I had no intention of writing a follow up or another chapter to this story, but this plot bunny just wouldn't let me alone. I couldn't even work on my longer story until I'd written this one down. So here you go, me emptying out my head. I actually debated posting this story or not; I don't post everything that I write. There's a personal nature to some of the things in this story, not necessarily in the content but in the fact that I wrote it just after I had a conflict with someone I care about. But, after some thought, I did decide to post it after all.

This takes place after Sherlock faked his own death in order to save John Watson's life. After his "death" he allowed his friend to mourn for two years while he went to take down Moriarty's network. Only a what Mycroft termed a desperate need by the crown forced Mycroft to call him back from the field.

Standard warnings here, I don't own these characters, there will be caning of an adult.

"Welcome, brother," Mycroft welcomed his younger sibling. "Would you care for tea or something stronger?"

"I'm not here for tea," Sherlock grumbled.

"I see Dr. Watson has made his opinion about your absence known," Mycroft gestured to Sherlock's bruised face. "How many times has he punched you?"

"Several," Sherlock admitted.

"Let me guess," Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "You thought it a lark to drop in on him after two years of no word to him. You thought he would think it a great laugh that he had spent two years mourning your death."

"Well, when you say it like that . . ."

"How else would you say it?" Mycroft asked in exasperation.

"You knew I wasn't really dead," he said, nearly pouting.

"Because I have all the power of the British government at my disposal," Mycroft told him in exasperation. "And even then I was nearly fooled. Only my belief in your stubborn immortality made me disbelieve that Moriarty could have engineered your death. Dr. Watson merely believes you human."

"I don't think it matters much what he thinks anymore," Sherlock said looking down. "I don't think John wants any more to do with me."

"So that's why you're here," Mycroft told him. "In your single minded devotion to your work has hurt the person most precious to you, and now you don't have any clue how to care for the human emotions involved."

"I tried to say sorry."

"I'm sure you did," Mycroft told him.

"And he punched me," Sherlock told him, his voice pouty. "More than once."

"Surely you see that the agony you put Watson through could not be corrected in one evening with a few words," Mycroft told him with the patience of speaking to a toddler.

"Then he is truly lost," Sherlock sighed. "I don't know what else to do."

"If you believed that, you would not have come here," Mycroft told him. "I believe there purpose to your visit."

"What purpose could I possibly have?" Sherlock drawled.

"Come, come, let us not play these games," Mycroft told him. "We both know why you're here, it was inevitable. It was merely a question of Thursday or Friday."

"Then if you truly know why I'm here, then get on with it," Sherlock told him, his voice truculent.

"No, no, that's not how it goes," Mycroft told him. "No, Sherlock, I won't be forcing anything upon you this time. This time you will need to ask for it."

"I'm not bloody asking for it!" he snapped.

"Then go back to your flat then," Mycroft told him. "Has Dr. Watson moved out the last of his things yet?"

Sherlock looked away, they both knew it was checkmate.

Sherlock, straightening himself and refusing to give into the shame that threatened to press in on him, decided that his trademark arrogance and shocking speech should at least be somewhat useful in a time like this.

"I have come to ask for you to cane me," Sherlock announced, his voice cocky.

"For what reason?" Mycroft asked him.

"You know why!" Sherlock seethed.

"I want to know that you do," Mycroft told him sternly.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock told him, "Because I faked my death and then left for two years to rid the world of an evil empire."

"Well, I can't cane you for that," Mycroft told him.

"But we both know that's why I'm here!" Sherlock protested.

"But according to you, you did nothing wrong," Mycroft reasoned. "I cannot punish that."

Sherlock scowled and shifted in his seat. He hated admitting that he was wrong. "This might not even work," Sherlock grumbled. "Watson might still hate me."

"I'm not caning you to fix your relationship with Watson," Mycroft told him. "I'm caning you because you deserve it."

"I should have found a way to tell him earlier," Sherlock admitted. "Him believing me dead was critical to my cover, but I should have found a way to let him know I was still alive, perhaps after the first month or two."

"Did you know how much it hurt him that you were dead?" Mycroft asked him neutrally.

