"You told him all throughout childhood not to get involved, that caring was a disadvantage. It's no wonder he's trying to redo the past! Don't say this isn't psychological anymore, Mycroft, because we're way beyond that! A grown man doesn't bring a duck into the flat, terrified that the scary man he met days ago will judge him for it!"
Mycroft leaned against his brown leather chair, his eyes fixed on a point level with John's eyes but just beyond. They were twenty minutes into this conversation and still getting nowhere. "Dr. Watson—"
"John. It's John, you pretentious…it's John. Don't patronize me."
A tight smile. "John. Whether I agree with you or not, I don't quite follow what you wish to gain from this conversation."
"I want him to have a brother. He's getting a rare opportunity here, Mycroft, to do the screwed-up part of life all over again. Be there for him this time."
"I was the first time," Mycroft said, quickly checking his tone. He wasn't prone to outbursts; he wouldn't start now. "I was there. I was his protector, John. You protect him now in your own way, don't you? You hide him from Donovan; you don't tell him the truth about what happened. You think lying is kinder. I am not concerned with kindness, John. His protection was my main concern, and I quickly learned that outside forces will not always be under my control. I cannot always prevent Donovan's and Anderson's and mean children and the death of animals, of people. Redbeard's death is not the worst thing Sherlock's been through, but it hurt him the most because I taught him how to protect himself. That, John, is the kinder option."
The doctor walked to the other side of Mycroft's library, pouring himself a glass of scotch, then another. "I'm sorry. I know you care about him; I'm not saying you don't. I shouldn't have implied that. But I do have a different opinion about what's best for him. He's chosen me as his caretaker. I think it would be good if you were in his life. A compromise between are ideologies, right? We tell him the truth about who you are, but you aren't…well." He took another drink. "The Ice Man."
Mycroft sighed, glazing his eyes over a few of his volumes. "I hardened Sherlock's heart after Redbeard's death, John, because another of infinitely greater importance to him was imminent. Please understand that everything I do is calculated; the process may be cold, but the drive is not. Love is a vicious motivator, as Sherlock says."
John put his drink down, seeing something close to pain in Mycroft's eyes. "Who did you both lose?"
"Has Sherlock ever mentioned Sherrinford, John?"