A/N Okay, so I actually do have a valid reason for why it's this morning. Last night my laptop caught one of those security pop-up virus things that took me three hours to fix at which time I could only go on two tabs I'd already had open as the virus wouldn't let me go to any other webpages, including fanfic . net. So I had to wait till it was fixed :'( But anyway, it's here now and I'm happy about that! This chapter is another flashback, I hope you don't mind! If you do object to them, please feel free to tell me.

Thanks sooooo much once again to everyone who reviewed last time, it was also great to see new reviewers, it's always nice to hear from you :) It's also wonderful to see my regulars, my wonderful superhero reviewers again for another week, I love you guys so much it's unreal X)

Anyway without more ado-ing, here it is!

Disclaimer: -_- Still no luck in finding Sherlock. Met Robert Downey Jr for a reasonably priced meal at a rather lovely café. He told me that he was the only viable Sherlock Holmes and to give up the chase, at which point I informed him that, no, he may be Sherlock Holmes, but he will always be the embodiment of Iron Man/Tony Stark, no matter what. We got into an argument about it in which I insisted he was Tony Stark until he got so annoyed with me that he got his bodyguards to throw me out. Worse thing was that I wore a lovely outfit to meet him in and now it is ruined from being chucked out. One is not amused -_-

Mycroft heard the shouting and felt his insides cramp up, the breath stealing from him for a moment in both fear and disappointment. They were at it again. He sighed, standing up from where he had been sat at his desk, doing homework for his politics exam which, in all honesty, he had actually been enjoying until he heard the familiar sound of angry voices drifting through the floorboards. It left him with two choices and he saw both as almost equally unpleasant.

The first was to take the matter like he was expected to, to be the man of the house while Father was currently intoxicated and go downstairs to deal with the matter. The idea made his stomach turn, thinking about trying to get in-between Mother and Father while they were both yelling at each other, Mother's voice getting more and more frail and sick as the argument continued. Father had never hit him for trying to stop the arguments before, but he was always more volatile when he was shouting at his wife, especially when he had had a drink and quite frankly Mycroft did not want to go downstairs at all right now, not wanting to face the wrath even though he knew that Mother could be in trouble. He felt guilt surge in his stomach and shame seize him, knowing that his own cowardice was the reason why the shouting was still on-going.

His other option was just as unappealing, however Mycroft at least felt as if it would do some good, rather than igniting any more flames in an already burning building. Sherlock was home, most likely in his room, and if Mycroft could hear it from down the hall, there was no way that their voices hadn't travelled up the stairs and into Sherlock's room too. Mycroft battled momentarily, knowing that if he didn't go in there, Sherlock would jump to the worst conclusion, which was, unfortunately also the correct one, however if he did, he would have to talk Sherlock out of the idea that their parents were splitting up or that dad's voice was getting increasingly louder and more threatening and Mycroft didn't know if he could manage that. He also didn't know if he could take Sherlock's wounded, hopeful look when he told Mycroft how much he wished that their father would simply stop drinking and become the type of dad that Sherlock imagined he was. Mycroft didn't know how many lies he could tell Sherlock before he suspected.

In the end, there really was no choice to the matter. As much as Mycroft wanted it to put it off, while there was nothing he wanted more than to sit back down and continue with his work and try to ignore as best he could what was happening, he knew that he had both a conscience and a brother, as much as he'd like to deny the first and argue about the second, there never really was a choice between his own discomfort and Sherlock.

Making the decision, he stretched, stalling for time as he tried to brace himself for the unpleasantness ahead. If there was anything he hated more than lying to Sherlock, it was lying when Sherlock knew it too, which was almost exactly what he was currently being forced to do. Knowing that he could not stall forever, Mycroft pulled open his door, the sound of the row downstairs hitting him louder as he did so. He could hear it even clearer as he carefully padded down to Sherlock's room, his comfortable casual trousers falling around his bare ankles, bare feet scratching on the floorboards. He pressed his ear to Sherlock's door and although worry was churning already in his stomach and his mind was whirring as it thought of ways to comfort his brother, the feeling of protectiveness and concern that had taken him to his brother's room was still the strongest emotion by far as he listened for any noises from within the room.

