"John!" Sherlock Holmes cried desperately. Watson looked up at him, his mouth open but unable to scream because the water was rushing over his head. In the next moment, he slipped over the edge.

"John!" he screamed again, but it was too late. His friend was gone over the edge of the waterfall, and there was nothing he could do.

Sherlock Holmes was too engrossed in his experiment to notice who had come into his laboratory. He murmured his own praises to himself, unable to contain his excitement when his test proved reactive. It was only then that he realized the other man was still there and was watching him.

"I always knew you were brilliant," he said softly. "I told you often, if you'll remember. Congratulations, you deserve to have your genius recognized. You have it in you to make your name great, I'm certain of it."

Holmes stared at him. "John," he said, and suddenly his throat was dry and his tongue was thick in his mouth.

"Hello, Sherlock. I… I hope I'm not interrupting you."

Holmes shook his head. "No. I'm… sorry for my astonishment, John. I thought you were… no, I was right in my thinking, wasn't I? You were in Afghanistan, you've been injured."

"Yes. You've gotten better at making deductions. Speaking of injuries, you might want to bandage that." He gestured towards the blood on Holmes' finger.

Holmes glanced down at his hand as if he'd forgotten he'd pricked his finger for a blood sample. He wiped his blood away on his trousers, moving towards Watson and grasping the shoulder he could see wasn't injured.

"John. I was worried I'd never see you again. I... I don't know what to say."

"Neither do I," Watson admitted. "But I heard you were here, and I wanted to see you. I hoped you'd want to see me, too."

"Hoped I would? How could I not? There's barely been a day gone by that I haven't wondered about where you were, what you were doing. I've thought about what I'd say to you a hundred times over, and now here you are and I haven't even said I'm sorry yet."

"Sorry? Sherlock, you have nothing to apologize for."

Holmes swallowed hard. "I know you've forgiven me, but I'll never forgive myself. You were my only friend, and I nearly destroyed you."

"We were children. The choices made weren't yours."

Holmes frowned. "John… you're tired. Where are you staying? Let me take you there."

"Perhaps we can meet later, Sherlock. I'm afraid a place to stay was why I accidentally learned you were here. I was talking with Mike Stamford and mentioned I needed to find rooms, and he mentioned your name because you'd also been lamenting the cost of living in London."

"Why didn't you say so? I have my eye on some rooms that will suit us down to the ground. Allow me to take you to dinner, and then we'll view them."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Watson said softly. "I wouldn't want to come in between you and your family. It would be better if we stayed apart."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Holmes replied flippantly. "My father is long since dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know."

"Don't be sorry," Holmes insisted. "I am not."

"But Sherlock…"

"Please, John, don't let it upset you. After what he did to you and your family, I never saw him the same way again. He didn't care for me, and neither did I love him."

"Nevertheless. I'm sorry."

"So will you come with me?"

"I'll see the rooms with you, but I'm afraid I don't have the funds for dinner. Not after meeting with Mike Stamford for lunch. That man always seems to find a way to stick someone else with the bill."

"Then let me pick up your bill tonight. Please, John, say you will. I haven't seen you since… well, I want to get to know you again."

"And I'd like to get to know you again, Sherlock. Very well, let's go."

The two of them ended up in a cafe, and despite the initial awkwardness they soon were chatting like old friends.

"I always knew you'd never end up a normal businessman," Watson said with a smile when Holmes had explained his chosen profession.

"And you?" Holmes asked. "I was told you joined the army, and I've deduced you were injured."

"Yes," Watson affirmed. "What you might not know is that I'm a doctor now. I studied at the University of London and was top of my class, but that didn't mean my future was set. I graduated with nothing, and that was why I joined the medical corps." He told Holmes of how he'd been sent to India and then on to Afghanistan where he was wounded.

"And so," he concluded, "I was sent home to recover as soon as they could move me. Having nowhere to go, I naturally gravitated towards London. I didn't know I'd run into you, but now I'm glad I have."

"As am I, John," Holmes said sadly. "I'm sorry things ended up that way. I wish I would have known. My inheritance could have set you up in practice and you'd have never put your own life in danger."

"Don't say such things," Watson replied. "My life has been my own, and I've done well for myself. Had I died, it would have been a good death."

"Well, you're not on your own anymore," Holmes insisted. "But John… why didn't you have anyone to come back to? What happened to your brother?"

"He's gone," Watson admitted sadly. "The same way my father went."

"I'm sorry," Holmes replied, shaking his head. "My God, Watson, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, Sherlock. And your brother?"

"Still as odd as always," Holmes huffed. "I rarely ever see him, though I always know where he is." He told Watson of Mycroft's government job and unchanging routine.

