Keep it.

Sherlock attempts to deal with what Anna revealed.

Warnings: Beware of mentions of sexual child to sexual abuse of a young child. Do be aware that the conversation about it may trigger. It's not graphically mentioned nor will there ever be a flashback of it.

"John," Anna's voice called. "Can you see the flower?"

Sherlock watched as the camera tipped and all of a sudden a small blond toddler was looking up at the screen; his eyes squinting from the bright light as he stared solemnly up. Thoughtfully, he put his finger in his mouth and pointed with the other tiny hand at the huge sunflower next to him.

"That's it," Anna said sounding pleased. "Pretty, isn't it?"

John nodded seriously, his head tilting to look at the thing again. In another lifetime, Sherlock might have been amused to see that the sunflower was bigger than his son's fist.

"Here." A woman's voice; older, tougher echoed out as the camera spun again. "You sit with your boy, Anna. I'll film."

The girl that stepped out in front of the camera looked so young. Had they both really been that young once? Anna wore simple cheap shorts and a strap top in the July weather as she crouched down, swinging John up to her lap. For a moment, the pair leaned their heads against each other; Anna's sunny golden blond hair against John's lighter strands.

His son was almost a mousy brown now.

"Flower."

His son sounded pleased. Delighted with the sunflower. Chubby hands reached out to grab it and Anna carefully placed her hand over John's.

"You have to be careful," she warned. "You might get stung."

"Ouch," John agreed solemnly, turning his head to look up at the woman who was holding the camera. "Ouch," he said again, louder and sounding as if the idea was funny.

"You act like that now, young man, but if he stings you it will be tears and tantrums," the woman scolded.

John's head swung back and Sherlock could just about see the bee that was hovering. Mainly because John's fascinated gaze followed it.

"He's going to be a hell raiser when he's older," the unknown woman decided. "Chasing trouble that one."

Anna smiled, her eyes worried as she stroked John's hair. "I can't picture what he'll be like when he's older," she confessed. "He seems so little. Like he'll always be little."

John let out a triumphant shriek as his fist closed. Seconds later there was a long wail.

His son had caught the bee and it had stung him.

As Anna tried to soothe the toddler the camera jolted, moving enough to catch a glimpse of the other person who had been in the garden that day.

No matter how many times Sherlock paused the video he could still never quite catch the man's face.

Now, he didn't even bother. Instead, he skipped back to the start. To his son's three year old face staring up at the camera earnestly.

Never, he thought as he stared at the image. Never would he be able to forgive Anna for what she had done.

"Mycroft Holmes," Anna said with some surprise. "You were not the Holmes brother I was expecting to see."

Hoping, Mycroft corrected as he sat down opposite her. Her disappointment was clear as were the lines of worry in her body. She glanced at the door, as if Sherlock might yet appear.

"As I understand it, you've been seeing rather a lot of each other," Mycroft commented, keeping his tone mild.

"We have a son," Anna said with a shrug.

Mycroft tilted his head ever so slightly, almost amused by the situation. "I'm not sure whether to be tickled that, after keeping us from John for ten years you have suddenly decided that family connections are desperately important or whether to be insulted at such a pathetic answer."

Anna looked away. "I wasn't keeping him-"

Mycroft sighed. "I am uninterested in debating semantics with you. What I am interested in is why my brother suddenly felt the need to visit you so frequently."

There was a flicker of panic in Anna's eyes. "Ask him," she suggested, glancing around.

At the guards.

He watched her blink in sudden confusion.

"Funny how shift swapping works out," Mycroft said not looking. Anyone who he had deemed a risk had been reassigned or had a sudden bout of illness. Apparently he'd managed to include the right people in there because Anna sat back in what was clearly relief.

Then she leaned forward urgently. "Has he told you?"

"Sherlock? Do you think I would be here, making this effort if he had?" Mycroft asked.

Anna looked down. "Is he…how is he?"

"What did you tell him?" Mycroft asked, the words lashing out in annoyance.

"I…I explained why I cannot have him investigate my case."

"He was trying?" Mycroft asked with some surprise. If there was one thing in life that Sherlock feared it was that Anna would be released and he would lose John.

"Oh, he had some conversation with John and a ridiculous epiphany," Anna muttered scornfully. "He came here…each time he came here it would be with another piece of information."

"You had the conjugal visit to talk freely?" Mycroft murmured.

Anna nodded.

"You saw him once after that and then nothing?"

Anna took a deep breath. "I don't expect to ever see him again," she replied frankly.

"You want to."

Anna's eyes turned bright. "I want to see my son again," she whispered.

They'd agreed.

Sherlock had just about been able to keep it civil in his last encounter with Anna. How strange, to agree to something willingly and feel so…

Helpless.

