John only had a moment to relish the look of surprise on Mr. Holmes' face before the DS pushed him into the wall none-too-gently and cuffed him. Mr. Holmes hissed something at the DS. Whatever he said, it made the Detective Sergeant's face harden. He shoved Mr. Holmes unceremoniously out the door to where another, lower-ranking Scotland Yarder stood. "Give him a phone call if he wants one," he growled. "I need to talk to the doctor and the kids."

Almost imperceptibly, Mycroft took a half-step back into the shadows. John shot him what he hoped was a reassuring look before the Detective Sergeant stepped back inside the room. The man gave John a curt nod and held out his hand to shake. "I'm Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade from the Scotland Yard."

"Dr. John Watson, Second Lieutenant, RAMC."

Lestrade's dark eyes widened fractionally. John thought he saw his spine straighten before he spoke again. "Are you Sherlock Holmes' doctor?"

"Yeah, now and the last time he was in here."

Lestrade's frown deepened as he pulled up a metal chair. John sat slowly in the one opposite it, closer to Sherlock's prone form, just in case. For now, the toddler didn't stir, even as his elder brother retreated further into the shadows behind the protection of his umbrella. The Detective Sergeant cast him a curious glance before looking back at John seriously. "He was in here before?" John heard the click of a tape recorder. "Why?"

John cleared his throat. You might be telling this all to a judge now. Get those boys away from their dad, fast! "Sherlock Holmes arrived at the hospital three weeks ago with a minor head injury apparently caused by a fall down the stairs. Although the cut on his forehead was stitched easily…" John gingerly brushed Sherlock's wayward curls out of the way so the detective could clearly see the neat stitches across the boy's pale forehead, "he stayed at the hospital for a while to make sure he didn't have a concussion. That's when I came in. His original doctor had to leave due to a family emergency, so I examined Sherlock for a concussion."

"And how was he?"

"Fine. Great. Brilliant, actually. No concussion, that's for sure." John spared the sleeping boy a faint grin before he addressed Lestrade's bemused frown.

"Sherlock Holmes is a very intelligent boy. Stubborn, but brilliant. Anyway, after a few hours, his mother and brother came to pick him up, and Sherlock went home. I didn't think much about him after that, to be honest. I was too busy with other patients. There was only one thing that really bothered me."

Lestrade leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "Yeah? What's that?"

"When I asked Sherlock how he fell down the stairs, he clammed up. I couldn't get him to shut up before that, honestly, but the moment I mentioned the stairs he clammed up. All he would tell me was that he 'upset Mummy.'" When Lestrade opened his mouth to ask the obvious, John talked over him. "Yeah, I wondered about it. How couldn't I? I looked at Sherlock's file to see if anyone had left notes about his parents, but there wasn't anything. I've known Tony—Sherlock's old doctor—since before I enlisted. I trusted him. If he hadn't wrote anything about Sherlock being abused, then I assumed Sherlock was just…I just assumed," John growled.

The detective nodded slowly. "So Sherlock went home. When was he readmitted?"

"Early this morning. His right arm looked dislocated, but he wouldn't let anyone get a good look at it. Believe me," John said at Lestrade's skeptical expression, "he can be a terror when he wants to be. We gave him some pain medicine and x-rayed his arm, then let him sleep while we waited for the x-rays to come back. Multiple fractures to the lower bones, a clean break in the upper one. It's nothing a child could do to himself, not one so young, not even falling from something. It would take someone with a lot more strength than Sherlock has to break that bone so expertly."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "Expertly?"

For a moment, John squeezed his eyes shut and willed his anger back. "Yes. I've seen breaks exactly like that before in Afghanistan. A particular group of insurgents did that to their American captives in order to disable them. It worked."

"But why do you believe Sherlock's father did this to him? This is England, not Afghanistan."

John's jaw tightened. "Terrible things can happen here too, can't they? That's why Scotland Yard exists." Easy there, Watson, John instantly reprimanded himself. Lestrade's on your side now. Don't be snapping at him. He took a long, deep breath before continuing more calmly, "I did think of that. That's why I had Dr. Sawyer study the x-rays as well. She came to the same conclusion I did based on the break pattern."