"And did you ever exceed him intellectually?"

"No. He's unwilling to exert the energies required of detective work, however."

"I can understand that," Watson conceded with a smile. "He never did extend his energies for much at all. I remember how I used to build up the fire in his room and clean and dust all while he still slept far into the morning. But then, when he did put his mind to something, he was an unstoppable force. You, on the other hand, you were flighty. I could never keep up with you no matter how hard I tried."

"But I always slowed down for you sooner or later," Holmes defended himself. "I wasn't always kind, but I always loved you. I know I often fought you, but I really would have done anything you asked."

Watson smiled, and Holmes knew he was thinking of a hundred different adventures they'd shared.

"You have a different view of the past than I do," he said. There was no malice in his voice, but there was a strange sadness in his eyes Holmes couldn't place. "I don't remember you ever eating your carrots because I asked you. Or stopping those horrid dissections you performed on the rabbits the cats killed and left on the porch. Or going to sleep when I asked. Or…"

"Very well, very well," Holmes interrupted him. "I admit I wasn't an obedient child. But I like carrots now, John. And now you're the doctor, I imagine you've dissected more than rabbits since we parted. And I think you knew ever back then that all those nights I claimed I couldn't sleep because of the dark or bad dreams or an upset stomach was all just a ruse to get you to stay."

"Yes," Watson replied with a grin. "That was why I sometimes stayed and sometimes didn't. I never minded being close to you, and I daresay sleeping with you was a sight better than sleeping alone, but you know I always tried to avoid giving into you too much. I didn't want to spoil you."

"I was jealous over your affections," Holmes admitted, his face coloring with embarrassment. "You loved me more than anyone else in that house, and didn't like sharing you with anyone, not even Harry."

"Of course you were," Watson replied fondly. "You were a child, and you saw that Harry and I loved each other while Mycroft largely ignored you. I always felt sorry whenever I saw Mycroft dismiss you when you tried to share something with him."

"I suppose you're right," Holmes admitted. "I wanted to be as close to you as you were to your brother. But it was never a lie that I did, in fact, sleep better when you were close to me. After you were gone, I refused to sleep for a very long time."

The strange look in Watson's eyes was back now, but he still smiled. "I know you slept well," he said. "I got very good at slipping out of your grasp without waking you. You liked to be right beside me, especially when it was cold out."

Holmes knew his face must have been red from embarrassment. "As I said," he murmured, "I slept better when you were there."

By then, they had finished their dinner, and so went together to the rooms at Baker Street. Watson met Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, who immediately noticed they were familiar with each other.

"Is this your brother, then?" she asked Holmes.

"Yes," he said at the same time as Watson said, "No."

They exchanged a look.

"I grew up with Sherlock," Watson explained. "My family served his family for generations, and I was born in his family's home four years and two days before he was, and from the time he was born I was his constant companion. There was hardly anywhere I went that he didn't follow until he was five years old, at which point I began to follow him everywhere to keep him out of trouble." He grinned, watching Holmes fidget under the amused gaze of Mrs. Hudson.

"And so in a way," Holmes said, "we are brothers. John and I used to share everything, and I daresay he knows all my worst faults already. We're here to look at the rooms if they're still available."

"Of course," she said, and showed them around.

"Well?" Holmes asked when they were finished, "will you consent to live with me once again?"

"Sherlock… there are things you don't know about your childhood. And there are things I don't. You must answer me something honestly."

"Of course," Holmes said, swallowing hard.

"What happened at the waterfall?"

Holmes swallowed hard again, but this time his throat was dry. Suddenly, it was very hard to breath. He could hear a ringing in his ears, and his hands were shaking. He knew vaguely that Watson was saying something, but he couldn't hear it. He wasn't in control; his knees were weak, and he collapsed onto the ground.

He came back to himself a few minutes later. He was lying on the couch in Baker Street, and Watson had undone the first few buttons on his shirt.

"Sherlock? Alright?"

"Better," Holmes confirmed. "I'm sorry. I try not to think about that day. You caught me off guard. I knew we'd have to talk about it even though you said you'd forgiven me, but I didn't know I'd react like that. I'm sorry."

"So am I. Sherlock… I didn't know that you hadn't realized that I don't remember."

"What?"

"I don't remember what happened. Afterwards, all I knew was what they told me. The only thing I can remember is walking with you down the path to the falls. Nothing more. I'm beginning to think perhaps you and I have different ideas of what happened."

Holmes stared at him, open mouthed. "My God," he murmured, "my God." He stood quickly, wrapping his arms around Watson. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What did they tell you?"

"Maybe we should talk about this later."

