Warning: this chapter contains strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

"'It was a mistake,' you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you."
–David Levithan

October 2013

Despite the studious application of ice, his brother's fist had left a dark bruise on Mycroft's jaw that could not be concealed entirely. Resigned to the mark's presence and in a thoroughly bad mood, Mycroft began his day as he usually did at the Diogenes Club, in the Stranger's Room. When the dress-coated attendant had brought him his customary pot of coffee along with the morning edition of various newspapers, he had raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of the bruise; Mycroft had met his gaze with a stone-cold look that quelled any further expressions of curiosity at once, and the man left hurriedly to attend to his other duties.

Mycroft poured coffee into a china cup and reached for his copy of The Economist. Holding it on his lap, he stared unseeingly at the front page. Much against his will, his racing thoughts would not let him concentrate on the reading material. They were far too preoccupied with Sherlock…and with John Watson.

Setting aside the newspaper, Mycroft pulled out a duplicate of the file he had given to Sherlock. He opened it. On top was the picture of John coming out of the Old Bailey just last week – the one that clearly showed the scar on his face while he cowered behind Lestrade, trying to evade the journalists swarming around him.

Looking at John's wary, wounded eyes, remembering Sherlock's cry of distress from yesterday, Mycroft wondered how the hell it had all gone so bloody wrong.

He had not meant for John to be hurt. He had only meant to protect him…and, if he was being honest with himself, to keep him out of the way.

Nothing had gone the way he and Sherlock had expected. Mycroft realized now that he had underestimated Moriarty, or perhaps he had overestimated himself. Maybe it was both. Regardless, neither he nor Sherlock had believed that it would take more than six months at most to bring down Moriarty's network. Mycroft would never have arranged to have John end up in prison, but once the doctor was there, it had seemed…prudent to leave him be. And he had never intended for it to be so long…a day turned into a week, a week turned into a month, and before he knew it, two years had gone by. But the important thing was that John had been safe…at least, safer than he would have been running loose in London, stalked by Moriarty's assassin who had, maddeningly, escaped Mycroft's net; safe from his own reckless tendencies (for Mycroft had no doubt the doctor would have tried to get to the bottom of things); safe from potentially compromising Sherlock's cover (and, therefore, Sherlock's own safety) if he had not been content to let things lie.

That was worth a bit of boredom, surely?

Mycroft studied the photograph. He was not as confident of the rightness of his position in this matter as he normally was. That scar…just how deeply did it run?

He was jerked suddenly out of his reverie by a commotion from the hall. He heard the attendant's distressed tones raised in a loud whisper outside the door, "Sir, you can't just barge in on Mr. Holmes! I need to announce you! Sir, please!"

Sighing, Mycroft set the file aside as he heard the door open behind him. He schooled his features and made his voice especially snide as he turned in his swivel chair and said, "Right on schedule…still in a snit, are we, brother mine?"

Then he broke off when he saw who had just come into the ornate room.

It was not Sherlock.

It was John Watson.

The normally unflappable Mycroft Holmes was completely lost for words at that moment (a thing that rarely, if ever, happened), but his deductive skills ran on unchecked.

Thinner than when we last met by at least a stone…his clothes are looser; even his old hunting jacket is a bit big on him. He wouldn't have been allowed to have his own garments at Frankland, but he has not yet returned to Baker Street…Mrs. Hudson must have brought some of them to him at Lestrade's bedsit. Hair greyer than it was, though at first glance this might be go unnoticed as the grey strands blend into the blond ones. Face more deeply lined – he has experienced a great deal of stress, though the dark circles he is currently sporting are indicative of a poor night's sleep; that, combined with the mud on his shoes which could only have come from the South Bank would indicate he has been walking for most of the night…hair tousled forward, obviously he was moving with his back to the wind. Wind direction, time and location: sometime after 2 a.m. Fatigued, left hand appeared clenched before he put it behind his back to stand at parade rest…emotions reined in tight. Facial scar is still quite red…it will take several years to fade to a silver-white…

It was the eyes, though, that were the most disconcerting to Mycroft – John's steady, ice-cold eyes. It was a look that pinned Mycroft to his seat and stole from his throat the courteous greeting he was trying to frame before he'd even drawn in a breath to form the words.

Before he could find his voice, John abruptly asked, "Who lumped you? I'd like to buy him a drink."

