A/N: Again, thanks to all the supporters of this story. I'm really nervous about this chapter, which will cover some important stuff. I'll have another A/N at the end to explain my reasoning for what happens here. Please read it before eviscerating me! :-)

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch – 8

I heard Mycroft say, "You're being very selfish."

Sherlock replied with extreme bitterness, "You have no right, Mycroft, no right to say that to me!"

I heard Mycroft sigh and then say with more gentleness than I ever imagined could be contained in that cold exterior, "Maybe not. But just remember, when you do this, it's more than just you that suffers."

I shook myself and continued down the stairs. I hadn't intended to eavesdrop and so I wanted to make my presence known. And in this case, whatever my other problems were with Mycroft, I was behind him one hundred percent right now and wanted to show my support.

I entered the sitting room to find Mycroft sitting in my chair, and Sherlock still sprawled along the couch.

"Good morning!" I announced, with slightly unnatural brightness.

"Good morning John," Mycroft leaned over and shook my hand, "nice to see you again."

"You too," I said, my mouth suddenly dry. I had no idea how to proceed.

"I just stopped by to offer congratulations on the Sutton case, and to offer a bit of an apology."

"Apology?" I didn't even bother to ask how he knew about the Sutton case, I was beginning to assume that Mycroft was an omniscient being.

"Yes, well, because of his...cooperation in the Russian Mafia trial, Sutton was given a new identity to protect him against just such an occurrence as this. Either he got careless or there is a leak in one of our departments. I suspect it is the latter, and I intend to find it and neutralize it." The look in Mycroft's eyes as he said this made my blood run cold.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance from the couch. I looked over at him and noticed that he seemed to be studying the ceiling with rather unnatural interest.

"May I give you a lift to work, Doctor?" asked Mycroft. "You are leaving soon, aren't you?"

"Er," I stammered. A ride with Mycroft was a somewhat alarming prospect, but I knew he wasn't exactly used to being refused. I had to admit that this would be a chance to express my concerns about Sherlock. But now that I was faced with the opportunity, I was wondering if it would be really fair to discuss Sherlock behind his back. I glanced over at Sherlock to see what his reaction was to this generous offer by Mycroft, but he was still captivated by the ceiling.

"Er, sure, thanks. I'll be ready in just a few minutes. Excuse me." I hurried off to the bathroom to finish getting ready for the day.

If the brothers spoke some more while I was getting ready, I didn't hear what they said. I came back out to the sitting room and announced I was ready.

"Excellent!" smiled Mycroft as he rose to his feet. He walked over to Sherlock on the couch and looked down at him.

"Take care, Sherlock," he said softly and seriously, then in a lighter tone he added, "I hope you keep the beard. I think it rather suits you." Mycroft tapped Sherlock lightly on the leg with his ever-present brolly and headed for the door. Sherlock made no outward sign of response.

"Er, goodbye Sherlock. I'll see you tonight?" I offered hopefully.

He made no move to acknowledge me, so I followed Mycroft out the door.

Outside, a familiar black car was waiting. Mycroft held the back door open for me, and followed me in. There was no sign of his female assistant, Anthea. Mycroft gave the address of my surgery to the driver, and then raised the barrier between the front and back seat. I was sealed in.

"Sherlock hasn't left the flat for a few days." Mycroft stated it as a fact, not a question. "Once the Sutton file came to me, I became concerned." He turned and looked at me.

"He hasn't told you." Again, stated as fact, not a question.

"I knew something was wrong, but he won't talk to me."

Mycroft gave me a long, searching stare.

What god have I offended, I wondered, to cause me to have to undergo this all the time from both of them?

I met his gaze and asked, "Is it fair to talk about Sherlock, like this, without him present?"

Mycroft smiled. "Before you came downstairs, I told Sherlock that you needed to know. He didn't disagree. Anyway, he can't put an embargo on me. She was my mother too."

At those words, my heart sank. I knew whatever it was, it wasn't going to be good.