"No, Watson. I… you deserve to know, no matter how much it will pain me. Then, if you can stand the sight of me, we can revisit sharing rooms."

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're referring to, but I could never despise you."

Holmes shook his head, holding Watson tighter.

"I'll prove it," Watson said. "Let's take the rooms. I'm sure whatever comes up, we can make it work. We were children, Holmes. Whatever you're feeling guilty for, it wasn't your fault."

"Oh yes it was," Holmes murmured, but Watson ignored him.

"I'll tell Mrs. Hudson we'll take the rooms. Then we'll get you home. I'll see you tomorrow when we move in."

"No," Holmes murmured. "You need to know."

"Shh. I will know. Soon. For now let's get you home."

The next thing Holmes knew, he was in his own bed at his apartment. Watson was beside him, peering at him intently.

"You're in shock," he said softly. "I don't even think you're hearing a word I'm saying, but that's alright, I'm here to look out for you."

Holmes closed his eyes tiredly, knowing he was in good hands.

He woke up confused. Why was he in his clothes? Then, he remembered. John! He rose quickly, changing his clothes and leaving his bedroom to find Watson was sleeping in his living room on the couch.

He frowned, regret filling him. Watson didn't look well; he'd overdone it yesterday. Watson shouldn't have needed to be looking out for him, it should have been the other way around. Why did it seem like he always did the exact wrong thing? Why was he never able to help Watson? He shook his head. They were adults now, that was going to change. And the change was going to start with telling Watson the truth.

He went to fetch some tea and made Watson a cup for when he woke, suddenly realizing he had no idea how Watson took his tea. He held the cup in his hand sadly, trying to guess. That was how Watson found him when he woke.

"It's alright," he said, seeing what Holmes was doing. He gave him one of those sad smiles that Holmes was beginning to loathe. "I learned your preferences because that was my duty, but it's natural that you wouldn't know mine. How are you? I meant to wake and check on you, but I'm afraid I was quite exhausted."

"I'm perfectly fine now, thank you, John. I don't know what came over me; that has never happened before. I am ready, now, whenever you are. To tell you what happened, I mean."

"Whatever it is pained you deeply to so much as recall, Sherlock," Watson said softly. "I won't force you to tell me, not if it will cause you so much pain."

"I deserve the pain it causes me," Holmes said. "What I am afraid of is what you will think of me once you know. But first, Watson, I need to know what you remember from our childhood and how you remember it."

"And that, I'm afraid, would hurt you, Sherlock."

"Please, John. Nothing you can say can change how I view my father, as I have no respect for him currently."

Watson sipped at his tea before answering. "I know that when you didn't eat your carrots that your father would beat me for it. I remember that when you dissected animals at the kitchen table I wasn't fed dinner. I remember that each time your father caught me sleeping in your bed he'd make me bathe in the stream instead of using the washtub, even in winter. I remember that every time you did something wrong your father would let me pick one of us to be beaten, and of course I would never let it be you. It may have been a bluff all those years, but I was never willing to risk it. I would have never allowed him to lay a finger on you."

Holmes stared at the floor. He had known someone had beat Watson during their childhood, but he had believed it was Watson's own father, who was often drunk and sometimes violent.

"I remember…" Watson trailed off.

"You remember who you are," Holmes finished for him.

"I remember you told me something," Watson admitted with a shake of his head.

"I was only eleven," Holmes said softly. "And as I said last night, I was jealous over your affections. So, when I learned who you are, I wasn't upset. In fact, I was glad, and I couldn't wait to tell you. I asked you to come with me to the waterfall with me, because I knew no one else could eavesdrop on us there."

Holmes fiddled with his own teacup, his eyes downcast and his thoughts far away. "I got you out there, and I was happy. I was knee deep in the water searching for minnows, and I told you what I knew. I told you that… that I learned you were my brother."

Watson paused. He, apparently, hadn't remembered that.

"It was my father and your mother," Holmes elaborated quickly. "We'll never know if it was an affair or coercion, but you're my brother. And as I said, I was happy to know it. I thought that would mean you would love me more. I thought you would love me as much as you loved Harry. I was too young to know that even though your family worked for mine that didn't mean our own friendship wasn't real."

Watson gave him a fond look, but Holmes wasn't looking at him back.

"You, of course, weren't happy. You were devastated, and you stepped away to think. I was angry, and in my anger I got distracted and slipped. I screamed for you, and of course you came for me immediately. You came into the water and pulled me away from the edge of the falls. We were standing there, both in the water close to the edge… and in that moment I hated you."

"I hated you for not being happy you were my brother. I hated you for not wanting to be my brother. I hated you for loving Harry more than me. I hated you for being a servant, for always being so good to me, for saving my life. I hated you for everything whether it made sense or not. And John… I pushed you."