He didn't dare see too much of John at the moment. There were some things that even his son would pick up on and, above all else, it was what they had agreed on.

John would never know.

Even if it cost Sherlock his son, Anna her freedom.

John would never ever know.

Outside the prison, Mycroft rubbed a hand over his forehead.

Anna Watson had killed for no reason. There had been evidence, recordings that had shown, without doubt that she had killed a man she had never met.

Sherlock had spent an age trying to discover how she had known him, some link that hadn't been seen…

But…

Mycroft sat up as he changed the way he looked at it.

Why would someone kill a person they had no grudge with?

A deal.

Wasn't that what some people did? Swap victims?

Why would Anna kill?

For John.

Why would Sherlock walk away from something?

For John.

And, as the car pulled away, Mycroft started to feel something sink in his stomach.

Another video.

Sherlock had scoured them, trying to find evidence for the moment…

Nothing. It was hard anyway when Oliver Winters never featured in the videos. As if he'd known that one day Sherlock would be watching, scouring for evidence as to when that bastard had started.

If Anna hadn't had him killed Sherlock would be doing it now. Slowly. Damn the police, damn the consequences-

No.

Because if he did that then John would know and above all else Sherlock had to keep him safe.

Now that the shock, the fury and sheer deep well of hurt had started to fade ever so slightly, Sherlock could start to appreciate the fact that, if nothing else, he was seeing his son as a three year old. Five videos, all taken over the summer.

Appreciate…feel numb with jealousy…those were the same, he supposed. How easy would it have been to lift John up at that age? Sherlock had been able to do it when he had first gained custody of his son but it had been…an effort. In the video, John reached demanding hands up and Anna lifted him, high into the sky eliciting a delighted shriek from John.

And when he grew tired, the boy would bury his head in Anna's neck, sucking at his thumb as his eyelid drooped. Perfect trust.

Sherlock tried to picture it. God only knew why because the image haunted him, kept him awake at night but he could just about draw it in his head. Him at nineteen with the leather jacket he had practically lived in, John in the crook of one arm with his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. He'd smoked like a chimney back then but he would have turned his head, blowing away smoke before he kissed his son's head.

Not the most saintly image but realistic.

Precious.

Would he have played with John in the garden? Probably. Watching John race after anything that flew past his gaze was amusing. Watching his curiosity made something in Sherlock clench. There was no fear in his son's eyes, no worry or hesitation. No need for reassurance. No disappointment in his gaze.

And his son had been a determined, stubborn little git at the age of three. Looking up at a bird in the apple tree, John turned to the camera.

"Mummy," he scolded. "Want bird."

The camera jolted as she laughed. John sighed and circled the tree thoughtfully, as if he might find steps up the bark.

"Please," he added, looking back at her.

There was a sigh and then the screen fizzed and went blank.

Stop looking SH

Then tell me what the problem is? You have barely seen John for three weeks now. You have no cases. You do nothing. What is the problem? MH

Stop looking. SH

Please. SH

Mycroft stared down at his screen in shock.

When was the last time his brother had used the word please. Sincerely used it?

He ignored the text and walked into the flat.

It was a good job John was at his parents, he thought with a sigh. And that the idiot pup had gone with him. The place was a mess and not Sherlock's usual chaotic whirlwind. This was the mess of a whirlwind that had been left stagnant for a week. As if life had simply stopped.

Edging forward, oddly nervous, Mycroft made his way through the kitchen and to Sherlock's bedroom.

The door was cracked open, just a little, and Mycroft pushed it open softly, not wanting to disturb his brother. There was a tinny sound of voices from an old video and he glanced over as he walked into the room-

On screen was a little boy, giggling up as he ate an ice-cream cone and succeeded in covering half his face with it.

It took Mycroft a moment to work out that the boy on screen was a much younger version of his nephew. That he was seeing a lazy summer from years ago; a window into a past they had all been denied.

Sherlock's gaze was glued to the screen.

He'd been so small.

A foolish thought, Mycroft realised dimly. But it stunned him nonetheless to see the evidence. To see his nephew so delighted with life as he licked his hand to ensure no ice cream was wasted and then tried to stretch his tongue as far as he could to lick up what was around his mouth.

In another world their mother would be bending over, laughing as she wiped the little boy up; Sherlock would have sat next to him looking faintly disgusted by the fact it was chocolate ice cream. Their father probably would have been hunting down another one to spoil John.

"How long have you had this?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock was silent. Slowly, he turned to Mycroft. "I asked you to leave it alone."

"You didn't think we wouldn't want to see this? That John-"

"John will never see these," Sherlock snapped viciously. "Ever."

Mycroft glanced at the screen again, baffled. "What's going on?" he asked quietly.