Sherlock wanted to say no, but in this moment of confession he found he wanted to tell the truth. "I knew," he answered truthfully.

"Then why did you let him keep mourning?" Mycroft pressed.

Sherlock looked down, not wanting to answer. "I liked that he cared so much," Sherlock answered simply. "It felt good to know that he loved me."

"You abused that care," Mycroft told him.

"I did," Sherlock agreed with a defeated sigh. "That is why I'm here."

"Last time for the fault of one investigation I gave you an even dozen," Mycroft told him. "What do you think you deserve this time?"

"I suppose a dozen again."

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was low and patient.

"John was shocked you gave me more than six the last time!" Sherlock protested. "Shouldn't we follow his expectations on things?"

"Sherlock."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled petulantly. "You are quite cruel to me you know. Two dozen."

"Two dozen," Mycroft agreed. "We both know you deserve no less."

"I should never have come."

"Ready yourself then, brother," Mycroft told him sternly, pulling out the cane from his desk where he had it ready. "I believe you are familiar with the position?"

"I could just pretend I'm sore and you could tell Watson you caned me," Sherlock told him, removing his jacket and bending over the desk with an air of resignation.

"Do you really feel that would properly correct the situation?" Mycroft asked with disdain, removing his own jacket and unbuttoning and cuffing his dress shirt. "You are old enough to take your medicine, Sherlock."

"A high functioning Sociopath can't be expected to learn from his mistakes," Sherlock grumbled.

"Don't try that on with me," Mycroft snapped. "You and I both know that might work on someone not familiar with actual psychiatry, but you and I both know that you are not a sociopath."

"It's an easy way to explain myself to the regular people."

"But I am tired of your excuses," Mycroft told him sternly. "Tell me five clinical reasons why you're not a Sociopath right now or I add a dozen to your count."

"That's unfair."

"You have two minutes."

"Fine. I don't live a parasitic lifestyle, I am not sexually promiscuous, I have long term goals, I have no childhood problems, and I am able to apologize."

"Remember that just because you have schooled yourself to not let your emotions interfere with your logic doesn't mean that they don't exist," Mycroft told him. "Just because you use a false mental health diagnosis to hide with the police doesn't mean it will work with me. And because you are not a sociopath, you should have known what this would do to your friend, and that's why you're being punished."

"I'm sure I can get diagnosed as a Sociopath," Sherlock told him, rebellious. "It shouldn't be hard."

"Don't you dare unleash yourself on some poor psychologist," Mycroft ordered him. "Just because you can memorize a test doesn't make it true. Now brace yourself."

"Just don't be such a bloody sadist this time," Sherlock told him. "Maybe put a book under your arm? Isn't that what the schoolmaster did who did shotput at University . . ."

"Quit whining!" Mycroft told him, letting the first strike land quite firmly.

"I cannot take two dozen of those strokes!" Sherlock protested through gritted teeth. "Mycroft, be reasonable."

"Reasonable is telling your friend and business partner that you had faked your demise," Mycroft lectured, applying the cane again just as firmly. He felt affronted on Watson's behalf, and he was also just done with his brother's irresponsibility. His brother was going to get a firm thrashing. "You could have done it a month out without risking your operation or his life. Yet you let him suffer."

"Seriously, who are you thrashing that you could get so bloody professional at this?" Sherlock protested. "This is too much, Mycroft!"

"Not nearly enough, I'd say," Mycroft continued the stokes in regular intervals. "And then you come waltzing back into his life, as if he would think it a lark you were gone."

"I may have . . . underestimated his feelings," Sherlock admitted, sweat beading on his brow as he winced in pain.

"Are you surprised at all that he kept punching you?" Mycroft asked, steady strokes from the cane continuing.

"I should not have been," Sherlock admitted, sharp intakes of breath coming stronger as the cane progressed. "Sometimes my deduction skills . . . gah! . . . are not as good . . . on human emotions . . . Bloody hell, Mycroft, we have to be nearly there . . ."

"Eighteen," Mycroft counted the stroke. "As I'm sure you know. Nineteen."

Sherlock could hardly hold his body still anymore, and found himself embarrassingly squirming as the cane fell, hardly able to keep his body on the desk.

