Thank you heaps, SupaCrazee!

Thank you Moon-fireflies! I will try to make the past and present scenes clearer.

Don't worry, there will be loads of Hogwartsy magic in the story, but just to let you know, there will also be quite a bit of Holmes family childhood things, because I really want to explore the whole dysfunction thing. Just letting you know.

Please review!

Chapter Five.

Mycroft gestured to the leather wingback chair as he moved to the cabinet to pour them both a drink. Sherlock shuffled over, still with his blanket wrapped snug around him – in so many ways like a child – then with his usual air of contradictions, dropped down into the seat with the careless grace of a cat. Mycroft held back a smile as he came to his brother, who took the tumbler of brandy, looking up as Mycroft lent against his mahogany desk, folding his arms.

"Sherlock," Mycroft asked carefully, "Are we alone in here right now?"

His question was rewarded with a dangerous glare, then a roll of the eyes and Sherlock finally muttered, "Yes, Mycroft. I'm not seeing things again."

"Good, good," Mycroft said quietly, then tried to explain, "I ask because there is something important…" then realised there was no point and just sighed, taking a sip from his own drink. He noticed his hand was trembling. So much could have gone wrong those few days ago, even after the Fall. One slip, one careless word and he could have really had to bury his brother. Another brother. He took a longer sip.

"Rule Britannia," he barely heard Sherlock murmur.

Mycroft smiled slightly at that, "Mummy would have been extremely proud, Sherlock."

"Don't be condescending," but the words were too weary for real spite.

"Why on earth would I stop now after all this time?"

That managed to quirk Sherlock's mouth into a bit of wry amusement. It did not last long however, as he placed the tumbler on the carpet and buried his face in his hands. He was worn out in so many ways.

"She was sad."

"Mm?" Mycroft asked.

"Molly…" Sherlock said, "She never cried. She just went on with her work, as if I really had died. She didn't cry, but she was sad. I never realised how gentle she is with the cadavers."

Mycroft watched his brother mull over the thoughts of the last few days. The girl from the mortuary had done a fine job in assisting Sherlock. Well. It was out of love. Love always polished duties more so than errands done without that sentiment to enhance results. She had been the right one to use. The only one. She had taken charge of Sherlock's body after he had been brought in on a stretcher. She had tended to him, cleaned him, had given him a draught that had had him slip into a very, very deep sleep, not unlike a coma. So Sherlock could while away the hours, and would not have to suffer the awareness of John identifying the body. She had placed him into the cold chambers of the mortuary till she had completed the paperwork for his body, and then when it was sensible and safe, she and Mycroft had smuggled Sherlock to her empty childhood home. The coma had protected Sherlock from the cold of the chambers, but once he awoke his body quivered compulsively. Mycroft had fought the urge to tend to his brother's needs himself as Molly rushed about, but somehow he did not think the girl would have even let him, as she went about like a strict matron on a ward, filling him with hot tea and covering him with blankets after blankets.

"Want brandy," he had appealed for in between shivers.

"Don't be foolish, Sherlock," her tone brooked no nonsense (when had she become so confident around his brother? He remembered a pitiful little thing who would have instantly scampered off had Sherlock said 'Mouse'), "It might make you believe you feel warmer, but it lowers your body temperature. Causes your blood vessels to dilate –"

"Yes, yes, I know," he had muttered.

For three days Sherlock had stayed there. Mycroft felt a surge of relief when he was finally able to take possession of his brother himself, and bring him in secret to Holmes Manor. It was where he belonged, however temporary it could be, not with some silly moonstruck girl. No matter how well intentioned she may be. And competent. All of a sudden. How had she become so confident?

Sherlock was thoughtful. "Sentiment."

Mycroft finished his drink, "You're beginning to understand it?"

"Mm."

Mycroft sighed. He could not put this off, no matter how he wanted to. He opened his mouth but his stomach twisted uneasily and he shut it, and both sat there in silence.

Finally Sherlock asked, "Where are you going to send me, Mycroft?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes. He had to begin. Without answering he moved around the mahogany desk and collected his umbrella. He then came to Sherlock, and with a quick turn the handle opened up. He saw that Sherlock could not suppress a smile. Yes, he had long believed that Mycroft kept a blade hidden in the umbrella he took everywhere. He had not meant for the umbrella to become his own sort of trademark, but, sometimes there was no helping these kinds of things. Sherlock slid out what he thought would be some sort of blade, but looked confused when instead a thin, straight, stick of wood fell into his hand. He placed the umbrella down and turned the wood about in his hands. Forks of lightning were carved into the simple black cherry coloured timber.

"Sherlock, there is something I am going to have to tell you. But you are under considerable emotional strain, so I need to know. Truly. Are you well?"

