch.

"It's bright now but Chuck says it will get darker overtime." He laughs nervously. "I mean, I know, blue hair and a suit and tie? Horrendous. But in my usual get up—it fits."

Mycroft frowns and looks away. It's not his place. Greg can do whatever he wants. He shouldn't say anything. He shouldn't…

"It's horrid, Greg. Why would you allow someone to do that? You'll ruin your hair if you keep doing things like this."

Ah. Mycroft clamps his mouth shut as soon as he sees Greg's face darken. "It's my bloody hair, Mycroft, and it's my decision," Greg mutters to him and Mycroft thinks, dear god, not today. They've had this argument countless of times (the cigarettes, the motorbike, Greg's taste in music, Greg's friends, his band, the leather jacket—alright, scratch that last one) already and now is not the time. His brother just told him he'd like to blackmail Father a while ago and Mycroft just found out that Sherlock's not his only sibling and that he's not the eldest in the family.

"I apologize." Mycroft feels about forty again. Sherlock, damn him.

"Sherlock getting to you then?" Greg grins when Mycroft looks at him sharply. "The brat nearly knocked me down the stairs when he passed me by. So what's it this time? No experimenting on the neighbour's pet? No stealing things from the pharmacy?"

"Father."

"Ah."

Greg doesn't say anything but his brow is furrowed. He understands how Sherlock feels about their Father better than Mycroft. "That sexist thing again?" he says with a smile but there's no humour in it.

It's not that exactly. But Mycroft nods anyway. No one should know other than him and Sherlock, and if Sherlock is to be believed, Mummy. And they shouldn't know anything other than the main thing. Mycroft can already feel his curiosity and he knows that it's practically burning Sherlock inside to know more about this brother of theirs. They're intelligent, him and Sherlock, and Mycroft knows that Sherlock will want to see if this brother of theirs is smarter than either of them. He'll want a challenge, someone to test his boundaries, someone to play mind games with him.

In other words, someone else who understands.

Greg doesn't push it. He just smiles at Mycroft, that small smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and reminds Mycroft of the first time Greg kissed him, blushing furiously as he darted up to press his mouth against Mycroft's before running off and—to Mycroft's amusement—actually skipping halfway.

Greg leans forward and Mycroft is kissing him again. It's too quick, just like their first kiss, and Mycroft sighs because he both loves and hates that memory.


John smells of coffee and toast and jam and omelettes. Sherlock presses his nose inside John's palm and takes a deep sniff. He gets dirt, soap, and the mouldy pages of one of the books in the library. John's natural scent is grass, freshly mown, and when Sherlock closes his eyes and truly pays attention, he can smell himself as well, that strange sweet scent John says reminds him of honey. It's gotten stronger, the smell of grass, and Sherlock thinks that his will too when he's older. He drops John's hands and steps back. John looks at him, bemused.

"You really have no concept of personal space, don't you?" He clenches his hands then relaxes them. "What was that about?"

"Experiment. Your scent's changed."

"Puberty," John explains and Sherlock grimaces in the way children do whenever sex is mentioned. Sherlock's not bothered by it. He knows about sex, knows how it works, and knows all too well that he's expected to have sex with John when he's much older (much too horrid, failure to delete). It's just that word. Puberty. Atrocious, really. Sherlock remembers the speakers in health class. When you're older your body will go through changes, your scent will become stronger, Omegas will have heats, Alphas become more dominant, etc.

Should he find John alluring? To Sherlock, John is still the same old boring John. Snub nose, thick blond hair, dark blue eyes. Will his perception of John change when he gets older? Should Sherlock find him attractive?

Sherlock narrows his eyes and looks at John properly. John's not handsome but he's also far from ugly. He's small for an Alpha but Sherlock notes the broadness of his shoulders, the strength hidden beneath the muscles of his back. They ripple when John stretches his arms over his head and yawns, then curses when his suit stops him halfway. "Fucking clothes," he mutters before he quickly clamps his mouth shut then shakes his head at Sherlock. "Pretend I didn't say that."

"Fucking," Sherlock repeats, smiling beatifically as John glares at him. He holds out his arm. John grumbles but does his cufflinks for him anyway.

"Why am I even being forced to go to your dumb show?" John moans, slumping in the bar stool he's sitting in and burying his face in his hands. "I hate Wagner."

Sherlock looks at him as he pulls the tie off. "You know classical?" he asks then wrenches away when John tries to put the tie back.

"School orchestra, required, clarinet, world's strictest music teacher." John yawns again and drops the tie on the kitchen counter. Sherlock knows he doesn't sleep well here even though John has stayed for the summer more times than either of them like. He looks rumpled even in his freshly-ironed navy blue suit and black tie.

"Oh, stop that," John snaps when Sherlock just stares at him disbelievingly. "I'm not a Neanderthal when it comes to music."

