Once again, many many thanks to everyone following and reviewing my little fic.

This story is getting a lot more Mycroft than I thought. Partially because it works with the story, but mostly because I really love writing him. It's the voice; Mark Gatiss does it so well.

As far as I can tell, there isn't much in the way of accepted cannon on Sherlock's early years. So I made it up. Please feel free to point out any really glaring errors you spot.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Migraine

Mycroft Holmes was fully aware that he was cold, calculating, manipulative and not generally considered, by society at large, as a good or likeable human being.

He'd never seen this as a problem, as such; indeed, it was a significant advantage in his chosen profession. After all, why go to all the effort of actually doing something when a few carefully placed whispers in the right ears would precipitate the same result? It was much easier to merely arrange matters from the comfortable distance of his favourite antique leather armchair.

The only exception to this rule, other than really major international incidents requiring personal attention, was his brother.

The Holmes family had never been a particularly close or loving one. Mycroft and his father were very alike; both detached workaholics embroiled in Whitehall with little interest in anything else. Mr Holmes was, however, very fond of hosting grand dinner parties; for which he required a capable organiser and hostess.

For these very practical reasons, he married an attractive woman of suitable social status a few years younger than himself and found the situation a very agreeable one. His wife arranged his home comforts, leaving him more time to plot world domination before the fire with a fine cigar and a glass of extortionately expensive brandy.

Mycroft's arrival two years later was somewhat more of a surprise. Mrs Holmes was pleased with the baby, however, and as he grew Mycroft's potential as a protégé became more and more apparent.

Having noticed and been slightly concerned by her son's advanced intelligence and antisocial habits, Mrs Holmes decided that she wanted another child. She gave birth to a baby girl, Aramethia, when Mycroft was four.

Young as he had been, Mycroft still perfectly remembered being woken in the night by his mother's scream from the nursery.

Cot death was not, in those days, a recognised diagnosis. The sudden, inexplicable loss of Aramethia Holmes aged two months had a devastating but silent effect on the family; as soon as the funeral was over, her name was never mentioned again. It was as if she'd never existed; except that Father hardly ever came home from work any more and Mummy started to creep into Mycroft's room at night to watch him sleep. He could tell when she'd done this; her silent tears always left his pillows a little damp in the morning.

When Sherlock was born three years later, he was instantly enveloped in the shadow of the sister he never knew he'd lost. Their mother obsessively checked on him, never allowing her baby to be out of her sight for more than a few minutes. She moved her own bed into Sherlock's nursery and never let him sleep anywhere but in her arms.

Neither having much interest in babies, the seven-year-old Mycroft and his father spent much more time together.

Sherlock grew into a spoilt, overindulged child, petulant and demanding. Mummy wept when Mycroft went off to boarding school aged eleven, but when the time came for Sherlock to follow him she flatly refused to let him go.

It was the one and only disagreement Mr Holmes ever lost with his wife. In the end, Sherlock was home schooled; probably the reason he lost his already shaky ability to relate to his peers.

And then Carl Powers died.

Finally, Sherlock's intelligence had a focus; something that truly interested him to apply his genius to. They had always played observation games as children, which Mycroft had learned from Father and then passed on to his brother. Now Sherlock became obsessive, devouring forensics textbooks at frightening speed and spending hours stalking anyone who caught his interest.

By the time he went off to Cambridge he was isolated, socially awkward and far more intelligent than not only the other students but often the lecturers too. Needless to say, he was deeply unpopular. Bored, Sherlock began to experiment with everything he could find, starting with cigarettes and culminating with cocaine.

And every time he got in over his head, it was Mycroft who came to the rescue. Their father had long ago given up on Sherlock ever following in his footsteps, but he allowed his eldest son to practice and hone his skills on sorting out his brother's messes. It would, after all, cause embarrassment if a Holmes were jailed for breaking and entering with a set of home-made lock picks.

Father would be rolling in his grave if he knew Sherlock had confessed to murder. And Mummy would be so upset.

Mycroft supposed watching over Sherlock had become a habit. He was fond of his younger brother, as much as he was fond of anyone. Sherlock was clearly utterly incapable of attending to his own wellbeing, which left Mycroft with a strange sense of fraternal responsibility; a feeling that only intensified after their parents' deaths.

Sherlock, of course, loathed the very concept of anyone telling him what to do. He'd long resented his brother's interference, as if it were a personal insult that anyone would want to stop him getting himself killed in some idiotic stunt.

And then suddenly John Watson wandered onto the scene, and Sherlock had someone else to look after him. Someone he actually respects.

Mycroft assured himself that this was largely a positive development. John was a perfect companion for his brother; loyal, courageous, honourable, compassionate and an exceptional shot. Not to mention that considering Sherlock's attitude to his personal safety, having a trained doctor close by at all times was an extremely good idea.

