When I was reading through previous chapters, I noticed I'd accidentally deleted a gruesome scene from chapter 5 (2nd M-rated chapter). It's now back in, if you're interested.

Sorry for huge delay – this story is hard!

Chapter 13

"John?" The usually suave tones of the elder Holmes brother emerged in a tremulous, hoarse whisper. "He's not dead, is he? No, you would make contacting me your first priority if he was in serious danger, wouldn't you?"

The agonised question loomed through Mycroft's whole demeanour, and John immediately felt the calm, collected doctor within him, now so much a part of his psyche that it operated without conscious effort, begin to answer for him.

"It's OK, Mycroft, he's alive, and it's not life threatening. But... we should have this conversation sitting down."

"I saw the CCTV footage as you brought him in", croaked the usually urbane genius, his eyes suddenly moist, and obviously reliving the horror he must have felt at seeing the images. "So much blood...He's badly hurt, isn't he?"

John ached with sympathy for this suddenly less-than-sinister Big Brother; hoist by his own petard, like the eavesdropper learning the worst possible news through his activities. All the usual irritation he felt about Mycroft invading his and his flatmate's privacy was swept away by the suddenly irrefutable evidence that the man cared very deeply indeed, and was suffering. He reached out, put a gentling hand on Mycroft's arm, and spoke to him as he would speak to a spooked animal.

"I'm sorry you had to see that before you knew the full story. I know he looked awful, but that's often the case with traumatic injuries; they look worse than they are. Physically, there's nothing life threatening. Look, come on, there's a relative's room inside, let me take you in there, we'll grab a cuppa, and I can tell you what's happening."

Mycroft didn't move. He appeared rooted to the spot, a grim determination to know everything holding him in place, and at odds with the rather frightening fragility which was plain from his posture.

"He's been tortured, hasn't he? For the fucking information from Whittard's hard drive?"

"Yes." John watched, as Mycroft seemed to break a little in front of him. He dropped his head into his hands, breathing heavily. Not-Anthea, who had followed closely, looked ill as she caught this part of the conversation. He didn't resist as John drew him gently inside.

"Can I fetch you a drink, Mr Holmes?" Sally appeared much calmer as her own training kicked in, and she took on the role of supporter and not supported.

"Thank you. Tea would be lovely. Tea, milk, no sugar. Thank you." The words were whispered and automatic, the internal diplomat managing Mycroft's autopilot for him. John felt an incongruous, slightly hysterical urge to smile at the way they were all displaying both their individual masks, and the private roiling beneath them.

John lead Mycroft to the relative's room, feeling the trembling beneath his hand. Not-Anthea followed wordlessly. He sat down.

"Well?" There was a little more of the habitual haughty composure in the question, but his eyes were wrinkled, mid-wince.

John took a deep breath.

"They've hurt him pretty badly, Mycroft. Two men, I don't know who they're working for. There are lots of superficial injuries, but there's also a broken leg, and a self-inflicted head injury. They've taken him to theatre to pin the leg. They'll also need to observe him from the head injury perspective when he wakes up."

"What did they do to him? I'm sure your intention to save me the unpleasant details is admirable, but I always find it propitious to have all the available data."

"Mycroft, I really don't think it's necessary go through all that now. You've had a shock; wait for later for the details."

"I would prefer to know now. Please tell me what you know. I am quite capable of finding out if you do not, but I would prefer to hear it from you." His face was infuriatingly calm, but John could see the strain hiding just behind the eyes. He'd never held out much hope that the emperor of fine details would content with broad brushstrokes; it had been a token effort. On reflection, he decided it was best to do as Mycroft said. The man had, presumably, a towering imagination to match his intellect, and it could probably conjure up even worse scenarios than the real one if left to run unchecked. Blunt was probably better too - sugar coating his words would not be appreciated.

"We're not sure exactly what time Sherlock was taken. I was with him up until just before dawn. Whoever they were, they had him for a good few hours though, and they were apparently desperate to find out about the data stick." He took a deep breath.