John's voice was cold, but almost casual – neither loud nor overly emotional. He seemed somehow remote and detached from the entire proceedings, and Mycroft, who had been more…agitated than he would have liked to admit just a few seconds earlier, now reclassified his own state of mind as being merely concerned, and he waved away the attendant who was fluttering his hands behind John as though he wanted to do something but wasn't sure what (particularly if it involved the small yet somehow very imposing figure standing before Mycroft). The man fled gladly, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft turned his full attention back to John. Something in the younger man's expression warned him that to lie at all now would be a serious mistake.

"My dear brother, in his impetuosity, regressed to a more infantile expression of disapproval when he learned of your…incarceration," Mycroft said, forcing a rather sour smile. He wondered if this information would help to earn Sherlock a place back in the doctor's good books, but John's expression gave nothing away. Instead, he looked around the room.

"Figured I'd find you here," he remarked. "It's where you were when I saw you last, and you are a creature of habit, aren't you." It wasn't a question, so Mycroft didn't answer. Indeed, he noticed his throat was suddenly quite dry…he felt rather as though he had been shut up with a small lion that wasn't hungry, but hadn't yet decided whether or not it was in the mood to toy with its prey.

John shifted his gaze back to Mycroft.

"Quite a conversation we had back then," he said, almost conversationally. "When you told me about Moriarty, and asked me to tell Sherlock you were sorry. The way your voice stuttered and halted…you should have gone on the stage. Hell, you could have won a bloody BAFTA that day."

"John–" Mycroft began.

"Dr. Watson to you," John corrected sharply. Mycroft swallowed. John had never been the kind of man who worried about what title people used to address him, or even if they used one at all.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft amended placatingly. He knew he would have to tread very carefully. "If you recall our exact conversation, you'll realize I never did actually lie to you…what I said was the truth. You inferred the rest."

"Fool me once, shame on me, eh?" John asked. He smiled a bitter little smile, and his eyes were like a wild thing's – alert, wary and watchful. "Well, I guess one could say I paid for my trust…with two years of my life, I paid for it. But you did warn me, I suppose," he conceded. "The day I met you, you did warn me."

Mycroft suddenly found himself faltering. "I never meant–"

"Oh, now that sounds familiar," John's voice lowered to an almost-growl through a half-smile. "Maybe I can even help you finish the thought this time…you never meant to leave me to rot in that prison for two years, is that what you were going to say?"

"No, I didn't," Mycroft said firmly. "I swear to you, John, I didn't. Neither Sherlock" (Mycroft tried not to notice how John winced at the sound of his brother's name) "nor I believed it would take as long as it did to dismantle Moriarty's network. Moriarty's lieutenant was on the loose in London; he had been targeting you that day at St. Batholomew's. I thought you were safer…in custody. Sherlock didn't even know you had been arrested; I never told him. We both wanted to keep you out of the line of fire, and I feared you would do something rash. It was never supposed to be for long–"

"You. Decided. I would be. Safer. In custody?" John's sandy brows lowered dangerously along with his voice. His hands came around to his sides and his fists were clenched, though he stayed where he was by the door.

Mycroft had the uneasy feeling that John was staying well back not because he couldn't stand being close to Mycroft, but because he didn't trust himself to come any closer…that John feared what he might do if some part of Mycroft were within his grasp – like, say, his neck.

John swung away a moment, and Mycroft, flinching at the sudden movement, could see the muscles cording and bunching in the doctor's neck and shoulders as he strove to remain in control of himself.

"You arrogant...pompous…self-righteous…arse." John still wasn't shouting, but he was breathing hard now, and the tension from his clenched fists was visibly spreading through his arms, shoulders, chest, torso…Mycroft discreetly felt for his phone in his breast pocket…he was beginning to be afraid that the younger man might suddenly fly at him.

But John did not. Instead, he closed his eyes and took deep, steadying breaths.

"You thought you could just kennel me, is that it?" he said, once he had got himself back under control. He turned to look at Mycroft full on. "Moriarty once referred to me as Sherlock's 'pet.'" John's eyes grew distant for a moment and his lips twisted in disgust at the remembered insult. Then he refocused on Mycroft. "And that's what you thought, too, isn't it? You and your brother both." He gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, I see it now. The pair of you lied to me, told me a fairy story the way a parent does to a child to get it to go along with something, and then put me on ice for two years…never giving me any say, any warning, anything to fucking hold onto–"

John's voice broke a little. He faltered and looked down.

