Sherlock watched his brother sleeping in the armchair by the fire. Normally he would have been contemplating shaving Mycroft's head, or better still, half his head. And there had been the time Sherlock had drawn a smiley face on Mycroft's forehead in permanent marker. How either of them was still alive after that atrocity he did not know.

The Holmes brother's rarely came to blows, both preferring to hurl insults at one another. A punch in the face hurt, but only lasted as long as the bruises. Telling your big brother he was getting fat sowed a seed of doubt in his head that lasted forever. So much more satisfying. But when they did have a royal punch up it was a sight to behold. The Marker Pen Incident had resulted in Sherlock being hung out of the window of his childhood bedroom by his legs with Mycroft asking for a good reason not to drop him onto the flagstones below. That was what usually happened when Mycroft was foolish enough to fall asleep in Sherlock's presence.

But now Sherlock just watched him. He wondered if Mycroft had dreams? In sleep the stern expression, the carefully controlled facade of order was gone and replaced with the ghost of innocence. The Mycroft Sherlock remembered from all those years ago. As children they had rubbed along fairly well together, possibly because with the age difference and Mycroft at prep School, and then Harrow they only saw one another for holidays. Sherlock remembered being very proud of his big brother. His tall, handsome, so very clever big brother. In Sherlock's head Mycroft was like the Pirate King. He so wanted to be like him when he grew up.

And then it had all gone wrong. Mycroft was at University and Sherlock had just started at Harrow. That first day. It was the first time Sherlock had heard the word "Poofter" he didn't know what it meant. Only that some elder boys were saying that he was "That Poofter Mycroft Holmes little brother." And that he was going to get a good kicking. And he had blamed Mycroft for it. He had never told anyone, especially not Mycroft, especially not once he found out what that word meant.

He had blamed Mycroft for a lot of things that weren't his fault.

And it was only now he realised that if he had said something to Mycroft, then his big brother would have marched into the school and given the bullies a good kicking back. Or made them disappear. It was all part of Mycroft's strict policy that no one, absolutely no one was allowed to mess with Sherlock but him.

Sherlock continued to watch his brother sleeping; the flicker from the fire darting tiny sparks of red gold in Mycroft's auburn hair. Mycroft stretched a little in his sleep and smiled, his eyes moving under the lids. Yes he was dreaming. And Sherlock knew exactly what he would be dreaming about. He moved his chair so it was next to Mycroft's, poked the fire and watched the flames dancing and laughing in the grate. Very carefully, so as not to wake him, Sherlock took his brother's hand. Mycroft's smile deepened. And slowly, Sherlock drifted off to sleep.