"Sherlock has been burned several times with something like a blowtorch. Some of the burns are worrying as they may interfere with his mobility if they contract as they heal. They've pulled out several teeth and fingernails. There are areas where they've peeled off sections of his skin, and several superficial slashes made with a knife, including several to his genitals. I think they've waterboarded him. Sally found him and got him out, but they came back when she was half-way through freeing him - he was taped to a chair – and they beat him with belts, then broke his leg with a hammer. He's also injured his head, which he did himself by throwing himself backwards in his chair. Some of the injuries will leave scarring, but hopefully it will only be in small localised areas. I think the main problem will be the mental aftermath."

He stopped, slightly out of breath from getting this all out in one go. Mycroft was deathly pale, but his eyes remained fixed on John, who had to draw on all his mental strength to continue.

"He was very upset and quite confused, lapsing in and out of consciousness a bit, when we found him. He was terrified too, and a bit weepy. He didn't want anyone other than me cannulating him, and he kept expressing guilt that he had told them anything."

How strange, to hear his own voice calmly and concisely explaining the situation, his voice soft and sympathetic but not overly emotional, when his insides were still tumultuously churning. When he got the part where he had yet again shot a man for Sherlock, and then imprisoned both torturers in the boot, it was as if an outside agent had just informed him of what had happened; he reacted to his own words and started to feel sick, shivery and close to tears.

"I wish to see him", stated the elder Holmes brother, with a little of his habitual imperiosity.

"It wouldn't be sensible right now", warned John. "He's in surgery, he'll be under the drapes - you wouldn't be able to see anything without moving them, and I wouldn't advocate that."

The British Government receded, and the slumped worried older brother returned to the fore.

"You're right. I have no expertise in medical matters."

Suddenly, John felt a need to escape from the hospital for a while. He wondered if Mycroft would agree to it.

"I think we should decamp. Sherlock will be in theatre for four or five hours, and it's likely other people will need this room. The surgeon and the theatre nurse have both promised to call me when they're finishing up, so we can get back before he's awake. We should find somewhere to stay, get some food. I can find us a hotel or inn somewhere nearby."

He watched the brief series of emotions play across the smooth face, only able to identify them because he was so well versed in reading the subtleties of another Holmes - defiance, followed by defeat, the glance around the relatives' room as if it was a territory to be defended, the moment when consideration for others entered the picture, then acceptance of John's proposition. Eventually, Mycroft nodded. "We can go to my house near here. It's only fifteen minutes away."

"You have a house in Gloucester?" asked John, mildly surprised.

"Cheltenham, John", he corrected, his tone implying John was being rather slow.

"Oh. GCHQ?"

"Of course," he intoned. Naturally Mycroft would have accommodation near Britain's main Intelligence headquarters.

Then another thought struck him with urgent force; his head spun with disbelied that he could have forgotten, and his voice took on a machine-gun quality as he blurted out the information.

"Sherlock thought there was a delivery of explosives due into the country, and even that there might be a terrorist attack, aiming to incriminate another country - he called it war-mongering. He also thought there were several people involved that weren't initially suspected."

Rather anticlimactically, Mycroft just nodded, as if John had just informed him someone was stealing from the stationary cupboard.

"Sherlock communicated as much to me himself, via my secure connection. He was unable to give me the full details, as the encryption is complex, and takes time to decode. He evidently has very little faith in my employees. He also sent me photographs of six Scotland Yard employees, whom I assume could potentially be implicated in Whittard's plans. I have not had sufficient privacy to study them in depth just yet, nor coordinate the clamp-down..."

He stared off into space for a moment, then said, as if he we're confessing a sordid secret; "I don't think I should look at the information now. I am... distracted. It is possible I may miss things. It is best to do these things with a clear head. For now, I shall concentrate on my brother, then turn my full attention to the plans when he has woken up. One extra day will not jeopardise anything that has not already been compromised by Sherlock's kidnap."

John nodded, thinking how remarkable was the Holmes ability to compartmentalise mental processes. "Good plan for now. Good idea to get some rest, too."