He didn't know what exactly it was he was listening for. He didn't expect quiet sobbing or angry thumping or any calls for him. He knew that wasn't how Sherlock worked and yet, he listened anyway, more cautious than normal, knowing that one wrong move could bring everything in Sherlock's world crashing down upon him. Mother and Father were already tearing up their world, Sherlock's own collapsing with it and Mycroft wanted to delay that as long as possible, maybe even heal over the gap and stop it from happening but, unless he could somehow do the impossible and stop Mother and Father from fighting, he could not see that happening.

Hearing nothing but the expected silence from the other side, Mycroft didn't give himself time to worry any more, knocking a little too forcefully on the door in an attempt to stop himself from spending any more time stalling. He knew that he had to help Sherlock; it was hard enough to hear this himself, never mind for his younger brother, however lying and hiding the truth from him wasn't something he was keen to do. Quick and fast, like a plaster, Mycroft remembered Mother telling him one time when she was trying to make him eat sprouts. Just get it over and done with and then you can have ice cream. Mycroft knew that the only thing he was doing after this was going downstairs to stop the fighting but the thought steadied him a little regardless.

"Sherlock?" He wished that he could have said his brother's name at just above a whisper as although he didn't believe in the childish stories Sherlock told him about the walls being able to speak, the whole house seemed to be more oppressive right now and he straightened, reaching up to tug at his shirt collar as if it was constricting his breathing only to find that he was wearing a loose shirt, with his collar already unbuttoned. He had to say Sherlock's name at just above normal talking volume in order to surface above his parent's shouting and the way the name echoed sent a chill down his spine. He didn't fully hear the response but he was pretty sure that the mumble from behind the door resembled something similar to "go away".

Mycroft gave a small smile. Even though Sherlock could obviously hear what was going on downstairs and knew that Mycroft was only here to help, he was still as petulant as ever. Mycroft didn't even announce his entrance as he promptly ignored his brother's sulky protest, still smiling a little. It helped ease his dread a little, spotting the tangle of brown curls and the long, navy pyjamas lying on the bed, nose buried in a book. Mycroft felt better at times like this when Sherlock was around. Being a Holmes was lonely, it always was, with parents splitting apart, often forgetting to even acknowledge their children as they tear at each other's throats.

Mycroft craned his neck to try and at a better angle what Sherlock was reading but Sherlock angled the book down at the same time, making Mycroft roll his eyes as he realised Sherlock was doing it on purpose.

"You are so childish Sherlock," Mycroft said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a look too old for someone of his age.

"That's maybe because I am still classed as a child, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. Mycroft gave a noise of half annoyance and sat down on the bed, next to where Sherlock's thin stomach was splayed on the bedsheets, rumpling them beyond fixing, obviously meaning he had been here for a while. Perhaps since Mother and Father started arguing as Mycroft knew that although Sherlock read a lot and it wasn't unusual to see him splayed out in bed or on the sofa or in the garden, reading, he very often used his books as a means of escape, burying himself in them so that he may both physically hide his face and to also hide himself inside the pages as best he could.

Mycroft leant over a touch to try and take a look at the pages but again he was shielded from it until he eventually gave in and sighed, "What are you reading today?" Sherlock seemed to ponder the question a moment, as if he was deciding whether or not he wanted to make a game out of it or not. Sherlock loved to know things other people didn't. If Mycroft had the time and his mind wasn't currently filled with other things, he would have deduced the book by now, however his mind was already too cluttered as it was without deduction adding to it. And, truthfully, it seemed like too much energy over one book.

Luckily Sherlock apparently agreed with him and after a few moments he sat up, bringing the book with him, apparently tired of being stubborn. He showed Mycroft the cover of the book, a red fabric bound copy that Mycroft had given to him as part of a set of Medieval classics one Christmas.
"Dante's Inferno," Sherlock shrugged, as if a child who had not even reached double figures yet was normally expected to read something as complex as that. Mycroft chuckled.

"How're you finding it?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Okay I guess," he said and then he waited a moment before he added "Mother and Father… they're going to divorce aren't they?"

