Author's Note: I was inspired to write this chapter by a reader who was dissatisfied with the absence of Sherlock's parents in the Fragile story. It made me realize that I was also dissatisfied; that was an aspect I'd failed to address in the original. So, I thought this was the perfect place to elaborate on their role. This chapter actually turned into something even bigger and more meaningful than I intended, and I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 3: The Crackdown

Mycroft knew this day would come eventually, but that did nothing to assuage his dread. He'd taken a calculated risk when he made the decision, and he'd hoped it would prove to be the right one. At the time, there were so many confounding variables that it was impossible to firmly conclude which was the lesser of two evils. Mycroft didn't know how it would end, so he couldn't decide exactly how it should begin. If there was one thing he hated almost as much as powerlessness, it was indecisiveness.

He was used to knowing infinitely more about a situation than any other involved party, to having the upper hand. He was not used to being tossed a conundrum that no amount of deduction or persuasion could solve. He'd been literally unable to do anything more than watch and hope for the best. He'd been sidelined, forced to sit out on the fight for his baby brother's life. Naturally, this encouraged him to bolster his control over the things he actually could: namely, their parents.

It hadn't been an easy decision by any stretch of the imagination. Mycroft had deliberated pros and cons for hours until he thought his brain would explode under the strain. To tell or not to tell, that was the question. If he informed them of the situation, they'd undoubtedly drop whatever they were doing and rush to Sherlock's side. But would their presence be a help or a hindrance? Sherlock's support system didn't necessarily need reinforcements; he had Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, and of course John Watson. How much good could two extra well-wishers possibly do?

Secondly, the Holmes boys both knew their parents had a tendency to mollycoddle, something which Sherlock had despised since early childhood. Their mother's frankly overbearing presence would not necessarily facilitate recovery. Mycroft knew that, if the decision were left up to him, his brother wouldn't want them around to fuss over him.

Thirdly, was it fair to summon them to witness one of the worst things that could possibly happen to their youngest son? Was it not preferable for them to lead their lives unaware of the tragedy unfolding back in London? What was the expression... ignorance is bliss? If Mycroft refrained from telling them, it would end one of two ways. Either they'd hear the story of Sherlock's triumphant fight against leukaemia, or they'd be informed of his death, knowing there was nothing they could've done. If he told them, they would either watch their son suffer through treatment to make it out the other side, or they'd watch him wither away and die before their eyes, knowing there's nothing they can do.

If Mycroft could foresee the ending to this saga, the decision would be easy. If Sherlock was going to live, he should inform them. If he was to die, Mycroft should spare them the extra suffering and wait until after Sherlock's passing to share the news. Alas, he had no way of knowing how this would turn out.

As a final decision evaded him, he turned to the only other person who really mattered in this debate: Sherlock himself. Mycroft deliberated for days after they learned of the diagnosis before he accepted defeat. During that time, there were very few moments in which he could speak to Sherlock privately. Either Dr. Watson was in the room with them, or Sherlock was asleep and Mycroft dare not wake him from much-needed rest. However, the perfect time eventually arose.

"Sherlock, I'm afraid I have a rather important question to ask you." Mycroft had said. His brother didn't respond verbally, just looked at him blearily and managed to nod. "What do we tell Mummy and Dad?" He knew it was a lot to ask of a man currently contemplating a massive amount of information—including possibly his own demise—but he had no one else to turn to.

"Nothing," Sherlock rasped. "Let them be."

"Are you sure? I've no doubt they'd want nothing more to be with you during this... troubling time."

"Nothing."

And that was the end of that conversation. Mycroft's mind was made up. He would not tell their parents until they returned to England from wherever they'd gone this time. But Mycroft got so caught up in work that he didn't realize they'd arrived back home over a week ago.

As soon as his phone rang with the tone assigned to his parents, a sense of foreboding overcame him like a tidal wave. He knew he was in for it before he even picked up. He held it to his ear and began to utter a hello, when the angry voice of his mother interrupted and obliterated all chance of a civilised conversation.

"MYCROFT HOLMES!"

"Yes, Mummy," Mycroft's voice hadn't squeaked like that since puberty, and it did not bode well for the rest of the conversation.

"I don't even need to tell you what you've done wrong this time, as I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Yes. Let me explain—"

"No. I don't want your explanation. I just want you to listen to me when I tell you that your father and I are absolutely heartbroken. As parents, we expect a certain amount of lies and deceit, but I never imagined my own son would keep something this important from me. Mycroft, my little boy was dying and I was off drinking wine on holiday! How do you think that makes me feel? I've failed as a mother!"

"You haven't failed, Mummy. Sherlock and I agreed—"

"He was in on this—this treachery!" Mycroft considered telling her that Sherlock had been the deciding vote on whether to tell them, but he couldn't let his little brother take any of the heat. The last thing he needed on top of everything else was his own mother's wrath. Mycroft would force all the blame onto himself.