"Shall I call for a driver, Sir?" asked Not-Anthea, pulling out her Blackberry. Mycroft shook his head.

"No. I would very much prefer that no-one knows where we are, on the dubious assumption that our cover is not blown. I have my own, shall we say, external contractors, who can take care of Sherlock's captors until I have time to interview them. I will contact them myself on arrival to the house. Apart from that, I would rather you contacted nobody at all."

Not-Anthea looked a little offended, but she turned her phone off obediently.

John said "We should probably ask the staff to call us a taxi. The police may need the car we came in, and the back seat's a bit..." he trailed off.

Mycroft looked a bit sick.

All four of them piled into the cab to Mycroft's Cheltenham residence, passing the strange donut of GCHQ beside the dual carriageway. John had imagined the residence would either exude Cold War era austerity, or quite the opposite, like the quiet masculine opulence of the Diogenes Club. However, it turned out to be a pleasant little 1930s terrace on a quietly shabby road opposite the railway station.

The interior was mostly plain; magnolia-painted walls with a subtle "feature wall" in another colour in each room. A squashy corduroy sofa and armchairs, looking as if they had seen plenty of life yet inordinately comfortable, dominated the small living room. Most of the furnishings looked like high-end Ikea; although the bookcase had the appearance of an antique, perhaps heirloom - John wondered if it was Mycroft's own. The television was an old, non-flat screen, bulky affair, that seemed to take up the little space not dominated by the over-large suite. The walls were lined with rather lovely photographic prints. All in all, it was a surprising place, suggesting a warm, comfortable presence, and not at all in keeping with Mycroft's suavely menacing persona.

Mycroft crossed to a glass fronted cabinet, and drew out a whiskey bottle, then seemed to recollect his manners.

"Can I make anyone a drink? There's tea and coffee, plus something stronger if anybody wants it. There's pizza in the freezer too."

All four of them huddled around the kitchen table, as their host made a round of hot drinks and shoved two pizzas in the oven. It was a surreal situation. Mycroft had made the phone call to arrange detention of the car boot captives in the time it had taken the kettle to boil, and then had returned to his domestic task as if this was a perfectly normal event. Disturbingly, it probably was.

John's mind wouldn't settle. He absently noticed his host getting an ice-cube tray full of milk out of the freezer, and popping a cube into each of the drinks. Why've I never thought of that? he wondered. Because you're an idiot, announced a cheerfully scornful voice inside his head, and he winced at the thought that that brash confidence might have irreparably damaged. His hand shook as he clutched his mug - perfect drinking temperature, thanks to the ice.

They drank their drinks, then ate the pizza in silence. By now, Sally looked as if she was drooping with stress and exhaustion. Mycroft turned kindly to her, and spoke with some of his normal assurance.

"Sergeant Donovan, please feel free to take the spare room and get some rest. Top of the stairs; bed's already made up. The bathroom is straight opposite; feel free to shower, use the towels that are already out, and there's a spare toothbrush, toothpaste, moisturising cream and deodorant in the cabinet. Shampoo and conditioner in the shower. There's a dressing gown in the wardrobe, and DVDs and the remote in the cupboard under the telly. Books here, and in the shelf at the end of the corridor upstairs. Packets of new M&S underwear in the top drawer; there should be several sizes - it's not unusual for me to have to put people up at short notice. John and I can see to Sherlock when he wakes up.

"You too, my dear. Take my room", he added to Not-Anthea. John noticed interestedly that she obviously knew the way.

Sally was blinking slightly in bewilderment at the complex exponent of this immaculate hospitality, but she mumbled a thank you, and obeyed.

"Oh, Sergeant. If you need to speak to anybody, there is a landline in your room. It is a secure line. I'm afraid mobile signals are blocked here. However, I would advise that you are cautious about who you talk to, for the time being."