"If you break position I redo the stroke," Mycroft warned. "Twenty."

"Gah!" Sherlock protested. "Surely we're good at twenty!"

"This behavior must be dealt with sternly, Sherlock," Mycroft told him. "Twenty-one."

"I won't do it again!" he promised.

"I know you won't," Mycroft told him, pausing the caning. "And it's not because I'm caning you either. But to know you have caused this kind of pain to a friend – well, that's why you won't do it again."

"Then it's pointless to cane me further," Sherlock reasoned, though he didn't dare push himself up off the desk.

"There is also such a thing as justice," Mycroft told him. "Three more, very firm. Brace yourself."

"This is already the harshest caning you've ever given me!" Sherlock protested. "You don't have to do them any harder . . ."

"Hold still, Sherlock," Mycroft ordered him. "I want the strokes exactly where I want them to go."

Sherlock did brace himself, crying out loudly as Mycroft laid on three harsh, whistling strokes.

"Bleeding bastard!" Sherlock cursed him. "As if the proceeding strokes weren't harsh enough!"

"Stay in position for a moment longer, Sherlock," Mycroft told him.

"I'm not of a mind to move," Sherlock told him, trying to catch his breath. "You have no idea how much pain I'm in you damnable . . ."

"Now, now, salty words for a thrashing you know full well you'd earned," Mycroft told him.

"You'll tell John?" Sherlock asked, his voice plaintive.

"I have no intention of telling Dr. Watson," Mycroft told his brother. "You messed that relationship up proper, you'll get no help from me in repairing it."

"But I might never repair it then," he whined.

"What, the most brilliant detective in the world can't discover the way to repair his relationship with his best friend?" Mycroft said, his tone mocking.

"It might help if you told him I was so sorry I took a caning from you for it," Sherlock implored him. "It helped last time."

"Tell him yourself," Mycroft told him. "What do you think, Doctor, should we give the arrogant detective a dozen more?"

"He's here?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"He's in the next room," Mycroft told him. "Observing on closed circuit television. And on his way in, unless I miss my guess."

"Mycroft . . ." Sherlock protested, his voice full of betrayal. Having John know he was caned was far different than having him witness it, especially without his knowledge.

"You can get up, Sherlock," the low voice of John Watson told him calmly as he entered the room. "Thank you, Mycroft, I believe that was . . . adequate."

"Will you be taking him home, then?"

"Yes, thank you," John told him.

"I'll have my car take you," Mycroft told them. "He's in no shape for a public taxi."

"Thank you," John said, watching wordlessly as Sherlock straightened up with as much dignity as he could, wincing as his weight shifted. "I believe we'll take our leave then."

"The car is waiting for you," Mycroft told them.

The pair silently made their way to the front of the house, Sherlock carefully putting on his jacket and trying to walk carefully. The ride in the car was silent, beyond the hissing sound Sherlock made whilst sitting and then with every bump the car hit during the journey. When the car finally arrived home, John detected the distinct look of relief in his friend's eyes as he was able to get up off the hard leather seat of the car.

"I am not able to sit and have tea with you," Sherlock told his friend in an even, not-unfriendly voice as they entered the flat. "If that were your intentions."

"Why don't you have a bath," Watson told him, fishing in his pocket. "I was given to expect you might have need of that analgesic cream I bought you last time, so I picked you up another tube of it. Here it is. Apply it after your bath, it should help. I believe you haven't been eating much the past few days, maybe I should bring you up tea and some sandwiches to your room? You could lie on your stomach and eat there."

"Thank you," Sherlock told him formally, accepting the tube.

"See you in a bit then," John nodded. "Let me prepare the tea."

A half hour later, a water-warm and soothed Sherlock entered his bedroom in his pajamas to John Watson sitting in his own chair, a tea tray sitting on a small table, set with hot tea and ham and cheese sandwiches. There was something about the homeliness of the scene – here, in his room, his friend, his teapot – if he was the sort to do it he could almost cry with relief. It had been a long two years.

"Did the cream help?" John asked, ever the doctor.

"Yes, it's not a complete cure, but it does soothe a bit," Sherlock told him. "It was very kind of you to get it for me."

