12.

"Why don't you like your brother?"

"Why don't you like your sister?" Sherlock didn't look up from his phone where he was doing who knows what, either for a case, an experiment, or sheer boredom. John wasn't sure he wanted to know, as long as it meant Sherlock wasn't shooting holes in the wall or setting fire to the table.

"I do like my sister. Yes, she has some problems with drinking, and I think she made a mistake when she left Clara…but she is still my sister."

"And do you do everything she tells you to?"

"…No. Is that why you don't get on with Mycroft…he tells you what to do?" Sherlock suddenly stopped typing with one last decisive flourish of thumbs but still didn't look at John.

"Mycroft," he declared, as he wandered about the room, scanning the disordered chaos for something, "Thinks I need looking after. Ever since he saved my life when I was seven, he's acted like he's my keeper." John very valiantly refrained from saying he thought Mycroft had the right idea.

"Saved your life?" he said instead. Sherlock didn't respond, pouncing at last on his violin. Thankfully he didn't start screeching on it as he fell back into on the sofa but he did start plucking.

"What happened?" John pried, but Sherlock pretended not to hear him. John gave up on getting an answer and it was well into the silence that followed that Sherlock did finally respond.

"I drowned."

"Sorry?" John said. Sherlock remained stubbornly silent, and this time offered nothing more, returning to his texting. John let it drop. Until the next time he was kidnapped by Mycroft.

"You know, you could just call. Even drop by the flat," he suggested mildly as Mycroft served him tea. John had never accepted the money, but somehow he seemed to be confiding to the elder Holmes after all. John suspected that his mere presence within Mycroft's line of sight was enough to give away anything and everything.

"We don't want…certain persons…to become aware of our relationship, now do we?" Mycroft answered, calmly sipping his tea. An umbrella rested at his knee. It's not like there was anywhere else to put it in the abandoned warehouse. The table and tea set looked rather out of place as it was; someplace for coats and umbrellas would have been beyond ridiculous.

"Do you mean Sherlock?" John asked, "Because you know he'll know we met the moment he sees me again." Mycroft merely looked at him, his eyes sweeping over his appearance with an almost curious intensity.

"Why do you do this?" John tried, "Why does he avoid you when you seem so interested in his welfare?"

"What has he told you?" Mycroft asked, still looking politely interested. They made an odd pair, Mycroft politely social and John somehow rigid and relaxed at the same time, doing everything right and correct and still giving the impression of being too rough edged for his company.

"He told me you saved his life when he was seven. That he almost drowned. And you've been watching him ever since."

"He did drown," Mycroft answered, "Water in the lungs. I got him out of the water, and the water out of him."

"Ah," John answered, frowning slightly, "That's…"

"Our aunt was trying to murder him." John stared.

"Oh good God." His voice was mostly even, though it squeaked slightly in the end. That was really…well…something Sherlock would probably rather he didn't know. Even knowing this, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why?" Mycroft's voice was even and unemotional as he answered.

"Because her son drowned. In her grief she became psychotic; she insisted that Sherlock killed his cousin. She always thought Sherlock a bit…odd. Psychopathic though she never used those terms. She believed she was ridding the world of a great evil. And revenging her son."

"That's…horrible," John answered, and suddenly he felt a bit sick and set his tea aside. He shouldn't know this, not unless Sherlock decided to tell him, he shouldn't. He didn't want to know, but at the same time he did, because this horrible event was a part of Sherlock, probably a very important part.

"Aren't you going to ask?" Mycroft asked, and John stared, having no idea what he was meant to be asking. Mycroft apparently recognized this, because he suggested it for him, "Do you want to know if our aunt was right?"

"What? Of course she wasn't right," John answered, the question having never even crossed his mind. He had a sudden memory of Sherlock, curled in on himself, saying 'It's not her fault'. His fists clinched tightly for a second, before he forced himself to release them and relax. Mycroft appeared mildly surprised.

"I do believe you mean that," he said, and then, "Most people have little difficulty imagining Sherlock as a murderer."

"I know murderers," John answered, "And killers. I am one. Sherlock…isn't. Not like that."

"You don't think he could kill someone?"

"He could," John answered, "Of course, he could. But not like people seem to expect. And I don't think he actually has. Not yet. I don't think even he knows how it will affect him when he finally does. And as a child? At age seven? Anyone who knows him at all, knows he couldn't have done that."

"Well," Mycroft said, after a moment of long silence and deep appraisal, "I'm glad to hear it."

"It still doesn't explain your ridiculous feud," John said. Mycroft smiled blandly.

"He has a…distaste…for institutions. I do believe he did not appreciate my most recent bid to save his life."

"You mean the drugs?" John asked, after sifting through the cryptic sentence for meaning, and coming to the only conclusion that made sense. Mycroft did not nod his head, exactly, but John still got the impression he had guessed right.

The interview ended shortly after that. John still didn't know what he thought about it, even as he was dropped off at the front door. Mycroft seemed to have given him more than he had asked. Perhaps it was part of looking after his brother, telling his new friend what Sherlock couldn't say for himself. He still half expected Sherlock to rant or sulk, but the man did neither.

"Been talking to Mycroft?" he said as soon as he saw him. John didn't even bother to ask how he knew. Sherlock turned and really looked at him, frowning slightly.

"Well," he said, turning away again, "What do you think, doctor? What's your diagnosis?"

"Sherlock…" John answered, feeling wrong footed and empty and as though anything he said would be the wrong thing to say. He couldn't comfort seven year old Sherlock, stop the death or the blame, he couldn't even say for sure how much of who Sherlock was today was shaped from that event, and how much is simply who he is. Sherlock turned to look at him again, something anticipatory and slightly broken in his eyes. In the end, John said the only thing he could think of.

"It's not your fault."

Sherlock blinked.

"Of course it isn't," he said scornfully, as though John had said something particularly obvious at a crime scene. But John caught the brief flash of a smile. Whatever the reasons, John decided, he could accept Sherlock for who he is. An insane, antisocial, emotionally awkward genius who is a good man, nonetheless. Whether he believes it or not.

One day he might even convince Sherlock remember the milk.