Ugh. What happens when I lose a job shift I was counting on because my boss's boss didn't tell him I wouldn't be showing up for an earlier shift on his word and a stupid eighteen-year-old banishes me for it: I'm in the right mindset to write this chapter.

Remember the Enemy

37

For all appearances, Sherlock was a statue.

Mostly.

His spine was rigid, his eyes fixed pointedly on something in the distance as the car travelled over the road. His left hand was curled into a tight fist.

His right anxiously kneaded the edge of his seat constantly.

Mycroft's eyes didn't move from that one point, watching his brother's fingers clenched and dig into the cushion.

Slowly, he looked away, staring at a point straight ahead that didn't exist, much like Sherlock.

And subtly, without him moving from that identical position in the slightest, he lifted his right arm, twisting his wrist slightly, his hand resting palm-up on the area between them.

When he felt the soft, warm touch of Sherlock's fingertips against his, his lips curved. Just slightly.

It's alright. You're not alone. Not anymore.

**

When they pulled into the driveway, going for a distance before the car stopped and the driver got out, the two brothers waited, just for a minute.

"Non fallit quod dixisti," Mycroft said quietly, breaking the long silence. Don't forget what I told you.

Sherlock nodded, even though the words hadn't actually been spoken aloud.

"Nolo," he promised. I won't.

Synonymously, they opened their doors at the same moment, then closed them, advancing towards the house side by side.

"Haud frangit animum potest." He can't break your spirit.

"Numquid potest non ille?" Can't he?

"Non confringet te. Aenean abiit et habitavit in igne." He won't break you. You've walked through fire and lived.

Just as the door opened, Sherlock delivered his last sentence.

"Ego sum formidet."

I am afraid.

There was nothing Mycroft could say before they stepped through the doorway, both of them instinctively sweeping the area with their eyes.

Their father leaned casually against the railing of the staircase; their mother's eyes flicked nervously from his face to her son's, taking in the way the muscles in Mycroft's arms tensed visibly, his fingers brushing against Sherlock's wrist; how the younger Holmes' gaze flared with defiance as he met Kerran's invasive stare, then turned to quiet sorrow and pain as he met hers, only briefly.

O, son of mine, thought Lydia Holmes, you have changed.

"Mycroft," Kerran ordered quietly, although the more appropriate tone would have been lighter.

The elder son's eyes- the same color as his father's- glinted with something dark, but he stepped forward.

"You haven't caused any trouble," Kerran said stiffly. "You can go."

"What if I don't particularly feel like it?" Mycroft challenged, in an equally civilized tone.

Kerran's eyes flashed in return. Sherlock had an odd feeling that most of the meaning here would be transferred nonverbally.

"It was not an offer, Mycroft Dominus Holmes," Kerran threatened quietly. "Go."

Mycroft's nostrils flared at the use of his full name. He made eye contact with Sherlock without turning his head, raising his eyebrows; when his younger brother nodded almost imperceptibly, he went up the stairs, still wearing the light jacket he'd put on against a cool summer's rain.

It had been Sherlock's idea: matching appearances, a semblance of unity, disorient, set the stage.

When Mycroft's footsteps had faded, Sherlock met his father's eyes, quirking a brow; his took off his own jacket, hanging it up.

He'd fully intentionally worn a short-sleeved shirt underneath.

He heard his mother's breath catch, then her shaky exhale.

He could feel the disapproval coming from his father.

He bypassed him entirely, beginning to walk up the stairs.

"Where," Kerran asked in a low voice, "the bloody hell do you think you're going?"

Sherlock stopped, closing his eyes and he smiled to himself.

He turned, going back down.

"To my quarters," he inquired. "Why, isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

"You and I haven't finished," Kerran said. "There are things we have yet to cover."

A challenge showed in Sherlock's rebellious gaze: get to the heart of it, already.

"You've gotten in more fights this year than any other," Kerran threw out. "I won't stand for it. You must learn to hold yourself back."

Acutely aware of every sensation, Sherlock carefully fisted his hands.

"Jump to the main matter, will you, Father?" he asked. "Let's spare each other this dance."