Sherlock shrugs. "At least you're not Greg."

"Ugh." John makes a face. "That band of his might be great if Greg's the one singing. And Greg's music taste isn't all that bad. The Smashing Pumpkins, The Clash, The Pixies…they're not horrid."

"And now you've lost what little respect I have for you."

"Brat," John mutters and Sherlock grins. It fades when Father steps in the kitchen. Sherlock excuses it as his base nature when he backs away until John's knees are pressed against his back. John's hand finds its way to his shoulder and he squeezes once.

Father regards them coolly. "We're leaving now," he says then glares at John. "You two shouldn't be allowed alone with each other."

"Greg and Mycroft are allowed."

"Mycroft can hold himself," Father explains and John freezes. Sherlock bristles and he steps forward but John's hand is still on his shoulder and it holds him back, pulls him in until John's knees begin to feel uncomfortable against his spine.

They leave in separate cars, a ridiculous old fashioned notion. Mycroft and John are with Father while Sherlock and Greg get in with Mummy. She laughs when she sees Greg's hair. "Oh dear, what have you done to yourself?" she says and Sherlock smirks at the way Greg's ears flush red.

The opera house is already crowded when they arrive. Sherlock wrestles out of Mummy's arms and grabs his violin before he heads off to the other young virtuosos. "Nice violin," a girl tells him. Sherlock pauses and stares at her. Fourteen at most, not from these parts, Bristol most likely, cello player…Sherlock sniffs the air. Beta.

"Jessica," the girl says, raising a hand to shake his. Sherlock only stares at it and Jessica drops her hand.

"Sherlock."

"You're pretty young." Jessica is smiling at him fondly despite Sherlock's coldness. Omega siblings no doubt. Only Alphas pay extra attention to him.

Sherlock doesn't say anything and doesn't look at Jessica once when he takes a seat. The lights are bright but Sherlock manages to adjust his eyes to them. The crowd slowly becomes less of a mass of black shapes and more into an audience. The music begins, the violins first and Sherlock purses his lips when he realizes that Father isn't there at all. Greg looks restless, Mycroft has his eyes closed, Mummy's smiling at him encouragingly, and John looks…enthralled. Sherlock has no idea why but it makes him feel like he has to show off.

He does and it's too much, according to the concertmaster who pulls him aside when it's over and yells at Sherlock rapidly in French. Sherlock understands it—impossible not to when he spends so much time in Verne—and he yells back in French as well until heads are turning towards them and John, who has been ordered to be there at Sherlock's beck and call, comes in between them. "Sorry, sorry," John says repeatedly. "Er, désolé? Is that right? S'il vous plaît, désolé? Monsieur."

Sherlock laughs.

John turns to him. "What?"

"Madame, not monsieur."

The concertmaster snarls at them. To John, she yells, "Casse-toi!"

"That translates to—"

"No, Sherlock, please don't."

John brings him back to his family. Mummy is proud of him but Father, who's reappeared, looks livid. Mycroft notices and he looks at Sherlock worryingly.

They have dinner at a nearby restaurant with a family friend Sherlock doesn't know. The woman is an Alpha, unbonded Sherlock notes when she coos over him and pinches his cheek between her thumb and forefinger. It makes John laugh and Sherlock flicks a bit of filet mignon in his direction. It hits his tie and John swears to Greg's amusement and Father's annoyance.

"They're bonded?" She looks at Sherlock then at John who ducks his head to avoid her shrewd gaze. "How…adorable!"

"Yes, both of our children are," Mummy says.

"Ah, yes, Mycroft and Gregory, correct? And when will the wedding be?"

Greg, to Sherlock's delight, actually chokes on his wine. John thumps him on the back until Greg recovers and stares at the woman in bewilderment. "What?" he yelps, ears red.

The Alpha woman's brows are raised. "Well, you're already seventeen, aren't you? You're old enough to have children."

Greg flushes and looks at Mycroft helplessly. "We'll get married when we're ready," Mycroft answers coolly. "Right now our education is more important."

"Oh, yes, for you, Mycroft. But Gregory has already had enough studying to last for a lifetime."

Greg's surprise turns to suppressed anger and Sherlock can feel himself getting furious as well. It must show on his face because Father is looking at him dangerously. Sherlock tightens his grip around his knife until his knuckles burn white. Beside him, John tenses as well and reaches over to rest a hand on the one holding the knife, trying to pry his fingers off it.

Sherlock lets go but he doesn't stop.

"We're not brood mares you know!" he yells, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. Heads turn towards them.

"Sherlock!" Father warns.

John shakes his head. "Don't, Sherlock."

But the Alpha woman irritates him too much. "No, of course you don't," Sherlock continues despite the swift kick Mycroft delivers to his shin. "You used to be married, happily so but your mate left you. You miss him. The mark on your finger says you still wear your wedding ring when you're not in the company of people you know. Why'd he leave you? It's because you're polygamous. I can smell them on you. Makes me sick." Sherlock draws breath. "You don't want to bond again because you're afraid they'll leave you again. Good choice. No one else will be stupid enough to marry a gold digger like you, another reason why your mate left."