"Somewhat. I asked him for approval of my decision, and he gave it."

"Why? I can't imagine him wanting to go through something like that all alone."

"Mummy, I assure you he was far from alone."

"Mycroft, he's never really adored your company."

"No, not me," Mycroft began. "Not only me," he corrected. "He's got himself a circle of close friends, many of which were by his side every possible second."

"Well, at least you aren't completely stupid. Good God, your brother gets diagnosed with cancer, and you don't even think to tell your parents?"

"Believe me, I did think about it. Endlessly."

"Your father and I expect a thorough explanation for your insolence when we see you tomorrow." This was news to Mycroft; he hadn't planned any encounter with his parents. Then again, he didn't realize they were in the country until he received this phone call.

"I didn't realize we had an engagement tomorrow," he admitted.

"We didn't. Until now. We'll be visiting your brother in the afternoon, and you will be there. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Mummy."

That was the end of the phone call. Mycroft took a deep breath and massaged his temples to alleviate the headache that had been building with his mother's scathing remarks. He considered for a moment the possibility that he'd miscalculated and made the wrong decision, but quickly dismissed the prospect. He'd much rather be the target of verbal abuse than watch his mother grieve. She'd get over this rage, eventually. But if she'd seen some of the things that Mycroft and Dr. Watson had witnessed, they'd haunt her for the rest of her life.

~0~

Mycroft visited 221B Baker Street on occasion, but he was rarely welcomed by its occupants. Today was no different. Sherlock scowled at him the second he laid eyes on his older brother, and John appeared resigned to whatever argument was about to ensue.

"I'm assuming you've been made privy to Mummy's, shall I say qualms, regarding our decision-making?"

"Our? This was your idea," Sherlock replied.

"I seem to recall asking your opinion on the matter. You instructed me to tell them nothing."

"You can't prove that. I have very little recollection of that time period. Must be all the poison they pumped through me."

"Brother, I will gladly take the fall for this, but you will have to answer to her."

"Yes, John has informed me of the things someone in my situation should and should not address." Mycroft looked to the doctor to see if this was true, but he only shrugged resignedly.

"Let's hope you studied up."

"Of course I have. But, one thing, Mycroft," Sherlock tone suddenly changed from mildly irritated to sincerely concerned. "Have they been warned of the... changes?"

Shit. Sherlock didn't need to specify for Mycroft to know what he was referring to and no, their parents hadn't been informed. Unless some photo had been leaked to the press and they'd somehow gotten a hold of it, the Holmes parents had no idea what was in store. Once they observed the true extent of the damage inflicted, their fussing would increase tenfold. Sherlock's face reflected his dread of this moment, but they had little time to dwell on it. The doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson let Mr. and Mrs. Holmes up to the flat. Despite their familiarity with their parents, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had the faintest idea how this reunion would go. They only knew it would be unpleasant.

Mycroft took a step back and watched his mother's face fall as she laid eyes on her youngest son. Moving at an incredible pace for a woman of her age, she rushed at Sherlock and nearly tackled him in the ferocity of her embrace. Sherlock's childhood nickname, "Locky," had barely escaped her lips before she burst into tears. The situation made Mycroft feel as uncomfortable as Sherlock looked, trapped in his mother's grasp. He clearly didn't know what to do with himself, so he just stood there limply and let Mummy hold him. Mycroft observed that he'd buried his right hand in his pocket, and predicted it may stay hidden for the entirety of the visit.

Their father reacted not with an outburst like their mother, but with a steady deflation. He stood near Mycroft, his eyes fixed on his wife and child. He appeared to physically shrink by the inch as the seconds ticked by, the full scope of the horrors his son must've endured gradually sinking in. Mycroft wasn't sure whose reaction was more agonizing to witness.

John evidently thought he was trespassing on a family affair, and he stood up to leave the room. Sherlock stopped him in his tracks with a pleading gaze. Their propensity for flawless non-verbal communication always left Mycroft awestruck. He and Sherlock could do that to a certain degree, but they'd known each other for decades. Dr. Watson had been a part of Sherlock's life for mere years, yet their connection ran just as deep, if not deeper, as the fraternal one between Sherlock and Mycroft. John returned to his chair and watched helplessly as Sherlock continued to be throttled by his weeping mother.

"Mum, I'm okay. Really," Sherlock spluttered, his lungs somewhat constricted by his mother's grasp. At last, she released him, wiping and endless stream of tears from her face. Sherlock glanced to John, then back to Mum, and returned her hug. She buried her face in his shoulder again, almost falling into him. Maybe Mycroft had made the wrong decision. This was painful to witness. All the anger had drained out of her, replaced only with relief that her son lived.

