Mycroft sat at his desk, facing away from the room and out over London. His nose had stopped bleeding, but it was still sore from his little brother's attack. He was glad that Sherlock had hit him. He more than deserved it. He felt the horrible guilt and shame like knives in his chest. He had hurt Sherlock. Not just once, but countless times. He had blindly followed their father's example and taken his teenage frustrations out on his brother, the Holmes family's personal punching bag. Mycroft groaned. He'd been so stupid. And, what was worse, was that Sherlock didn't seem to even remember the worst time. That time when the little boy was only about six, just after Mummy died, and a few months before the incident with the knife.
The boys were alone in the huge house, the fridge now empty, and the doors and windows still locked and bolted. Mycroft was biting his nails, feeling his stomach grumble. He hadn't eaten the whole day. He'd been quite responsible with the food, he felt. Sherlock didn't need nearly as much as him, the little boy was fine to have the half loaf of bread to keep for the fortnight. But now everything Mycroft had saved for himself had gone. He'd locked Sherlock in his bedroom the minute father had left, giving him the bread and a few new books through the sealed cat flap at the top of his door. Suddenly, Mycroft's attention was pulled away from his gurgling stomach and his worry about what his father would do to him if anything happened to his house. He'd heard a crash upstairs. Damn. That stupid little boy was always ruining everything! Now he'd get it so bad from father. Mycroft ran up the stairs and unbolted Sherlock's door.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I promise" Sherlock bit his lip, his breathing coming faster, his arms wrapping instinctively around his chest. Mycroft looked down at the broken glass beaker that had once contained some sort of chemical. He looked back up at his little brother, anger firing up his eyes.
"You broke it! You're going to get me into so much trouble, you little loser!"
"I'm sorry Mycroft!" Sherlock said, panicking, his dark curls quivering with the rest of his body.
"No use being sorry now, is there! You're so stupid!"
"I didn't mean to" Sherlock sobbed.
"Stop crying. Seriously, I mean it." Mycroft raised his fist threateningly, and when Sherlock didn't stop crying, he covered the steps between them in an instant. "Stop it now" Mycroft brought his fist down on the little boy's shaking face.
"Please stop!" But the small, hard fists came back over and over, hitting him in the face, the back, the chest, the stomach and anywhere else once he'd fallen over. Mycroft didn't stop until the child had stopped crying, protesting, or moving. He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his forehead when he finally stopped beating his brother. The little boy was still, a deathly grey colour, blood leaking from his face and chest. Mycroft stood back, panting, and stepped on the broken glass of his brother's experiment.
"Sherlock?" he said, leaning forward to shake his shoulder. "Sherlock?" The boy didn't make a sound, but flinched unconsciously away from the hand. "Sherlock! Wake up!" Mycroft knelt down beside his brother, terrified. He had hurt him, really hurt him. He hadn't meant to hurt him. Blood seeped from between Sherlock's lips, from his nose, from his left ear. It covered Mycroft's hands in slimy streaks. He looked down at his brother, curled up in a greyish, terrified, unconscious ball, and Mycroft began to cry. Grown up, responsible, strong Mycroft sobbed uncontrollably for two hours, staying right by his baby brother's side until he woke up. "Oh thank God" Mycroft whispered as he saw Sherlock open his eyes and flinch at the light.
Mycroft shuddered at the memory. How could he have been so... stupid, so cruel? Like he'd told Sherlock, he could sit and make excuses for himself all day. But they were all false. What he did was beyond inexcusable. He was surprised he and Sherlock were even on speaking terms. Sometimes he wished they weren't. Sometimes he felt that the younger man was far, far above him, and that he didn't quite deserve the forgiveness. He didn't, not really. He was as horrible as his father had said. Mycroft Holmes, the British government himself, put his head on the desk and tried to think of happier thoughts whilst trying not to cry for the second time that week.