Really, the situation couldn't have worked out better if I'd arranged it myself. Every time I have tried to introduce someone suitable in the past Sherlock has spotted the ruse within minutes and either made a run for it or driven them to hand in their notice within hours. Sometimes both.

He still couldn't help but feel just a tiny bit of jealousy, because Sherlock listened to John, his intellectual inferior, over the frankly brilliant Mycroft. He trusted the former soldier to guide him; to draw the line between 'good' and 'not good,' as he hadn't trusted his brother since they were children. Mycroft counted himself fortunate to get sarcasm instead of silent staring when he presented a logical and well-reasoned explanation of what his sibling had done wrong and how he should correct his future behaviour. It seemed all John had to do was shout and throw a few insults to achieve much more satisfying results.

I suspect it may simply be Sherlock's inherent stubborn contrariness. Although John Watson is a genuinely good man, worthy of admiration, my brother has never shown any inclination towards such behaviour in the past. He has also never trusted anyone to this degree; to send someone else in his place to gather data on a case is unheard of.

I must admit, John's presence does make conversations with Sherlock much easier. He doesn't spend the entire time staring silently at me or playing discords he knows give me migraines on his violin. It's rather like having a neutral mediator in a truce negotiation.

When the first reports came in about the pool explosion, Mycroft's eyes slid closed for a moment; practically a hysterical reaction coming from him. He'd foreseen something like this happening, even warned his brother not to put his doctor friend too far into the firing line; and, predictably, been totally ignored. And the result was the death of possibly the only man on Earth who Sherlock Holmes genuinely liked and listened to.

Or so it seemed. It had been Sherlock's face when Mycroft visited him in the hospital which tipped him off that all was not as it appeared. The very first moment their gazes met, an expression he hadn't seen in decades manifested in his brother's usually cold blue-grey eyes. It was gone in a split second, but that was more than enough.

Panic.

The last time I saw that look on his face was when I caught him using Father's best brandy as an accelerant in a misguided experiment into the flammability of the curtains in Mummy's sitting room. He was twelve at the time; but he still hasn't quite forgiven my success in preventing him burning the house down.

Clearly, there is something going on that he is desperate to conceal.

Mycroft's own discreet investigations had proven him correct; the body recovered from the pool site was not Doctor John Hamish Watson. It was while he was musing on the implications of that fact that he received a rather panicked phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade informing him that Sherlock was in the process of being rushed to hospital following a massive cocaine overdose.

At that point, any normal brother would have wasted no time rushing to the hospital to be with his sibling, as if their very proximity would help in some way. Mycroft, on the other hand, knew that there were much more productive ways to spend his very valuable time than sitting in some bland waiting room.

Firstly, he arranged for a team to descend on 221b and personally accompanied them to ensure that none of Sherlock's favourite hiding places were overlooked in the search for narcotics.

Really; I'm surprised he was so unimaginative as to tape the syringes to the underside of the plastic liner in the cutlery drawer. Even John probably knew about them.

Mycroft also saw to it that the place was thoroughly cleansed of John Watson's possessions and had them boxed up and removed to secure storage.

Something for which I am certain the good doctor will thank me. Better that than having his alcoholic sister turn up demanding his things and then selling the lot on ebay. And seeing them gone will doubtless help my brother think about catching Moriarty instead of his absent flatmate.

By the time he finally arrived at Sherlock's bedside, Mycroft hadn't slept in thirty-six hours and was painfully aware that he looked far from his best. But that was a temporary inconvenience, which could be attended to in due time. Getting a small but extremely advanced covert transmitter planted inside his brother's mobile phone before he woke up was his first priority.

And it would have been remiss of me, as a responsible sibling, not to recover the deleted memory while I was doing so. The texts exchanged between Sherlock and Moriarty were extremely revealing. I had of course already deduced that John was being held hostage; but I had hoped Sherlock's uncharacteristic sloppiness in miscalculating his dosage was an instruction from Moriarty rather than a simple error.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. For such a remarkably intelligent man, he can be spectacularly stupid at times. Although I admit, the photograph he received was singularly disturbing for anyone with an interest in John Watson's health and wellbeing.

After their usual formulaic argument about his drug use, Mycroft left Sherlock to his own devices, certain that Moriarty would observe his departure and use it as an opportunity to contact the now conscious patient. He was not disappointed; although hearing the familiar voice of John Watson over the receiving device was something of a surprise.

Rather more surprising was the alacrity with which Sherlock agreed to abstain from further drug use. John was more successful in a three-minute telephone call than I have been in more than a decade; although I suppose I have never threatened mass murder in order to gain his co-operation. It is nonetheless something to bear in mind next time he is being particularly difficult.

The next bout of text messages, containing Sherlock's instructions from Moriarty, was somewhat more disturbing to Mycroft. Certainly, several of them had to be permanently erased from all records before he could present the evidence to the police.

