A/N: It's Sunday, which means that it's also an update day. (BEAMS) But, before moving along with the story…

THANK YOU, so, so much, for your reviews and support! How you all found your way to this story is beyond me. But I'm really happy that you did! (hugs)

Awkay, before I get all mushy on you… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.


Idiot's Guide to Brotherly Bonding


/ When Mycroft first came back home it was more or less a mutual agreement that the young man would settle into his adoptive parents' house. They'd nearly lost both of their children. There was no way they'd let either one out of their sight now.

Mycroft slept. A lot. Which alone was worrying to Sherlock who knew that his brother had never needed much rest. Yet whenever his brother emerged from his old room he appeared pale and utterly exhausted. The man wasn't sickly thin anymore but that was the about only positive change Sherlock was able to pinpoint. Mycroft had never been much of a talker but as it was the man could've been mistaken for being mute.

Stubborn and determined as always, Sherlock pulled every trick he could think of to lure Mycroft out of that horrible haze. Mycroft took his antics with a remarkable amount of patience. But everyone has a limit. And for the big brother that came when he caught Sherlock visiting the teen's secret stash in the house's basement floor.

At first Mycroft simply stared with eyes that Sherlock could faintly recall facing when he woke up after his overdose. "Sherlock, what is this?" With two strides and a single fluid motion the man had taken the wooden box that contained his stash and hurled it at a wall. "How stupid are you? You were getting better!"

Sherlock snorted. It ended up sounding a little moist, which he would've hated if he'd paid any mind. "Oh, I should get better? Like you? At least I'm facing the world instead of running away and shutting everything out whenever it's convenient for me."

The visible shudder was the only warning he got. "Get out, Sherlock." It was said in such a voice that would've chilled anyone to their bones. Mycroft refused to look at him. The man was actually trembling from effort to hold back what looked like a hurricane. "Get… out… of my sight. Right now. Before I say or do something that I'll regret."

Sherlock knew that he was playing a dangerous game. But he was too angry and, frankly, desperate to hold himself back. His eyes focused on his brother's trembling fists. "Or what? You'll hit me like William did?"

Finally Mycroft looked at him. And in a flash Sherlock realized, with a stab like flash of certainty, that'd he'd just uttered something irreversible. The blank mask that the older brother had worn was definitely gone. At first there was such hurt, shock and anguish that it would've broken anyone's heart. And then wounded rage that cut even deeper. "GET OUT!"

This time Sherlock didn't hesitate. And for once he didn't even try to get the last word because nothing would've undone what just slipped from his mouth. He pretended that he didn't hear the sounds of something crashing hard and breaking.

On his way out Sherlock passed by their adoptive parents. Based on their shocked expressions they hadn't missed the commotion. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He never knew of the tears welling in them. "That place where you sent him was supposed to fix him! They were supposed to help him! Those idiots wrecked everything!"

Upon leaving Sherlock heard his name being called but he didn't care. By the time he came back late that night the door of Mycroft's room was firmly closed. For a while Sherlock contemplated letting his brother know that he was still sober. Instead cowardice won and he slipped into his own room.

The following day Mycroft left yet again, announcing that the arrangement just wasn't working for him anymore. And he needed to continue with his studies because he was too far behind already. The brothers exchanged barely a word before parting ways. For the second time in his life Sherlock watched their adoptive father drive Mycroft away. And for the first time he began to realize that things would never be the same. /


/ During the nine months they shared an apartment Spencer didn't see much of his roommate. He was busy with studies and Jim seemed to be as well because the man was hardly ever in. Sometimes Spencer wondered why Jim bothered to pay the rent.

It was already rather late in the evening when Spencer came home from a long and exhausting but exciting day of working on his thesis. He blinked with surprise upon discovering that the lights were on. "Jim?" he called out. "Are you home?"

"On my way out." Jim's voice came from his right so unexpectedly that he shivered. The man was pulling on a long, black coat. "I'm in the mood for some Chinese. Are you hungry?"

Spencer shook his head, his senses still on alert. It was absolutely ridiculous but something just felt… off. "Not really. I think I'll go bed." He stretched and headed towards his room. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah. See you." Just before opening the door Jim added, almost as though in a sudden afterthought. "Oh, and Spencer? It's James, not Jim."

