Sunday dinner had been quiet; subdued. Mycroft always made a point of calling in on his family on a Sunday, to catch up with the family news and see his not-so-little-any-more eighteen-year-old brother.
Sherlock seemed distracted and distant. Mycroft took the opportunity to watch him while he didn't appear to be noticing. He looked tired. Mycroft glanced across to Mummy who was still chatting animatedly with their father, and he gave thanks that the two of them didn't really seem to have noticed Sherlock's mood. As a teenager, Mycroft supposed that Sherlock was often moody and distant, but something didn't seem quite right.
After dinner, Sherlock all but ran to his bedroom, skipping evening drinks altogether. Mummy shot a concerned look up the stairs and turned to Mycroft who gave her a nod.
"I'll speak to him." he offered, unsure if his brother would really want him to but knowing that Mummy did.
"Oh, would you, dear?" Mummy replied, wringing her hands together anxiously. "I've been so worried about him. Maybe he's just being a teenager, Mycroft, but you were never like this. He's so... distant and moody all the time, and he comes home so very late."
Mycroft stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
"I'll see what I can do, Mummy."
"Thank you, Mycroft. Maybe he will listen to you."
Mycroft doubted it but headed up the stairs anyway.
He took a calming breath and knocked quietly on his brother's door. It wouldn't do to go in all guns blazing. He knew Sherlock wouldn't respond well to that at all.
Without waiting for a response, he slowly pushed open the bedroom door. Sherlock was curled up on his bed, dressed in his robe, facing the wall. He ignored Mycroft as he entered and sat down on the end of the bed.
"Mummy is worried about you, Sherlock." Mycroft said calmly, "We all are." He placed a hand on his brother's side, noting a grimace as he did so.
"Sherlock?" he asked hesitantly. There was more to the question, of course. Both Sherlock and Mycroft knew it. Sherlock rolled steadily on to his back and looked up at his brother. Mycroft could see that his teenage brother had actually been crying and, as his robe slipped open slightly, Mycroft could see bruises. Fresh bruises. His breath caught in his throat, chest constricting as he saw the true state his brother was in.
"Sometimes..." Sherlock almost whispered, his voice low and gravelly, "...Sometimes, I don't have enough money to pay them. They like to use me as a punch bag for fun... for payment."
Mycroft closed his eyes, momentarily blocking out the sights and sounds but finding that, even in the darkness, his mind's eye saw worse visions. He swallowed thickly, re-opening them again and looking down at his brother.
Sherlock chewed his bottom lip nervously, almost as if he was trying to stop the words that would follow.
"Help me, Mycroft. Please."