A/N: Another chapter for your perusall and enjoyment. You all inspire me with your enthusiasm!
"We're pretty close in age, Harry and I, with her being only a year older than me. But we're very different. I always worked hard and did well in school. Harry, well, things were more difficult for her. My parents never understood why she did so poorly. It was only as an adult that she was diagnosed with-"
"ADHD," Sherlock interrupted. "Obvious."
"You didn't get that from her phone," John replied dryly.
"I suspected it from the one time we met," Sherlock shrugged. "You just confirmed it for me."
"Thank you, Mr. Genius. Now shut up and let me continue. Anyway, she was obviously intelligent, with the way she picked up and remembered various pieces of information. Unfortunately, her intelligence worked against her. My parents, and her school decided that she was simply lazy. At that time, her condition was under-diagnosed, especially in girls.
"She would also act out, at home and in school, suffering from an excess of energy that she had nowhere to release. Dad was a military man, and Mummy was pretty old school, and they believed in good old-fashioned discipline.
"At a pretty young age, were both placed into our own categories, and stuck with a label. I was the Good Boy, and she was the Impossible One. We both accepted it as a fact of life. I would get constant rewards and praise, while she consistently got criticism and punishment. We both worked hard to live up to expectations," John smiled wryly.
"When Harry was eighteen, she left home and tried to turn herself around. She is very talented, and became a fashion consultant, gathering an impressive clientele. She found Clara, and I hoped she was finally happy.
"But it seems that the moment she tasted success, she fell back into her own habits. She drank away her money, her career, and her partner. You want to know what she tells me, every single time she's drunk?" John raised his voice slightly.
Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow.
"She says, 'I can't do this, Johnny. You are the good one, the successful one. I'm damaged. I can't really succeed. It's all just an illusion.' She doesn't believe in herself, so her successes seem fake. She's always running, running from her memories, from her success, from herself."
"And you're comparing Mycroft to Harry?" Sherlock questioned incredulously.
"Not the point. I just see what it's done to her, to be constantly compared to me and coming up short. Every time I see her, my beautiful, talented, intelligent sister, drinking her life away because she believes she is broken, I wonder why I never stood up for her. Why I never told my parents that she doesn't deserve the label they gave her, that she is a wonderful human being despite not being perfect. And I wonder what would have happened if she were an only child, and wasn't constantly being compared to her brother who could do no wrong."
Sherlock Holmes deduced, by the wetness in John's eyes, that this particular topic was a Bit Not Good. John blamed himself, of course, for not saving his sister.
"You aren't at fault for your parents' actions," he told him quietly.
"I suppose not. But I suppose your mother's words just struck me the wrong way. I've personally gotten to see how harmful it is for a child to be labeled as second class. Which, if you'll pardon me for saying it, is exactly what your parents are doing."
"John," the detective's voice was hesitant and confused. "I understand your point, but we're talking about Mycroft here, not Harry. Mycroft is... Mycroft. He isn't drinking his life away, or anything similar to that. He's the fat git who runs this country and enjoys manipulating people as a pastime. Mycroft isn't- is not... damaged." Sherock spat the last word with ridicule.
"Hmm, I don't know. Isn't he?" the doctor mused. "We both know how far he goes to protect himself from feeling any human emotions. Like a certain high-functioning sociopath used to do, only he hides it better."
"And if he does, is it necessarily his family that is at fault?" Sherlock answered, a touch defensively.
"That question is above my pay grade, and I wouldn't answer it even if it weren't. I only know what I see with my eyes, and I see him staying away from all of you. Answer me this; do you really want him back?"
"Mummy's pretty upset, and Dad-"
"No, I'm asking you. Do you personally want to resume your relationship, if what you had could even be called that?"
Sherlock was silent, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he said, "I suppose."
"Why?"
"Why? I honestly have no idea. What's with the interrogation today?" he said grumpily.
"I just think that if you are going to put any effort into this, you should know why you're doing this. Don't bother telling me. Just think about it."
The men hurried back to the cottage, where the older couple was waiting.
William Holmes addressed John and while sipping his piping hot tea, sweetened with honey. "Do you think I should perhaps tell Mycroft that I will accept him as my son, no matter what he has done? Do you think that's what he's waiting to hear?"
Sherlock was the one who answered him. "Dad, I hardly think he would like to be compared to Eurus right now."
William's face fell, but he nodded in agreement. "What do you think we should do?" he addressed John again. The doctor wondered, not for the first time, if there was something about his appearance that screamed "family doctor" and made young and old turn to him for advice.
"I can't tell you what to do, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. However, I believe you will soon figure it out yourselves. Please pardon my impertinencell and just tell me one thing; how badly do you want to resume contact with your son?"
"What do you mean by that!" Mildred exclaimed, deeply offended. "He's my son!"
"Are you willing to do whatever it takes?" John asked quietly and firmly. "Even if it might be very painful? Even if it might take a lot of time and effort?"
Mildred looked bewildered, while her husband looked thoughtful. "Whatever it takes," the latter said firmly. "Right, my dear?"
His wife sniffed tearfully, then nodded. The doctor turned to his friend and ordered, "Right, Sherlock, start talking."
"What?!" Sherlock choked.
"You heard me. You will tell the truth, pure and simple or not, from beginning to end. Everything."
"No," was the hissed reply.
"Or I'll do the talking, as much as I know, anyway."
His younger friend looked frightened. "I don't know if this is right."
The former army doctor spoke to his friend as if he were a small and frightened child. "Sherlock, I know this isn't easy. But I think this is the only way to heal this rift. If you want, I will stay here the whole time, if your parents agree. Do you want to do this?"
Sherlock gazed out the window, and saw an image of himself and Mycroft strolling the grounds, sneaking a smoke away from Mummy's watchful eyes. That scenario had occurred just about every time they visited, which wasn't much. A small smile played about his lips.
"For our family," he said. For Mycroft, he added in his mind.