By the time Spencer peered over his shoulder with a frown of confusion his flatmate had already left. /


Spencer frowned while waking up, unable to remember the dream he'd just been having. There was still some cold sweat lingering on his skin and his pulse was elevated, which were clear signs that the dream had been intense. So what…?

"You alright?" Sherlock's voice surprised him. As did the fact that the detective was still there. The man's sharp eyes were focused on a newspaper but they flickered towards both him and Mycroft, who was sleeping soundly. "You were whimpering in your sleep."

For a few moments Spencer was too stunned to react. Then, slowly, a smile appeared to his lips. "Yeah, I'm fine." He nodded towards Mycroft. "Is he?"

Sherlock shrugged. The detective's shoulders seemed painfully tense. "Sleeping. It's getting incredibly dull." Those words were harsh but there were a million things hidden underneath them. A weight that'd been born out of so much more than just worry.

Spencer sighed although it ended up sounding more like a yawn. "He needs the rest", he pointed out gently. And really, the sleep and hospital care seemed to have done miracles. There was a little more color on the government official's face. The same couldn't be said about Sherlock. "You should go and get some rest, too."

"I'm perfectly fine", Sherlock bit out. "I'm not going anywhere yet." Seeming to sense his confusion the younger Brit went on in a dry tone. "Mycroft isn't a model patient. As soon as he can walk more than five steps without collapsing he'll attempt to leave."

Spencer couldn't stop the small smile that appeared to his lips. "That sounds familiar." He sighed, glancing at the depressingly white and sterile room around him. "I can't say that I blame him, though. I hate hospitals."

All of a sudden Sherlock's full attention was on him. The man's eyes grew sharper and more alert, seeing far more than they should've. "You seem to have experience." The gaze flickered on him for a couple of more seconds. "Your breathing doesn't sound quite right when you're in a great deal of physical or emotional strain, indicating a past severe respiratory distress. And you limp a little when you're too tired. Both of those are signs of prolonged hospital visits."

For a few moments Spencer stared. Perhaps he should've been offended. Or at least taken aback. Instead a small grin made its way to his face. For the first time he was able to imagine that maybe, just maybe, they were brothers, after all. "That was pretty incredible."

Sherlock shrugged. This time it seemed a little less stiff than before. "Basic deductions, really. You would've been able to pull off similar." The sleuth looked at his restlessly drumming fingers, seeming aware of the fact that his own were moving in a nearly identical pattern. Traces of ghosts that they'd fought very, very hard to leave behind. "We… may have more in common than I first concluded."

Spencer's smile grew. He even dared to say that he felt warmer than before although the room's uncomfortably cool temperature remained unchanged. "Maybe we started on the wrong foot", he suggested.

Sherlock didn't respond, which wasn't a huge surprise. They sat in a remarkably comfortable silence. Both of them guarding Mycroft's rest although the middle brother would've never admitted it, Spencer just thinking and Sherlock pretending to read the newspaper that was upside down.

Eventually Spencer decided that they needed a little distraction. "It may take a while before he wakes up again. That visit from Dr. Barton took a lot out of him." He didn't know what words were exchanged between the doctor and Mycroft. But she left with her face deathly pale and the government official had been asleep in a matter of seconds. Spencer contemplated for a bit. "Do you play poker?"

Sherlock snorted. "I refuse to play cards with someone who grew up in Las Vegas." The man mused for a while. "Do you think they have 'Operation' here?" Seeing his stun the detective rolled his eyes. "Do close your mouth. I'm bored. If I don't get something to do soon I'll go to the morgue and experiment on the bodies."

A second ticked by. Then another. "What?"


At first John worried that perhaps Sherlock might run away entirely after Mycroft's hospitalization and the onslaught of guilt it obviously triggered. And then, a couple of days later, he feared that Sherlock might end up as a patient himself. Just like during cases the detective refused to eat or sleep. Or to leave the room much, for the matter. As was to be expected over the past couple of days the Brit had started getting on the hospital staff's nerves. At this point John wasn't sure which one was a greater threat on Sherlock, the man himself or the nurses.

So as John approached Mycroft's hospital room, returning from a few hours of sleep and a phone call to Mary, he expected to find a lot of things and few of them were pleasant. He expected just about anything, really, but what faced him when he opened the room's door. It took all he had to hold back a gasp.

