A/N: Okay, so due to the fact that it is once again Monday, I am making a services announcement: From today, posting days are now MONDAY and not Sunday. Strange I know, it's still a week exactly yet I seem to be able to complete them better Monday to Monday than Sunday to Sunday as I have the whole weekend. My apologies if this is inconvenient for anyone, please don't hate me XD

Thank you sooooo much to everyone who reviewed last week, you make my week shiny and wonderful XD You're all so smart, funny and lovely to talk to and I would happily treat each and every one of you to a reasonably priced meal with maybe even the cinemas after (that is a lot for someone like me who has never even been on a date before ;P)

A few notes on this chapter: It is shorter than my others yet I am exceptionally proud of this in particular XD Also, it takes place a month or so after the last flashback, if you want to know the timing. And finally A WARNING: This chapter does use the "f" swear word, which I do regret to have to include but I felt it was necessary. If it offends you in any way, please be sure to let me know, as with anything else that you disagree with :)

Disclaimer: Walking around London listening to sad music when… wait, wait, Monkeys, do you see it? I SEE IT! The cloud of despair! The constant cloud that follows Moffat and Gattis around, harming fangirls all over the word and wrecking its wrath on innocent TV-veiwers and fans. QUICKLY! To the MonkeyMobile! Banana phasors readied and primed! Tractor beam at the ready! ADVANCE! Follow that cloud!

"Robert! Robert Holmes, you selfish bastard, don't you walk away from me!"

Sherlock ducked, making himself even smaller, watching his mother screaming from where he was stood in the doorway. He felt his hands creep up to cover his ears and for a moment the world was blissfully silent before he pulled them away, closing his eyes momentarily. Don't let it affect you. Don't block it out. Analyse. Deduce. Watch.
"Look at me! Look at me, you pig! You have two sons, two sons Robert and they both need you so don't you dare turn your back on them! I need you! Do you hear me?" The back door slammed, the one that Sherlock used to get out to the garden to the kitchen, the one that he had once hid behind to scare Mycroft, the one that was painted green from the outside. The one that Father was trying to leave through, only to be stopped by Agatha Holmes as she forcefully shoved it closed. A second later, Sherlock heard the front door close too and he knew that Mycroft was home and he debated running upstairs, pretending that he had never heard any of this so that Mycroft wouldn't get angry. Considering that he would have to run through the hallway, past the front door and up the stairs, it was redundant to imagine that he could avoid getting caught by his brother.

"I can't work! Do you understand that Robert? I am too sick to work, I can't put food on the table for those boys if you-" Mother was screaming but Sherlock didn't catch the rest of the sentence but he knew that Mother sounded hurt. He wanted to help, to tell her that Father still loved her and that he wasn't really going to leave, it's okay but he knew that it wouldn't do any good. They wouldn't stop arguing for long enough to let him even say it, even though he knew that Mother would no doubt want to listen to him. She was always saying what a good boy he was.

Her words were drowned out as Sherlock began listening to the footsteps approaching. They were hurried, almost a jog and the kitchen door swung open, Sherlock having to sidestep in order to avoid it. There was only a split second, a small moment in which Sherlock thought that Mycroft wouldn't notice him and he watched his older brother, eyes wide, standing with his back to Sherlock and staring at the arguing couple. Sherlock knew that if he could see Mycroft's face, it would have been a raging storm of fury. Sherlock was unsure of whether or not he wanted Mycroft to see him, especially when he was as angry as he was, however he had no choice in the matter as at that moment, Mycroft turned, school tie slicing through the air. Sherlock had taken the day off school today, coming down with the flu that had brought him downstairs for Paracetemol a few moments ago. Mother said he shouldn't take Paracetemol, only Calpol because he was too young, but he didn't listen.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said and although the sound of his name held little significance other than recognition to him at the time, Sherlock would always remember that day as the only day he ever regretted hearing his own name, all the way up until he faked his death at Bart's, years later. The sound was hollow, afraid and raw and everything that Mycroft was not. Like his brother's heart had been extricated from his chest and all that was left was a gaping, empty expanse.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here? Get out, out," Mycroft said and all though Sherlock pulled a face at the words, rude and course, they sounded nothing like what they meant. They sounded quiet, hushed and strangely gentle. Mycroft was talking in a hushed tone and he walked the few paces to Sherlock, kneeling down and putting both hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders. You'll get the flu if you stand too close, Sherlock thought and the thought was random, out of place, yet it was the only thing that came to mind as he looked at Mycroft's serious, urgent eyes. Mycroft, the unflappable, infallible Mycroft Holmes was afraid.

