Something about Mycroft
He had hesitated. Honestly, he had. For the better part of the day, John had tried to forget. He thought he had done his best pushing Sherlock's story to the back of his mind, but he had failed. He was shocked. Deeply shaken by the tragedy of it. And disgusted. Appalled by the cruelty of it. Nineteen years ago, Sherlock had said. He had been thirteen! John had tried to imagine the fear and loneliness that Sherlock must have felt. He had tried to remember Afghanistan. But he had failed to link the two situations. He had been a grown man. Sherlock had been a child.
It had been lunchtime when John made up his mind. Sherlock had not yet left his room. In fact, he had not even made any of his usual noises. So either he was sulking, or he was asleep. Both would have been nothing out of the ordinary. John dared not think about a third option. That was why he had to find Mycroft, talk to the brother, the only other person who knew.
He had texted him. Nothing elaborate really, but he had hoped Mycroft would take the hint in: "Must talk to you. Saw branding. Heard the story behind it. J. Watson" and the older Holmes brother did.
They met in a Chelsea café and Mycroft smiled his little smile at John who sighed.
"So, Dr. Watson. You asked me to meet. To have a chat about Sherlock's unsavory past."
"I've got questions. Yes," John felt uneasy. The mocking undertones in Mycroft's voice made him reconsider his endeavor.
"Last night, I happened to see Sherlock's. Branding."
"Did you now? Congratulations," Mycroft sneered, adding, "I'm impressed. Not many have had the. Pleasure. Of seeing my little brother. Unclothed."
"He was fully dressed, alright? His shirt had gone up, and I saw," John cut in, blushing.
"I'm sure you did."
"How did that happen?" John breathed.
Mycroft sighed and stared at John. Then he pouted and leaned closer, "Can you keep a secret, doctor? One that is so dark you'd wish you'd never heard so much as a rumor of?"
John nodded. He knew already, didn't he?
"You texted that Sherlock had given you his story, Dr. Watson. Well, I'm awfully sorry to tell you another version," Mycroft said and John looked at him inquiringly, "My brother as you must be well aware of by now has some peculiar opinion of the world and his own deranged position in it. He sometimes loses track of … reality. And he sometimes imagines to feel. He has no feeling, let me assure you."
"But the branding..:"
Mycroft's eyebrows shot upwards and he smiled quizzically, "Self-inflicted, I'm afraid."
"But he said-" Mycroft cut John short, "Whatever he said, let me put your mind at rest on the point of any possible sexual assault. It didn't happen. Or does Sherlock look like a rape victim to you?"
"No, but-"
Mycroft's smile widened and he gave the doctor a curt nod.
"He said the aggressors did. Horrible things to him. Made him. Do things, too. They hurt him."
"And he didn't put on a fight? Doesn't sound likely, does it?"
"He was thirteen!"
"I know his age!" Mycroft's voice thundered, "He was nine when he started smoking. Ten when the pills started. Eleven when he took to cocaine. By fifteen he'd long been injecting himself. He's by no means the innocent victim you see him as. He loves the role. He feels guilty, I suppose. Of having traded his body for drugs."
"Last night, he sounded. Convincingly broken."
"He is convincingly broken."
"So you didn't. Save him?"
"I put an end to the farce he had got himself into. Save him? I don't think anybody can save my brother."
At that point John had stopped listening. He had thanked Mycroft for his time and had refused the better-off man's offer to pay for John's tea. Mycroft genuinely disliked Sherlock. The realization made John feel utterly sad.