Darkness. He opens his eyes but the light is blinding, nauseating, so he shuts them again. Dimly he registers a babble of voices and he thinks they're talking to him, but they're ever so noisy and everything is confusing; he just wants quiet and so he shuts them out and returns to the dark.

Blackness. He comes to slowly, with the instinctive knowledge that he has been asleep for a long time. He doesn't know where he is so he opens his eyes. The light is dim but it's still too bright. He closes his eyes again quickly but he knows now that he's in his room. His head is pounding and his arm is throbbing in time and it hurts. He is tired, so very tired, so he allows himself to drift off again.

Night-time. At least he thinks it's night-time. Why else would it be so dark? At least he can open his eyes without adding to the throbbing pain. Why is he lying in the dark? He can't remember and that annoys him. He lies still for an immeasurable amount of time before he decides to go back to sleep. His head hurts, his arm hurts and there's no use being awake anyway as there's nothing to do. He falls asleep, with irrational frustration clawing at him.

Light. His room is full of people that he half recognises. One of them sees that he is awake and offers him a reassuring smile.

"You are going to be alright." they say and there's more after that but it's too hard to listen and his concentration is slipping. He begins to drift off again and his last conscious thought is: why would I not be alright?

Blackness, dimness, light. He wakes several times but each time he just wants to go to sleep again and every time he does, and quickly. Every time he wakes he feels increasingly frustrated. He's confused. He doesn't know what's going on. He falls back asleep.

Daylight. He reaches for his watch but he can't move his arm properly. He looks down and sees it's wrapped firmly in a bandage; he can't remember why. A slight noise informs him there is someone else in the room. He turns his head and sees Charlotte sitting in a chair by his bed. She looks nervous but also faintly bored.

"What happened?" he asks. Charlotte chewed on her lip, the very picture of indecision.

"What happened?" he repeats with more force. He sits up slowly and carefully, being careful not to jolt his head or his arm. The pain has almost gone now, reduced to a dull, irksome ache.

"Careful, Master Mycroft!" Charlotte exclaimed as she watched him struggle to attain an upright position. His only response was to glare at her, his steel grey eyes narrowed with a ferocity that he seldom employed.

"You haven't answered my question." he snapped. "I want to know what happened."

"Do you not remember?" asked Charlotte gently. Mycroft shook his head which turned out to be a bad idea as his headache increasing in intensity. He also felt dizzy and sick and he was very tired which was ridiculous as he felt like he'd been sleeping for an age.

"Of course not." he snapped testily. "Otherwise I would not have asked you."

"You fell out of a tree." Mycroft's bad mood dissipated instantly as his mind reeled at the words.

"What was I doing up a tree?" he asked in utter amazement.

"We're not too sure." admitted Charlotte. "No one saw what happened and Sherlock was in too much of a state to tell us. Sherlock was in the tree when we found you so we assume that he was in the tree and you were climbing up after him to get him down. There was a branch on the floor, we guess it cracked while you were climbing and you fell. You were quite lucky considering, you only received a broken arm-"

Mycroft felt his concentration fading. He had listened carefully to the explanation of events but they did not sound familiar at all, there was no rush of memories, no flashbacks, nothing he recognised at all.

"Where are mother and father?" he asked sleepily, the very obvious fact that his parents weren't by his sickbed suddenly dawning on Mycroft.

"London. They are attending your Great Aunt Minerva's funereal."

"I don't have a Great Aunt Minerva." mumbled Mycroft slumping back down onto the pillows. Just before he fell asleep he was sure he heard Charlotte mutter "not anymore you haven't' which was so out of character Mycroft decided he must of misheard.

Mycroft woke to the sound of his door creaking slowly open. The sound was rebarbative and Mycroft was about to complain vehemently when he realised that it was Sherlock in his room and that he'd be better off staying silent and pretending to be asleep.

