Greg sighed and looked around his empty room. The quilt on Mycroft's bed was still crumpled. He straightened it carefully, knowing how his roommate liked everything to be neat. The book was still open on the desk where Uncle Aloysius had left it. Greg shut it and then tried to work out where it should go on the shelf. The books were obviously in some order, but not one Greg could work out. He must have stood there for some time staring at the shelf until he was startled by a small voice.

"It goes there." Sherlock pointed at a slight gap between two other volumes.

"Thanks." Greg replaced the book and turned to face the smaller boy.

"They are in order by Author, then publication date, then relevance to current world events." Sherlock sounded as though he was quoting. Greg noticed the blood on Sherlock's shirt, and the streaks of dirt on his trousers.

"What happened to you? Has someone hurt you?" Greg had failed to protect Mycroft, who he was beginning to realise he was probably falling in love with, but he was certainly not going to let Sherlock be hurt.

"I know who hurt Mycroft. They spat their chewing gum at him. It was in the shower. Mycroft eats lots of sweets, but never chewing gum. It's that Juicy Fruit stuff. The type that doesn't smell minty. There's a boy in one of the other houses who chews it. He took it out today in the dining room and stuck it on his plate whilst he was eating breakfast. It was quite disgusting. His name is Sebastian. I know that just him having the same type of chewing gum doesn't mean that he did it. But he had all scrapes on his knuckles. And a bruise on his chin. The bruise is the same shape as that ring Mycroft sometimes wears." Sherlock paused, picking up one of Mycroft's pens from the desk and twirling it in his fingers.

"And did Sebastian hurt you? Because I'm sure you told him all this."

"He hit me. I suppose it hurt a bit." He put the pen back down. "Mycroft really likes you. He doesn't usually like people. "Greg was getting used to Sherlock's random subject changes.

"He told you that?"

"No. But he looks at you differently to all the others."

"All the others?" Greg was getting a sinking feeling.

"Yes. All the other boys he's let lay on top of him."

"How many of these other boys would there be."

"I don't know exactly. All the ones I've seen. Although there is a probability that they are only a percentage. A conservative estimate would probably be forty?" Greg was trying to remind himself he was having this conversation with an eleven year old.

"Forty?"

"Yes. I don't understand why you all like Mycroft so much. It's probably because he has a very big penis. I heard my cousin Felicity saying so." Here Sherlock switched his voice into what, Greg suspected, was a bitingly accurate mimicry of cousin Felicity "Oh yes. I suppose he's still a bit chubby but My God that boy is hung like stallion." Sherlock shrugged. "Do you think that?"

"I hadn't given it a great deal of thought really." Greg lied. The green eyes looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then the boy smiled.

"I'm glad you like Mycroft. You're probably nice. Sebastian's not. And neither is that other boy. The Irish one."

"Yeah. You should stay away from him. From both of them. Okay?"

"I suppose." They were interrupted by a shy knock at the door.

"Come in!"

The door was pushed open by John Watson, cheerfully sporting a rapidly spreading black eye.

"What happened to you?" Greg looked from one first year to the other.

"He chinned Sebastian Moran on my behalf. It was most excellent." Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders. "Come on Watson. Tea is nearly ready!"

Mycroft had returned to school the following day, his bruises already fading and the stitches on his chest healing. It would leave a scar. A brand. They had shaved off some of his chest hair at the hospital. Greg winced when he saw the state of Mycroft's chest. Somehow he felt guilty about it.

"Can they do anything about that? Like maybe plastic surgery?" Greg sat on the edge of his bed.

"The scars will fade. And they think the hair will grow back and cover most of it."

"Yeah but still..." Greg trailed off uncertain what to say. "How's your Uncle?"

"Yes Uncle Ali told me he'd kidnapped you. I trust it wasn't too traumatic?"

"No. He seems nice."

"Yes. He is." There was silence whilst Mycroft finished undressing. "You want to know what happened to my parents." Greg had been thinking it.

"You don't have to say. It's fine." Greg unbuttoned his shirt.

"Here. This is my favourite picture." Mycroft handed Greg a photograph of a laughing, heavily built man with reddish hair. The man was holding a chubby little boy of about eight years old, who was almost helpless with laughter. Next to them a slim, elegant woman smiled indulgently. She was holding a small boy, who looked at the camera with slight confusion. "Father worked for the Government. Mummy and him were killed by a car bomb. They were on their way to see my school play. It was my fault."

"It wasn't your fault. How could it be your fault?" Greg sat down next to Mycroft and put an arm around the bigger boy's bare shoulders. He squeezed gently and noted the almost immediate stirring in Mycroft's boxer shorts.

"I really like you Gregory." Mycroft leaned forwards and kissed him.