Watson's head snapped up, but he didn't interrupt Holmes.

"You stumbled, John. You slipped over the edge. I screamed. From the moment my hands landed on you I regretted what I'd done. All my hate was forgotten, John, and all I could think of was how much I loved you. I loved you, and I couldn't believe what I'd done. I tried to save you, but you slipped over the edge. I kept screaming, I pulled myself out of the river, and I stumbled down the rocks to the base of the falls."

"I was so hysterical I fell most of the way, actually, but I didn't even feel my own pain. I found you washed up on the shore… and the look on your face, John, it was like you were trying to forgive me. I knew that you thought you were dying, and you were trying to tell me it was alright. I've never hated myself more than in that moment, John. Had you died there, I would have laid down and died beside you, I swear I would have. As it was, you fell insensible."

"I don't know how, but I found the strength to put you on my shoulder and I took you back up the path towards the house. When they saw us, they were more concerned about the blood all over me than the fact you were unconscious. I was taken to my room, and the doctor was sent for. He came to see me before he was even told you were also hurt. I wasn't allowed to leave my room for a fortnight, and when I finally did, I rushed to see how you were. That was when I was finally told that you and your family had been dismissed from service and were gone. No one could so much as tell me if you had lived or died."

Tears were streaming down Holmes face as he spoke, but he didn't seem to notice them. "I cut myself off from everyone else for a month, and I never respected my father again. When he was lost at sea soon afterwards, I felt nothing. Not when I was convinced his cruelty had killed you. When I next saw him, Mycroft finally told me that you had lived, but that didn't make it better. I had no idea where you were, and you never wrote. I never thought I'd see you again."

"And then there you were, standing before me in the hospital laboratory. And when you looked at me, I had this insane hope that you had really forgiven me, that you would want to be my friend."

He finally looked at Watson, grasping both of his arms imploringly. "I will always love you, John. You are my brother, even if you don't want it to be literally. I understand if you hate me. I understand that I don't deserve your regard at all. I can only say I'm sorry, and that I love you. I always will, even if you want to spit in my face and walk away from me forever for good this time. John…"

"Be calm," Watson said softly. He reached up, taking Holmes' hands in his own. "I… I need to take some time to think, but I don't hate you, Sherlock. I'm not going to spit in your face and disappear forever. You were a child, and I can understand what you were feeling. I'm going to leave, but I'll see you at Baker Street."

"You will?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I will. As long as you still want me."

"Of course I do, John."

"Sherlock… do you know why I never wrote to you?"

"No. I suppose since I thought you were dead I never questioned it."

"Sherlock, the reason I never wrote is because when I woke and didn't remember what had happened, they told me the accident was my fault. They told me you'd asked for me to be sent away, and that was why the family was dismissed. I thought you hated me, Sherlock. When I learned where you were, I wanted to see you again to ask for your forgiveness. Then, when you apologized to me, I thought it was for sending my family away. I thought we could move on, the same way you did. Now, I have more to think about."

"I understand. But I will see you again?"

"Yes. I'll see you soon. Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said, but even though they were parting, his heart hadn't felt to light for a very long time.

The two of them hadn't been sharing rooms for very long when they received their first visitor. The man didn't bother to announce himself, barging in rudely and taking them both in, tearing them apart with his eyes.

Watson stayed where he was, his eyes downcast and his hands clasped in his lap. Sherlock stood, his face revealing nothing at all.

"Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft rumbled, taking a seat without preamble. "You don't seem particularly pleased to see me."

"I have been expecting you," Sherlock replied coolly. "Pleasure has nothing to do with it."

"I suppose you think I'm here to chastise you."

"Why would you think that?" Sherlock bit snarkily. "Just because that's all you've ever done?"

"Stop it," Watson said softly. "Please, Mr. Holmes, just say what you've come to say."

"You both seem to think I'm the bearer of bad news," Mycroft said. "Perhaps that is fair; I usually am. But you're no longer a child, Sherlock. I won't presume to tell you who you should or should not cohabitate with. I assume you've both hashed out the past?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied testily.

"Then I will simply ask one thing: did you tell him the truth?"

"I did," Sherlock and John said at the same time.

"Very well," Mycroft murmured with a nod. "And have you come to any conclusions?"

"No," Watson said, "But we've come to an understanding."

"I see. And by what title will I be referring to you?" Mycroft asked Watson.

Watson swallowed hard. "Cousin, if you really must. That was... part of our understanding."