His brother simply shut his eyes and looked away, his eyes opening and locking onto the screen once more.

"These?" Mycroft asked, closing the door behind him. "There's more than one?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Why would you not want John to see them?" Mycroft asked, baffled by the idea as he looked around. Sherlock's room was a mess, his brother had stubble-

Stubble? When had he last seen Sherlock looking unshaven when it wasn't for a case?

The sinking feeling grew worse. A weight in his stomach dragging him down as he stared at the cobweb forming between the curtain.

"You need to stop looking," Sherlock replied dully. "Stop digging."

"Would you?" Mycroft asked roughly, returning his gaze to Sherlock. "Would you stop?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and it was a gesture that looked terribly like a surrender.

"It never leaves this room," Sherlock whispered, his voice sounding hoarse.

What had happened-

"Do you hear me?" Sherlock suddenly snapped, his voice strong and vicious. "Never. We never discuss this again. And John never ever finds out about this conversation."

Mycroft nodded, not daring to step any closer. On the screen, John ran after a butterfly as Sherlock pressed mute and seemed to steel himself.

"When Anna ran…" Sherlock swallowed, his voice sounding weak again, as if he's used up all of his strength getting Mycroft's agreement. "When Anna ran she had no money to see her through. She ran out of it just before John was born. She said…she almost came looking for me but then-" he trailed off, his lips pressing together in hurt.

Cruel, Mycroft thought as he watched his brother. So cruel to be told how close Sherlock had been to getting to know his son, at being there for when John was born. And horrifically cruel to be told that he had failed without even knowing he had been tested.

"She met someone. He was…she was charmed and liked him anyway. And my son got to star in some back alley porn before he was born."

God.

And that made the ache worse, Mycroft thought. To know that she had chosen that over them. That Anna had, albeit consensually, sold her body rather than knock on their door.

Mycroft sighed as he tried to ignore his own hurt. However much the idea pained him, Sherlock must have felt a thousand times worse. "Sherlock do not-"

"What she did not know was that the man…that he…" Sherlock stared at the camera. "Do you have any idea how much child pornography makes?"

The world turned to ice.

On the screen John was silently babbling up at the camera, a picture of sheer innocence as he pulled silly faces up at the screen. The idea of that little boy being-

"Did-"

"She caught him," Sherlock said cutting Mycroft off as if he couldn't bear to hear the question. "Anna thinks it was the first or second time he tried to…it was his intention. The only reason he kept Anna on as his sort of girlfriend and helped her out financially. He had planned to train…" Sherlock bit down.

The words were obscene.

The man had taken advantage of a seventeen year old girl, pregnant and alone. Coerced her into selling herself and all for-

For John. So that one day he could have a-

Mycroft felt like vomiting.

John had been…Mycroft looked at the screen. Two? Three?

How?

How could anyone look and think…?

He found himself leaning against the wall for support. Even having grown up with Walter Holmes, this was a kind of abuse he could not understand. Wanting to control? That he could understand, but this?

"And it happened at some point between these films," Sherlock said, staring at the screen. "She doesn't know how far…she simply walked in one night to give a teddy and found Oliver with his hands-" Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Down…" he shook his head, clearly unable to say the words.

"He's dead?" Mycroft asked. A stupid question. Sherlock would have ripped the world apart by now to have found him.

Sherlock nodded and it was impossible to tell what was going through his head. "She ran," Sherlock said, his voice changing as he focused on a different topic. "To the streets. My son. Abused and homeless before the age of four. Because she thought I was the greater of two evils."

Anger blasted through him. The words sounded far too much as if they were repeated; paraphrased from an earlier conversation.

His brother didn't deserve the insinuation; not when Anna had never given him a chance to prove himself.

"Sherlock-"

But Sherlock still wouldn't look. As if he couldn't look at Mycroft until he had finished telling the whole story. "Anna she…she heard of someone. Someone who was a fixer of sorts. Young, she said, but still…she was told that Oliver could be killed but she would have to owe a favour. One she could not get out of."

She should have come back. Gone to Sherlock, Mycroft, his parents. Even her parents or that useless waste of space George Watson.

Anything.

Even wrecked as they had been from Walter…John had been the making of their family. Selfishly, there was the long hidden wish that they had found him earlier, that they had healed their wounds earlier.

Anna hadn't dared by that point, Mycroft thought. She must have known what their reaction would have been to it all.

They'd have fought for John. Taken him from her.

"I could get Anna off this charge," Sherlock said, sounding as if he were a million miles away. "For John but... It would mean convicting her for another murder and it would mean John finding out that…" Sherlock shook his head at the idea.