"Thank you. I won't need the phone, though. Think I'll just sleep, maybe read a bit first." She moved as is on autopilot. Mycroft and John watched her pick up a Georgette Heyer novel from the shelves – John was slightly surprised – romance novels, his Mum had loved them, called them Jane Austen-Lite, not what he'd have expected the hard-nosed police officer to pick. Mycroft's lips quirked, as if he had deduced her preference - which, knowing Mycroft, he probably had. She hesitated, and turned to him. "Send my... best wishes to Sherlock, won't you? And thank him for me. He could have chosen to give me away." Her voice trembled slightly as the last, and she turned to walk quickly up the stairs as if she wanted to hide her face from view.

Mycroft managed an inarticulate reply, but the self-assurance he had regained whilst organising his surroundings almost visibly evaporated. He looked suddenly grey and old as he staggered through to the living room, and reclaimed the bottle of whiskey. He withdrew two beautiful engraved glass tumblers from the cabinet, and wordlessly poured a generous measure in each. He downed his own in one gulp, and held John's out to him, glaring as if daring him to disapprove.

John drained his own glass and accepted a refill as Mycroft moved on to his third.

They then collapsed on the sofa and sat in silence again. John leaned his head back and sipped. He heard the shower go on and off, and the sounds of Sally taking herself to bed.

Mycroft poured himself a fourth glass.

He suddenly realised that flecks of Sherlock's blood still stained his skin.

"I might get a shower myself, if you don't mind?"

"Airing cupboard is under the stairs. Help yourself to towels. Ask Anthea to chuck you and I some fresh clothes from my room." The great mind seemed turned inwards, so John quietly obeyed.

When he returned, wearing a surprisingly ordinary pair of jeans and a cotton jumper, glad to be out of the scrubs, the bottle was half empty. He handed the fresh clothes to his companion, who wordlessly got up, and fairly steadily made his way to the bathroom.

He returned fifteen minutes later, damp-haired and looking uncharacteristically unthreatening in navy jeans and a light green polo shirt. His features were as open as John had ever seen them, the alcohol clearly starting to take effect.

Mycroft reached into the brief case he had carried with him and brought out a beautiful laptop, thin and sleek as an iPad, but with a fantastically high definition screen. Still without speaking, he booted it up, then typed in a series of responses to a complex stream of prompts. The silence in the room became pregnant.

The wallpaper showed a small cottage bathed in a Mediterranean light. He opened the picture menu, then opened a folder marked Icarus. He clicked on a picture and swung the screen fully round to John, leaning in himself to share.

The photograph was rather unexpected.

It was of a baby boy, obviously extremely premature, his thin, veined red skin bathed in the weird blue glow of a phototherapy lamp. A plastic breathing tube was secured in place by ribbons tied to a white knitted hat, a nasogastric feeding tube held in place with sticking plaster further obscured his face. Heart monitoring leads covered most of his chest. A glowing red oxygen saturation probe was wrapped around his foot with sticking plaster, and large IV lines protruded from his umbilicus, as well as one in his arm, secured with a splint as long as his whole arm. The overall impression would have been more wire than baby to a layperson, but John was used to such sights, and he noticed the tiny legs obviously mid-kick and spindly arms out-thrown in a vigorous stretch. He also noticed that the equipment looked dated - he'd guess to some time in the 80's.

He stared at Mycroft.

"Is this Sherlock?"

The older brother nodded.

"Born at twenty seven weeks and six days gestation. He was impatient from the first."

"No way! That's… bizarre, really. God, he did well. That was near the limits of viability in those days."

"Indeed. Mummy and Father were warned he was quite likely to not survive. They agreed to him having a fairly new lung treatment that they felt helped enormously."

"That must have been surfactant", realised John. "Lung lubricant, reduces the surface tension, reduces the work of breathing and the damage done by artificial ventilation. It's routine now, but it completely changed the outlook of neonatal medicine." He shook his head, puzzled as to why they were having this particular conversation at this particular moment, but enthralled all the same. "I can't believe he never said he was an ex-prem - he must've known I'd be interested - I was only talking about resuscitating 27 week twins the other day."