Sitting firmly beside a still sleeping Mycroft's bed like it was a regular thing Sherlock and Spencer were solving what appeared to be a massive book of crossword puzzles. Few words were exchanged, in fact most of the talking came in the form of gruff growls and excited little hums. Still the two worked in a seamless unison, two hands moving at a incredible speed on the book's pages. Two baffling minds supporting each other perfectly. Of course they hadn't become the closest of brothers in overnight. But having something of common interest to focus on, something that filled them with that level of determination…

Maybe the time of miracles wasn't over yet.

For a few more seconds John remained, marveling the sight that he couldn't have imagined even in his wildest dreams. Then, careful not to disturb the frail air of peace in the room, he closed the door and walked away. Perhaps they'd have something in the cafeteria that didn't smell like the promise of a food poisoning.


It was pure madness, all of it. And if Spencer had actually allowed himself to think about it he might've lost his mind. Everything from his mother's death, the revelation of his real father and the arrival of his brothers kept spinning around his head in a big mess. Surreal, all of it. But perhaps something good might still prevail.

Spencer emerged from his thoughts when Mycroft appeared, having signed all the papers necessary to be discharged against his doctor's advice. Although the man himself claimed that he was sick and tired of the hospital environment Spencer suspected that the desire to get out had much more to do with Diana's impending funeral. The agent understood, even if he didn't necessarily approve.

"Are you sure that you're alright to leave?" Spencer inquired while they made their way towards his car. Sure, Mycroft looked a lot better than right after being admitted. But the man was clearly by no means healthy.

"I'm perfectly fine", Mycroft announced as they packed up into the vehicle. And it sounded like the man might've meant it. "Or well, at least I will be. As alright as anyone in our family can be."

Spencer couldn't help but smile a little at that one. He had a psychiatric patient for a mother and a recently executed contract killer for a biological father, an utter failure for a stepfather and two geniuses who just possibly weren't sociopaths for brothers. And what sort of an addition did he make? "When one of us has children we'll have a lot of explaining to do."

Mycroft shrugged. Was that… the beginning of a smirk? "At least they won't have boring childhoods."

Spencer chuckled, coming to a conclusion that there just wasn't anything he could add to that.

They'd been driving for quite a while in a pleasant silence until Spencer spoke once more. "Sherlock wanted to come along. He never admitted it out loud, of course, but I know he did. Both John and I agreed that it wouldn't have been a good idea. I think the hospital staff was already ganging up to maul him."

Mycroft's eyes softened a little, most likely without the man noticing. "Well. Sherlock tends to have that affect on people."

"He's been worried", Spencer revealed without processing it further. As soon as the words left his mouth he wondered how much more he could blurt out. "I know that he acts like you're his… arch enemy, or something like that. But he cares about you a lot."

Mycroft sighed, looking out the window. It took a while before the Brit's voice murmured barely audibly. "That's always been his problem. When he cares he cares too much."

Seems to run in the family. Spencer bit his lip to keep those words to himself. Instead he focused on the road ahead.

As soon as they entered the house where Spencer and Diana used to live they could smell something burning. Or rotting. It was hard to tell which. "What…?"

Before the question could be finished John rushed by, carrying a fire extinguisher. "I only left him alone for ten bloody minutes while I went grocery shopping. I swear! Apparently he decided to try cooking." There was a suffering look on the smaller man's face. "He's fine, even though his ego was bruised. But I wouldn't set foot into the kitchen for a few hours."

Muttering something very, very dark under his breath Spencer ignored John's advice and rushed towards the kitchen as well. These new additions to his family were going to be the death of him. It was disturbing how little he minded.


Mycroft took advantage of the distraction and retreated to a further part of the house. He had a very important phone-call to make and he didn't want the others to hear it. Even after closing the door he waited for a few moments to be sure that there were no approaching steps until he dialed the familiar numbers.

Erik Collins had destroyed or come close to destroying far too many eyes. He knew that the man's execution had taken place during his hospitalization. Still, he needed to make sure. Because there was a tingling sensation of dread on his skin that wouldn't go away.

He expected to hear Conrad Winston's voice. Instead the one who picked up was a woman who sounded like she'd been crying. "Hello?"

Mycroft tensed up. A million electric jolts of alarm crossed him all at once, striking him numb and cold. "I… was trying to reach Conrad Winston."