"I don't insist on answers if John doesn't want to give them," Sherlock elaborated, "and he doesn't try to insist we are not family. I won't lie to shield our father; he doesn't deserve it. Honoring the dead is only reserved for those who earned it in life."

Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily. "I wasn't often home," he said, "and therefore I will not insist my own recollections are correct. Doctor, I was sorry to hear about your brother."

"Thank you," Watson said. "He, like you, often wasn't home."

Mycroft nodded. "He was a great woodsman, like your father. Had he lived, I'm certain he would have catalogued every stone, animal, insect, and stream on the estate. When the estate came to me, I intended to have a better cabin constructed for him and the land sanctioned off as a nature preserve. I don't know what's happened to it now."

"I have some of his field journals," Watson said with a sad smile, "and so I am sure you are right. There was nothing he loved more than being out on the land. After the incident, he took it very hard. He was miserable working as a clerk. And, as you know, the drinking he resorted to destroyed him in the end."

"Dismissing your family was the worst mistake my father could have made," Mycroft said softly. "I believed it would work out for you, though. I thought your family would be better without serving mine. That was why I refused to take your father back when the estate came to me. I didn't want the house and land, Sherlock didn't, and I thought we'd all be better for it to be sold and out of Holmes hands forever. I am sorry; I was wrong."

"You did not come here to apologize."

"No. I'm here to give you what's yours."

"What is it you mean?" Watson asked, genuinely confused.

"Our father's will. It made concessions for his sons. You weren't contacted at the time of his death because I wasn't aware you knew who you were. I didn't want to ruin your relationship with your family. Nevertheless, I've kept your portion of the inheritance for you."

"You did?" Sherlock and John echoed at the same time.

"I did."

"But I'm not really your brother," Watson protested.

"You are as far as the will is concerned," Mycroft replied with a shrug. "Had our father wanted Sherlock and I to be the only beneficiaries of his will, he should have specified as much. As it is, our lawyer agrees that you and any other children who can prove a claim to our lineage can make a claim. I don't believe there are any others, but we'll deal with that should it ever arise."

"But I can't prove anything," Watson insisted. "I didn't even know until I was told."

"I can prove it," Mycroft and Sherlock both said together.

Watson raised one eyebrow, waiting.

"Your father knew," Mycroft eliminated. "He came to me and demanded that once I came to be master of the estate that I make you the manager, else he'd expose the truth that you were my father's child. He showed me the letters my father had sent your mother confirming he knew her child could only have been conceived the last time they met, but begging her to lie and say the child was her husband's. I was convinced when I saw the letter."

"I was convinced by your brother," Sherlock admitted, and didn't elaborate further.

Watson scowled darkly. "Did the whole world know before I did?" he cried bitterly.

"Of course not," Mycroft said soothingly. "If you want the world to know, that is your prerogative only. And your inheritance, how you got it, and what you do with it, is also your own business. Until then, you're cousin Watson."

"I don't deserve to have part of your inheritance," Watson said, shaking his head.

"You have it," Mycroft said, "whether you think you should have it or not."

"The only person who didn't deserve any part of the inheritance was Uncle Hubert," Sherlock said with a grin, "and he ended up mother's collection of china plates."

"That was your fault," Mycroft pointed out, "as you forgot to take them. But, speaking of material possessions, I did bring you something." He produced a pocket watch from his jacket pocket.

"My father's watch? Where did you find this? Harry lost it years before the accident."

"It was carried to the house by a dog, if you'll believe it. The hound had it in it's jaws, and the new owners sent it to me, hoping I'd know who it belonged to."

"Thank you," Watson whispered. "My family didn't have any other heirlooms, and I thought this was lost forever. My father was always hard on me, but at least now I can understand why. And Harry, well, some of his actions make more sense now, too. Thank you for this."

"Of course, Doctor. I'll send you all the related paperwork. Unless you object, I'll control the funds for you, just as I do for Sherlock."

"That will be fine," Watson agreed.

"Now was there anything else?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"No. That was all. I'll be going, but you know where to find me."

"We do. Goodbye, Mycroft," Sherlock said, ushering him out.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft paused and turned. "Please, cousin John, call me Mycroft."

"Cousin Mycroft, then. I know I have no claim on your regard, but please, if you can, I must ask you for one more favor."

"Of course. Ask for whatever you like, I won't refuse you, for Sherlock would never let me."

"Thank you. I'm afraid I have some medical debts that need to be taken care of."

"You do?" Sherlock asked.

"I took a hard tumble when I'd just gotten back from Afghanistan," Watson admitted.

"I'll see to it that the debt is settled," Mycroft promised.

"Thank you," Watson said softly.

When Mycroft was gone, Sherlock approached Watson, touching his good shoulder gently and calling his name. Watson shook his head as if clearing it and looked at Sherlock with a sad smile.