The suddenness of the question made Mycroft falter and his stomach dropped. He cursed internally that Sherlock was as grown-up as he was and for a split second, he was caught out by Sherlock's words. Sherlock was grown-up in respects that he was smart and practical however there were also times when he was like every other boy, perhaps even worse, struggling to keep his emotions under control, afraid and angry all at once. Mycroft had, of course, not noticed this quality in himself when he was Sherlock's age but instead had discovered it from all the hours of looking after Sherlock, in the mornings when he helped him pack for school, in the evenings when he had to make dinner for the two of them when Mother was in hospital and Father was working, when he kept Sherlock occupied with games and putting him to bed when it was time. Mycroft had suffered through each tantrum and although he knew it was not his responsibility, only his choice, to try and raise his brother as well as he could, he still felt the weight of responsibility over him and had observed as much as he could about his brother's behaviour. He knew Sherlock almost better than he knew himself.

"They're not going to get a divorce Sherlock," Mycroft said and inside he cringed. Lie number one, he thought to himself. He wasn't unintelligent, they both weren't, which was why they both knew he was lying and yet Mycroft still wanted to say it, to pretend that Sherlock was still a little boy and too innocent to know what all the shouting and the arguing and the smashing plates and thumps meant. It wasn't so much wondering when a divorce would happen; it was more that they were waiting for Father to leave. They all knew he would, someday soon. He would leave and force a divorce and no matter how much Mother wanted him to stay, he wouldn't. He'd leave to join the army with his brother or something else equally infuriating and leave them here without so much as a second thought. Mycroft didn't know if it was because Father's income was the only thing keeping them afloat after Mother got sick or if she really did truly still love the man, but Mycroft knew that when Father left, Mother was going to get worse. Because even through all of this, Mycroft knew that deep down, Mother didn't want him to leave. She still loved him. Mycroft scowled at the thought. Love was not an advantage when it brought nothing but destruction and pain.

Sherlock remained quiet for a few moments as Mycroft's thoughts drifted into darkness, the younger boy apparently thinking through things as well. They sat in silence for a few moments, consumed by their thoughts, before Sherlock shifted on the bed, hands readjusting on the book as he settled his eyes down towards it.

"They're always fighting," Sherlock said, "It's… logical to assume that they're going to divorce." There was a pause and Sherlock's previous sentence had sounded so unsure that Mycroft didn't know if he wanted to continue or not. Eventually, he did. "Mother wouldn't like a divorce, would she?"

Mycroft sighed and wished that his brother wasn't half as smart as he was. The boy knew full well what was going on and yet the hopeful tone in his voice suggested that he wished it were otherwise. Mycroft wished it was otherwise too, if it meant that for once they could have a normal family who went on family holidays to the seaside together and had their dinner together and told each other things and trusted one another like the families of his friends did. More so because he wished that Sherlock had grown up with more of a father than a drunk and a snake of a man, more of a mother than the absent one who was continually in hospital and more of a brother than the one currently trying to play both roles.

"Sherlock, everybody fights sometimes," Mycroft said, trying to give Sherlock a weak smile, "Even family. It doesn't mean they're getting a divorce." He knew that it was an empty, weak attempt at comfort. They both knew what was going to happen. They were just going through the motions, as they always had to.

Sherlock gave him a despondent look that told him that Sherlock too didn't really believe what he was saying. Mycroft swallowed at the expression on his younger brother's face, nothing but crushed hopes and pain and Mycroft remembered back to that day when he had tried to stop Father from hitting Sherlock, ending up with a stripe across the face and back himself for his troubles but he had ignored it, or at least tried to, trying to tend to the blossoming black eye on Sherlock's face through eyes that were already tearing up and blurry with tears of pain. He had seen the same look on Sherlock's face then. Sherlock hadn't spoken for two weeks after that, the next morning being the first day of silence in Sherlock's life and ever since, Mycroft had often seen Sherlock lapse into fits of silence. Both anger and pain had flared in Mycroft at his brother's youthful voice being stolen but in the end he had given up trying to get Sherlock to talk, even when he yelled for it sometimes, getting frustrated and shouting at his brother, secretly regretting it afterwards. It was Sherlock's way of dealing with things and Mycroft wasn't prepared to deprive him of that.

