Sorry about the languages, it's all Google translate. I only speak GCSE French and beginners Norwegian!
Sherlock was about to knock on the door of Mycroft's study when it opened. Mycroft stood tall, leaning against the frame.
"Hey" he whispered
"Hey" Sherlock whispered back. John, standing behind the detective, poked his head around, wiggling his eyebrows at Mycroft. The older man's stern facade broke into a small smile, and he moved aside to let them in.
"What brings you here, little brother?"
"I wanted to talk to you. About father"
"Sie sind sicher, dass Sie dies mit John hier tun?" Mycroft said in German 'are you sure you want to do this with John here?'
"Wenn wir auf Deutsch sprechen, ist es egal." Sherlock replied 'it doesn't matter if we speak in German'
"What are you saying?" John said, exasperated.
"Don't worry about it, John" Sherlock we back into English. "I'm just going to have a quick conversation with my dearest brother." He switched back into German and turned to face Mycroft. "I want to talk about father. And about what he did to us."
"I thought you might." Mycroft said, keeping in German and casting sideways glances at John, who was now perusing his bookshelf. "Look, I'll answer any questions you have, Sherlock. I will answer them truthfully to the best of my ability."
"Thank you" he said sincerely. "First, I want to know how bad it was for you."
"Worse before Mummy died. He started with me when I was about four, and stopped for a while when you were born, and then started again when you were two. After Mummy died, he sent me away to school, and I was only home for the holidays. So it pretty much ended when I was twelve. I think you had it worse than me."
"Longer, definitely. He didn't really start with me until after you left. Then it got worse and worse, until I ran away at sixteen."
"God, eleven years. That's a long time, Lock."
"I know."
"What... What did he do to you? I was only really there for when he did your back with the knife."
"I dunno, Croft. He hit me. With his fists mainly, but he liked to use the belt when he'd had some scotch. And the riding crop when he'd had too much." Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft shut his eyes, sighing. He had left his baby brother with that monster for eleven years. And he could never get that sweet innocent boy back, the boy who wanted to play pirates and 'kidnap' books from the library. Mycroft had killed him.
"Shit."
"It doesn't matter. Croft, I need to know, the psychologist said I had to ask. I'm not dragging up the past, or trying to make you feel bad. But why did you hurt me too?" He whispered the last part so quietly Mycroft had to lip read. It was a skill he had not quite perfected in German, but he understood from the ashamed, embarrassed look on his brother's face.
"Listen, little brother. I could sit here and make excuses for myself all day. I was too young, far too young to have to take care of you. I did a bang up job of it. Add all that to Mummy dying and my exams, and I was so stressed I couldn't cope. So I took it out on you, like I'd seen father do. And for that, I can do nothing but apologise. Looking back, I am so damned angry at myself, Lock. I can't believe I hurt you. I don't understand what the hell was going through my head. I'm not sure there was anything going through my head. I'm so sorry."
"I- the psychologist says I blame myself, and I should be blaming you."
"She's right. It's others who are in the wrong here, Lock. Father was wrong, I was wrong. You were innocent, all the way. I'm sorry."
"You really want to take the blame?"
"I really, really do. It was my fault, Sherlock. Don't blame yourself." Mycroft looked longingly at his brother, as though wishing he could bring back the tiny boy who would pester him to play. And, quite suddenly, Sherlock was right up next to his brother, his fist drawn back, his eyes full of murderous rage, and a second later, Mycroft was lying on the floor, a trickle of blood running down his face. John vaulted the desk and grabbed Sherlock's arms, pulling him back. Sherlock's eyes were focused on his brother.
"Sherlock! What the hell is going on!" John yelled, restraining him.
"Giving him a taste of his own medicine!" Sherlock shouted in English, and then switching back to German whilst trying to get to his brother on the floor "you hurt me, you bastard! Not only did you stand by and let Father beat me, you did it yourself! You were the worst big brother ever! You were meant to protect me, and you didn't!" Sherlock was on the brink of tears. "I hate you, and I hate him, and I hate me!" And he collapsed, sobbing full out, onto his knees, his hands buried inside his hair, his grey-blue eyes covered. John let him fall, flabbergasted. Sherlock Holmes did not cry. Sherlock Holmes did not succumb to human emotion. But he was wrong. And Sherlock cried. Mycroft and John remained still for a while, the only noise in the room Sherlock's noisy, choking, howling sobs. Mycroft knelt next to him, wiping the blood from his face, leaving a streak across his cheek, and put his hands on his brother's shoulders. He switched to Italian,
"TI amo fratello, e mi spiace davvero" 'I love you brother, and I am so sorry'
"Mycroft, what the hell is going on?" John said, hopelessly confused.
"I'm ready to go home now" Sherlock whispered.
"Okay, I'll take you." John said quietly. But neither man moved.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock" Mycroft said in English "I really, really am"
"Me too" Sherlock whispered through his hands, his head bowed.
"Take him home. Let him be." Mycroft said to John.
"Cummon Sherlock" John put his arm under his best friend's shoulders and half led, half dragged him back outside. Mycroft, left alone, sat down at his desk, held a tissue to his sluggishly bleeding nose and laid his head on the desk. He had hurt his brother far beyond the physical. He had betrayed him, in every way possible. Sherlock was right. He was the worst big brother ever.