"Sherlock!"

The Alpha woman sits there, stunned. The whole restaurant is silent and Mummy has her hand clamped over her mouth, looking shaken. Father is shaking with anger. He stands up quickly, his chair screeching as it's pushed backwards. "Excuse us for a moment," he says in a voice fighting to keep steady.

Father takes hold of him. His fingers dig in his arm as he drags Sherlock outside, to an empty space in the parking lot. He releases him harshly and Sherlock fights to keep his balance.

"What was that about?" Father hisses, his pale eyes narrowed. "Stop embarrassing me, Sherlock."

Sherlock clenches his fists. Oh it would feel so good to punch him, to feel bones crushing beneath his knuckles. But he's not six anymore and he knows better than to fight and scream and hit Father. He'd done it once and Father had locked him in a broom closet until Sherlock screamed himself hoarse and his fists were bleeding from pounding on the door.

"It's you," Sherlock growls, "It's you and people like her!"

"Is this about that boarding school idea of yours again? If I had my way, Sherlock, you wouldn't even be going but the government entails it. We'll have you permanently bonded to John the moment you turn sixteen. You're too much trouble."

"I don't want to!" Sherlock yells back. "You always make me do things I don't want! I hate you!"

One second his father is glaring down at him, the next he delivers a stinging slap to Sherlock's cheek. It burns and it hurts so much that Sherlock can't help but tear up.

Father grits his teeth. "Sherlock as my son, I'm entitled to love you." He leans down and says in a voice so quiet Sherlock has to strain his ears to hear the words, "But the thing is, I really don't like you at all."


When John sees it, the urge to tackle Sherlock's father to the ground and beat him bloody hits him hard. He fights it, though, and lurks behind the car until Sherlock's father returns to the restaurant and Sherlock stays there, stunned. John straightens himself, ready to go to him but Sherlock suddenly tears off.

Damn him, John thinks. For someone so small, Sherlock is startlingly fast. It's fortunate for John that he knows exactly where Sherlock likes to go when he's sulking.

The park is only two blocks away. John sniffs the air experimentally but he can't smell Sherlock. It rained a while ago and the scent of it is still strong enough to tamper with the other smells. Use your eyes, Watson.

He finds it eventually, the largest tree in the park. "So much for the suit," he sighs as he clambers up the trunk. Twigs snag at his sleeves and tear holes in the material. John winces at each damage but doesn't dare stop until he gets to one of the higher branches.

"Hey, monkey." John heaves himself up. "You and your fondness for heights. Look at my suit. It's ruined."

Sherlock says nothing. He's leaning against the trunk, seated with his legs drawn to his chest, looking at anything but John. Even in the darkness, John can make out the red handprint on Sherlock's cheek.

John rolls his eyes. "You're upset; I can feel it, you know. This pre-bond thing does have its perks. Your dad shouldn't have done that even though you said a lot of bad things a while ago." He holds out his arms. "I've learned enough biology to know that I can make you feel better. So for once, just let go of that ego of yours and give in to your base nature."

Sherlock doesn't move and John thinks he's said the wrong thing. But finally he leans forward.

"Know what this reminds me of?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"That time when you asked me to play pirates with you and you climbed that tree without my knowing. You scared me; thought you were going to fall until Mycroft pointed out you always do that." John ruffles his hair and Sherlock pulls away slightly with distaste. "You really are like my kid brother. I hate you but at the same time, I like you as well."

"I hate you," Sherlock mutters in his arms.

John snorts. "I love you, too," he answers sarcastically and he can feel Sherlock's lips curve in a smile against his neck.


"His name's Sherrinford. I had him when I was sixteen."

"It's still not allowed."

"You're blackmailing me, then?"

"I'm giving you a choice. You've always felt trapped, haven't you? When you're with us."

"…"

"I'm not afraid to do it. I thought about letting it be but things changed"

"Sherlock?"

"John told me."

"What do you want then?"

Mycroft looks away from the window and at Father who's finally looked up from the picture in his hands. "I want you to pull enough strings to let Sherlock in the school he wants," Mycroft says, "He's too smart for those schools you make him go to. That's why he's always acting up. He's wasted in them.

Mycroft breathes shakily. He clenches his fist, forces himself to focus. He's doing the right thing.

"And then I want you to go. You've wanted this for a long time now and I think it's better if you severe the bond you have with Mummy."

Father stares at him, long and hard.

"I want you to stay away from Sherlock."

"He's my son."

"He's my brother." Mycroft stares back at Father and this time, it's him who looks away. "And I will never let anyone hurt him."


A/N: The next chapter skips to four years later.