Mycroft Holmes was a very powerful man.

He had only been out of university for six years and he already had two departments and three hundred people working for him. He had an ornate, spacious flat and a brand new Lexus which he loved parading around London. He was doing just that one April evening after work, enjoying the lights and sounds of the city as he glided by. He pulled up to a stoplight noticed how terrible the gridlock was. He looked up and heard faint yelling a few yards ahead.

He craned his neck to see out the window, wondering what the commotion was. As soon as he saw, his heart jumped into his throat.

Four different lines of cars and buses and taxis beeped and waved their arms and swore at whatever was in the road, blocking their way. That thing, sitting at the dead center of the intersection, bare foot and playing a violin, was Sherlock.

Mycroft groaned and, as he did so often, weighed his options.

He could just keep driving. Turn around, go another route and pretend he never saw this. That the twenty-two year old circus act was just another stranger in this eight million person city. It would be as simple as that.

Mycroft pulled over and got out of his car.

"Oi! Out of my way!" He found it difficult to maintain his usual composure while jumping in front of cars and running into the intersection past a couple of policemen who had started to approach.

"What in God's name are you doing?" He yelled as he strode over to his brother. Sherlock looked up and grimaced when he saw who it was.

"Oh, what are you doing here?" He whined. Mycroft tried to pull him upright by the arm. Sherlock sat tight.

"What am I doing here? What am I doing here? I was having a drive like a bloody normal person, when I see this idiotic display in the middle of the blooming street!"

"It's not idiotic I needed somewhere to think." Sherlock said quickly, his last words carrying a bit of a growl. Mycroft rubbed his temples in exasperation and tried to pull Sherlock up off the ground again.

Again he held fast.

"Excuse me sir, do you know this man?"

Both Holmes whipped around to see a young police officer approaching them. Mycroft sighed and walked over to the cop, trying to pretend half of London wasn't staring at him.

"Yes, um, sorry-" He glanced at his badge. " Officer Lestrade. That's my younger brother. He's..." Mycroft cast a nervous look over to Sherlock, who had started fiddling with the strings on his violin. "He's crazy." Mycroft muttered. The police officer clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"You gotta get him out of here in the next fifteen seconds or we're going to take him to the station." Officer Lestrade glanced around at the hundreds of angry people. "People don't take kindly to crazy these days."

Mycroft gulped and nodded. He turned on his heel and stormed over to his brother.

"Sherlock, if you don't come with me in the next two seconds I will carry you out, like a child."

Sherlock didn't move. Mycroft sighed and, with a grunt, grabbed Sherlock around the waist and lifted him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, briskly walking away from the intersection.

"What...put me down Mycroft! Right now!" Sherlock yelled, one hand clutching his violin and the other hitting his brother's back. Mycroft ignored him, dragging him back to his Lexus, which was still parked on the side of the road. He wrenched open the door and threw Sherlock unceremoniously in the back seat. He slammed it shut and went back to the wheel, making a U turn and speeding away from all the curious eyes.

Mycroft glanced back as Sherlock sat up in the backseat and buckled himself in. He opened his mouth to lecture, but was stopped by a loud screeching sound.

"Bloody hell, will stop with the violin?" He yelled as Sherlock commenced some sort of aria. His brother reluctantly dropped his bow and crossed his arms.

"What do you want?" He said testily.

"I don't want anything! I am just trying to keep my little brother from getting arrested." He paused. "Again."

Sherlock groaned and kicked his feet up so they were resting on the back of Mycroft's seat.

"When are you going to let that go?"

Mycroft seethed in his seat, remembering the night just a year before, when Sherlock had gotten pulled over for driving while on cocaine. Normally a fine or suspension of license, but not a court case.

Normally though, drugged drivers didn't tell the police all about the affair his wife was having with another woman.

They'd thrown Sherlock in jail for two weeks.

"And you would be there still if my team didn't bail you out." Mycroft said, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. Unable to resist humiliating Sherlock with the knowledge he was just a stupid kid who needed his big brother to take care of him.

Sherlock glared at him for a few moments, then flopped back in his seat. They rode in silence for a few miles. Mycroft took an exit back towards Sherlock's dorm.

"Don't take me back." Sherlock's voice rang suddenly from the back seat. Mycroft clucked his tongue.

"You're not really in the position to be making requests."

Sherlock looked pained, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Mycroft made eye contact with him, and slowed suspiciously.