This position left both of Sherlock's hands exposed, and Mycroft saw his father immediately pinpoint what was missing. He looked to Mycroft and gestured at his own hand in question. Mycroft leaned towards him and whispered, "If he tries to keep hiding it, just let him. Mummy doesn't need any more surprises to upset her." His father nodded understandingly and moved to take a seat on their couch. It took a few more minutes for their mother to calm down enough to allow Sherlock to release her. He'd attempted it a few times, but she'd clasped the material of his shirt and effectively held him in place. Finally, she sat down next to their father and leant up against him, the occasional tear still dripping down her face.

"I'm assuming you have questions," Sherlock remarked. Mycroft noted that he stood close to John's chair instead of taking a seat in his own.

"How could you?" their mother asked, fresh tears. "How could you keep this from us?"

"You'll have to ask Mycroft. I was in no state to go around informing people of anything. Though he tells me he acquired my approval, I don't recall giving it." Mycroft almost couldn't believe what he heard. His little brother was lying to save his own hide. Mycroft was being made the scapegoat, and there was nothing he could do to escape it. He couldn't antagonize Sherlock or call him out without being seen as cruel, giving his mother even more reason to hate him. Well, if there was ever a time Sherlock deserved to be let off the hook for lying, it was now.

"I deliberated this issue endlessly before coming to a decision. I thought it'd be better if you weren't made aware until it was all over," Mycroft explained.

Sherlock interjected, "Certain things would've been... painful to witness. John and Mycroft can attest to this."

"More painful than learning that our son was on death's door without his parents there to support him?" their mother questioned. Sherlock flinched at her word choice, but there was no denying that's exactly where he'd been.

"Yes. Mycroft's intention was mercy. Secrecy was the only way to spare you," Sherlock continued. Mummy cried some more after that, but their father looked at both boys and finally spoke his mind:

"I know you boys and your logic-oriented thinking. Most of the time, it'll take you as far as you need to go, but it's not foolproof—very few things in life are. Some things aren't about reason and number crunching. Both of you need to look at this through her eyes," he nodded at his wife beside him, "and understand what you did and why it is so distressing. Sherlock, you've always been a terrible liar, I know you were fully aware of what you agreed to." Their father's lie-detecting abilities never ceased to amaze Mycroft. Sherlock was by no means a terrible liar—he was one of the best—but Mr. Holmes saw right through him each and every time. "I hate to put it like this, but I must get this message across. If you had died, Sherlock, we would've been robbed of the opportunity to say goodbye. We would've gotten a phone call informing us that you were gone and that your last months had been spent in misery. And we never would've gotten the chance to tell you how proud we are of everything you've accomplished, or gotten to hold your hand and assure you that we'd see you again someday. We wouldn't have gotten to tell you how much we love you. It is that possibility that haunts your mother and me. I will say this once, boys, and I hope you take it to heart: never, ever take away someone's right to say 'I love you.'"

Everyone in the room was stunned, even Mr. Holmes himself. Usually, he went along with whatever their mother said, not bothering to think for himself. Such a heartfelt lecture had never been recited by this man for as long as Mycroft could remember. His father's expression reflected this sentiment; apparently he hadn't thought himself capable of such emotional reprimand either. John appeared flabbergasted, possibly because he'd never know a Holmes who would so openly discuss his feelings. Mycroft met Sherlock eyes and saw his own shame reflected there as well. Nothing, not even his mother's anger had made Mycroft feel remorse such as this. He hoped he'd never have to feel it again.

Sherlock was the first to speak, "I—I'm sorry. My reasons for insisting you weren't told were rather selfish. I'm afraid I just wanted to minimize the number of people who would see me at my worst." Mycroft heard this and knew immediately that he must apologize as well.

"I, too, must apologize to you both. It should have been clear to me that informing you was the only option even worth considering. I regret that my actions have caused you strife, and I hope I can make amends," Mycroft said sincerely. After this, a series of hugs between the four Holmes ensued. No one in the room had refrained from crying, whether from joy, catharsis, or relief. After a brief discussion of Sherlock's current condition, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes announced their departure. Mycroft walked them to the door and promised, "Should he relapse, God forbid, you'll be the first to know."

"I expect nothing less, Mike," his mother replied.

"Thank you Dad, your words were... immensely meaningful."

"It's my duty as a father to instil a good moral code in my sons. I may have failed to do that earlier in your lives; it's only fitting I do so now," he said. Mycroft allowed his mother to plant a goodbye kiss before seeing them out the door. He considered leaving John and Sherlock be, but decided instead to rejoin them upstairs for a brief discussion.

"It appears we made a grave miscalculation," Mycroft told Sherlock.

"Yes, it appears so. I never knew Dad could string so many sentences together at once," he said.

"Neither did I, but we now know he can speak his mind when the mood strikes him, and we'd best beware when it does."

"Indeed."