"Oh, did you?" asked Mycroft, distracted for a moment by obviously genuine excitement. "Were they all right?"

"Yes, they were fine, so far".

"That's wonderful! I do so admire neonatal units, it's a constant source of aggravation to me that I can't seem to get the level of funding I want for them." His attention then returned to the photograph in front of them, and he ran his finger along the screen, and took another generous swig from his glass.

"It was peculiar; how much personality could imbue such a little creature. The doctors said he screamed immediately on delivery, and fought like a little demon against having the breathing tube put down. He was extremely active; I believe they paralysed him at first, but they were able to take his tube out within three days. They tried to put him on another machine to help with his breathing - a CPAP machine - but he fought against that, too, and in the end he was managing on his own by four days."

He clicked on the next picture. The baby wasn't much older, but his skin was less transparent by now, and the hat had been removed along with the breathing tube, revealing sparse black hair. His eyes were open, and he was looking at the camera.

"I was taken to meet him when he was two days old. I took these pictures myself - he's two days old in the first, and five days in the next - photography was something of a hobby of mine. It was a few days off my eighth birthday, and I was distressingly precocious. I appointed myself his guardian immediately, and made it my mission to protest if anybody tried to touch him without washing their hands first. I came every day after school, and sat there with my books, perfectly quiet and well-behaved, but glowering suspiciously at everyone. I must have been a little nightmare.

"When he was seven days old, he got an infection. His abdomen blew up and became a ghastly purple colour, and he looked horribly grey and sick. The most striking thing was, he just stopped moving. Lay there looking like he was already dead, completely quiet and still. Had to be reintubated. To this day, I've never quite been able to rid myself of the feeling that I should have prevented it. There was one nurse, you see, who I was absolutely terrified of, and I saw her go in his incubator several times apparently without washing her hands. After I told her off the first time, you see, she snapped at me that she had already washed her hands in the sink in the corridor, and that I shouldn't be cheeky if I wished to continue to be allowed to visit. I never dared after that..."

He trailed off, voice slightly husky, and looking genuinely agonised. John stepped in to rescue him, amazed, as ever, by the bizarre moral standards of the Holmes brothers, but starting to get a glimmering of understanding as to why all this was at the forefront of the man's mind. He felt a strange urge to protect him, rather like the one that affected him with the extremely competent Sherlock. Those great minds could be terribly destructive when turned inwards against themselves.

"You were seven, Mycroft. And only allowed in for a few hours a day. Plus, it sounds like the infection called NEC, which isn't anything to do with hand hygiene - it's related to feeding and the blood supply to the bowel. You couldn't have done anything to prevent it - it's still fairly common now in tiny prems."

"Really?" He actually sounded relieved. "Well, that's… something, I suppose." He cleared his throat and blinked a few times, this information obviously having quite a powerful impact as he filed it away. He shook his head as if to clear it before continuing to speak.

"Anyway. He got over that infection, and seemed to be doing well again." He clicked onto another picture. This time, baby Sherlock was nested on his side, reminding John irresistibly of his later-life sulking posture. "This is him at twelve days. Then sixteen days. Then he got an infection from a line, and it felt like we were going backwards again, but he wasn't quite so ill this time. He needed a blood transfusion, though, and he wasn't gaining weight. He was finally fed again, and it began to feel like he was getting better, as if we were safe."

He clicked on the next picture, and John had to smile, mirroring the wistful grin on the other man's face. The photograph was of a slightly chubby boy with sandy hair, difficult to equate with the Mycroft of today, holding a tiny baby in a blue knitted cardigan and hat, and smiling brilliantly. Sherlock was beginning to look a little more like a real baby than an alien, dressed and pink as he was.

"He's twenty-five days old here. It was the first time I was allowed to hold him. He did well for the next month - look, here he is at thirty-three weeks corrected gestation, looking perfect." Indeed, Sherlock was remarkably pretty for an ex-twenty-seven weeker, albeit a little pale with the typical long thin head. There was another photo, from the same day, of Mycroft feeding his little brother by holding aloft a milk filled syringe attached to the feeding tube.