Slowly, DS Lestrade nodded. "That's still circumstanstial evidence, though."

"The fingerprint bruises on Sherlock's arms aren't!" Behind John, Sherlock stirred at the sharp note in John's voice. The doctor lowered it to a vehement rumble. "As soon as he's ready for a cast change, I can show them to you. They'll have faded some, but they'll still be there. If I hadn't set his arm when I did, Sherlock could have had permanent damage to that arm."

"That's all right. I understand that. What size would you say the fingerprints were?" When John scowled, Lestrade rolled his eyes at him and nodded at the tape recorder as if to say, Yes, I know it's a stupid question, but I'm not the only one who'll hear this.

What size do you think they were? Bloody—John swallowed those words. "Adult male, definitely. A bigger man."

"And you believe that Sherlock Holmes' father is responsible?" Another work with me look from Lestrade barely kept John from shouting in frustration. In Afghanistan, I could have ended this an hour ago! There's a little beaten boy in that hospital bed behind me, can't you see? Do you actually care at all?

Sharply, John nodded. "Absolutely. Sherlock's terrified of both of his parents. So's his brother. It's not normal. It's not natural, and neither is that cut on Sherlock's head or the fractures in his bones. I'm sure his father's the one responsible. Absolutely."

With a sigh, DS Lestrade stopped the tape recorder. "Thank you for bearing with me, Lieutenant Watson. I know it's a frustrating process, but that's the only way I can help these boys. Speaking of." He turned towards the nervous figure behind the umbrella in the corner and beckoned Mycroft with one hand. "Come over here. Let me talk to you. What's your name?"

Mycroft swallowed audibly before lowering his umbrella. As he cautiously approached Lestrade, he studied the Detective Sergeant with a mixture of doubt and disdain. When he reached John's side, Mycroft closed his umbrella and held out his hand to Lestrade solemnly. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

To John's surprise, Lestrade hid his astonishment well. The detective gave Mycroft a short nod and shook his hand firmly. "Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade of the Scotland Yard. Pleased to meet you."

"I am pleased to meet you as well."

"I like your umbrella."

Instantly, Mycroft froze. He glared at Lestrade icily, only to seem to realize that the detective was serious. The boy's eyes widened as sat gingerly on the edge of his younger brother's hospital bed. "Truly?"

"Yeah! It's cool. Classy. You're making me feel underdressed." Lestrade made a show of attempting to straighten his rumpled shirt. "What d'you reckon? Do you think I should start wearing a suit like yours? It's spiffy."

A shy smile flitted across Mycroft's face. "I don't chase after criminals," he pointed out softly. "It wouldn't be…practical…for you to wear a suit like mine to work, Detective Sergeant."

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, I suppose not. Still feel underdressed, though. Do you wear that to school, or…?"

"No, we have a uniform." Mycroft's rather Sherlockian scowl communicated his displeasure with the aforementioned uniform. John almost snorted at the resemblance. Instead, he stood up to take Sherlock's pulse and temperature while Mycroft continued to speak earnestly with Lestrade. "The headmaster does not allow me to bring my umbrella, either. It is…rather distressing at times."

"I can understand that. Oppression's never fun. At least you can wear whatever you like at home, right?"

John tried to concentrate on Sherlock's fluttering pulse instead of Mycroft's uncertain response. "Well—oh. Yes. Of course. I mean—I have to dress properly so Sherlock will follow my example. I am the older brother, after all."

At that, Lestrade snorted. "Not a lot of older brothers think that way. Mine didn't, that's for sure. You and Sherlock are close, yeah?"

"Well, sometimes. He is quite intelligent, like me, but he is much more stubborn. He worries me constantly," Mycroft said with a petulant sigh.

John had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling. Behind him, Lestrade seemed to have a similar reaction. "Oh, really? Why?"

"Don't laugh when I'm serious. It isn't kind," Mycroft snapped, stung. "Sherlock upsets Mummy far too much. He is my younger brother, likely the only one I will ever have, and therefore it is my responsibility to watch over him at all times. I…I fail him sometimes. In fact, I fail him a lot. I'm not a very good older brother, you see."