"You don't want to go back...why?" He deduced. Suddenly a horrible thought entered his mind.

"You can't."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then he looked down at his feet, pale and bare.

"Not exactly." He mumbled. Mycroft pulled over for the second time that day. He turned around in his seat to look at Sherlock.

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?" He struggled to keep his voice civilized and level. Sherlock shrugged and looked out a window.

"It's not like the university kicked me out. My floor did." His eyes remained fixed on the glass. "They threw all my things out the window and changed the locks on my door."

Most people would have been stuck on the horror of how cruel kids could be. But if Mycroft knew his brother, he knew there was a motive behind their madness.

"What did you do?" He said quietly.

Sherlock shifted in his seat.

"There was..." He faded off, then squared his shoulders and look Mycroft right in the eye. His expression was dertimnedly blank, like of he showed emotion, he lost. He began speaking faster than Mycroft had ever heard him talk, as though the words inside were killing him.

"There-was-a-boy-named-Jim-who-transferred-here-two-months-ago-and-ended-up-assigned-to-my-room-and-he-told-me-how-brilliant-and-clever-I-was-and-I-may-or-may-not-have-developed-a-mild-attraction-to-him-and-may-have-written-about-this-affection-in-my-journal-which-he-found-and-thought-amusing-to-share-with-the-entire-floor-who-in-addition-to-hating-me-are-all-apparently-very-homophobic-and-thought-it-funny-to-banish-me-from-the-dorm-and-leave-me-wandering-the-streets-with-my-belongings-ARE-YOU-HAPPY-NOW?"

At his last word, Sherlock jerked around in his seat and pulled his knees to his chest, tucking his head away.

Mycroft just stared at him.

Fortunately, working for the government often means thinking on your feet. Mycroft quickly catalouged all the information-My brother is gay, my brother is capable of feelings, my brother is homeless.-And focused on the most pressing matter of them all.

My brother is heartbroken.

He opened his mouth to say something, then sighed and rubbed his face.

"Sherlock..." He started, then looked up at the ceiling of his car, his fingers uncharacteristically twitchy, jumping on the steering wheel.

Mycroft Holmes was a very intelligent man, but even he had his spots of ignorance.

He had dated a little as a teenager, had a girlfriend for two months in college. He slept with his secretary last year, but he'd never been good with relationships. Most women were put off by his inability to handle emotions, the messy parts of love, so no one ever stayed long.

"Sherlock..." He tried again. "Um, I'm..." He straightened up. "I'll have a talk with the main offices at the school, see if we can't get you a room in another building."

Sherlock let out an audible groan at that.

"Everything is about logistics with you, isn't it?" He said, still refusing to look at Mycroft. "Anything can be fixed if you call or bribe or know the right people."

"I don't know what you want me to do." Mycroft had started out loudly, but stuttered and faded into a whisper.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. Then he lifted his head, and kept his empty silver eyes fixed out the road ahead.

"I'm different Mycroft." He said. He tried to keep his voice collected and suave as he could, but Mycroft could hear a hint of bitterness underneath it all. "I don't... feel things the way I'm supposed to. " He took a deep breath and spoke far too quickly again. "I'm-feeling-rather-unpleasant-about-this-whole-ordeal-and-am-at-a-loss-for-how-to-handle-it."

Mycroft sat in the silence for a long while, listening to Sherlock's heavy breathing. The Holmes boys were discussing solutions to dating rejections.

Hell had apparently frozen over.

"Sherlock, you and I lack a certain...proficiency in this area." He couldn't help smirking a little. Then he shrugged.

"All I can offer is...Caring is not an advantage." He said finally. "Always remember that."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. His bit his lip so hard he drew blood. Mycroft realized with horror his brother was trying not to cry. He wanted to yell at him to stop, but something told him that wasn't the best way to handle it. He watched Sherlock shake for a minute, helpless against emotions, and turned to his words. Words had always helped before. He blurted out the first thing that entered his mind.

"Friends, boys, girls; You and I, we are destined for so much more than that."

He watched as Sherlock gave him a curt nod. He sat quietly as his brother gradually wiped his eyes and shifted in his seat.

Holmes didn't break down. They didn't sob or hug or eat ice cream and watch movies when they were crushed.

They just collected themselves and got on with life. They were better than that.

So Sherlock stopped himself from feeling.