"And this is probably my favourite from this period." The photograph was a close up of both brothers, Sherlock looking at something off camera, and both grinning. "His first smile that we caught on camera. He's nearly seven weeks old here, just over thirty four weeks gestation.

"Two days later, I developed a cold, and Sherlock got bronchiolitis, as did several other babies in the nursery. There was a bit of an outcry, and no children were allowed on the unit." He smiled grimly. "And before you say anything, I know it was irrational to blame myself, and the timing would suggest I caught my cold from the unit rather than the other way around, but it didn't stop me feeling terrible, especially as I had to watch him suddenly stop breathing and get re-intubated - no-one saw me sitting there, and it all happened so fast - and then I had been banned. I got into quite a lot of trouble at school, when Alastair, an unpleasant little brute then and to this day, started to taunt me that my brother was a 'spaz'.

"I rarely rose to provocation in those days, but on this occasion, I think I was trying to kill him. He was older and bigger than me, but I just kept on screaming and hitting him until the dinner lady pulled us apart. I was suspended for two days, although the teachers were quite sympathetic, and Alastair was suspended too. Mummy, bless her, spoke to the consultant and nurse in charge, and they allowed me to visit, to convince me he wasn't dead.

"He still had the breathing tube down, and he looked all still again. I remember Mummy lifting me up to look at him. I was only allowed five minutes - several parents were disgruntled that I had been let in when other children hadn't as it was. I couldn't stop crying the whole time, although I made sure it was silent. They let me take a photograph." He clicked forwards, and there was the baby Sherlock, again with breathing tube and multiple wires. The picture was a little more blurry that its counterparts.

Mycroft took another big gulp of whiskey. His speech was becoming slightly slurred, but he was as eloquent as ever. His face had taken on a look of entire introspection, and John felt it was important not to interrupt the train of reminiscences.

"Anyway, he got better. He was ventilated for a week, then in oxygen for a few days, then thriving again. He was allowed home at thirty-five weeks gestation, with no oxygen requirement and fully breast fed, with just a few other supplements. Then there was no stopping him. He was giggling by eight weeks of age, reaching out and grasping by four months, sitting by six months, crawling by eight months, walking by eleven months - he was slightly ahead of his milestones even without correcting for his prematurity." Mycroft had clicked several photographs that showed an increasingly normal looking baby, with soft light brown spiky hair and blue eyes. He then brought up old video footage, of Sherlock taking a few wobbly steps towards the camera, a huge grin mutating into a hoary cackle as he did so.

"He was a really cute kid", smiled John, thinking how delighted he'd be to gain this insight into his friend's life under normal circumstances.

"Yes, he was. Very sociable, oddly enough, although his speech was relatively delayed. He was twenty months, and not really speaking - plenty of babbling, but no words, although no-one seemed particularly worried. Then, almost overnight, he started speaking in full sentences. It was as if it was beneath him to say anything until he had something worthwhile to contribute. By the time he was two, he was starting to read, knew all his colours, could draw a recognisable person, count to a hundred, even do simple arithmetic. And frightfully observant. I know he says he has fine-tuned his deductive abilities over the years, but much of it must have been innate, in both of us, as he seemed to see things differently from the beginning." He smiled, fondly, bringing up footage of a little blond toddler holding the hand piece of an old fashioned round-dialled phone to his ear, whilst he babbled unintelligibly into it, then the same toddler singing "Three Blind Mice", and giving a little bow and giggle afterwards.

"When he was two, he nearly drowned.

"Father was supposed to be watching us. He had obviously decided to delegate the task of watching Sherlock to me, although had not deigned to mention it. I was busy with a prize essay for school. I looked up to see he'd gone, and ran outside to look for him, not wanting to mention I'd let him get away from me. I found him face down in the pond. He couldn't have been in there for more than five minutes, but he'd stopped breathing. I screamed for help whilst jumping in to pull him out. Father came running outside, but he was always hopeless in a crisis, and just started shouting in a panic that he'd thought I was watching him. Thank goodness, our uncle arrived just then, and gave him mouth-to-mouth, telling me to call an ambulance, or I don't know whether I'd have retained the presence of mind to do it myself. He started breathing again almost straight away when he was given a few breaths, and was awake and crying when the ambulance arrived."