And the editing of the security camera footage took quite some time; I estimate it will be arriving for examination any minute now. Which leaves me plenty of time for a nice chat with my favourite brother…

When Mycroft entered the interview room, Sherlock's left cheek twitched.

Ah. Extreme stress. I shall brace myself for the inevitable sarcasm.

"Come to visit the condemned man, Mycroft?" Sherlock drawled scathingly. "How very charitable of you."

"No, Sherlock; I am merely her to offer once again my – not inconsiderable- assistance," Mycroft replied, taking a casual seat opposite his brother. Fortunate that I have sufficient influence to ensure that this interview is not recorded for posterity. And especially not for Moriarty.

"Want to buy me a get out of jail free card, do you?" Sherlock bit out. "Forget it; I don't want your money, brother dear."

"I want to help you, as I always have. There is no need for you to be so childishly reluctant about it."

"I am not a child running around after you any more."

"No; you are an adult who consistently runs after serial killers instead. And now one is pursuing you, with equal fervour."

"I am not being pursued."

"Of course you are. The deduction is so simple I'm certain even Lestrade would have worked it out eventually. Moriarty has taken John. And you will follow any instruction he gives in order to keep Doctor Watson alive and well."

"And if that hypothesis were correct, why would I do that?" Sherlock enquired, cagily.

"Because your flatmate is the only human being in the world you genuinely care about. The only one you trust."

"Who says I trust him?"

Mycroft smiled. All my theories confirmed by a single syllable.

"Those were his exact words regarding you, the very first time I met him. John must be rubbing off on you."

"John is dead," Sherlock stated flatly. Mycroft raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Then why did you just refer to him in the present tense? Trust, not trusted, Sherlock. He's alive. Now it is just a matter of finding him…" Mycroft rose to leave, re-buttoning his suit jacket.

"Please," Sherlock blurted suddenly. "Don't get involved."

Mycroft hesitated; that was an extremely rare word coming from his brother.

"Sherlock, you must see that you cannot defeat Moriarty alone…"

"I don't care about the game! It doesn't matter; I don't matter. John is the only thing that is important and I can't…" He stopped abruptly.

You can't lose him. Something uncharacteristically soft shone in Mycroft's cold blue eyes. Oh, Sherlock. Mummy always insisted you did have a heart, but I never quite believed her… until now.

"He deserved better," the detective mumbled, fixing his gaze on the tabletop.

"As you wish, Sherlock. I shall not interfere any further."

"Thank you." Another rare phrase; even more so when spoken so genuinely.

"If you should need anything, or change your mind…"

"I won't," he interrupted firmly.

"The offer is an open one. Mummy would be very proud of you today, I think. And so would John."

"No he wouldn't. John would tell me I'm a bloody idiot."

Mycroft smiled. "Yes, he would, wouldn't he? But he'd be proud nonetheless." The elder Holmes moved to the door of the interview room and opened it, leaving his brother seated at the table.

"Well, come along, Sherlock. I am certain you have better things to be doing than sitting in a cell."

"What… You told me you wouldn't interfere!"

"I told you I would not interfere further. Fortunately, I have already provided indisputable evidence that you were in Camden, a number of miles from the swimming pool, at the time of the murder. Not to mention the proof that your confession was under duress; you really should have deleted those texts more thoroughly, along with the photograph."

"You… bastard!" Sherlock's vast vocabulary seems to have deserted him. It does that when he gets emotional; and one look at his face… well. It makes the curtain incident look like child's play.

"Dear me; perhaps John isn't such a good influence. Soldiers are not known for their erudition."

"You gave the police fabricated evidence, Mycroft!"

"I prevented you being convicted of a murder you did not commit. I knew a thank you would be too much to ask, but…"

"What makes you so certain I didn't do it? Or don't you care?" Sherlock accused viciously. "Just trying to keep me at your disposal to do your legwork so you never have to move from your cosy office?"

Mycroft sighed. "You, Sherlock, create more legwork than any of my other duties. And I know that you are innocent because I know my brother."

"You never knew me, brother," Sherlock spat the word as if it were something foul. "If you think I wouldn't kill for John Watson."

"I have no doubt you would, if the situation warranted it." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "It is curious that the two of you bonded so strongly with such alacrity. It seems your little Study In Pink forged something unbreakable; a secret shared, a trust given… a life saved."

"You would stoop so low as to use that?"

"I will use every tool at my disposal, if I must. You should remember that, Sherlock. Now, since you have refused any further assistance, I should be getting back to the office." He paused in the doorway when his brother spoke again, icy rage and utter determination dripping from every syllable.

"If Moriarty kills John, I will hold you personally responsible, Mycroft."

"He won't." I am ninety six point eight percent certain that he won't. Moriarty knows you need John as well as I do. "I'll arrange to have his things returned to Baker Street; I imagine you have more pressing matters to attend to. Happy hunting."

SHSHSHSHSHSH

I can't tell you how much fun I had picturing Sherlock and the Flammable Curtains.