John's spine stiffened. Not a good older brother? How many seven-year-olds stay by their brother's bedside all day? How many older brothers hold their toddler brothers still while they get their arm put in plaster? Jesus, Mycroft, don't you say anything about not being a good older brother!

Lestrade seemed to concur with John's silent argument. "No, I don't see. What do you mean, you fail Sherlock?"

Mycroft shivered. "When he upsets Mummy, I should stop him. I should stop him before he gets himself into trouble, before Father—"

"Mycroft! What have I taught you about talking about people behind their backs?"

Everyone in the room jumped when Mrs. Holmes swept through the open door. In the hospital bed, Sherlock stirred; John pressed a reassuring hand to both Holmes boys' shoulders while Lestrade stood to face the formidable woman in furs. She rounded on her elder son first. "What are you doing, sitting like that? Stand up! You'll wrinkle your suit. What on earth were you saying about your father? That was rude, Mycroft, inexcusably rude!"

Mycroft blinked. "But Detective Sergeant Lestrade asked—"

"Yes, I heard your father had some mix-up with the police. It's all been solved now, though, dear, don't you worry about it."

"Hang on. What do you mean, solved?" John stepped between Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes with a frown. "Your husband's been arrested for child abuse—"

"—mistakenly, I'm afraid, Second Lieutenant."

Mr. Holmes' drawl made Mycroft flinch violently. In his doze, Sherlock shivered. John reached a steadying hand back to the tiny boy before he pulled himself up to his full height. "No, it wasn't mistaken. I know what I saw on Sherlock's x-rays. I know what fingerprint bruises look like. You snapped Sherlock's arm! You're—"

"That'll do, Dr. Watson." Another man ducked into the room. By the way Lestrade straightened his shoulders, John guessed it must have been his direct superior. The DI, then. What the hell is he playing at? "I've found no evidence of any abuse—"

John's jaw dropped. "There's a mangled two-year-old in this hospital bed!—or are you blind?"

"Lieutenant." Lestrade shot John a warning glance before he turned to face the DI. "With all due respect, sir, there is evidence of abuse. At the least, we need to put the boys in protective custody overnight."

Beside Lestrade, Mycroft's shoulders slumped in relief. He stiffened again when the DI shook his head. "I see no reason for that. There has been no abuse. Both of the children can go home with their parents today."

"No!" John growled. "Are you blind, Detective Inspector? Sherlock's arm is fractured in so many places—he needs to stay here at least overnight, if not for longer! Do you want his arm to be permanently stunted? That's what'll happen if you let him go home! Best case scenario if you force Sherlock to leave the hospital now, that's what'll happen!"

"I said that'll do, Dr. Watson."

"Sir, he is a doctor. He knows what he's talking about. We should listen—"

"Lestrade. That's enough."

Slowly, Lestrade's voice trailed off. The DS glared at his superior for a long minute before he dropped his furious gaze to the tile floor. His fists clenched just as much as John's did during the ensuing silence. The DI pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to ward off a headache. "All right, Mr. Holmes. You can take your sons and leave."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector Gregson," Mr. Holmes said smoothly. As he brushed past John's tense form to lift Sherlock from his hospital bed, John could swear he heard the man murmur, "Didn't your captain teach you not to stick your nose in other people's private affairs?"

Before John could counter with a smart remark, Sherlock blinked awake. His face lit up when he caught sight of his favorite army doctor. "John, I'm awake now. I want to see my x-rays! You said I—Oh." The sound whooshed out of Sherlock like all the air coming out of a balloon. His pale eyes widened when his father lifted him none-too-gently off the bed. "Father…But John-!"

"You don't need John, do you, Sherlock?" When Sherlock scowled in disagreement, Mr. Holmes tightened his hold on the squirming toddler. Sherlock's mouth fell opened in a silent yelp when the movement jostled his broken arm. John instinctively leapt forward to take the boy back from his father, but Mr. Holmes held Sherlock just out of his reach. "No, I believe you've spent far too much time with my son already, Doctor Watson." As he turned towards the door, Mr. Holmes smiled thinly down at Mycroft. "Does Sherlock need Doctor Watson, Mycroft?"