He paused, and gave John a wintery smile. "You see the theme of my narrative?" John did, all too well. "Times I Have Been Allowed Sherlock To Come To Harm. Forgive me if I become maudlin."

John shook his head, and spoke clearly, emphasising each word. "Mycroft, the pond sounds like you saved his life. It's not an unusual story; active toddler wanders off and gets into trouble. And you were what, ten?"

"Yes, and old enough to have already deduced that the pond was dangerous, as the little monster had a fascination for it. There were frogs and newts… I had suggested we fence it off; Mummy had called me Her Little Worrier and Father, a Fussy Old Man. It was abhorrent neglect on my behalf that I had recognised the danger yet forgotten it because I was immersed in my own pursuits. I swore I would not make such a mistake again."

"I still think you should make some allowances for immaturity and inexperience."

"Perhaps", he sighed, mournfully, then brightened as he turned to the next picture. "He was a delightful child, you know. Very sunny disposition, quite sensitive; fiercely, outstandingly bright. Came across as all the more remarkable as he stayed small for his age right up until he was fifteen." This showed somewhat in the picture: a young Sherlock, probably about four, with his hair beginning to darken, holding a spanner, and showing off a classic soap-box style go-cart, the sort Dennis the Menace might have driven, and John had always wanted. He was much more recognisable in this shot, the high cheekbones already showing above the rounded cheeks.

The next photograph made John's breath catch in his throat, as it showed the small boy playing a child-sized violin, the same intent expression of concentration on his face that he wore today.

"He astonished his teachers with his abilities, but he had friends at that stage, and was quite a normal little boy in many respects, probably because his boundless energy gave him an aptitude for physical play. Kind, too, loved animals - still does, actually, although he tries to hide it. Look, here's him with our old collie Bess - they adored each other. Bit of a temper, often naughty when he got bored, did squabble with some of the children in his class when they teased him for his intellect, but essentially normal. Not particularly Asperger-ish, looking back, although he could get a bit overstimulated sometimes. Just forward and honest. Adorable, really.

"Then Mummy became ill. Depression. Very severe. She became catatonic; could barely recognise anybody, couldn't speak. It was awful. Anyone who's ever suggested a person with a mental illness should 'snap out of it' should have seen her - drawn face, blank, empty eyes - nothing there, nothing behind them at all. She was admitted to a psychiatric ward. Father topped everything off by packing his bags and leaving for good.

"Sherlock was nearly nine when this started, and absolutely pole-axed by it all, dealt with it by being horrendously badly behaved, refusing to engage with anyone. Our grandmother tried to look after him, but he was too much for her. I was away at school. I should have come back, but I was studying to take my A-levels and entrance exams early, plus doing work experience to make connections. Perhaps I didn't realise how bad it was until he got into a horrendous fight in school when someone called Mummy a nutcase, or something similar. It reminded me of when I did a similar thing when he was ill, as I told you about.

"I arranged for our uncle, the one who saved Sherlock from the pond, to come and take care of him. He was strict, and Sherlock idolised him." For a moment, Mycroft sat back in his chair, eyes closed, and mouth drawn into a grimace. It seemed as if telling the next part of Sherlock's life story was costing him something.

"Uncle - treated him very badly. Very badly indeed. I wasn't around to see it - I was giving them space to build a relationship, I didn't want to interfere. I... misjudged appallingly. Sherlock ran away when he was ten, and managed to stay undiscovered for quite a while. Our Uncle died. Our mother recovered eventually, after several rounds of ECT and medication. We got him back, but he was ill, jaded, angry. He'd been alone for too long. He seemed to have lost his ability to integrate normally, although I believe he frequently desperately wanted to.