"I mean," Mycroft pressed, trying to remove that expression from his brother's face, "We fight all the time." Mycroft gave him a wry grin that he knew looked utterly false even before he did it but hoped still that Sherlock would take some comfort from it. They did argue a lot. Sometimes over silly things, like what Sherlock wanted for dinner or sometimes it was over bigger things, like Sherlock keeping the fact that he was being bullied a secret or something equally as troubling and Sherlock would give Mycroft the silent treatment for days on end. It wasn't that they disagreed a lot, it was just that they had never exactly seen eye to eye, not completely, on a lot of topics and with Mycroft already being stressed out with schoolwork and with looking after Sherlock and Sherlock's characteristic petulance, things descended into arguments and bickering sessions easier than they were resolved. It had become almost a way of solving problems by now, bickering and verbally sparring until someone gained the upper hand. Embarrassingly, that was usually Sherlock.

"Yeah, but not like that," Sherlock said and he didn't need to gesture downstairs for Mycroft to know what he was talking about. Mycroft sighed, trying to think of something to say but Sherlock ploughed onwards, his voice more fragile and broken than it had been moments ago.

"What if Father leaves? What will we do then? We won't have any money and Mother… Mother will still be ill and… I don't want Father to leave, Mycroft," Sherlock continued. Mycroft's heart broke as he heard Sherlock's pleading tone, as if Mycroft held all the answers and he was simply withholding them from his brother. As if Mycroft could fix everything, like he always did. I'm sorry Sherlock, Mycroft thought, but I can't fix this.

"Father, he- he can't leave. I'll be good Mycroft, I promise, I'll be really good. I don't understand why he'd-"

"Sherlock, stop."

Mycroft had to stop his brother before he continued any further. He couldn't bear to hear it, Sherlock's blind faith in a man that had never shown Sherlock compassion, except from when he was deducing or commenting on a case. He didn't want to hear Sherlock promise to be good because, despite his temper tantrums, Sherlock was a good kid, even when being raised by someone as inept as Mycroft considered himself to be. He always wanted to do good for people and no-one had ever taught him to be like that. And worse, he was talking as if he expected Mycroft to be able to solve the problem when Mycroft had no possible way to help.

"Sherlock, Father's not-" he stopped himself, knowing that what he was about to say was a lie. And he had already lied to Sherlock today when all Sherlock really needed was the truth. Father was going to leave and there was nothing he could do about it. No matter how much he hated the man for what he had done to Mother, no matter how angry he was towards him for what he had done to Sherlock, he would have swallowed his pride begged him to stay, if that was going to solve Sherlock's problems. But it wasn't going to. Father would never listen.

There wasn't a way out of it and Mycroft knew it and the dread of it made him feel sick, thinking about what the Hell he was planning on doing once it happened. Where the money was going to come from. How Mother would cope when she was still sick. How he was going to look after the house and Mother and Sherlock all at once. And most of all, how crushed Sherlock was going to be. Mycroft estimated a month, perhaps more, of silence and after that, Sherlock would pretend he was okay, but he wouldn't be. Mycroft would know it, he would know it and yet they'd still go through the same old charade. Mycroft was practical about that and wished Sherlock would be too. There were so many things that Mycroft loved about Sherlock not being as practical as he was, the fact that he once wanted to be a pirate, that he still cared about people even when it was difficult, that he wanted to help people despite his age. And yet, Mycroft knew what he had to do in order to save Sherlock from the oncoming storm. And it killed him inside.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said and he halted, considering what he was about to do, what this could do to his brother. It was a decision Mycroft had never been forced to make, the better of two evils, when both evils would harm his brother. He swallowed hard and tried to make sure Sherlock didn't see how conflicted he was. He felt dirty, going behind Sherlock's back, skulking around like a snake and lying to him. It felt wrong. He always tried to be honest with Sherlock, even when Sherlock wasn't honest with him.

"You've got to promise me something," Mycroft said. Sherlock frowned.

"What?" There again, the innocent voice making Mycroft falter in his resolve before he steadied himself.