"You ruined me," he whispered, so softly Mycroft almost missed it. "The pair of you. You ruined my life."

"John–"

The doctor's head snapped up. Mycroft recoiled slightly; John's eyes were glowing like blue flames with an almost feral look.

"Greg – Detective Inspector Lestrade – he believed I was innocent. And you knew I was innocent. He wanted me to contact you, ask you to help me. He was angry with me when I wouldn't – said I was too bloody proud. I'll bet he contacted you himself to ask you to intervene on my behalf, didn't he?"

Mycroft's silence was a confirmation. John nodded, then went on.

"I didn't because I was so…bloody…furious with you, for betraying your brother to Moriarty. That's what I told Greg. But there was more…I also felt…guilty. I thought you blamed me. I put your brother in the limelight with that bloody blog, and then, when you asked me to protect him, I failed. I figured you thought I deserved whatever I got, for letting your brother die. And I figured I deserved it, too…it was justice."

Mycroft was aghast. "John, that was never–"

John went on without acknowledging the interruption.

"But that was never true at all. None of it was true…all a lie, and you and your brother used me to put on a show, to convince those watching that it was all real. You let me believe it, and you left me to rot."

John closed his eyes and bowed his head; he was shaking with the effort to keep himself under control. When he finally looked up again, his face was furious, his shoulders hunched, and his fists were clenched painfully tight at his sides. His whole body seems so taut it might snap at any moment. When he spoke, his voice came out in a low hiss.

"Now you listen to me, you cold-hearted bastard…I have only one request of you, and one only. Then you and me are quits for good, yeah? It's this – stay the hell away from me. Don't speak to me, don't look at me, don't send me anything in the mail, don't put any funds in my account, don't watch me on CCTV. Don't call me, don't text me. Don't contact me in any way. Don't say my name. Don't speak on my behalf. Don't send anyone to 'protect' me. Don't so much as nod to me on the street if we happen to pass one another – hell, don't even make eye contact. Pretend I don't exist, and I'll pretend you don't exist. Because if you don't, Mycroft…if you do anything to interfere with my life, or even just remind me of your existence on this planet in any way whatsoever, I swear to God…I will fucking kill you with my bare hands. I will kill you, and if they send me back to prison for it, I'll go singing a bloody song, considering it well worth it."

John nailed Mycroft to his chair with a particularly venomous look for one long moment. Then, giving a sharp nod, he straightened, turned on his heel and left the room. He closed the door quietly behind him.

And Mycroft Holmes, frozen in his chair, pressed his hand to his thudding heart and tried to catch his breath. Not for nothing did Sherlock once call him "the most dangerous man John had ever met," and Mycroft was used to being the most feared man in whatever room he occupied. But that had not been true today.

John had threatened his life. Mycroft had caused men and women to disappear for less. But he believed John. He believed John had meant what he said – that he would kill Mycroft if Mycroft tried to interfere with him again.

It wasn't until much later, after a large brandy, that it suddenly occurred to Mycroft that John had never once mentioned Sherlock by name.

Mycroft was in his office later that same day when his second confrontation occurred. This one he had been expecting.

It was his assistant who gave him warning. She looked rather perturbed, for her. "Sir, your brother is–"

Before she could finish, Sherlock strode into the room like an avenging angel. He glared daggers at Mycroft, then turned the fierce gaze on the female assistant. "Leave."

She looked to Mycroft, who nodded, and exited the room, closing the door behind her.

Unlike John's quiet fury, Sherlock's vibrated through his every muscle. His eyes flashed and his curls stood wildly on end, reminding Mycroft of an agitated cat.

The pale grey eyes swept over Mycroft and the room like a pair of searchlights.

"He came to see you," Sherlock ground out. "John saw you at your infernal club…what did he say to you?"

His little brother he could handle. Mycroft threw down his pen and rose to his feet behind his desk so that his gaze was level with Sherlock's. He kept his voice soft and scornful when he answered.

"Deduce it yourself, Sherlock…John is not particularly imaginative; he wanted to take me to task for his wrongful incarceration. And I must say, he was far more in control of himself than you apparently are – quite a feat, given that he is the offended party here."

