Okay, this is the first time I've written out of the Harry Potter world (on here, anyway). But, I was watching the BBC version of Sherlock and I just couldn't help myself when I was thinking of the relationship between Sherlock, Watson and Mycroft. It was so fun to try and write in Sherlock's voice, let me know how you think I did with that. This is a one-shot in this world, there is strong language and a caning. You have been warned.

If you haven't seen the episode this fic is referring to, it's a modern take on "The Hound of the Baskervilles" which was an actual Sherlock Holmes story. In this episode, however, Sherlock not only impersonates Mycroft to get onto a secret military base but he also locks John in a room with mind-altering substances designed to increase fear, all the while talking to him and trying to increase his fear. He did it to help solve the case, but he was kind of being a jerk to his friend. Not his finest moment.

"The answer is no," Sherlock said in a distinct voice after a quick glance around the room.

"You think you are so clever," Mycroft replied.

"I am so clever," Sherlock replied. "It is boringly obvious what you have planned, and the answer is still no."

"Shall we make this game of deduction formal then?" Mycroft pressed, leaning back in his chair. "What is it I have planned?"

"You are planning on caning me," Sherlock told him with a whiff of arrogance. "A quite unimaginative punishment, brother."

"I see," Mycroft nodded. "And how do you reach that conclusion?"

"It has been a week since my return from the Baskerville incident," Sherlock replied with a bored tone. "Frankly, I've been expecting it before now. I'm sure my using your credentials was . . . inconvenient for you. You have tried several ways of reining in what you view as 'my behavior' before now, with very little effect. So I deduce that you remember that one thing that did have a slight effect in my childhood was in school the application of the cane, so out of desperation you are resorting to that method."

"Excellent deduction," Mycroft told him.

"I'm not a moron," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You left it out in the corner. The rest was a fairly natural deduction, even John could have done it."

"Yes, John," Mycroft mused.

"It won't work," Sherlock told him, his eyes glinting. "I am not a child anymore. Do you think I haven't suffered far worse pain than a simple caning in the course of investigations?"

"I know you have," Mycroft acknowledged. "Yet you seem to be working yourself up over this. If it was truly nothing you would bend over, let me revel in my petty justice and go on your way with such a trifling consequence."

"We both know that it's not nothing," Sherlock acknowledged.

"We do," Mycroft acknowledged. "It was something we both came to studiously avoid in school. So here we are, and I intend to be firm with it. You will receive twelve strokes."

"I told you the answer was no," Sherlock growled.

"Oh, I think you will cooperate," Mycroft told him.

"Why is that?" Sherlock spat. "Is this where you threaten me with ruining me financially? Sending the government after me? You know how little I care about such things."

"I do," Mycroft nodded, his voice level. "But you will submit to this punishment not because of any threats I make but because you know that you deserve it."

"What?" he echoed, flummoxed. His brother was spouting nonsense.

"John Watson came for tea earlier in the week," Mycroft continued. "We had a nice, long talk. Afterwards, he went and bought me that cane."

"He what?"

"Nasty businesses, shops that sell such things," Mycroft looked down in distaste. "You didn't think that I had ventured to such a place? No, your dear Watson helped me in that regard."

"John . . . wants . . ."

"How have things been with your dear Watson this week?" Mycroft asked, his chess piece moving in to position. "I imagine he is still a bit angry about being locked in a cage and terrorized like that. It can be hard to get over a friend treating you like that, it can feel like such a betrayal. I empathize with that completely. I found my tea with your John Watson quite . . . informative. I felt a great sense of similarity of sentiment with him."

Sherlock knew when he'd been outmaneuvered. Mycroft knew his weakness – it was John Watson. And his actions towards John Watson, though they had made logical sense to solve the case of the devil hound, had left him feeling unsettled in his friendship with the man. He had shrugged it off and told himself that that's what the man gets for being friends with a man like him, but he hadn't acknowledged how much it had really bothered him – that look of hurt and betrayal in his friend's eyes. And now Mycroft was offering him punishment, one that was something John had clearly approved of, and with that came absolution? This was new territory for friendship.

"Do you offer me absolution?" Sherlock asked him in a mocking tone.

"You act as though I'm offering you tea," Mycroft corrected him firmly. "I am not offering you anything; I am telling you what will happen. If it helps your relationship with Watson that you've paid at least a little for what you did for him, well, that's between the two of you."

"And if I refuse?"

"I do not think you will be that foolish," Mycroft told him. "Take off your jacket and bend over the desk."