Very deliberately, he scratched at a spot on the left side of his neck with his right hand, fully displaying Mäsiar's scar on the outside of his right upper arm.

Fury flashed in Kerran's eyes.

"It won't do for our reputation," he growled. "Tame yourself-"

"Or you'll do it for me?" Sherlock taunted.

"Sherlock," Lydia pleaded quietly. "Don't."

"I learned the lesson of not fighting hard and fast," Sherlock continued, subtly leaning slightly forward to increase his height, just by a touch. He'd grown quite a bit this year, giving the motion some weight. "You know all about it, I suppose, don't you? All those little reports they like to send home. What did you think when you heard that your younger son had nearly died, staggering through the halls covered in blood on multiple occasions? Did they figure out who it was in that clearing in the forest? You must know; I heard them talking about the memo they sent out to all the parents. What did you think, when you heard of the death of Lydia Martensson, when the fingerprints near her matched those of your sons- both, and not just the one you hate? It wouldn't do, would it? How much did it cost for the police to falsify their reports?"

Kerran bared his teeth as Lydia covered her eyes.

"Listen to me," his father threatened in a low voice. Sherlock knew what the twitching of his hands meant, what was to come. "Don't you dare allow yourself to become affiliated with a mudblooded sewage-crawling peasant like her-"

That was Sherlock's snapping point.

In an instant, he drew Moran's knife, and pointed it at his father's throat.

"Don't you dare insult her in my presence," Sherlock snarled. "She was a far greater person that you will ever be."

Something cold, something cruel, a wolf's rage, shone in his eyes, just for a second. It was so utterly feral and instinctive, Kerran took a step back.

"I won't stand for it."

And with that, he departed, going upstairs.

**

[Well done, Sherlock.]

["Dominus" means "lord" or "young master" or almost anything along that line you can think of in Latin. I was inspired to find something in that language for Mycroft's middle name, and that popped up along the line. It was so very, very, incredibly fitting.]

The summer passed in much the manner one might have expected it to.

Or at least, Mycroft thought, the way he'd expected it to.

Sherlock didn't entirely escape the abuse, of course. There were plenty of nights spent in his room, plenty of nights of quiet, mournful violin music, or intense, antagonized rhythms that made his heart pound faster.

Somewhere in there, Sherlock reached his eighth birthday, then passed it without so much as a thought to it.

It went quickly enough, Mycroft supposed. The weather began to cool, eventually.

His stomach dropped through the floor when their schedules arrived early and they compared them: Mycroft was scheduled to start a week earlier than Sherlock.

Things grew edgier. The bruises grew darker. On one occasion, Sherlock came to his room one night with three fingers in his right hand broken.

He practically ignored it.

A new marker, however, was set one night on one of the times where Mycroft had gone to Sherlock. Sherlock had picked up the bow to his violin, beginning to draw it across the strings when Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"Show me your right arm."

Sherlock pulled it closer to his chest as Mycroft stood, approaching his younger sibling as one might a frightened dog.

It was a significant sign when Mycroft held out a hand and Sherlock wordlessly allowed his sleeve to be pushed back.

The livid red mark- four inches long- was frighteningly clear against the pale alabaster.

"He's moved on to burns instead of just blows," Mycroft breathed, some strange ache lancing his chest.

Sherlock drew a quick breath and swallowed as Mycroft laid his fingers against the mark, noting how warm it was compared to the skin around it.

"Yes," he said quietly, and his voice trembled.

*

The day finally came.

Mycroft was fully aware of what he was doing. He was abandoning his younger brother to seven days of terror, fear and pain, with no safe harbor to flee to.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the predawn quiet deafening. It was better this way; an early train to London, getting settled in early, avoiding a scene with their parents.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, shrugged.

But gently, carefully, with utmost concentration, he laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

There was something he had to say; it would be, quite possibly, one of the most important things he'd said so far in his life.

"Remember the enemy," Mycroft murmured, dawn reaching over the horizon.

Radovan's phrase: Eyes on the prey, not the horizon.

Mycroft's: Remember the enemy.

They fit quite well, I think.

Last chapter didn't get a single review. I'm wounded.