Quickly, Mycroft shook his head. "No, Father. Sherlock doesn't need John at all."

"And why is that?" Mummy Holmes prodded as the whole family made its way into the hall. "Why doesn't Sherlock need him? Tell your brother, Mycroft."

John could barely hear Mycroft's dull reply from outside the room. The boy spoke as if by rote. "You don't need John because caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Silence reigned for a minute. Then, just as the Holmes family reached the elevator, Sherlock began to shriek. "No! I want to go back! No! John! John! I want John! I want John! I want my John! John!"

John trembled while he listened to the cries die away. Then he rounded on the DI. "What the hell are you playing at? I'm not mad! I'm not imagining things! Those boys are abused! You're a f—" Lestrade's elbow connected with John's ribs hard enough to knock the curse away from his mouth. The doctor shot Lestrade a dark look before he said in a quiet, dangerous voice. "Fine. You won't do anything. You're useless. That's fine. It's all fine. I'm not. If Sherlock Holmes ends up in this hospital again, so help me God, either you'll put his father in prison or I'll put him in hell."

Unconciously, the DI took a step back. "Mr. Holmes told me you were a dangerous man, Dr. Watson. I didn't think to believe him until now. You just threatened a DI."

"And you just neglected your duty as a DI, so I think we're even. I'm only dangerous to people who let children suffer like that! Just—just so I know, do you actually care about them at all?"

For a moment, The Detective Inspector hesitated. Then he shook his head. "I'll forgive you that one, Dr. Watson. You're tired and upset. You'd be better off going home and forgetting about all this, huh?" Before John could respond, the DI walked out of the room. Over his shoulder, he called to Lestrade, "Forget all this, Greg. We're done here. Take the night off."

"Forget-?"

"That's not a request, Greg. That's an order. Let it go. It's more important than you can imagine."

"What do you mean, more important?" John yelled after the DI's retreating form. "Damn coward! And you," he growled, rounding on Lestrade, "what was all that about? Didn't you see how frightened Mycroft was? Were you paying attention to him at all?"

"Yes, I was, all right, but if I say stuff like that to Gregson's face, he'll fire me! I've got a family too, Lieutenant Watson." When John took a furious step forward, Lestrade held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I don't like this either. Not at all. I do want to help. I will help! I just can't tell Gregson where to step off. What would happen to you if you did that to your captain?" When John squared his jaw silently, Lestrade sighed. "Exactly. Look, I will help you, I promise. Here."

Quickly, Lestrade scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. He held it out to John like a peace offering. "It goes straight to my desk." Lestrade's eyes darkened. "I know you're right, Lieutenant Watson. Something's wrong here, and sooner or later it's going to get those two boys into a whole hell of trouble. Call me if you see anything, all right? Gregson might be a conceited, brainwashed ass, but I'm not. I'm not him."

John reached for the paper, then hesitated. He studied Lestrade suspiciously. "Why would you help? You didn't help before."

"I tried, all right? I'm trying! I'm a Detective Sergeant. You're right. It is my job to protect people. I take that seriously. Now take my number!" Reluctantly, John took the slip of paper from Lestrade. The detective nodded gratefully and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway, shoulders tense. "I have a three-year-old daughter. Maria. She's gorgeous. She's sweet. I can't imagine hurting her like that." Lestrade turned to scowl at John. "I'll put any bastard who would in his place. I swear. I'm on Sherlock and Mycroft's side, one hundred percent."

Finally, John let his fists unclench. Lestrade was an ally. John could tell that much now. He would need all the help he could get if things turned out the way he suspected they would. "All right. Thank you."

"Just keep an eye on those kids. I get the feeling you can protect them a lot better than I can."

