Haha, thank you as always Moon-fireflies!

SupaCrazee – ahhhhhhhhhhhh. I had originally not planned to have John in the story. No, he isn't dead. Sherlock is just mourning the fact he knows he has left the person he cares about the most heartbroken. He knows John. He knows how this will damage him. And Sherlock is not used to feeling (or letting himself) this much emotion, and it was a strain having to "die" infront of him. But I wasn't going to have John at all, only now you've asked and I'm thinking about changing that but NO. NO. NO. NO JOHN. RAHDFGHJFGH. :P

Thank you both!

Please review!

Chapter Six.

Sherlock's fingers scrabbled at his throat in confused fright, pulling away from Mycroft, who had crouched down beside him on the floor in efforts to placate him.

"Sherlock, brother, calm down."

He barely heard Mycroft as his fingers squeezed the skin of his throat in harried attempts to revive his voice, and Mycroft swore as he seized his hands tightly, "Sherlock, you'll bruise yourself, it's all alright, Sherlock."

Sherlock fought against him, desperately trying to yell, and it took much of Mycroft's strength to pin him down, "Sherlock!" It saddened him to know that this was not the only time as an adult he had had to restrain him. And it was starting to take most of his strength. The last time had been almost two years ago. He was getting old.

"Sherlock, it's me! You're all right!"

Suddenly Sherlock slumped back into the carpet, his strength sapped from him. His breath came out raggedly, and after a few moments of being certain he was calm, Mycroft gently released him. Sherlock's hands moved back to his throat, but not in the dangerous desperation of his fit. He would not harm himself in his confusion.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead wearily, and repeated his words softly this time, "Sherlock. It's me. You're all right."

Sherlock made no attempt to move, nor even to look at him, and Mycroft reached over for his wand. "I will return your voice to you, but only if you swear not to say anything while I tell you some things. Is that understood?"

Sherlock lay there, but slowly nodded, and Mycroft murmured the counterspell. Sherlock muttered under his breath to confirm that he was indeed able to speak again, but remained silent as he said he would.

Mycroft took a deep breath, "I was only at Eton for a year."

Sherlock looked at him sharply, but true to his word said nothing.

Mycroft began to explain awkwardly, "I had always had this power, you see…This…Ability…Strange things happened around me. I had a trick – apparently it always begins to manifest as little tricks in children. I could make fire dance. On the tips of my fingers. And also the pages would turn in books when I had finished reading them. Not much more than that. I never dreamed that it was any more then that, but I knew even then I should keep it close to me. That it would not be a welcome talent in this family. I knew what I wanted out of life at a very young age, and this ability would do nothing but get in the way of my plans."

Sherlock said nothing.

"When I was eleven, I was sent a letter from a school which went by the name of Hogwarts. In green ink, I can see it now still…I'd thought it a joke at first, something Sherrinford had concocted, if not for the fact that mother had looked at it with such horror and tore it up before I had the chance to slit open the envelope. She said never to speak of it again. Which I did not. Until a week went by, and two more of the letters arrived. Mother was away, but Father had them burnt. By this time I had seen enough of the letter to see that it was a supposed school of magic. And I knew. I knew right then Sherlock, that this strangeness about me was about to become troublesome."

Sherlock opened his mouth then, only to ask very quietly, "Is this real?"

"Yes, Sherlock." Mycroft answered, "This is real."

Sherlock went quiet again, and Mycroft continued, "I was all set for Eton. I was finally going away to school. I was going to miss Sherrinford and you terribly of course, but this was something I had looked forward to for eons. Father's family had gone there for centuries. Centuries, Sherlock. Such a tradition! And it is the traditions that define us. I had wanted to carry on that tradition, and ease Sherrinford's guilt that he hadn't been able to…Do you remember, he had gone for a term himself but had had to be returned home to be schooled. Riddled with social anxiety and nerves. You wouldn't remember that of course, you were only so small. At home he had been so confident, but out in public –"

"I remember," Sherlock muttered an interruption, "He stuttered whenever we had people around. That little snot Alistair Jenkins ribbed him about it until Sherrinford slugged him a good bruiser in the face."

"Yes…Well…I was to go to Eton. The connections meant I was a certainty of course, but I wanted to sit the tests and do the interviews anyway. And I was accepted. And then came this ridiculously fictitious sounding school to come spoil things. Oh, and they tried. I doubt anybody had ever tried to fight them, but Mummy did, spouting a whole mass of things and going against the – what they call, the Ministry of Magic –"

Sherlock started to laugh, and Mycroft allowed it. It was ridiculous enough to laugh at, there was no supposing that.

But he went on as Sherlock chuckled, "It wasn't until years later when I was no longer a boy, that Father told me that Mother had come from that world. For it is a whole world Sherlock. They are their own people. They have their own currency. Their own Government. Mother had been what they call a Squib. She was from a family of witches and wizards –"

Sherlock began to laugh harder.

"And because she did not have the ability she was not treated well by either her peers or her family. She was able to go to the school still, all Squibs are allowed as there are plenty of non-magical subjects they can study. When she was only fifteen she ran away to our world. The police found her and she was placed in a girls' home, but managed to win a complete scholarship to the local ladies college. She then joined MI5 when she left school, and well…You know how she rose in ranks there. Mummy really was a remarkable woman. But she disowned that part of her life, you see. She didn't want anything to do with any of them," he paused, and added painfully, "I was her first reminder in over twenty years of the life she had hated enough to leave."