"Listen to me Sherlock, I want you to listen very closely to me and try to understand what I'm trying to get across to you here, okay?" Mycroft said, waiting then until Sherlock nodded. He felt as if his hands were shaking and he looked down at them, clenching them once before looking back to Sherlock. He knew what he had to say, how he could stop Sherlock from falling apart, but it burned his insides to think about it. "People… people can be… cruel, Sherlock. Especially to people who are… different."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "People like us?" he asked and Mycroft nodded slightly, slowly. Sherlock's eyes flickered with something that was crossed between confusion and betrayal and Mycroft almost backed out then and there.

"We're going to be on our own now, for quite a while, once… once Father leaves," Mycroft pressed on and he had to close his eyes when Sherlock's expression turned pained at the idea of Father leaving them, "And you need to be able to look after yourself as well as having me around. You need to be able to cope well enough so that we can work together." The words sent another pang of guilt through Mycroft as although he spoke of working together, right now he knew he was doing something very dangerous and possibly harmful to his own brother. A lump formed in his throat and he fought not to let out a sound before he spoke again.

"What I'm saying is Sherlock, you can't afford to dwell on Father," Mycroft said.

"But Mycroft-"

"I mean it Sherlock. But I also mean other people," Mycroft continued. Sherlock looked confused.

"What do you mean, other people?"

Mycroft deliberated his choice in words, knowing that this was the final chance to back out before the deed was already underway.

"I mean… that lots of people in the world, most people in fact, are going to treat you differently… badly even, because you're different. What I need you to do is to ignore all of that. You know how brilliant you are, I know how brilliant you are, that's all you need and so you're going to have to use that knowledge to ignore whatever it is they say about you."

"Mycroft, what does this have to do with Mother and-"

Mycroft interrupted him, cutting through, desperate to get it over and done with. Quick like a plaster. "All we've got is each other Sherlock," Mycroft said, voice becoming desperate and shaky before he reigned it back in with difficulty, "Other people, they can't be trusted. You've got to… you've got to keep at a distance Sherlock because… most times, most times they're out for themselves, okay? And… and that means Father too, Sherlock. People are good at hurting other people, you're better off keeping as… as far removed as possible." The words hurt. They hurt like nothing he had ever experienced, more than the belt Father had struck him with when he had tried to help Sherlock. They were painful because he knew that what he was doing was going to stay. More than he would want it because Sherlock was barely more than a child, impressionable and trusting and Mycroft was taking advantage of that. And he hated it.

Sherlock looked up at him, confused eyes making Mycroft's heart bleed. "But, Mycroft, I don't understand… Father… Father isn't out to hurt me," Sherlock said. Mycroft felt frustration rise momentarily over the guilt and he quickly quashed it.

"Sherlock, when he leaves, you have to be stronger," Mycroft forced onwards, "Just, listen to me, you have to protect yourself from people... from feelings." Mycroft knew that if this worked, he wouldn't have to worry about Sherlock falling into self-destruct mode after Father was gone. He knew that maybe it would also even help with the bullying at school, although that wasn't the main aim. And yet, he also knew that what he was doing was wrong and, as yet, didn't know if it was the right decision or not. As every second passed he grew more and more uncertain and yet now there was no way he could take it back.

"You… you want me be on my own?" Sherlock said and Mycroft felt everything inside him twist up painfully, "But Mycroft… What about friends? And, and what about you? You can't expect me to just stop caring about everyone." The last sentence sounded almost like the usual Sherlock and yet Mycroft could tell that it was nothing but a sick parody of it. He clenched his teeth before he spoke, trying to squeeze out the guilt and frustration. He wanted to say no, not me, don't stop caring about everyone, don't stop being my brother and yet, he couldn't say it. The only way to save his little brother was to damn him.

"I mean, you can't afford to be… you can't afford to be too close to people, Sherlock. It's dangerous. Like with Father, it'll only… it'll only hurt you. I don't want to see that happen, I-"

"You want me to be more like you," Sherlock said. It wasn't quite a statement, not quite a question, merely a thought spoken aloud that was only elaborated on a few moments later when Sherlock continued, "The way you push people away so you can study, you want me to do that so I can… protect myself."