Sherlock hadn't made up his mind whether or not he was going to follow along on this crazy plan of Mycroft's, but he had to admit that the man had a point. He wasn't really afraid of Mycroft per say, but the man could make his life uncomfortable if he refused this discipline. He had before in an effort to set boundaries on his little brother before – with little effect. But they both knew that just that threat would not have brought Sherlock to heel – no, Sherlock would have walked out of the room with a laugh if that had been the threat. The real threat was John Watson, did he want to go back and face his friend unpunished for what he'd done? Try to make it up in another way? In a way John had set his price of penance, and there was some sort of logic to it anyway.

"I'm sure we could work this out another way . . ." Sherlock began.

"This is what's going to happen, Sherlock," Mycroft told him firmly, standing up and taking off his jacket. "Anything else is delaying the inevitable in a way that doesn't become you at all. You are a man, and one that, as you have reminded me, can take a beating when an investigation requires it. You took this as a schoolboy when you'd earned it, I expect no less now. Now assume the position."

Mycroft then turned his back to Sherlock, unbuttoning his sleeve and rolling it up and then grasping the cane that had been placed carefully in the corner of the room, in full sight of Sherlock when he had entered.

Sherlock debated. He could so easily have walked out of that room – back home, and away from this awkward, embarrassing and likely very painful situation. But even as he contemplated home he realized that home would have John there, and a John that knew he was meeting with Mycroft this evening. Somehow, going back there full of righteous refusal seemed worse than taking the caning. Reluctantly, he took off his scarf and jacket, placing them on the chair in the room. He went over to the desk, which he earlier noticed had been cleared enough to allow someone to bend over the edge of it. It had been a long time since he had done this, and this punishment had been far more frightening to a gangly schoolboy than to a tall, well-muscled man. But he also knew that Mycroft would not spare him in the least – and he had seen the weight of that cane. He was in for a severe punishment. Mycroft wanted to give him a reason to not cross that line again. He knew he could take the pain – he wasn't lying that his investigations often ended in rather unfortunate circumstances for himself. But there was something very different about the calculated infliction of pain such as Mycroft was doing that was unnerving to him.

"School rules," Mycroft told him firmly, turning to face a Sherlock that had indeed for once obeyed him and was in position for his caning. Mycroft felt a small release of anxiety at that cooperation, he did not want to press Sherlock further to obey. But he was also deadly serious, this was going to happen, even if it took the full weight of English government to get his lawless brother to comply. "Count aloud, if you break position we redo the stroke. I trust you remember the rules, old boy?"

"I remember," Sherlock spat. "But don't think I'm calling you 'sir.'"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Mycroft answered, tapping to take aim. "Ready yourself, Sherlock."

Mycroft thought of the soft, impossibly pale flesh belonging to his younger brother that was about be to welted with tramline weals, and felt a twinge of what might be considered pity for the younger man. He had always been the one to look out for him – their parents were far too naïve and normal to ever understand how to check the behavior of either son. But that pity was fleeting, he had a much deeper sense of justice; Sherlock was going to pay for the embarrassment and danger he caused.

"Bloody hell!" Sherlock exclaimed through grit teeth as the first stroke fell, fiery and precise, cracking harshly across his backside. "One!"

"Language, Sherlock," Mycroft corrected mildly, applying the second stroke.

"Two!" Sherlock hissed, his knuckles gripping the desk becoming white with effort. "Bastard!"

"Now, now, you are still a gentlemen," Mycroft told him, expertly applying the next stroke.

"Three!" Sherlock spat. "Just where did you learn how to do this?" Sherlock demanded. "You look pretty damned professional with that thing."

"Must you ask?" Mycroft smiled.

"Four!" Sherlock grimaced. "Who are you caning on a regular basis?" he asked with incredulity.

"I find that wielding the cane is not difficult to someone schooled in sword fighting," Mycroft answered.

"Five," Sherlock growled. "You don't have to do it so bloody hard!"

"I do," Mycroft answered. "And what sort of brother would I be if I hadn't learned how to do this properly before administering your admonishment? We wouldn't want uneven marks, would we?"

"Six," Sherlock spat.

"Halfway there!" Mycroft told him with humor.

Sherlock had a colorful suggestion on where his humor could be put.

. . .

John waited for Sherlock, tea and biscuits beside him barely touched. It had been a bold suggestion by Mycroft when they had met, but the more John had thought about it, the more sense it had made to him. Mycroft had made it sound like the perfect solution – setting boundaries, enforcing those, letting everyone move on from an unfortunate incident. But that's not why John agreed to what Mycroft suggested. He agreed for another reason – this time, he wanted Sherlock to be shaken a bit. Mycroft was brilliant and barely missed anything, but he didn't know at the same level that John knew how much that headmaster from their childhood frightened Sherlock. That childhood cane had set limits on Sherlock because the whole procedure actually frighted the young child – and John was hoping that that fright could be rekindled a bit in his friend today. Because the recklessness of his friend in the last case – both with his own life and with the life and psyche of his friend – he wanted his friend to feel a jolt of that old fear. Something, anything, that could make boundaries meaningful again.