"I love you," he said, taking Holmes' hand from his shoulder and touching his fingertips to Holmes' fingertips like he'd done a hundred times before when they were children. "I'm telling you now so you don't doubt it later. Because, I think, Holmes, that I'm going to have a stiff drink, go to bed, and ignore you and Mrs. Hudson and the rest of the world for a while. I need some time alone."

"Alright," Holmes agreed softly. "You'll tell me if there's anything you need, yes?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Despite Watson's reassurance and good wishes, Holmes spent that night restless, deep in his own dark thoughts. His friendship with Watson was, perhaps, the best thing he had in life, and he didn't want it to be ruined. Especially not after he'd just gotten Watson back after so many long years. Watson loved him, yes, but that didn't necessarily mean he would still want to be friends. That didn't mean he wasn't about to walk away from him. Would he? Holmes wasn't so sure he knew.

Sherlock Holmes had taken on the traits of his father, and it was quickly becoming inconvenient. John Watson smiled to himself as he thought of it, affectionately stroking the boy's hair when he murmured something in his sleep. His brain, Watson was certain, was working hard even now in the dead of the night. He'd never met anyone so smart for how young they were, save of course for Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother. It was an open secret that the boy's brilliance came from their late mother, not their father, but no one spoke of it.

Sherlock, apparently, had gotten everything else but his brain from his father. He was remarkably tall for his age, and his frame was thin. His body tricked one into thinking he was weak, but there was remarkable strength in his spindly limbs. He wasn't, Watson was sure, even aware of his own strength. He'd once accidentally sprained Watson's wrist wrestling, and it hadn't taken him much of an effort at all.

He'd been very apologetic, of course, as soon as Watson had cried out from the pain of it. He'd helped Watson put a splint on it, and Watson reassured him that it was just an accident. Nevertheless, Sherlock didn't like wrestling so much after that even though it had previously been one of his favorite pastimes. Like most boys his age, he had loads of energy and liked rolling around in the dirt. He lost often because Watson was older and stronger, but he was smaller, agile, determined, and aggressive, and so was sometimes able to pin him down. It was during one of those matches that Holmes sprained his wrist, and they never did wrestle with any kind of fierce competition again no matter how many times Watson reassured him accidents sometimes just happen without it being anyone's fault.

Sherlock was simply at that tender age where he was simultaneously wanting to cling to Watson as well as to be his own man with his own thoughts and values. He would be a man soon, and it was only the privileges of his family's wealth that had allowed him to be a child for so long. Had he been like Watson, made to serve and work from the moment he could walk, he would have grown up much faster. It was Watson and his tutors that had allowed him to foster his curiosity and learn all the subjects he wanted to instead of following a strict curriculum. After all, Sherlock was, undoubtedly, far ahead of other boys his age and his tutors had him learning at higher levels simply because they knew he was able to handle the material.

Sherlock would, very soon, be a man. Watson knew that all too well. And with Mycroft's disinterest in being master of the estate, it would likely be Sherlock who stayed on. What kind of master would he be?

Watson pushed those thoughts away. Just because Sherlock's father wasn't a good man didn't mean Sherlock would become like him. Besides, Watson knew Sherlock's father only beat him because he could, because he couldn't fight back and no one else, not even his own father, would say anything. He was an easy target, and Sherlock's father was a coward. After all, only a coward would beat on a servant's child. That was the conclusion Watson had come to, and he was sticking with it.

As far as Sherlock went, he hadn't decided if he would stay on when the boy became the man of the house. He was a servant, not a slave. Nothing could make him stay away if he didn't want to, and he wasn't sure he did. He hated it here, hated Sherlock's father, hated that Harry was always living out in the woods, hated that his father never gave him a moment of peace. When he wasn't with Sherlock, he was doing hard labor that strained his young body and made him old before his time. He had been hardly strong enough to carry buckets of water when his father had made him do his job of chopping firewood for the house. He'd been clumsy with the ax, and had cut his leg badly. The resulting infection had nearly taken his life and he'd been bitter with the work ever since.

Sherlock was a highlight of his days. From the time Sherlock was born, Watson had been sat by his side and was told to look after him while everyone else looked after his mother. Watson had picked up the tiny bundle of blankets, peering at the little thing intently. He reached his hand to him, and the baby took his finger in his tiny fist. And from that moment on, the two of them were inseparable.

Sherlock had a nurse, of course, but when he was colicy or fussy, Watson was the only one who would calm him. For that reason, his father mocked him, calling him 'the little woman,' but Watson ignored him and always went when he was asked. He ended up spending much of his time in the nursery, which only made Sherlock bond to him more. The child would cry when being taken away from Watson, and that made everyone, even his father, give in easily when Watson was called to the house to tend the baby.