John couldn't reply to that. Instead, he watched Lestrade stride down the hall to the lift. The detective probably headed home to his wife, his little daughter, a beer, and a game of football on television. John rolled his head on his shoulders and groaned. God, that sounded good. Home. When was the last time he'd been at his flat? By Christ, he was tired of fighting battles he couldn't win. Damn Mr. Holmes, he would find a way to protect Sherlock and Mycroft, but right now he was worthless. Tired, tired, so tired…

"Hey. John!" When John flinched at the sound of Sarah's voice, the other doctor smiled knowingly. "Go home. I'll find someone else to take the next shift. No, don't argue—just go. You're no use to anyone like this."

"No use anyway," John grumbled. Sarah took the time to lay a gentle hand on his arm.

"You tried. Sometimes that's all you can do with patients. You've been on the cancer floor. You know that."

"Yeah, but this is different!" John stopped himself short. Sarah knew it was different. He could tell by the look in her eyes. He was tired. He was wearing thin. He groaned again and put his hands up in defeat. "Fine, I'm going. I'm going. Page me if anything happens to one of my patients, though, okay? I want to be here."

Since he could already see the "no" forming on Sarah's lips, John took off down the hall before he had to hear it aloud. As he pushed the down button by the lift, Mary Morstan called from the nurses' station, "You'll see, Dr. Watson! Everything'll look brighter in the morning!"

John ignored her soundly. Fuck the morning. Things needed to get better for Sherlock and Mycroft now.

While he walked back to his flat, all John could only think about Sherlock's shrieks. NO! John! John! I want my John! When he opened the front door, an old umbrella stand fell over in front of him; John kicked it aside angrily when he remembered Mycroft hiding behind his ridiculous brolly. Before the thoughts could overwhelm him entirely, John jumped in the shower to clear his mind. The scalding water on his back didn't do much to distract him from the Holmes boys' plight, but at least it loosened his knotted muscles.

As soon as John stepped out of the shower, he heard a knock at the front door. He glanced at his unlit pager. No patients. It wasn't work-related, then. He pulled a face. "Go away," he grumbled in the door's general direction. "Go on, get out of here!" When the knocking continued insistently, John sighed. "Fine!" he bellowed. "Keep your shirt on! I'm coming!" Just let me get my damn shirt on first. Don't want to blind the neighbors.

The rapping continued impatiently while John dragged on his clothes. He rolled his eyes irritably. "I said hold on! Jesus. I'm coming!"

John stumbled tiredly to the front door. Just as he reached it, the persistent knocking stopped. A small, frightened voice replaced it. "Please, John, open the door."

John's heart leapt into his throat. All tiredness drained away when he yanked open the door and a trembling figure in a three-piece suit stumbled inside. John caught the shaking boy just before he hit the floor. "Mycroft!"

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A/N: Once again, many thanks to teacrumpetsandjam for harassing me until I finished this chapter. She sent me a picture of Martin Freeman pointing at me with the caption: "YOU SHOULD BE WRITING." He's my computer background now and has so far spurred me to write a chapter and a half of this story as well as two six-page papers for school. If you ever have writer's block, just get yourself a picture of angry Martin. He's great at encouragement.

I have had so many questions and concerns regarding the boys' ages that I had to make another note here. No, I will never SORAS them. I deliberated carefully before deciding on their ages. Sherlock is nearly three and a genius. He could conceivably have that good of a grasp on the English language. I run all of his lines past a three-year-old girl who I work with. Since she can pronounce all of the words and even understand them a little if I explain them in her terms, I think a precocious two-year-old named Sherlock Holmes could certainly manage them. His enunciation would not be perfect, but I can leave his adorable little lisp to your imagination.

(Just imagine a tiny Benedict. The cuteness of it may kill you. At least Sherlock hisses—it lowers the adorable factor into a safer zone.)

Anyway, I'm glad so many of you have enjoyed this story so far (what, twentysome reviews for two chapters? Not to mention all the story alerts. It's quite shocking). I'm happy to continue on this adventure with you, John, the boys, and now Lestrade. Cheers and happy reading. –Icey.

OH! P.S. If any of you are British or have first-hand knowledge of the British courts system, please contact me. I'm very American, unfortunately, so while having two lawyers for parents gives me great insight to the workings of the American courts system, I don't fully understand Britain's system. I'll need to for future chapters. Message me if you know anything! Thanks.