Sherlock's footsteps were slow and soft which was very strange; usually Sherlock dashed about as though he was determined not to waste a single second of his childhood by walking slowly.

"Mycroft?" asked Sherlock quietly. Quietly? Sherlock was never quiet. Never. Mycroft was at a complete loss; was he, perhaps, dreaming?

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked again, practically whispering. Mycroft heard a strange scraping noise and then Sherlock was speaking again, asking him softly if he was awake. Mycroft decided that despite Sherlock's strangely solicitous mood, he definitely wasn't awake. If he thought that would deter Sherlock however, he was wrong. Sherlock started talking and Mycroft found that it was much easier than usual to let his brother's voice wash over him.

"Charlotte said you woke up earlier. I don't think she was lying.…talking to mother and father…you looked really pale … 'listless' and 'inattentive' I'm not actually sure what they mean but it didn't sound good...sent me away... I thought you were dead… Dr Robertson said you weren't… try and listen to you from now on. If I'd listened to you the branch probably wouldn't have broken and fallen on your head."

Fallen on my head? thought Mycroft. His brain struggled to process the information. Sherlock says it fell on my head. But Charlotte says I was in the tree and the branch cracked underneath me. That doesn't make sense at all. If I was on the branch how did it fall on my head?

"-and Charlotte said that it's because I'm feeling guilty. So she said I should say I'm sorry. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry you got hurt." Sherlock feeling guilty. Now Mycroft was sure he was dreaming. And why was Sherlock saying he was sorry? Mycroft knew that the answer was obvious but it kept eluding him. He heard the mysterious scraping noise again and Sherlock's footsteps. The door gave another rebarbative creak and then there was silence.

Mycroft's brain was working overtime, desperately struggling to make sense of everything he had been told. Mycroft knew that normally the answer would have come to him in no time at all. In fact, if he hadn't hit his head he probably wouldn't have had to even think about it. But now...

And then it all fell into place. Mycroft felt like screaming his brother's name in fury or throwing something at the door that the little wretch had just gone through. As usual Sherlock had been doing something irresponsible and ill-thought out and once more it was Mycroft paying the price. As though to spitefully remind him of this, Mycroft's head began to pound viciously again. As he fought a sudden wave of nausea Mycroft felt like screaming with frustration. He pulled a pillow over his head to block out the light that suddenly seemed very harsh and vowed to channel his rage into some constructive revenge.

It was dark outside when his door creaked open once again. This time though there were no footsteps although Mycroft was sure it was Sherlock as his mother and father had left not long ago, so it wouldn't be them. If it was one of the servants, they would have knocked.

"Mycroft?" asked Sherlock. Mycroft made a big show of opening his eyes slowly and squinting at the door. He screwed his eyes up in pain as Sherlock had turned the lights on and they were too bright. He threw his uninjured arm across his eyes.

"Who is it?" he snapped. He heard Sherlock run into his room and heard a scraping noise as Sherlock yanked the chair closer to his bed.

"It's me." Sherlock said. Once again he was talking more quietly than usual which was surprisingly considerate of him. Mycroft moved his arm away from his face and squinted critically at his younger brother. He frowned.

"Who's 'me'?" he asked innocently, lacing his voice with the near perfect mixture of confusion and slight frustration. He watched with cruel and vindictive pleasure as uncertainty began to appear on Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock." Sherlock responded, his lip wobbling ever so slightly. Mycroft forced his expression to appear blank. He bit his lip as he pretended to try and remember who Sherlock was.

Mycroft, like Sherlock, was a very accomplished actor, however unlike Sherlock, Mycroft rarely used his talents which meant that when he did choose to use them it was considerably more effective. Sherlock clearly believed that his brother had no idea who he was. Mycroft was slightly surprised at how devastated Sherlock looked but that didn't stop him continuing with the charade.

