First I wanted to post a short intermezzo instead of this chapter. But continuing with Mycroft's story before coming back to Mary's scheme just felt right.

I have been thinking a lot about Mycroft's true character and at some point a question formed in my mind. A big "What if?" What if not Sherlock was the one with social and emotional problems but Mycroft? What if the Mycroft we all know is the result of a long fight against his own weakness? I wanted, no I needed to give my story a slightly different twist to explain the dynamics between the two brothers. I would love to know what you think about this.

Chapter 12: Icemen can melt

There were many things people did not know about Mycroft Holmes. He had a great fondness for truffle chocolate topped with a strong espresso, he secretly did two hours workout nearly every day, he never slept naked and had an aversion against anything else than cotton sheets. He only wore tailored clothes even his socks were handmade and according to his wishes. His house was always clean and tidy but he liked wild gardens where flowers grew even at inconvenient places like the old stone table once used to balance a book – when Mycroft still had time at hand to read. Reading was another of his greatest pleasures. He read rather fast, more sucking in the letters than chewing and tasting them as they deserved. But if he liked a book he always read it a second time, storing words and sentences in his head, memorizing everything for later use. When he could not fall asleep or when he was bored in a meeting, he told himself stories. It was a good thing that he never wore a face but always a mask.

Some things had become known to his personal assistant, like the way he drank his tea or that he always read files in a certain order. Necessary things like where to put what on his desk, Mycroft would even comment on a wrongly placed pen.

This habit became known: Never mess up Mycroft's personal space. But it did fit the air Mycroft always gave himself. Always tidy, always neat, always in control...

Mycroft had buried his secrets rather deeply, so most times he did not even remember them himself.

A week had gone by since Mycroft had last seen his brother; they had moved him to a more comfortable cell. Mycroft had insisted on that and risked another fight with the prime minister. Sherlock looked more like himself apart from the fact he was making a headstand when Mycroft stepped into the confined space.

"Don't you have anything better to do than annoying me with your presence?" Sherlock's voice had become softer and less strain. He glided back into a normal position, brushing his messy hair back with his left hand.

"I have come to discuss your options", Mycroft said, his voice controlled like always when doing business. Only this time it was his brother. Mycroft stared unto the files in his hand not daring to look into his brother's eyes. The last days had shaken him to the core and if anyone could detect it, it was his little brother. Mycroft pushed the chair back from the small table; he slipped out of his jacket and placed it neatly on the back. He gestured Sherlock to sit down on what they in prison called a bed. An uncomfortable nightmare for a light sleeper like Mycroft that was certain. Then Mycroft sat down on the chair.

"The government has made quite clear that they neither want a process that would lead to discussions in the press, nor would they let you go without a verdict. So..." Mycroft gulped and absentmindedly scratched at his wrists. "So there is only one option left."

"The mission to the East." Sherlock said it as a matter of fact, as if he was not bothered even the slightest. Mycroft knew that was not the case.

"Yes."

There were no words left to say. Other brothers would have cried, would have touched, perhaps even held each other. Not so these two: Mycroft stared on the ground, the finger nails of his right hand buried deep into the skin of his left hand. Sherlock did not move.

"Mycroft."

"I will try to keep you safe."

"Mycroft." This time Sherlock's voice was louder and more firm.

"Mycroft, stop!" And suddenly Sherlock's hands closed around Mycroft's wrists. "Stop doing this."

Later Mycroft could not tell who was more shocked to see the little red dots soaking through his shirt. He or Sherlock. A bloody scratch was visible under the right one of his cufflinks. Mycroft's hands shook.

"Mycroft, no matter what: You are still in control. Do you understand?"

"How can I be?" It was the first time in ages Mycroft betrayed himself in displaying signs of weakness.

Oh, everyone had always assumed that he was the stronger one of the brothers: Emotionally unattached, clear minded, bright future ahead, in control of his own life, no drug or health problems. Everyone still assumed that Mycroft was the one who kept Sherlock grounded while it had always been the other way round. Truth be told: Sherlock had not been an easy child, always full of mischief, experimenting on things that were clearly not safe for children, running around, bouncing like a ball, never to shut up. But he was a lovely child that made his parents no problems at all as long as he could roam the fields and feel free. The problems came later when a child used to freedom had to learn there where rules adults had to stick to. Drugs were only one form of protest he took during his teenage years. A bad habit that turned dangerous when he began to mimic his older brother, tried to hide emotions, tried never to become attached. Sherlock clearly was not a person who was able to do something like that.

But no matter what, Sherlock had always been a joy for his parents. Not him but Mycroft had been the problem child, the one they had always feared would fail in life and be lost in darkness. Mycroft the little boy who could not cope with what the world threw towards him.