Mycroft nodded even though he knew it wasn't a question. And then he spoke the words that he would look back on and know that he made the biggest mistake of his life. "You have to promise me that you'll keep to that Sherlock. So you don't get hurt."

Sherlock didn't say anything for the longest time and Mycroft thought that he had gone into one of his silent moods. He didn't know whether his heart sank more at that or more when Sherlock spoke up a long few minutes later.

"Okay." It was one word, one quiet, tiny word that dropped into the atmosphere like a pebble into a silent lake and yet Mycroft knew in that moment that the gravity of what he had done outweighed the reasons it was done for. He had destroyed what he loved most about his brother, he had taken away the one thing that differed Sherlock from what Mycroft had raised him as and now there was nothing Mycroft could do to take it back. It felt like the whole world had rocked, everything tilting nauseatingly and he could feel that his hands were now definitely shaking as he looked at the despondent boy in front of him. He wished that he could take it all back and yet he knew that the impression was already made, the idea already planted and taking seed.

"Sherlock, I-" Mycroft didn't know what he was going to try and say, what it was that he could say after what he had done, however he never got to find out as both the boys bolted up from the bed at the sound of a scream of fury from downstairs, Mother's anger travelling up the stairs so loudly that Mycroft was shocked at it, the boom of Father's voice reverberating the wooden floorboards and then the sound of a plate cracking against something, maybe the floor, maybe the wall but it didn't matter because Mycroft was already up, putting his hands on Sherlock's cheeks and kneeling down slightly to talk to the boy.

"Stay here," he said and removed his hands, placing them on Sherlock's shoulders, "Okay? Do not move from this room until I come back up, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, fear evident on his features and in his eyes. There was a pleading also in his eyes and Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would beg him not to go like he sometimes did but the child stayed quite, nodding again, less shakily this time and stepping back. Mycroft blinked in shock at the movement. Sherlock had never stepped away from Mycroft at a time like this, usually he preferred the contact, to try and protect his older brother by keeping him safe and away from their parents by trying to stay as close to him as possible. Mycroft knew what he had done, what he had taught his brother to do in order to protect him. Push away everyone Sherlock, it's for the best. And now he was beginning to wonder if what he had done was really the better of two evils.

He straightened and with a hard swallow, grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open, putting on a stern, unshakeable mask as he stormed out into the hallway and down the stairs. From behind him, still stood in the room he had left, Sherlock watched him leave. He wanted to call out to him to tell him to stop, please, no, Mycroft, don't leave, I don't want you to get hurt, please don't leave me alone, please. But he knew what Mycroft had been trying to teach him. And maybe he could one day even see why Mycroft had taught him it and then they could see eye to eye like Sherlock had always wanted them to.

Right now however the only thing Sherlock could do was practice the notion in his mind, set up the necessary barriers in his head and listen to the sounds of screaming from downstairs.

A/N Gah, what a horrible chapter ending, I feel so bad for our Holmes boys :'( I feel so mean at doing this however this was always the plan. I wanted to delve into what Mycroft said in Series 2 about having betrayed Sherlock before and made mistakes. I think this was the first of a series of mistakes Mycroft made that led to their relationship today. I kind of wanted to show in this chapter that not everything was perfect, I mean obviously not with the hurt we've already had with Mother and Father but also that it wasn't all perfect all the time with the brothers either, as it never is with siblings. There'll be fights and tears, like Sherlock's "Go away" at the beginning of the chapter and Mycroft's initial reluctance to go help, but that's something that brothers always have, so I wanted to show that too. Also, in relation to Mycroft's betrayals, I don't think that Mycroft is any way a bad guy, he simply makes the wrong choices, often preferring the easier route which can end in disaster, as with the Moriarty incident in season 2. He's not a coward but he comes across that way as he takes the road that offers the least resistance and we lose sight of how tempting that can be and how we ourselves often do it because we root for Sherlock throughout the series, who always takes the harder route.

… Wow, sorry, I felt like a spot of essay writing there, my apologies :D I have lots of feels XD Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I really liked writing this one, it was really interesting, so I hope it shows :S All reviews are much welcomed and greatly loved so if you wanna say hi, feel free. (If you're not as amazed/terrified by the new review system as I am :O) If not, see ya'll next time! Thanks for reading!