Now, Sherlock was nearly as tall as he was, and yet here they both were, still together. He was still coddling Sherlock, still giving into him when he looked up at him with the big, dear brown eyes of his and asked him not to leave 'just for tonight, John. Please?' Of course, Watson said yes, and of course, Sherlock would be asking again very soon. He didn't always say yes, but most of the time he did. He didn't mind being close to Sherlock; he never had.

That night, the boy's long, spindly legs were intertwined with his and his head was on Watson's shoulder. His arms were securely wrapped around him, and it was about to be a chore to get away without waking his friend.

Sherlock murmured something else in his sleep, and Watson shushed him once more, taking the chance to substitute himself for a pillow and extricate himself from the boy's grasp. He hadn't been good enough, however, because Sherlock woke anyway as he lit a candle and pulled on his trousers, tucking his nightshirt into them and pulling on his coat.

"John?" his voice was high, still, but would soon deepen.

"Go back to bed, Sherlock."

"Why? Where are you going? Take me with you."

Watson knew that look on Sherlock's face. It was the look he had when he was getting emotional, and he always got emotional when he thought he was being abandoned.

"Go back to sleep, Sherlock. It's not time for you to be up yet. I have to go out just for a moment, and I'll be back."

Sherlock was already on his feet. "I'm coming, too. You're sneaking out without me." He was practically pouting even though he was far too old for pouting.

"I'm going into the woods," Watson said softly. "I have a package for Harry that I won't have time to give him tomorrow, not with your brother coming home. I'll be needing to arrange his things the way he likes it done on top of everything else I need to do. I'll be back soon."

"No. I'm coming, too."

"You don't like being out in the woods in the dark, Sherlock. Stay here."

"Fine," the boy sighed. "I hope you like leaving me here all alone."

Watson sighed, tucking Sherlock back under the warm quilt. "All night, all day, angels watching over me, my Lord," he sang softly as he did so. "All night, all day, angels watching over me." The lullabye had always soothed Sherlock, and it worked now, too. Sherlock hummed along with him until the quilt was up to his chin, Watson kissed him gently on the forehead, and he snuffed out the candle once more.

He stepped out into the darkness, a pack on his back filled with supplies his brother had requested. He slipped into the stables, picking out his favorite gelding and mounting bareback. Starfire took him through the woods to his brother's cabin Harry was sitting by his campfire watching the trees as above him.

"John?"

"Hello, Harry," he said with a grin. "I knew you'd be up. I've brought you the supplies you need. Sorry it's so late, but no one else was willing to come until Monday."

Harry shook his head fondly. "I would have been fine, Johnny. But I thank you. How are things at the house?"

"Same as they've always been, I suppose," he replied with a shrug. He sat by his brother's side, sighing and laying his head on his shoulder.

Harry wrapped his arm around him, kissing his temple tenderly. "You don't belong there, John," he said softly, "but it won't be much longer now."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've got a plan. You know I've always looked after you, and I know father takes your pay, but he doesn't take mine. I've been saving it, Johnny, and I've been selling the carvings I make when I go into town each week. I've got enough to get you started at university; soon, you're going to leave here."

"Father would never allow that," John said sadly. "Besides, it's your money."

"Father doesn't have to allow it. He can't stop you. The worst that can happen is that he has to actually perform his duties again. I wish you could be out here with me all the time, Johnny, but I know that's not the life you want. Neither is being up at that house. I think it's about time a Watson did something other than serve the Holmes's."

"It's not so bad," John sighed.

"Don't lie to me," Harry chastised him. "I will always know when you are lying."

"It's not so bad when I'm with Sherlock," John clarified.

"Ah, yes, your little shadow," Harry said with a smile. "I swear, that boy used to go everywhere with you. I always thought it was funny, watching my little brother try to be a big brother." He jostled John gently, letting him know he was fooling him.

John huffed, but he was grinning. "And father, mother, tutor, and nanny. I've been all things to him; it's exhausting sometimes, but is still a sight better than scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees."

Harry sighed sadly. "I'm sorry, Johnny."

"What about you? Certainly you don't want to stay here forever."

"No. Once you're safely set up in life, I'm going to travel the world. They say America is a vast place with untamed land. I want to see it someday. I like it out here Johnny, so don't worry about me. I like living in a cabin and spending my day cataloging the animals. I'm not in a hurry to move, not like you. Just one day, I'd like to."

"I'll help you," John assured him. "When father can no longer control me, I'll make sure you can do it. Maybe I'll come with you."