He expected some sort of smart retort, but Sherlock seemed to be too busy studying the wood. Finally he deigned himself to answer, "Mycroft, I'm in my right mind. I have not been down in the depths in eons. John…" his voice trembled, "John has helped me considerably with that."

"Yes." Mycroft walked over to the other leather chair, and pulled it close to his brother.

Sherlock looked up sharply, his black curls swinging as he looked confused at the close proximity as Mycroft sat down.

He took the stick from Sherlock and said, "They say with these things, that the wand chooses the wizard."

"Mycroft, what on earth are you talking about?"

Mycroft turned the object about in his hands thoughtfully, "I hate this thing, you know. I hate everything about it. What it stands for. What it means I am. I like to think that I would never use it, but the fact I keep it close to me at all times, suggests…A weakness in me that I…The moment I saw you after you were born I loved you, do you know that? It is a strange thing, one of us Holmes' telling another that they are loved. And yet others seem to relish in that confession to the point of gluttony. Love…Love, Sherlock, should not be squandered about. It is a sacred thing…I think our family has the right way of it. When one tells another, the other stops and takes note. And so, I loved you when you were born. And when you were small, and it was obvious to the world that you were special, I took upon myself the role to protect you. And whatever weapons that meant using, I would utilise. Which means this. This insignificant stick of marvel that has weighed upon me since…" he stopped, taking note that Sherlock was staring at him, his mouth open.

Mycroft raised his brow.

"Are you feeling well, Mycroft?"

"Oh for god's…Sherlock."

Sherlock shifted on his seat, "This is all very…Moving, I suppose is the word…But I don't see…"

"I am a wizard."

Sherlock blinked. And tilted his head. It seemed to pain him to admit, "I am not familiar with that MI5 terminology."

Mycroft laughed. In fact he grinned, feeling an irrational bout of fondness for the young man, that he instantly compartmentalised and pushed away.

He held up the wand, "Blackthorn. Ten inches. Dragon heart string at its core. I am a wizard. The same honour as Merlin, the same darkness as Queen Mab. All the old fables are true. Well...True enough. Truth is always debatable. The Old Blood from the Old Religion, the foundations of the earth, the secrets of star dust, all running through my wretched veins. Coursing like…An infection."

Sherlock just stared at him, his mouth still open. Gently, like he did when his brother was a child, Mycroft leant forward and with his finger closed Sherlock's mouth shut.

Sherlock just stared at him. Finally, he managed to say, "And our dear Kitty revealed to the world the madness of Sherlock Holmes –"

Mycroft closed his eyes, "Sherlock –"

"Exposed to the world what Mother and Father bled in their efforts to keep secret and safe –"

Sherlock's words cut like a knife, and Mycroft tried to take Sherlock's arm. But Sherlock was up, his foot accidentally knocking the tumbler over. Liquid seeped into the expensive carpet, and Sherlock continued to talk in a feral hiss, " –that their youngest was mad, had needed to be put away, discretion above everything was the priority. So the social circles of London would never know the Holmes shame, that little Sherlock was born a bad seed, that he needed constant supervision from his brother. The same brother who thought it of vital importance to the security of crown and country to spill all the Holmes' dirty little secrets to a criminal mastermind, so he would use it to defraud the detective when at whim. The perfect ammunition. Nobody can escape the broken reputation of madness! But it ends up – the beautiful, terrible irony of all of this – is it ends up that the good son, the perfect son, the dutiful son, it turns out Mycroft Holmes is secretly the maddest of the lot!"

Sherlock started to laugh. It was a chuckle at first, silent, but then it gained momentum. He crouched down on his haunches, letting the blanket drop from his figure as he began to rock slowly back and forth, clutching at his head and laughing. Madness. Kitty Reilly had written about Sherlock's madness. Of the times where he had been discreetly signed in to a private clinic, absent and out of it, of the times where he had been dragged to the hospital, screaming abuse at Mycroft, at his mother, at his silent father. Of the times where he had been homeless. When Lestrade had first found him on the streets during his early days as a constable, when he had been a frightened boy…All facts, all twisted by an ambitious journalist to forge a career on the ruins of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock laughed and he could not stop, tears streaming down. John. John. He needed John.

"Silencio."

Suddenly everything was quiet. Sherlock looked up, brought back to reality roughly. He didn't understand – in shock, he grabbed at his throat. Something had…Something had cut his laughter off…His eyes focused on Mycroft, and he watched as Mycroft cast the stick aside. His brother, his big brother, the Ice Man, was trembling, and he dropped his face in his hands, "It's a disease, Sherlock. It's poison, but it will protect you, and so I will use it as I must. I am sorry."