30 years earlier.
Mycroft cringed as the plate crashed against the wall, sweeping up his cowering little brother into his arms and ushering him out of the dining room towards their bedroom.
Sherlock's breath hitched as he tried to stifle his sobs. "Big boys don't cry." Daddy had drilled into them, and Sherlock was trying very hard to be a big boy.
Mycroft pulled him into the wardrobe, wedging the door closed with the little piece of wood he kept in there.
"Shhhhhhhh." he whispered into the five-year-old's ear, "It's OK now."
Mycroft began his count to 300. Two hundred was usually long enough for Father to have calmed down or at least been distracted from his rage, but tonight, Mycroft didn't think 200 would be enough. He softly stroked his hand through Sherlock's dark curls in a well-practised comforting manoeuvre. As Mycroft reached the final 50, the young boy's sobs began to quieten, and his breathing sounded sleepy. He finished his count and silently opened the cupboard door. The bedroom was quiet and dark.
He tiptoed across the carpet to flick on a bedside lamp and led the drowsy youngster to their bed. As Mycroft carefully changed his brother into his pyjamas, he gave Sherlock a once over, checking for injuries. A couple of nasty bruises were beginning to form on his legs but nothing too serious. He lay Sherlock down in the bed, stroking his hair fondly as the little boy's heavy eyelids fell closed.
With a long sigh, Mycroft raised himself from the bed and wandered into their adjoining bathroom to clean up and check his own injuries. He was older than Sherlock, and in his Father's eyes, more able to take the blows. He straightened himself up in the mirror and winced as he brought a damp washcloth up to the cut on his cheek.
At least nothing seems broken, he thought.
Mycroft lay in the bed, mindful of his little brother's bruises, wondering what had triggered Siger Holmes's mood this time. He had arrived home late from work very obviously irate and needing to vent. The two Holmes boys had tried their best to avoid their father, but it hadn't been possible as they all shared the dinner table.
Mycroft wondered whether James Moriarty had been the problem again. The twelve-year-old knew only a little about the feud between the two families. Mummy had sat him down one morning after a particularly bad beating, and tried to explain how James Moriarty and Siger Holmes were constantly in opposition with each other. When Siger came down on the winning side, the Holmes family shared peaceful family dinners and the occasional vacation, but when Moriarty won, as he often did, the Holmes family paid the price. For 12-year-old Mycroft, that was all the explanation that was needed.
"It's just the way things are." Mummy would say. "You know how your father is."
Mycroft nodded sadly. He knew there would be no defence against their father coming from Mummy. She had her own battles to fight, but somebody needed to protect his little brother, and that somebody was Mycroft.
As years went on, the Holmes brothers lived day-to-day moulding their behaviour around Siger's mood. Mycroft always tended to his little brother's injuries, the most serious being a broken arm when Mycroft didn't manage to usher Sherlock away quite quickly enough and Father grabbed the 7-year-old from his older brother's grasp.
Nanny Broughton had temporarily bound the arm for him and taken the boys to the hospital the following morning.
"Boys will be boys." she said to the nurse on duty. The young nurse nodded. Broken arms weren't unusual for young boys, of course, and she had no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Siger was usually very careful to avoid breaking bones for that very reason, and both boys were experienced in covering up cuts and bruises.
Fifteen-year-old Mycroft would later spent almost a week with three of his fingers strapped together in a home-made splint after a particularly nasty evening. He had been shielding his 8-year-old brother from a small side table that Father had flung across the drawing room towards the smaller boy who was crying. Mycroft had made an attempt to bat away the piece of furniture as it approached, resulting in a gut-wrenching crack and two broken fingers. Nanny had refused to take him to the hospital, binding the digits in a tight splint instead.
The boys counted themselves lucky that such injuries were rare, and Mycroft continued to look out for his little brother.
"We're going on holiday to France!" Sherlock bounded out of the kitchen one morning, almost knocking Mycroft over in his excitement. Mummy emerged behind the 10-year-old, her face in a rare smile.
"Mummy?" Mycroft enquired. They had never been to France. They'd rarely holidayed anywhere lately, Father's work keeping them too busy for such things.
"I'm going to pack some things." Sherlock shouted, heading upstairs, and Mummy Holmes took the 17-year-old's arm and led him into the drawing room.
The two sat on the fireside chairs, and Mycroft looked at his mother's face. She looked calm and content.
"James Moriarty died last night." She finally said with a relieved-sounding sigh and a soft smile. "Do you understand what this means, Mycroft?"
Mycroft's face settled in a contemplative frown as let the information sink in. "I think so."
"Things will be better now." Mummy added, leaning over and resting a hand on her son's lap. "You'll see."