A little of Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood.

Warning: References to child abuse

Sherlock had been a happy, loving child. He had cared deeply for his family and had made friends with ease. Mycroft imagined he had been much the same himself as a young child too, before his father had started making secret visits to his bedroom at night. He had been relieved when his father had died before Sherlock had reached the age Mycroft had been when the visits had started. It meant not only would he be safe from the unwanted visits but that when he left for boarding school the following year, Sherlock would also be safe.

During the summer between Mycroft's first and second years at boarding school, when he was 12 and Sherlock was 5, their mother fell in love with a man called Jack Woodfine. Jack got on exceptionally well with Sherlock, treating him as if he was his own son. Mycroft felt wary around him, didn't like seeing him spend so much time with his little brother, but he put that down to his own less than ideal relationship with their father and said nothing. He hid his feelings from Jack and treated him as he was expected to.

When he left for school at the end of the summer, Sherlock bade him goodbye in his customary fashion – with a big hug and a sloppy kiss. Mycroft had laughed and hugged his little brother back. "Remember I love you Sherlock," he had whispered in the boy's ear, "and I'll be back again as soon as I can." Sherlock had looked at him with the love he felt for his big brother shining in his eyes and grinned.

Just 7 weeks later Mycroft had returned home for half term. He had been surprised to find that Sherlock wasn't waiting for him on the drive, like he normally would. When he got to the house he discovered that in his short absence Jack had moved into their home and was engaged to mummy. Mycroft dumped his bag in his room before running to find his brother. He eventually found him in the last place he had expected to... under the bed in Mycroft's room.

When Mycroft saw the look in his brother's eyes his blood ran cold. He recognised that look; he had seen it in the mirror every morning for the last 3 years of his father's life. He eventually managed to coax Sherlock out from under his bed and wrapped his little brother in a hug. Sherlock had turned his head to hide his face against his brother but there were no tears.

"Who was it Sherlock?" Mycroft had asked softly.

"Jack," came the whispered response. Mycroft allowed none of his emotions to show themselves, instead he pulled his brother in closer and allowed the rage to build inside and settle around his heart.

Mycroft only had one week at home before he had to go back to school. In that week he had confronted Jack, who had pinned him against a wall until he blacked out and kicked him between the legs to wake him up. He had begged his mother to save Sherlock from Jack and had had a tumbler of brandy chucked at his head, he had managed to dodge the tumbler but not the empty bottle that followed it.

The rest of that week Mycroft spent teaching Sherlock every technique he knew to separate the mind from the body. Sherlock was a quick study and was very quickly able to retreat into his own mind, blissfully unaware of all that was happening around him or to him. It broke Mycroft's heart to see the change in his little brother but he knew it was better than the alternative. Sherlock didn't hug Mycroft goodbye when he had to leave for school again at the end of the week; he was too busy exploring his new mind palace. Mycroft had permitted himself to allow a single tear to escape on the car journey to school before hardening his heart once more.

It was 3 years before Mycroft was able to stop Jack; it was 3 years before he was big enough and a capable enough fighter to put Jack in fear for his life should he ever touch Sherlock again. Mycroft regretted deeply that it had taken him so long to be able to save his little brother and that, by the time he had, the changes in Sherlock were irreversible.

Now, looking at Sherlock lying on the sofa with such unguarded emotion in his eyes, Mycroft had to force the next question out. "If this was really heaven, do you think I would be here?"

"Yes."

"Why? You hate me."

"No. I was angry but I know now." Mycroft felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he couldn't help glancing at John to see if he would realise what Sherlock was talking about. John just looked confused.

"You know?" Mycroft whispered.

"I know what father did and I know it was you who saved me from Jack."

"Not quick enough," Mycroft said sadly, choosing to ignore the first half of Sherlock's sentence.

"You were a child but you saved me as soon as you were able. I know that you tried as soon as you found out. I know what they did. I'm sorry for not finding out before we died." Mycroft shook his head.

"We're not dead Sherlock."

"Prove it."

"I think," John interrupted, "that the withdrawal will soon do that for us. It's... um... going to be bad. Sorry."

John decided he would get Sherlock through the withdrawal and back off the drugs before he pressed him for answers on why he had left. The hurt was still there, lurking in the background but for now it was drowned out by the duty of a doctor and the concern of a friend.