It sounded as if the thought had been clattering around and around Sherlock's head, driving him half mad. John wanted his mother but John didn't need to know what had happened to him. The boy clearly had no memories of the event and no-one should ever know-

It had been what they had hoped would happen with Sherlock. But where his brother had been too old to forget, John had managed it.

Anna must have been terrified, Mycroft realised. To have the favour called in when John was older and could start to ask the difficult questions. How had the favour been called in? Had this 'fixer' visited Anna? Threatened John?

How much had John overheard or seen? How much did John not realise he knew?

A loose tie, Mycroft realised. Anna and John had both-

Anna.

What if the person hadn't been threatening John at all but Anna? If the connection went so far back…

There had been rumours recently. Of a man pulling the strings of a number of crimes, a man who helped criminals the way Sherlock helped the police. But no-one met him, no-one knew much about him-

All powerful men started somewhere.

Using desperate terrified mothers for their own gain.

"Never," Sherlock hissed as he suddenly turned his drawn face to Mycroft. "My son will never know any of this. Do you understand me?"

Mycroft nodded.

He looked rocked, shattered.

Broken.

Sherlock nodded and looked away, back at the screen, his eyes bright. "I hate her," he whispered. "I hate what she took from me."

Mycroft watched his brother sadly. If Anna had gone to Sherlock, asked him for help...

He'd have gone with them.

Curiosity would have driven Sherlock first. Then fascination. Then adoration.

Much the way it had been three years ago.

His brother looked so lost, so adrift. They weren't the most demonstrative of families but Mycroft found himself struck with the urge to…

To what? Reach out? Put a hand upon Sherlock's shoulder? Offer some sort of solidarity, some sympathy, some shared horror at what had happened.

The laughter that bubbled out of Sherlock was sudden and vitriolic. For a moment Mycroft was convinced that Sherlock had heard his thoughts, that he was tickled by them. But it seemed Sherlock's thoughts had gone elsewhere.

"She wins," Sherlock scoffed. "Because when my son is older he will ask me why I didn't try harder, why his mother is still in prison, I have to lie. I have to take the blame because the alternative…" he shook his head, his breathing ragged as if he were on the cusp of a panic attack.

His brother was terrified that he was going to lose John. That one day, he would lose his child and he would not get him back.

And the worst thing was that Mycroft could see it happening.

As Sherlock showered, finally having decided to get up and face the world, Mycroft stared at a picture of the pair. It had been taken two years ago; a candid moment of Sherlock laughing down at his son and John looking enthralled, delighted at simply being with his father.

John.

Sherlock was right; John was far too loyal to his parents. It would destroy him if he thought one had hurt the other. And they could never tell him what really had happened, never tell him why.

It would break John's heart if he thought Sherlock had left Anna in prison.

Power.

How often had he felt bereft of it? As a child he had never felt so weak as the moment when his brother had turned around and refused to hurt him. He'd watched his little brother stand up where he had failed and get hurt because of it.

Walter had tried to train him up. To make him something…Mycroft still wasn't entirely sure what end product Walter had wanted. In hindsight he wasn't even sure that Walter had known. What he did know was that everything about him, as much as he despised it, was because of his grandfather.

Control.

And he could control this. Years ago, when John had run on New Year's Eve, Mycroft had felt helpless. He'd watched his brother crumble apart and had known he would do anything to get John back and put Sherlock together again. Crawling into a child's playground structure hadn't fazed him.

Sherlock would break. If John turned against him in such a way, Sherlock would break. Unable to correct John for fear of hurting him further, unable to fix it…

But Mycroft could do it.

There was power in knowing that he would be keeping John safe. That he would be shielding Sherlock and creating a barrier to the sins of the past. Devastating as it would be to lose John, he could embrace the power and control of it.

He could protect his little brother and his nephew.

Completely.

"Blame me," Mycroft said as Sherlock stepped into the room; his hair a mess of wet curls from the shower and his face visible as he seemed to have located a razor.

Sherlock looked up, stopping dead.

"Blame me," Mycroft repeated, firmly.

"He's seen me fight you enough times," Sherlock replied looking as if he were afraid to move. "When-"

"This is red tape," Mycroft argued, not dropping his gaze. "This is paper work and hearings and deals. My territory. I can throw up blocks-"

"Mycroft-"

"Blame me."

It was a tone he used rarely with his brother. The one he used in meetings and with underlings.

One that demanded absolute obedience and one that Sherlock never took any notice of.

Until now.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"He will need you," Mycroft said softly. "When he is older, he will need you more than he will need anyone. His friend and father rolled into one. You are the person he cannot lose."

Sherlock opened his eyes and slowly nodded.

"There is a condition," Mycroft said slowly as he took a deep breath.

Next Chapter: As it should be.

There will be a sequel to this called 'Every Intention' and I will start posting that in December.