The much smaller boy was cuddled up to his brother in the house common room in one of the large armchairs. Both boys were reading the same book, the elder boy's finger occasionally pointing out something and the younger boy nodding. Almost as though they were having a silent conversation.
Greg had not spoken to Mycroft since he'd left in a huff earlier, although he had watched from the other end of the house dining table as Mycroft had demolished a plate of grilled chicken and vegetables, before eating three lots of apple pie and cream.
And now, the younger boy was nodding off slowly in his brother's warm embrace. Which Greg was thinking should have been his place. But there was something a little strange about it. How many eleven year olds cuddled their brother? And how many sixteen year olds allowed an eleven year old to do that? Finally Sherlock was asleep and Mycroft put the book down, stood up as though the boy weighed nothing and carried him to his room, ignoring the strange looks he had been getting from the rest of the common room.
"Wow, what a pair of freaks." Oliver Anderson looked over the top of his biology book.
"The little one wets the bed. I heard matron talking about it earlier." This caused general hilarity, especially from Anderson, who Greg recalled had wet the bed until he was thirteen.
"Yeah, and he solved Professor Makepeace's equation puzzle in 73 seconds." This was said with scorn, like it was somehow a bad thing.
"So Greg, what's it like sharing a room with Fatcroft then? You better hope he doesn't get hungry in the night."
"He's all right. I haven't seen him that much." Greg hated himself for not telling the whole truth of it.
"So what's the deal with him and the little freak then?" Anderson had decided this conversation was far more interesting than DNA sequences. "Is it like an incest thing?"
"He's not a freak!" It was a small voice, unfamiliar to Greg. One that wobbled slightly as though it might be on the verge of breaking.
"What say Wotsit?" Dimmock looked thoughtfully at the boy. A first year, a very small first year with blond hair and huge blue eyes. Harry Watson's little brother.
"I said he's not a freak. He's brilliant!"
"Yeah. Here's the deal half pint, your brother was a big shot. You're not. You're not even a tiny little shot okay? So you don't have an opinion. Not unless we say you can."
"Sherlock's not a freak. And I'll say it as much as I like."
"Okay. I can see you need to be reacquainted with the rules." Dimmock stood up; the small boy stood his ground.
"Enough!" Greg had seen all he wanted too. Dimmock collapse back onto the sofa, trying to give the impression he thought the first year wasn't worth the effort. The small boy still stood in front of him, a pink flush suffusing his cheeks. "It's all right John." Greg placed a hand on the smaller boys shoulder.
"Sherlock's not a freak." John said it very quietly. "But his big brother is scary."
"Tell me about it." Greg decided he'd had quite enough of the common room that evening.
Greg returned to his room just in time to witness Mycroft, naked on the bed, finishing himself off. The ejaculate erupted from his cock just as Greg opened the door, splattering all over Mycroft's belly and the duvet cover.
"What are you doing?" Greg didn't really know where to look. He knew where he wanted to look, but that wasn't quite the same thing.
"I would have thought it was obvious what I was doing?"
"Usually we do that sort of thing in the showers. Just out of courtesy to our roommates." Greg looked at the sticky mess that was dripping onto the sheets.
"Apologies." Mycroft didn't sound remotely sorry.
"Yeah whatever." Greg shrugged his shoulders. He was trying to be angry. He ought to be angry. Everything had been fine right up to the moment that this arrogant tosser and his freaky little brother had appeared on the scene. Greg had only got one year of school to get through. Just one year. Only Greg couldn't be angry. Not really. Because Mycroft might be an arrogant tosser, but he was still a kid. He'd still been on the planet two years less than Greg.
"I am sorry. Please believe me. I didn't think you'd be back. Not yet anyway."
"It's fine. Okay. Let's just pretend it didn't happen. You might want to go and have a shower though?"
"Yes. I will." Mycroft stood very meekly and grabbed his bathrobe. Once he had left the room Greg breathed a hearty sigh of relief.
Mycroft had been in the shower rather a long time. Far too long thought Greg. Perhaps he'd been expecting Greg to follow him. But Greg was rather inclined to teach him a lesson. Thirty minutes later though, Greg was beginning to feel uneasy. He grabbed his toothbrush and headed for the bathrooms.
The water was still running. And the room was rather steamy. Mycroft's blue bathrobe was hanging on the peg.
"Hey Mycroft, are you trying to drown yourself in there?" No reply. "Come on. Apology accepted. You'll get all wrinkly." Greg listened, there was no sound of movement from within. He tried the door. It wasn't locked, but something was pushed up against it. Greg gave it a good shove and managed to squeeze his head through the gap. Mycroft was laying in a crumpled heap on the floor, angry purple-blue bruises covering most of his torso and the cut on his forehead from earlier split further open and bleeding down the drain. There was blood all up one wall of the shower. Greg ran, dripping wet, to the housemaster's rooms.
"Gregory, is everything all right?"
"No Sir. It's Mycroft Holmes. He's in the shower... I think he might..." Greg paused. "I think he might be dead."