10 years earlier
Sherlock sat on the sofa, quiet and contemplative, picking at a loose thread at the corner of the worn velour cushion.
"Mummy has invited me for Christmas dinner." Mycroft set a glass of wine down on the side table for Sherlock and took a long drink from his own. Sherlock looked up from his examination of the thread.
"Just me." Mycroft clarified. "She didn't invite Jerry, of course."
Sherlock nodded, unspoken understanding between them. Jerry would never be welcome at the Holmes home, of course. Father had made that quite clear. Sherlock doubted whether their father was even aware that their mother had invited Mycroft, but he hoped that perhaps the passage of time had smoothed over some of the hostility between his older brother and their father.
Mycroft and Jerry had been together for nearly 10 years, and in a civil partnership for 6 months, perhaps that was enough to convince Father that Mycroft was truly happy, even if he couldn't bring himself to spend time with his eldest son's husband.
"So Mycroft," Mummy began, pouring a generous measure of after dinner Port into a glass and draining it without hesitation, "How is the job going?"
For the past 6 years, Mycroft had been working at a government office in the city. Eager not to have his eldest son seen as anything less than successful, Siger had found him a position in a city office close to his own work where Mycroft was progressing swiftly up the ladder and greatly impressing the people around him. Siger made a point of ensuring the two never crossed paths however. It was something that, while Mycroft felt somewhat put out by his father's deliberate avoidance, he was also in equal parts relieved for it.
"It is going very well, thank you, Mummy." he replied to his mother, taking an equally eager long drink of his own alcoholic measure. "Jerry has been very supportive too." he added experimentally, watching Mummy's reaction to the mention of his husband's name. The resulting flinch was subtle, but both Mycroft and Sherlock caught it.
"Don't let your father hear you talking about that man." Mummy replied, her eyes flicking to the empty doorway as she stood to refill her glass once more.
Sherlock wrestled with his thoughts for a moment as he drained another glass. His instincts wanted to defend Mycroft and his choices. He so desperately wanted their parents to see how happy his brother was, but he thought better of verbalising the sentiment. He gave a sideways glance at his brother, finding his eyes cast downwards, watching the remaining dark red liquid droplets gather at the bottom of his glass. Mycroft had decided the same. He bit his tongue and held his arguments within him.
Much of the evening passed the same way. Inane chatter and deliberate subject avoidance. Nobody talked about Father (who had taken himself to the pub after their family Christmas dinner and probably wouldn't be home until long after the family had turned in for the night), and nobody mentioned Jerry or Mycroft's personal life. It was a stilted and difficult conversation, and there was a collective sigh of relief when Mummy finally announced that she was going to bed. She had been drinking all day and would be aware of little after she fell asleep.
When the brothers were alone in the drawing room, Mycroft stood, placing his empty glass on the tray and crossing to Sherlock's chair. The younger Holmes remained still, unsure of his brother's intentions. Moments between them had become rare. Mycroft rarely came back to the family home any more, and Sherlock wasn't able to visit the city often. Sitting alone in the room however, there was a palpable tension between them. They had both drunk a little more than they were used to, and they were both feeling it. Mycroft crouched in front of his brother, removing the empty Port glass from his hand and placing it on the tray. He took Sherlock's hand and lifted the bony knuckles to his lips, placing a soft kiss against each one in turn.
"Come on, Sherlock." he whispered, as if afraid that the walls around them could hear and talk, "Let's get you to bed."
Sherlock nodded and allowed his brother to raise him up from the chair and guide him towards the staircase.
Mycroft jumped as a loud crashing sound roused him from sleep. It took a while for him to realise where he was. He was in his childhood room. Their room. His and Sherlock's. He squinted in the dimly moonlit room and heard another thud from downstairs, followed by a string of curses. Father was home. He glanced across at the sleeping silhouette of his brother in their bed. Sherlock's arm was resting casually across his brother's stomach and the lines on his face seemed softened, content. The outside noises seemed to be climbing the stairs, so Mycroft made the decision to wake and move his brother.
"Sherlock." he whispered, lifting the sleeping man's arm off him and jiggling his shoulder slightly. Sherlock groaned but didn't wake. Mycroft glanced at the door, straining his ears. The banging had stopped, and he could hear his father's cursing from the bathroom down the hall. Mycroft chanced raising his voice a little.
"Sherlock!" he repeated, his voice urgent as he gave his brother's face an experimental tap. Sherlock's eyes opened a crack, and he smiled sleepily.
"Mycroft." he murmured, trying to pull his brother back down onto him. He frowned at Mycroft's resistance.
"Not now, Sherlock." The elder's voice sounded anxious, and Sherlock rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear them and wake himself a little. "Father is home, and he sounds drunk. I think it'd be best if you moved to your own bed." It took a few moments for the words to sink in, but Sherlock soon became aware of the gravity of the situation.
"Right. Yes." he stumbled as he dropped his legs over the side of Mycroft's bed and headed to his own. He pulled down the covers and climbed in between the chilly sheets just as an approaching noise had both brothers' eyes darting to their doorway. The sounds stopped and both held their breath, waiting to see where they moved to next. Mummy's room? Spare room? Back downstairs?
Any of the above options would have been preferable however all were wrong.
The brothers sat frozen in their beds as their own bedroom door flew open, hitting the dresser side and bouncing partially back again with the force of the movement.
"You faggots still awake?" the drunken voice slurred, giving the door a second push, this time closing it with a loud slam.
He flicked on the light to see two terrified faces.
"You fucking useless pair of girls," he began, kicking out at Mycroft's small case which sat at the end of his bed, "look at you both. Stupid pathetic little children cowering in the darkness."
He spat out the insult as he looked from one brother to the next, decided which to aim for first.
"You!" he finally yelled, turning to Mycroft and taking a long stride towards him. "You fucking filthy faggot."
Sherlock's brain chose that moment to abandon all thoughts of logic and self-preservation. He frantically looked around himself for something, anything he could use to defend his brother as Siger began raining down blows with hard fists. Mycroft was curled in a seated position, knees to his chest and arms wrapped above his head as he tried vainly to defend himself against the attack.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock spotted something: a heavy lamp on his bedside table. He leaned across to unplug it, his father still oblivious to his actions, and proceeded to come up behind the vile man whose mouth continued to spit insults and curses.
Sherlock didn't hesitate for a second as he lifted the lamp high into the air and brought it down with a hard crack on the back of his father's head.
Both men froze open-mouthed as their father slumped to the floor, his head gushing a deep pool of red into the worn carpet and his eyes cold and staring.