Mycroft had sent him a message to know that things had gone according to plan and that Sherlock was on his way home. He waited – would Sherlock be furious? Would he be broken? Would he understand?

Suddenly, the door opened and there was his friend, looking slightly disheveled and grimacing. He strode in the door with his normal stride, but John's close observation saw that his step was a bit truncated compared to normal and with a slight favoring of one side to the other. Mycroft had done a proper job of it, then.

"You're home," he observed lamely.

"I am," Sherlock answered, his voice measured.

"Are you well?" John asked.

"As well as can be expected," Sherlock answered. "You purchased a rather heavy cane."

"Indeed I did," John agreed, his voice still level.

Sherlock's heart dropped a bit at that moment, and he realized that a part of him had wished that it hadn't been true. If they had all been lies by Mycroft, well, that would have been easier to swallow. John really had wanted him caned. He swallowed.

"Tea?" John offered.

"I'm afraid sitting might not be as comfortable at present," Sherlock told him.

"You are welcome to stand," John told him. "I have put one of those very comfortable cushions on your chair. Or you may recline on the sofa, whichever you prefer."

"Perhaps I prefer to go to my room," Sherlock answered, his voice gaining an edge.

"Of course," John agreed. "I had thought, given the circumstances, you may have wanted to talk with me a bit."

Sherlock, cocking his head, decided that at least a small game could be afoot. He knew which choice would manipulate John the most. He lowered himself painfully on to the cushion, his throbbing backside and thighs protesting the movement and the pressure. He looked up expecting guilt and sympathy, but instead his friend's face was impassive. Why was his friend impervious to his suffering? Hadn't this been what he wanted?

John poured him a cup of tea, which Sherlock took unthinkingly just to have something to do with his hands. "Thank you."

"I promise not to have added any mind altering drugs to that," John told him dryly.

"I don't take sugar anyway," Sherlock answered, but had the decency to look a tiny bit chagrined. "Thank you."

"I imagine you are not thanking me for other things I had a hand in," John told him, leaning back with his own tea.

"Not particularly, no," he answered, sipping the tea.

"Mycroft wanted you caned to punish you," John continued. "He wanted vengeance."

"But that wasn't your motive," Sherlock deduced. "You had another motivation."

"I did," John admitted. "Can you guess what it is?"

"I do not guess," Sherlock sniffed. "I deduce."

"Then tell me what you deduce."

"You were quite unhappy about the incident at the Baskerville labs," Sherlock told him. "Especially the part where I locked you in and frightened you after thinking I exposed you to mind-altering chemical weapons."

"Yes," John told him.

"But I don't see why me being caned is anything other than punishment for that."

"When were you caned before?" John asked patiently.

"At school," Sherlock remembered. "The last time I felt truly vulnerable. So you wanted me to feel vulnerable so I would empathize with you?"

"So you would stop being so bloody foolish," John told him, his voice still level. Sherlock recognized this voice, and imagined this was the voice that John used for men under his command when he was in the military. This was the voice of someone that was done with excuses. "You put much at unnecessary risk that night, not just me. If we are to do this work together, then I have to know that you will take better care of both of us in the process of solving crimes. I worry for you, Sherlock."

John had said similar things to Sherlock many times, but something about how he said it and the vulnerability of just being caned, but Sherlock actually heard it. He blinked at the unexpected emotion that arose in him – an emotion he couldn't even begin to identify.

"I see," Sherlock said, looking down. There was no arrogance or defensiveness in his tone, he really did see.

"I think you actually do," John nodded, and then fished out a tube of something that he tossed to his friend. "Here, I bought this for you at the same shop that sold the cane. It's topical anesthetic cream, it should help with the pain a bit."

Sherlock caught it, touched by his friend's care.

"How many did the old battle axe give you?" John asked. "Four, or the whole six?"

"Twelve," Sherlock grimaced, shifting uncomfortably.

"I thought six was the maximum!" John laughed in shock. "No wonder you can't sit!"

"Leave it to Mycroft," Sherlock spat. "The old sadist. Although I suppose I did anger him a bit."

"Go take a warm bath and use the cream," John encouraged. "Doctor's orders. I'll bring you up some supper in your room, you can eat lying down. You don't have anything more to prove to me tonight."

"Thank you John," Sherlock told him. "And I really am sorry about what happened at the Baskerville labs."

"Thank you," John answered.