"He still excelled in his schoolwork, but he did it without effort, doing the bare minimum yet still getting top marks. He was otherwise heading off the rails, and we didn't know what to do. He started getting into more and more trouble when he was in his teens. I won't go into everything that went on, but suffice it to say our relationship was breaking down, and I seriously worried about his future. I then compounded it by arranging for two boys and a girl I believed to be trustworthy to live with him at university. He found out I was behind the arrangement…. after they too had treated him atrociously, and the wedge went deeper.

"I believe you already know a little about the drugs. They were possibly the worst phase of all, and several times I thought we'd lost him. He told me once he'd started using to get back at me, after I tried to curtail some of his more inappropriate endeavours.

"Then there was one of my contacts, Alex, dreadful business involving poisoning, all over the media; I thankfully managed to keep Sherlock's involvement quiet, although he was dreadfully unwell with radiation sickness. Then the incident with the Bruce Partington plans, and look where that led. Then the fiasco with Mr Melas, and Sherlock half dead with carbon monoxide poisoning. And of course, Moriarty."

Mycroft's voice had been a flat monotone for some time now, and John was braced for the storm after the calm. It came as the taller man buried his face in his hands, and groaned out, "I keep trying to protect him, but it just seems to make things worse. I want to rebuild our relationship, but every time I involve him in anything, it seems to end in disaster. I thought it would get better with Moriarty out of the picture, but it's never ending! Oh, I should have seen this! I shouldn't have been out of the country during this. It's my fault."

He began taking deep gasps through the gaps in his fingers. John cautiously lay a hand on his forearm. His head was spinning with these revelations, but he forced himself to speak with his Doctor voice.

"Mycroft. Sherlock loves the chase. He's helped an awful lot of people over time, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Plus, Sherlock would say what you're doing is data mining - looking for the evidence that supports your conclusion, rather than looking at everything. He'd strongly disapprove.

"Look at the real evidence; for one, he does a very good job of getting into trouble without you. Then, look at the cases you've got him just since I've been living with him that haven't ended in disaster: the Pygmalion case, that fraud case in Devon, the stuff with the Livingstones, the Russian ballet syndicate, the dog breeding case - he enjoyed all of those, and it stopped him being bored and destructive, which trust me, is as dangerous as anything else.

"Then, look at the cases where you've saved us, no matter how ungrateful your brother is. If you want to make up for the pond when he was two, how about the fact that you've saved both of us from nearly drowning twice? You stopped those bikers beating the crap out of him last month, you helped clear up the Moriarty thing. And he'll live, Mycroft. There's nothing life threatening there. It was a close run thing, but he'll think it was worth it - the chance to prove he's clever and potentially save a terrorist attack and shut down a powerful crime ring. Come on! Tell me more about him as a little kid. I want to be able to tease him when he wakes up and starts bossing me around."

The British Government was looking at John as if he'd never really seen him before, fingers tapered under his chin in a tantalisingly familiar gesture. Then, he forced out a rather watery, but genuine, smile.

"You are quite right, of course, Dr Watson. I can see why Sherlock keeps you around. Right." He pulled up a split screen picture of a dark-haired, silver eyed, very obviously mini-Sherlock, wearing an "I Am 7" badge, and beaming rapturously over his new chemistry set. The other half of the page showed him, in the same outfit, with a blackened face, singed eyebrows, and an unchastened grin. John laughed, and continued to look through photos and videos with Mycroft, whilst pushing his unspoken anxieties about his friend firmly to the back of his mind, where they would stay until Sherlock woke up.

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Ugh, I've never found getting to grips with a story as difficult as I've found this one. I've tried to wrap up the plot so many times, and am never satisfied. However, I feel like I'm getting somewhere, and I hope you enjoyed Sherlock's back-story!

If you missed the message at the top of the page, please read chapter 5 (2nd M-rated chapter) again if you want the gory bit I accidentally missed out – I think it was one of my most hair-raising!

Really hope there are still people out there – please read and review!