Sherlock's laughter had faded. He looked at Mycroft, tilting his head as he thought, all incredulity now gone.

"I went to Eton for a year. And then…Mother could fight them no longer. I was sent to Hogwarts."

There was a silence.

"…Just like that?" Sherlock said.

"Mm?" Mycroft turned to face him.

"So just like that, you expect me to believe that Una Holmes folded towards this – this Ministry of Magic – the woman who railed against Margaret Thatcher in Parliament – just – just –"

"Yes," Mycroft said bluntly, "I am expecting you to believe that."

"Mycroft, why did you have to leave Eton?"

Mycroft stood up, moving around his desk and sat down, folding his arms, "Their world is an ideal place for you to lay low for awhile, Sherlock. And I mean, lay low. You may do all the chasing –"

"Why did you have to leave?"

"–around the countryside for Moran and the Spider's network all you like in a few months, but for the safety of the three you saved you must have them all believe you are really dead –"

"MYCROFT."

Mycroft closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose patiently, before looking up and facing his brother, "Yes?"

"Firstly, I'm not quite so certain I actually believe this tall tale about – about a magical world full of unicorns and dragons –" Sherlock paused, waiting for Mycroft to sharply reprimand him about making fun of his story with made-up creatures, and then stopped when Mycroft merely raised a brow, "Good lord, you believe there are unicorns and dragons."

"I told you. The core of my wand is dragon heartstring –"

"You can't expect me to believe –"

Mycroft gestured his hands, "To be honest, right now I truly do not care what you believe. I am merely telling you. Because inevitably, and very soon, you will believe. Everything I have said. You will Sherlock."

"This is mad – you're mad –"

Mycroft sighed, and said as kindly as he could, "We've been through this, remember? A few moments ago. You had a fit. Please don't have another one; it reminds me too painfully of darker days. Only now I don't have Lestrade to call to assist."

"This. Is. Insane."

"Actually, it isn't. Theologians and philosophers have debated since time began over the realities of our world. Magic –"

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands on Mycroft's desk, "You can't distract me, Mycroft. Not when I have a scent to chase after, you of all people should know this. What made you go to that school?"

Mycroft's eyes did not leave the glare of his brother's, "The Ministry of Magic ordered me to go. End of story."

Sherlock straightened and clasped his hands at his back, still staring at Mycroft. Thoughts raced through his head as he finally said, "It's to do with Sherrinford."

Mycroft let out a forced laugh at that and Sherlock's heart squeezed as his brother's reaction confirmed his thoughts. "Mycroft…"

"As I said, a few months undercover should be –"

Sherlock's voice was soft, "What happened to our big brother?"

The Ice Man wore his mask again. One of concealed emotion, not a hint of warmth. Utter, utter cold. "You know very well, Sherlock. There was an insurgent attack –"

"There was not. I went there myself! I asked around – there are no records –"

"You were born from a woman who kept the secrets of her nation under the highest order of confidentiality where she did not tell her family for years she lived, and your brother - yours truly - has served this nation in the same capacity, and you dare to stand there and tell me, because you – and who are you again, Sherlock Holmes? The boy who played detective in Scotland Yard with all of your toy soldiers, who never quite grew up. The spoiled little Peter Pan who used his big brother's credentials as a child would wear dress-ups, whenever he felt the need to entertain himself to distract himself from boredom – asked a few questions? Of course there are no records! Of course nobody answered your questions! People die every day and are explained away for the good of the public! Why on earth would you ever think Sherrinford's death would be any different?"

There was silence for a few moments between the brothers, before Sherlock stepped back and dropped himself back in the seat. He frowned and folded his arms, and inwardly Mycroft felt a surge of relief. He was hurt. But also Petulant. Good. That was always a good sign. Sherlock would drop the subject.

"Percy Weasley will take you to the abode you will be residing in, in a place called Godric's Hollow. It's a quaint little place, a completely functioning magical village. There you will stay in a cottage belonging to an old acquaintance of mine. Cissy Malfoy. She will meet you there, and for all intents and purposes, you are a very distant cousin of hers. You will go under a different name. Icarus Black. I have organised your new papers. I think you will find Icarus quite fitting - the one with wings who flew too close to the sun. Father used to tell you that story, yes?"

"Not my real father," Sherlock mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock leaned forward, "I said delightful. Now when will you tell me the truth behind Sherrinford?"

"Sherlock –"

Sherlock balled his fist and slammed it against the arm of the chair, "He was my brother too, damn you Mycroft!"

Mycroft sighed and folded his hands before him on the desk. He then said so very quietly, "I will apologise now to you. I am truly sorry. Really, Sherlock. More sorry than you will ever know. It is not fair, I know this. But I will never say a word about Sherrinford's death. I was only…I was only a boy, Sherlock. Can't you see that? I was only a boy…Sherrinford died. I saw it. I was there. Now for god's sake, let me help you so I don't have to have the burden of your death too. Is that understood?" he then stood, his voice rising, "Percy! You may now come in," then he lowered his voice again, and said, "Now let me tell you about something called Floo Powder."