"Hmph," John answered noncommittally. "Here, have your tea before it gets cold."

Sherlock laid down in his bed on his stomach, only wincing a bit at the tight achiness of his punished backside.

"Do you need me to look at it?" John asked when he saw the wince, his voice still neutral. "Did it break the skin?"

"No, just hot welts all over my backside and thighs," Sherlock confirmed. "Apparently Mycroft is really good at giving a proper caning, even with that monster of a cane."

"One of the reasons I bought a heavier cane," John told him. "You act like I bought a cane like they use in Singapore! It's just a proper senior cane."

"It still bloody hurt," Sherlock complained.

"I'm sure it did," John agreed, pouring a cup of tea for Sherlock and handing him the cup along with a small plate containing his sandwich.

"Mycroft invited you," Sherlock told him, eating a bite of his sandwich.

"He did," John nodded, taking a bite of his own. "He had told me you were likely to come in the next few days, and then when he knew you were on your way he sent word. He thought it better for me to be there this time."

"So what did you think of my caning?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head. "Did you feel that justice was served?"

"It was brutal," John confessed, looking down. "I wasn't expecting it to be that bad. I mean, I haven't seen someone caned since school, and even then it was only if the other bloke was caned or slippered with me. Mycroft wanted me in the other room, and I think the reason for that was because I would have stopped it had I been in the same room."

"So is that sympathy you're feeling?" Sherlock pressed.

"Perhaps a bit," John answered truthfully. "I think that's the reason Mycroft wanted me to see it, it's the first time I've felt a crack of anything else at all in the overwhelming anger and hurt at what you did to me."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the feelings.

"How could you, Sherlock?" John asked, the breathy, low whisper of true hurt. "I mourned you, I cried for you . . ."

The flat was silent for a few moments, each in their thoughts.

"Will you punch me if I apologize again?" Sherlock asked, the note of sincerity in his voice. If he had asked differently, John would have punched him. His apologies in the last few days had seemed arrogant and dismissive, but with him lying there because he couldn't sit on his striped bottom, still warm from the bath and nibbling on a ham sandwich, it actually touched something in John. Even though his friend had behaved abdominally, this was still his friend. And his friend was so sorry for what he had done that he even asked his brother for a caning in order to try and win his forgiveness.

"You want forgiveness as well as a ham sandwich?" he asked, his voice light. "I suppose you can ask once again."

"John Watson, I am very sorry for dying and not telling you that I didn't actually die and spending two years thoughtlessly fighting crime without you. Please forgive me and don't punch me again."

"I forgive you," Watson told him, taking a bite of his own ham sandwich and chewing. "But for God's sake, Sherlock, some human decency towards me? I don't want to have to keep getting your brother involved when you're being an ass."

"Human decency, I will work on that," Sherlock nodded, digging into his sandwich with gusto. "But in truth, and I think you know this, I am sorry. I should not have put you through that."

"I know that," John replied. "And that is truly why I'm willing to forgive you."

"So," Sherlock smiled wickedly. "When do I get to meet that lady friend of yours?"

"Fiancé," John answered. "Mary is my fiancé. And you get to meet her when I think you can behave yourself."

"I promise the human decency stuff towards her as well," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But first, Mycroft. He figured this would get us back together, but I think he also likes caning me. Revenge?"

"He did you a favor and you know it," John dismissed him, popping the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth. "That's what rankles you. He knew how to manipulate me back to relationship with you and you didn't. Just admit big brother outmaneuvered you this time."

"Maybe he's the sociopath."

"Well, he's never apologized that I know of," John admitted. "But I don't really think an argument can be made for a parasitic relationship. Now, do you need anything else or do you just want to sleep?"

"Sleep," Sherlock told him. "Perhaps it will hurt less in the morning."

"Goodnight then," John told him, tidying up their tea dishes. "I will stay here tonight, and we can talk more in the morning."

"Talk about what?"

"Well, we have two years to catch up on," John told him. "A lot has happened for both of us. Let's talk about our time apart, and what we want our future together to look like."

"You'd be willing to work with me again?"

"Talk first, Sherlock," John told him. "But sleep now. I will talk with you in the morning."

"Good night, John."