2011

"Mycroft, do you remember when the butler died? Smith?" Sherlock asked suddenly, laying his violin on his lap.

Mycroft froze for a moment, doing his best to hide his reaction. "Vaguely." He replied cautiously. "Why?"

"Were you responsible for it?" Sherlock said quickly, plucking the strings of his violin nonchalantly.

"Why would you say such a thing?"

"Were you? Mycroft?"

Before he knew it Mycroft had nodded. "Yes. I pushed him."

"Why?"

"You know why, don't you?"

"Did he do something wrong? Something he shouldn't have?"

"Do you really not remember?"

"I must have deleted it." Sherlock replied flippantly.

Mycroft hesitated, swallowing awkwardly while trying to form an answer. "He did something very wrong. Something terribly, terribly wrong. I had no choice."

"What did he do?"

"Please, little brother, don't bring this up. Just trust me. I did the right thing. I kept everyone safe."

"What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

"Yes, but that wasn't why I did it."

"Then why?"

"You really want to know? You really want to open this can of worms? Once opened we can't just tidy it away again. These words can't be unsaid."

"Yes, tell me, I know I should remember."

"He hurt you, Sherlock, he hurt you. So I ensured that he would never be able to hurt you, or me, or anyone else again."

"What did he do?"

"Please, Sherlock, please don't."

"Tell me. Or I'll phone Lestrade and have you arrested."

"Don't be silly. As if he would arrest me. As you so crudely put it – I am the British Government."

"Then I'll phone Mother and Father and tell them."

"Don't even joke about it Sherlock!"

"I am not joking."

Mycroft gave his brother a horrified look.

"What did he do?"

Mycroft watched Sherlock for a few seconds, he wasn't going to give in. "He touched you … inappropriately."

Sherlock seemed to take this well, maybe he already knew but wanted Mycroft to confirm it. "I thought as much. Why didn't you just tell Mother?"

"I don't know." Mycroft looked desperate, miserable. "Because I was scared, because I was confused, because ... I was a child. I was thirteen, Sherlock. And he'd convinced me that no one would believe anything I said. I did what I thought I had to. He hurt you and I was going to school and I didn't know how else to protect you." He was getting flustered. Years of anxiety and guilt bubbling to the surface and breaking through his calm composure.

"He might have never done it again."

"He would have."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because … because he had been doing the same to me since you were just a baby. He was a dirty, manipulative man. And he would have done a lot worse had I not stepped in."

"He abused you?" It was said as a question but it wasn't really. Sherlock knew the answer.

"Yes." Mycroft said with ice in his voice.

"He touched you?"

"Yes."

"Did he do anything else? Did he … did he-"

"Did he what?"

"Did he rape you?"

Mycroft chose not to answer. Unable to form any words. Instead closing his eyes in shame.

Sherlock remained silent for a moment. "Have you told anyone?"

"Of course not. Why on Earth would I have told anyone?"

Silence reigned for a few long minutes, both needing the time to process their thoughts.

"I remember you telling me it wasn't my fault. It wasn't your fault either, you know that, don't you? Don't you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sat silently, remembering all the ways that it was his fault.

"After he died, you wouldn't look at me. For years you barely spoke to me. Was that why? Because of what you had to do to protect me?" Sherlock was finally able to ask the question that had bothered him for so many years. Why had their relationship changed?

"No Sherlock. I couldn't look at you because I was ashamed."

"Of me?"

"No, not of you, I have never been ashamed of you."

"Then what?"

Mycroft closed his eyes as embarrassment flushed his cheeks. "I was ashamed of myself. Every time I looked at you I was reminded of how I'd failed you. I failed to protect you. If I'd done something sooner … he wouldn't have hurt you."

"You've never stopped trying to protect me."

"No, and I never will. I know you hate me but…"

"I don't hate you. I was hurt, when you stopped talking to me. I thought I must have done something wrong."

"No, you hadn't. I was just so terribly angry with myself."

"You needn't be, brother mine." Sherlock stood and lifted his violin. "I think it's time you forgave yourself." He said before turning away from Mycroft and playing a melancholic tune.

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again

A. E. Housman from "A Shropshire Lad"