The Holmes brothers never had a period of time in their lives in which they actually attended the same school. The age gap was such that just as Sherlock had entered primary school, Mycroft had moved up to secondary, and for the first year of this, Mycroft didn't much bother to find out what Sherlock did in his classes. He dealt with his brother when he was at home—that much was quite enough.

When Sherlock entered his second year of primary school, however, a problem began to surface in the form of bruises. Mycroft initially assumed that the six-year-old was clumsy on the playground, which seemed perfectly in character. But after a while it got a bit out of hand, and Mycroft suspected that the other children probably didn't get along well with his admittedly strange little brother.

"Sherlock," he said on afternoon, examining the purple marks on the little boy's forearm and the side of his neck out of the corner of his eye. "Have you been fighting at school?"

"No," Sherlock replied absently, kicking his legs against his chair. He was sitting at the counter with a snack the nanny had made for him, and wasn't paying much attention to Mycroft, as usual.

"Where do those bruises come from, then?"

"Other boys. They're morons."

"You're too young for that kind of language," Mycroft said harshly.

"Fine. They're idiots."

"Stop that, Sherlock. So you have been fighting."

Sherlock turned his head and glared pointedly at his brother.

"I talk," said the little boy angrily. "They're the ones hitting. I just talk."

"What do you say?"

Sherlock turned back to his snack and shrugged.

"Stop hitting me?" he muttered. For a six-year-old child, the tone he used was bitingly sarcastic.

Mycroft knew there was probably a reason for the other boys to bully Sherlock. He probably threatened them with his intellect, or offended them with the off-hand comments he didn't know were offensive, or frightened them with his anti-social behavior. There were reasons, he reminded himself, why this sort of thing might happen. But that did not make it, in any way, acceptable.

The solution was quite simple. Mycroft Holmes had always been charming and well-connected; there was a certain, subtle power to his words, and he knew it. He was unassuming, yes, and the "meat on his bones" was no longer cute, as it had been when he was a child. But somehow—perhaps from watching his father interact with other scientists and philosophers and government officials at parties, or from watching his mother entertain over tea, or from reciting everything he'd learned each night to Father, knowing that he'd be asked to defend it—well, somehow he'd become a twelve-year-old who was taken seriously by his teachers and respected by his peers. People listened to him, and he knew how to use that talent.

The next day, Mycroft called Sherlock's teacher at her office, from the phone in his father's study, which was left unoccupied during a dinner party. He pretended to be Father, which she believed, and informed her in no uncertain terms exactly how important it was for her to look after the well-being of his son on the playground and in the classroom. The Holmes were a powerful family.

This, however, was only the first step. The second step was to wait until the following Wednesday, when he was released from school early, and have the nanny take him by Sherlock's primary school before dropping him off at home.

The primary school was still in session when he strode through the doors. He intentionally avoided Sherlock's classroom and instead found the classroom for the students in grade three. He stood casually against the wall across from the door for about five minutes, until the bell rang, and he approached a certain little boy hurrying out into the hall with a stack of books.

"Adam," he said sharply, and the boy turned. Confronted with a big, scary twelve-year-old, his eyes widened and he stopped in his tracks.

"You—you're Mycroft Holmes, aren't you?" he stammered.

"Yes. You've been by my house a few times at parties. I'm glad you remember me. Your father works for mine." Mycroft knew how to keep his voice amiable and still appear incredibly threatening. It reminded him, somehow, of Mummy with her dinner guests.

"You're in secondary," said Adam, looking around nervously. "What are you doing here?"

"My brother, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "He's in the first grade. So's your little sister, yes?"

The boy nodded dumbly.

"I can't be here to look after him," Mycroft continued. "I'd like you to do that for me, please. Yourself, or get your friends to do it—it doesn't matter to me. You're bigger than he is, protecting him shouldn't be difficult for you. But if my brother keeps coming home with bruises, your father will lose his job. That's a promise."

Mycroft knew he shouldn't enjoy the look of fear on Adam's face as he nodded and skittered away. He'd never threatened someone like that before—certainly he'd gotten bullies to leave him alone, when he was Sherlock's age, but starting something like this was a bit different.

Of course he didn't mean to truly lay it all on Adam. He knew that word would get around, and a little bit of fear would lead to a lot once it spread, and everyone in the school would soon know that picking on Sherlock would lead to retribution from his scary big brother. But even knowing that he didn't truly plan to toy with Adam's family or his father's job, he still felt a little guilty, causing that kind of fear.

When Sherlock stopped coming home with bruises, though, he decided he didn't feel bad enough to want to take it back.