There was a moment of confusion, followed by what could've been a sob or a gasp. "Oh… my gosh, Mycroft…!" And then, finally, he recognized her voice. "It's been ages…"

Mycroft swallowed, feeling dizzy for a second while the memories came flooding in. How she sounded and how her body felt during those secret nights they spent together, long before she ended up together with Conrad. Their very own little secret… "It has", he agreed, barely recognizing his voice. He then frowned, using all his professionalism to snap himself out of those days that were long since gone. Something was wrong. She wasn't the type to cry easily. "Are you alright?"

There was a long pause, during which she managed to regain some of her composure. Which didn't make the verbal bomb that fell any easier to take. "I was supposed to call you." She gulped hard. "Conrad… He's dead. He killed himself this morning."


/ Erik Collins' prison cell was like something ripped out of a horror movie. The blood and other, even more disturbing splatters were one thing. The body was another.

Whoever did the bastard in left nothing of the face intact.

Conrad Winston took a deep breath even though his chest felt so tight that it was nearly impossible. He was the head of the prison. For the past few hours everyone had been asking him questions that he just couldn't answer.

How was it possible that someone sneaked into a maximum security prison and managed to kill one of the prisoners along with two guards?

Now, nine hours later, the questions had finally stopped. Or maybe they were just asked behind his back. Conrad still stood by the now empty cell, staring at the blood. Even though the body had been taken away long since he could remember it in vivid detail. He remembered the bodies of the guards as well. He didn't think that he'd ever be able to not remember.

"I just finished digging through the security footage." The sudden voice of a CIA-agent, Jenny Rhyes, managed to startle him. Her blue eyes were sharper than anything he'd ever seen. Combined with her radiant red hair they created a spectacular sight. "What's visible is a hooded figure, most likely male, approaching the building. Then every single camera is switched off for fifteen minutes."

Well, that explained why Sears and Kimmel, the guards, seemed to have been on a frantic move before their deaths. Of course they were alarmed by the malfunctioning security footage. Conrad shivered and nodded stiffly, a foul taste rising into his mouth. "How did that happen?"

"That's what my team and I are trying to find out."

Conrad nodded again, a heavy weight landing on his shoulders. He glanced towards the agent. "So… CIA, huh?"

"Yes." She offered no further explanations. At least immediately. She glanced around and waited until a csi passed by before daring to speak again. "Look… Breaking into a prison like this should be impossible. We have every reason to suspect involvement from the inside. So, if I were you… I'd be pretty careful with who I trust."

Another hour later Conrad made his way to his office and closed the door firmly. It took a mighty while before he felt calm enough to make the phone call. "Is she safe?" he demanded instantly.

"What? No 'hello'? I'm insulted." Sensing that more was required the one he called sighed with boredom. "Fine, alright. She's safe. And I've got the press under control so for now this is our own little secret. Just like we agreed. Don't you trust me at all?"

"No", Conrad admitted instantly. He did feel just a little bit better. But nothing could've erased the ton's weight sitting on his shoulders.

"Well, I can't exactly fault you on that", the other chuckled.

Conrad licked his lips. His heart was still beating too fast and his head was starting to hurt. "What about Collins? Did you kill him?"

"You really want him dead, don't you?" And that was all the answer he'd get. "If I were you, I'd worry a lot more about that CIA-agent headed your way." There was some sort of commotion which earned an impatient groan from the other. "Now, as it is I'm quite busy. Have a great day, Mr. Winston. It was a pleasure doing business with you." With that and the sound of a gunshot the phone call was over.

And Conrad realized that he just sold his soul to the devil. /


TBC


A/N: Oh crap… This won't be good. This won't be good AT ALL. (winces) Well, at least it seems that the brothers are finally STARTING TO get along. As much as they possibly could, anyway…

Soooo… Thoughts? Comments? PLEASE, do let me know. I'd love to hear from you.

Oh, and a very important note on the future of this story. SO, right now the plot is branching so that I see a sequel as the most fluent option. Which means that there's… about three more chapters of this story left, then a sequel that dives into a bit different waters. And we'll see if the brothers keep getting along or kill each other. How does that sound to you? And, before I forget… The potential sequel would be rated M. I've gotta warn you, it's not an empty rating. Those of you who have read my former work know how brutal I can get with the WHUMP.

Until next time, ya all! 'Hope I'll see you all there.

Take care!