"I'm Sherlock." Sherlock said, his voice trembling, "I'm you're brother. How can you not know that?" Mycroft felt the beginnings of guilt however he forced himself to ignore them. Sherlock never got what he deserved for all the times that he irritated, injured and generally pestered Mycroft. Mycroft knew that he wouldn't get another opportunity like this for a long time.

"My brother?" Mycroft repeated his voice full of uncertainty. "I'm sorry, I think you must be mistaken. I don't have a brother." the words brought about a wave of guilt as Sherlock's expression twisted into one of absolute distress. Sherlock gazed at him with huge imploring eyes.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice shook and then failed him altogether. His eyes filled with tears and Mycroft felt stunned. Sherlock never cried. Not properly. There were plenty of crocodile tears when Sherlock didn't get his way. But Sherlock never actually cried. Mycroft felt his resolve swiftly crumbling. Sherlock sniffed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"This is all my fault." he whimpered. "All my fault."

"How can it be?" Mycroft responded, slightly sulkily, "Charlotte said I fell out the tree. She said nothing about you at all" Sherlock bit his lip. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would tell him, off his own volition and when Mycroft was awake, what had actually happened. Mycroft wanted a confession out of Sherlock and he decided that if Sherlock kept quiet he may have to keep the pretence up for a little longer.

"Actually," Sherlock began slowly, "you were on the ground and, well, I was jumping up and down on a branch and it cracked and then it fell and hit you on the head and I thought you were dead and I'm really really sorry." the last bit came out in a rush, but it was a confession. It didn't improve Mycroft's mood though.

"You are an inconsiderate little wretch Sherlock." he said glaring at his little brother. "Why do you never listen to what I tell you? Do you have any idea how much my head hurts?" he almost yelled.

"Maybe if you stopped shouting it would hurt less." replied Sherlock timidly. Sherlock's impeccable logic irritated Mycroft further.

"Maybe if you hadn't decided to climb that tree my head would hurt less" he snarled. He turned away from Sherlock.

"You do remember me!" Sherlock said suddenly, the thought clearly only just occurring to him.

"Of course I remember you." snapped Mycroft in a very ill temper. "Who could possibly forget you?"

"I knew you were pretending." Sherlock said suddenly and self-assuredly, "I was just playing along." he continued arrogantly. Mycroft didn't bother responding. He wasn't sure whether to believe Sherlock or not. He was fairly confident though, that even Sherlock couldn't fake that level of distress. A few minutes passed in beautiful silence, and then;

"Myyyyyy-croft?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" Mycroft said sharply.

"When people die what happens to their bodies?" Mycroft inhaled slowly trying to force himself not to scream at Sherlock. There were several good reasons why he shouldn't, if only he could remember them. It would probably hurt his head for a start…

"How do you know when someone is dead? Can people still talk when they're dead? Ghosts are dead and they can talk. Why aren't ghosts in heaven or hell?" it probably wouldn't do much good anyway. Sherlock usually ignored him when he yelled at him. In fact Sherlock usually ignored him most of the time.

"Can you help me dig up a grave to find out what is inside?"

"Get OUT of my room Sherlock!" screamed Mycroft. Sherlock scampered out of Mycroft's room, one again, with only a vague idea of what he had done wrong and Mycroft lay back on the pillows his head pounding and wondering, once again, what he had done to deserve a sibling like Sherlock. In that moment the equilibrium of the house was restored.

Wow so much longer and considerably more dark than I planned. This was originally going to be a short humorous little fic where Mycroft gets his own back on Sherlock by pretending he has amnesia. I felt awful for Sherlock when I was writing this but I realised that Sherlock would be distressed if Mycroft pretended not to remember him and the laughs kind of had to go out of the window.

I have a feeling the narration is all over the place (I've used two different tenses for a start) and I will have to sort that out at some point. Probably won't be soon though as I've no idea how to start :s

Thanks for reading. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. Thank you to the anonymous reviewer who reviewed last chapter. As I can't reply to you I'll thank you now.