"Offended?" Sherlock cried. "Is that what you call it – offended? If I had known–"

"Well, you didn't," Mycroft said sharply. "Nor did you inquire. You left your 'friends' to me and I kept them safe as you requested, in the manner I saw fit, since you weren't specific as to how that should be accomplished."

"Safe? Did it never occur to you that there isn't a prison in England that doesn't hold a criminal whom I put there?" Sherlock demanded. He raised his hands to his head and clenched his fists into his hair, hard enough to hurt. "Oh, God! You saw his face! That was done with a razor, I expect, and not recently." He flung his hands down, tearing some hair with them, and leveled a look of such hatred at Mycroft that the older man faltered for a moment. "Did you think it for his own good…a worthy exchange for keeping him safe from Moriarty's people? The devil we didn't know, in this case, was better than the one we did?"

"Don't be melodramatic," Mycroft snapped, provoked enough now to refrain from long speeches. "He was in a British prison, not some Third World POW camp…really, Sherlock, you can spare me your visions of dungeons and chains and medieval torture devices. Safe, clean, well-run, civilized–"

"Oh, do spare me your hymn to Queen and Country, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted rudely. "You only make yourself look even more ridiculous. If your lovely prisons are so safe, how did John come to be injured in such a way?"

Mycroft felt uncomfortable. "In a high-security prison, there is occasionally bound to be instances of random violence, even as there are on a London street."

"I doubt that was random, but I'm going to find out…unless you care to enlighten me now?" Here Sherlock glared shrewdly from under his curly fringe. "I'm sure in your care and concern you've been checking up on him regularly."

Mycroft looked away. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course."

"A 'weather eye,'" Sherlock said scornfully. "In a prison environment, someone like John – an adrenaline fiend with PTSD – you deduced those things about him as soon as I did –"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to interrupt.

"Worried about his post-traumatic stress disorder and propensity for danger, are we?" he said disdainfully. "What did you think he would do while you were away? Nothing, I wager, but sit safely in Baker Street, waiting for his master's return, a return he had no reason to expect! I believe you give the good doctor rather too much credit, Sherlock. I've had my doubts as to the veracity of his PTSD diagnosis from the beginning, and whatever other sterling qualities John Watson may have – and I do acknowledge he has them – an above-average intelligence is not among them. I judged him to have enough intelligence to keep his mind occupied with pursuits of a scholarly and/or literary nature, yet not so much as to cause him to suffer from a lack of stimulation such as you or I would experience."

Sherlock ground his teeth audibly. "You judge John to be just another 'goldfish,' is that it, Mycroft? And here you're supposed to be the smart one."

Mycroft glowered. "I am the smart one."

"And I know my friend!"

"Oh yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now." Mycroft was scornful.

"And you don't," Sherlock said coldly. "Or rather, they don't go in for you. Perhaps you were glad to have John out of the way because you were jealous of what he has been to me…just as you were jealous when the puppy you chose preferred–"

Mycroft slammed his fists down on the desk. "Enough!" he roared.

The uncharacteristic outburst, so unlike the normally cool, unruffleable Mycroft, shocked both brothers into silence. For a moment they stood, glaring at one another, struggling to regain control. Then, in a much calmer voice, Mycroft spoke.

"Your concern over your blogger's…emotional issues is touching, I'm sure, Sherlock," he said silkily. "But it is also, at this time, misplaced. We have larger matters to concern ourselves with – namely, an imminent terror strike on London and the continued elusiveness of Moriarty's second-in-command, who is, in all likelihood, involved. This is why you were brought back to England, and this is what you will focus on."

"Oh, will I?" Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as the feeling of déjà vu swept over him. He lowered his voice, but his tone was no less menacing. "Yes, Sherlock. You will."

Sherlock held Mycroft's gaze as he took a step backwards towards the door. "I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. And I will find this nameless assassin. And when I have…you and I are through."

Sherlock glared at his brother a moment longer. Then, in a swirl of black coat and blue scarf, he swept back through the door.

Unlike John, he slammed it hard behind him.

The resounding crash shook the office, and shook Mycroft down to his bones. Uttering a shaky sigh, he sank down in this chair and buried his face in his hands.

Sherlock would get over his snit eventually. And so would John.

Mycroft was sure of it.

Special thanks to hajimebassaidai for her Brit-picking skills.