24 years earlier

"You remember what I told you, Sherlock?" Mycroft threaded his long fingers through his brother's own. "Just try to stay out of his way, and don't do anything to antagonise him."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm eleven years old now, Mycroft." he grumbled, "I'm sure I can look after myself."

Mycroft wanted to believe that. He really and truly did, but he'd spent the past 6 years or more looking out for his little brother and old habits died hard. Added to the fact that he knew that Sherlock was of a very different temperament to himself. He was capable of pushing many buttons without so much as a second thought, and this fact scared Mycroft. Without being there to protect his little brother, he shuddered to think what might happen.

University called however, and there was nothing Mycroft Holmes could do to change that.

"I shall be home again in three months, Sherlock." he told the young boy, pulling him into a tight embrace and fighting back the tears that pricked at his eyes. "Three months. Do you think you can be good for that long?"

Sherlock shrugged off his brother's well-meaning touch and sidled away from him on the bed.

"I'm not a baby, Mycroft." he said, his voice bitter and resentful, betraying his true feelings about the desertion, "Go stay with your new friends. I don't need you."

With that, Sherlock stood and ran out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him with a deliberate slam.

Mycroft let out a long sigh and flopped back onto the bed, hugging his arms close to his body as if still holding his absent brother close.

"Oh, Sherlock," he muttered, voice cracking with emotion, "I really hope that is true."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock ran down the stairs and into his brother's arms. It had been a long three months, and Sherlock had tried his best, he really had. He had studied hard and kept his head down, but Father's work had become difficult and there had been that one moment when...

"Sherlock!" Mycroft slid his hands around the smaller boy and pulled him close. The resulting wince from his little brother wasn't lost on him however.

"Sherlock?" The rest of the question hung between them, unspoken but clear as day. When it became apparent that Father wasn't yet home, Mycroft ushered his younger brother up the stairs as he took his small case to their room.

Sherlock bounced himself down onto his brother's bed with a wordless shrug, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow and glared at the smaller boy.

"Show me." he demanded, unzipping his carry case and meticulously unfolding the contents and putting them away.

Sherlock swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I can handle it." he stubbornly replied, laying himself down and curling his gangly limbs into a foetal position, facing away from his brother's prying eyes.

Mycroft let out a long, deliberately loud huff of breath and circled the bed, once again putting himself in front of Sherlock.

"Show. Me." he repeated with more emphasis and less patience.

Sherlock blinked his long dark lashes, ignoring the single tear that the move let slip from his eyes. Slowly and carefully, he lifted his t shirt, revealing a wide spread of dark purple bruises and a long, dark red gash stretching from collarbone to naval.

Mycroft failed to stifle the gasp that the sight elicited, and he dropped himself down onto the bed alongside his brother, taking Sherlock's hand and pulling it to his own cheek: a comforting move for them both.

"Oh my god, Sherlock." the elder boy stuttered, closing his eyes at the feel of his brother's soft skin against his face, "I never imagined..."

"It was my fault." Sherlock interrupted, his voice flat and emotionless, "I didn't do well enough in classes and Father..."

Mycroft held up his free hand to the younger boy and shook his head, indicating that Sherlock should stop speaking. He pulled his brother carefully towards his own body, holding him close.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock." he sobbed, his body shaking from the effort of trying not to lose complete control of his emotions. "I am so sorry."

3 years later

As Mycroft's car pulled up outside the Holmes family home, Sherlock watched from their top bedroom window. He felt mixed emotions at his brother's arrival. On the one hand, it was the return of his protector, the person who made him feel safe and secure despite the anger and the beatings. On the other hand, Mycroft's presence made him feel small and vulnerable, something to be protected like a baby bird. He both longed for and hated that feeling in equal measure.

He deliberately didn't run down to greet Mycroft, choosing instead to stay in their bedroom and curl up on his own bed, knees to his chest and back to the door.

He heard his brother enter the house and he closed his ears when he heard him ask Mummy where his little brother was.

"He spends all his time in that damned bedroom, Mycroft." Mummy replied, placing an emotionless kiss on Mycroft's cheek and nodding her head upwards. "I really don't know why he does it. It's almost as if he cannot bear to be around his own family."

Mummy waved Mycroft towards the stairs and turned to walk into the drawing room.

"Dinner will be at 8pm." She shouted after him as Mycroft began to head upstairs, "Make sure your brother isn't late again. You know how it upsets your father."

Mycroft sighed heavily and proceeded up the curved staircase. It was clear that all wasn't well between his little brother and their parents, and Mycroft, despite his seven more years of experience, had no idea how to build bridges between the two sides. Mummy and Father were stuck in their ways, and Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. He was 14 years of angst and torment wrapped up in a teenager. Mycroft had not the first clue how to handle that.

He pulled his case along the upstairs hall and pushed open their shared bedroom door. As the opening from the hall cast a dim light across the curve of Sherlock's back, Mycroft could see the younger boy's shoulders shake. He crossed to turn on a bedside lamp and lowered himself onto Sherlock's bed, placing a tentative hand on his brother's arm.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly, daring to stroke the frail, trembling arm beneath his fingers.

Sherlock turned his head slightly to meet his brother's enquiring look, and Mycroft saw hurt, pain and need. His little brother needed him so badly.

He could only be thankful that this time he did not need to leave again in the near future.

"Sherlock," he continued, the younger boy raising his body slowly into a sitting position, "I am sorry. I promise I will not leave you again."

Sherlock turned his head to meet his brother's gaze and raised an eyebrow questioning, in hope.

"You won't?" he asked, leaning in to Mycroft's soft curves and resting his head on the elder's shoulder.

"I promise." Mycroft repeated, tipping his head to look his brother in the eyes, suddenly seeing the start of a smile on his pale face. A smile that showed relief and something else. Something more. Mycroft unconsciously chewed on his bottom lip and Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Mycroft." he said, raising his hand to his brother's cheek and cupping it gently, his eyes closed as if trying to maintain some degree of control over his emotions.

The teenager leaned in towards his brother, wrapping his long, slender fingers through auburn hair and pulling him closer.

"Mycroft." he whispered quietly, lips ghosting softly against the elder's. "Please stay with me."