The first two years his problems had not been evident, he had cried rather a lot but many children did. But then his parents ever so often found him hiding: under beds, tables chairs, sometimes behind a curtain. Often he had his eyes firmly shut, his hands pressed on his ears and sometimes he was humming a tune to himself while tears streamed down his face. They had doctors take a look at him. But no one could explain. Until his parents found the explanation themselves: his eyes saw too much, his ears heard too much and every taste and smell seemed to overwhelm the child, his brain was not able to comprehend the massive amount of information it gathered. As little as he was he had not yet been able to figure out how to store and sort things in his head. And so his body had ruled his brain, making him a frightened little creature. This inside in their little boy's psyche changed everything, because as clever as his parents were they gave all the control to Mycroft. He decided when things became too much, when it was time to retreat, when there was no option left but shun everyone and close the door. This solved Mycroft's biggest problems but created another one. Since that day Mycroft needed to be in control of everything.

But when control was everything, losing it could only mean one thing: Under the right circumstances icemen will melt. Put under pressure he might also break. Into tiny, little pieces.

"You are not losing control, Mycroft." Sherlock spoke very softly now, the way he only sometimes did and only with mother and John. Never with Mycroft. Not since their childhood days.

Having control over his life, putting things into a certain order had helped little Mycroft to gain the capability to survive everyday life. Only sometimes when everything became too much he did hide – even after his brother was born. Their parents had feared that Mycroft would fall back into the dark hole his early childhood had been when his mother became pregnant again. They had waited very long with that even though they had always wanted a second child. But there was Mycroft and Mycroft was... different.

But all their fear had been without reason because for Mycroft the birth of his little brother was a turning point. He no longer was the most vulnerable part of the family. He had someone to care for. For Sherlock this became more than annoying later in his life when his older brother could not refrain from the old habit to look after him even though Sherlock now was an adult.

In some ways Mycroft had been the perfect older brother, educating his younger brother, teaching him what he had learned, loving him. And in other ways he was the worst, always proving he was better, wiser, faster in thinking – simply older and more reasonable. He had no sense at all for childhood games like climbing trees or running through the meadows. He read a lot in these days and was as fond of experiments as Sherlock became far later. And sometimes he found delight in frightening his little brother with creepy stories about supernatural forces that would demolish unnerving little brothers. And unnerving Sherlock could become. A force of nature – as the family put it.

Little Mycroft became somewhat of a learned man. Finally in a book about monks' life in the middle ages he found the tale how they memorised their prayers, remembering every line as a step on their long way from their dormitory to church. Then he found other books about memorising techniques and how the human brain could be trained. And this was what finally made him normal. A beautiful garden laid out after exact plans and a library in its middle, vaults and boxes to store away feelings – they had always made him worse – and a place for every memory he might ever need again. Later he taught Sherlock to do the same, but where Mycroft was practical and simple, Sherlock was boasting as always. His mind palace. How typical.

Mycroft's skin was still burning, red marks had formed on his skin, an itchy rash. He longed to scratch it but Sherlock had his hands tightly in his grip and for a moment Mycroft wondered why no guard came rushing to safe him. Then he remembered he had ordered them to leave. He still held some power after all... still...

"You are not losing it, are you?"

The rash had become a problem in his teenage years when Mycroft again had had an anxiety attack, certainly due to the changes in his body and teenage hormones cursing through his system, but also because he had put too much pressure on himself. He had fallen in love once and in his attempt to be more normal than anyone else he had failed extraordinarily. He had lost control and scratched his body until he had bled from every pore. Healing balm for his skin and summer holidays had cured him.

He had never ever lost it again. He became the perfect machine, the walking computer everyone knew him to be. Only his brother and parents sometimes looked behind his polished facade.

"Mycroft?"

"No, I am not losing it. I am... I am still in control. I think." Back to telling lie after lie again, like the time when both became adults and Sherlock claimed his freedom. Mycroft had pretended not to look out for him and Sherlock had pretended not to care in the slightest for his brother. Quarrels and feuds even John had to witness years later were the result.

"Ok." Sherlock was not fooled but for Mycroft's sake pretended to be. There was a time for everything and this was not the one for discussions.

"How long do we have? When will you send me away, brother mine?"

"Not decided yet, maybe a month."

"So enough time to come up with a scheme." Sherlock had a mischievous gleam in his eyes like the little pirate boy.

"Sherlock!"

They were on secure terrain again: Sherlock pretending to be the god of chaos and Mycroft that of order. Like always: Pretending but not believing.

That evening after Mycroft had left for the first time since his imprisonment Sherlock asked if he was allowed to make a call. There were things his mother needed to know. And Mycroft losing control was certainly one of them.