Mycroft sighed, and actually looked sad. After a short pause, Mycroft continued, "Just before Sherlock turned 11 years old he came home from school one day and found our mother hanging in the kitchen from one of the beams. It was assumed to be a suicide at first, although there was no note and she had no apparent motive. No history of mental illness, our family didn't have any problems, financial or otherwise. A few days later, the coroner came back with a report that confirmed it was actually murder. The coroner found signs that her hands had been bound, then unbound after her death to make it look like suicide."

"Oh dear God!" I burst out. I was horrified. My mind flew back to Sherlock, looking at Sutton's body the other day, and what he must have felt.

Mycroft inclined his head, acknowledging my reaction, and continued, "She had no known enemies, nothing in her past history that could account for it. Our father and all other family members were confirmed to be elsewhere at the time of death. Nothing had been stolen from the house as far as we could tell, robbery was not the motive. There were no signs of a struggle. The case remains unsolved today."

"Mycroft! I'm so sorry!" I simply didn't know what else to say.

Mycroft smiled at me. "Thanks. Well, of course we each dealt with it in our own way. Dad drank himself to death, eventually. I had just started college, so I put myself on the path to where I am now, with all the access to information about what could possibly have happened. I've searched every government file in existence, but no record of her exists as a participant in any sort of covert criminal or governmental organization. And Sherlock...well, it was hardest for him, of course. He was so young, and of course...he found her." Mycroft paused. "I've seen the photos. And..." Mycroft went silent.

At this point, I couldn't have spoken if I wanted to.

After a pause, Mycroft continued, "I should have taken better care of him, especially after I noticed that Dad wasn't able...but I was young myself, still a teenager, and I didn't have time for a little brother. I didn't make time." He sighed. "So, he did the best he could on his own. He closed himself off, protected himself. He blames himself for having an emotional reaction at the time instead of making careful observations of the crime scene. He's convinced that there must have been something that could have solved the mystery. He also resents me for having been away at school. He thinks that if I had been there before the police trampled over the scene that I could have solved it."

"He...he blames you?"

"Oh I'm a distant second to the blame he puts on himself."

"But...he was just a kid!"

"You know him. Do you think he sees that as an excuse?" Mycroft shook his head sadly.

I didn't know what to say. We were silent for awhile. Finally, Mycroft shook himself.

"Anyway, as I said, I got concerned when I noticed Sherlock had not left the flat for a few days, and then more concerned when I read the Sutton case. Hence, my visit today. I also need to tell you, John, that since you moved in with Sherlock he's had the longest stretch of time without one of these...episodes. And this one is by no means the worst, even though it had what has to be the strongest trigger. For that, I am deeply grateful to you."

"This isn't the worst?"

"Oh no. But I won't elaborate on that. That's Sherlock's business to tell, if he wants. Well, we've arrived at your workplace. Is there anything you want to ask before I go?"

"I...I can't think of anything." My mind was in a whirl.

"Ok then, you have my number, if you need anything." Mycroft smiled. "Just one last word. I've told you before...Sherlock and I have a difficult relationship. But I love my brother, and I want him to be happy. He doesn't believe me, but I hope you do."

"Er, yes. Thanks."

Mycroft got out of the car and held the door. He shook my hand.

"Goodbye John, and thank you."

"Thanks, goodbye."

And then the black car slid off, leaving me with my burden of knowledge.

A/N: So, I know I'm going against most of my fellow fan writers by killing Mummy Holmes. *Seena ducks tomatoes thrown in her direction* But please hear me out: many Sherlock Holmes scholars have speculated that Sherlock had *something* traumatic in his childhood that gave him the personality he has. One of the speculations that I feel has merit is the traumatic loss of his mother. The author of "The 7 Percent Solution" speculated that his parents did a murder/suicide (Mr. Holmes killed Mrs. Holmes over infidelity). I don't like that explanation because I don't believe a couple capable of producing Sherlock and Mycroft would do something that, well, banal and boring. So, I've invented a much more sinister mystery that I feel explains not just Sherlock's issues but also Mycroft's issues and the relationship between the brothers. Ok, I've got my flame-proof undies on...flame away! :-)

Oh yeah, and this is still not the end...