"Of course you will. I know we don't always see each other as much as I would like, but I'd never want to actually be too far away from you, Johnny. Stay here with me tonight."

"I can't. It's a long ride back and I need to be there before Sherlock wakes. He always gets upset when he feels abandoned. I…"

There was a shriek from beyond them in the darkness, and they both jumped to their feet.
"Sherlock!" John cried. "He must have followed me out here!"

"John, wait!" Harry called, but he was already mounting his horse.

Harry ran after him, calling out. He found his brother comforting Sherlock, who had, evidently, been thrown from his horse.

"You're just fine," John was saying. "Be calm, Sherlock." He took the boy in his arms, lifting him and letting him cling to him.

"We'll say it was my fault," Harry said, giving his brother a worried look.

John shook his head. "He'd never believe it."

"Then don't say anything. Master Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock sniffed. "I'm sorry, I wanted to come, too. Something spooked the horse, and I couldn't keep control."

Harry rounded the horses up. "You need to get home," he said. John nodded. He mounted his horse, still bareback, and pulled Sherlock up after him, holding him gently. Despite what his brother wanted, he knew he was about to be caught.

Sherlock Holmes stared at the ceiling, thinking about the only time he'd ever seen his father strike Watson. At the time, he'd thought it was because his father had simply been angry that his son had been injured following him into the woods. Now, he knew his father's cruelty hadn't been contained to that day.

Upstairs, he could hear that Watson also couldn't get to sleep. Holmes wondered if Watson also was remembering that day. He stood, not really wanting to disobey what Watson had asked of him, but also not wishing for either of them to be alone right now. He was sure that he was being selfish, but he hoped Watson would forgive him. He creaked the door open, peering in to see if Watson was awake.

"Come in," he heard Watson say, and so he did."

"Don't sneak around like that," Watson said with a yawn. "You're likely to frighten me."

"Sorry," Holmes apologized. He hitched his hip on the edge of Watson's bed. "Do you mind?"

"No," Watson sighed. "Not tonight I don't."

Holmes crawled in by his side, hugging the man he knew was his brother even if Watson didn't like to think so as well. "I fear you and I are fighting the same darkness tonight, Watson," he murmured. "I fear that for the rest of our lives we always will be."

"You may be right," Watson murmured, and laid his head on Holmes' shoulder.

Holmes didn't often feel like he was the one who got to look out for Watson, but that night he did. He stayed up, watching over his brother and thinking.

When Watson woke, he chuckled slightly. "I'm not used to you being so tall," he said. "I remember when you got too big for me to carry. You were very upset about it, you know."

"I'm sure I was," Holmes replied, smiling slightly. "After all, I was hardly ever apart from you, and you know I loved you more than anyone in the world. I still do, John, and that will always be true no matter what you choose to do next."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?'

"Do you still wish to stay here with me?"

"Of course I do. If I didn't still love you, why would I consent to let you sleep in my bed like we were still children?"

"Maybe it has nothing to do with love," Sherlock said. "You can love me without wanting to be friends. I'd understand if you don't want to be near me anymore."

"Sherlock, I never meant to make you think that. Of course I still want to be friends with you. I'm not very happy right now, but I don't have to be. Happiness will come with time. After all, I can't change the past anymore than you can. None can control who they are born to, or when."

"You're too good to me, John. I don't deserve your love."

Watson gave him a small, sheepish smile. "You are my brother, Sherlock Holmes. You don't have to deserve it, you have it."

Sherlock paused, tears welling in his eyes. "John, you won't have to do that," he said. "You don't have to acknowledge it."

"Not to the rest of the world," Watson replied. "But here? Between you and me in our own home? Why pretend?"

"Why pretend," Holmes agreed. He couldn't help himself, he wrapped his arms around Watson, hugging him firmly. "We're going to be alright, you and I. I promise you, John."

"I know. Now go on, get downstairs to your room and change. You are expecting that Inspector from Scotland Yard, remember?"

"Right," Holmes grumbled. "I do. Why don't you join us, John? Lestrade will not, I'm sure, object to having you present."

"But what use could I be?"

"You're invaluable, John," Holmes said sternly. "Don't ever doubt that. Besides, I'd end up discussing the case with you in any event."

"Very well," Watson agreed. "If you're sure."

"I am," Holmes assured him. He'd hardly ever been so certain in his life.

What If... Holmes and Watson were literal, not figurative, brothers?

And so, dear readers, we see a world vastly different from the one we know, one where a friendship is nearly broken by the sins of the fathers. Could things have worked out differently for them had Sherlock Holmes not stood so far into the water? I can't say, I can only report what is. I am the writer.