His brother's hands wrapped all the way around Sherlock's shoulders, onto a little of his upper back, being bigger because he was older but also because Sherlock was thinner than most boys his age. He felt them squeeze gently as he looked over to behind Mycroft where he could still hear Mother and Father arguing.

"Do not try to stop me," Sherlock heard Father say and it was a miracle, or a curse, that he heard it as the man had spoken it at lower than a normal volume, calm, in control and utterly level. His hand was on the door handle, the other fisted down by his side and Sherlock could see Mother eyeing it from the corner of her eye. They hadn't even noticed Sherlock stood there, had barely cared when Mycroft had walked in, too consumed with the familiar plot of their obscene play to which Sherlock thought he knew the ending to. Father wouldn't leave. He never had. And yet, Sherlock had never seen such ice behind the man's eyes as he did now, colder than ever and yet burning like a furnace.

"Sherlock, hey, listen, are you listening to me? Sherlock," Mycroft was urgently muttering to him, voice still low and Sherlock dragged his eyes away, flicking them back to the teenager who was still gripping his shoulder, sat back on his haunches, knees on the floor with his back straightened up so that he could be tall enough to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was going to nod, Mycroft's urgently putting him off balance and so he thought it was best to answer his question as concisely as possible, however his brother didn't give him time to reply.

"I want you to go upstairs for a bit, okay? Just for a while," Mycroft said and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, only managing to say Mycroft's name before he was interjected across again.

"Sherlock, I mean it, go upstairs. I'll be up soon," Mycroft's voice was more forceful now, still hushed but it held a firm note to it that didn't allow an argument, "Now."

Sherlock grimaced but otherwise showed nothing else. He had gotten used to leaving Mycroft to it now, allowing him to try and break up the arguments without asking him to stay with him or not to go in the room. It had taken a few painful times to stop wanting to tell Mycroft that he didn't want him to go, that he was worried that he was going to come back with bruises or marks where a belt had lashed across, but he had forced himself to remember what he had promised his brother. He had to keep the promise, Mycroft had been so insistent on it, even if it meant pushing aside his concerns for the older boy. He had to keep his promise.

Slowly, Sherlock nodded and he took one last look over Mycroft's shoulder before he turned, sidling out of the door.

Mycroft took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he stood and turned, gut roiling at the thought of having to once again be the mediator to an argument that not only scared the hell out of him but was also one he did not even agree with. Of course, he needed Father to stay, he was after all the only source of income they had and yet, if that was not the case, Mycroft would not even try to keep him at home. Not after what he had done to Mother, to Sherlock. A slam caused Mycroft to jump and he looked away from where he had watched Sherlock leave, eyes settling on where his Father had been moments ago. The space was empty and Mycroft quickly tracked his eyes across the space, heart racing.

"Don't you dare speak to me like that."

Mycroft's eyes locked onto his father, the words spat in the same controlling, cold voice and it was the cold hatred, the almost unemotional way of speech, as if hate was just a state of being and not an emotion. Robert Holmes had seized his wife by the wrist, pushing her forward until her back had slammed hard into the kitchen counter, his other hand coming up to press against where her sternum was, keeping her placed, back arching painfully against the counter.

"I will leave when I want to leave Agatha," Robert spat and Mycroft wasn't even aware that he was moving until he felt his hands slam into his father's side as forcefully as he could manage, feeling the man stumble sideways a little by the force, Mycroft almost colliding into him.

"Get off her!" Mycroft realised he had shouted and then he was only a few centimetres away, having to look up in order to look at his father's face.

The expression flickered from fury to a cold, uncaring mask in a matter of seconds and the change was uncomfortable, shaking Mycroft's resolve momentarily. There was a second of silence before Mycroft felt his mother's hand on his arm, trying to urge him away.

"Mycroft, Mycroft dear, go upstairs to your brother dear-"

"He's a grown man," Robert said levelly, "He can take the consequences for his own actions." Mycroft awaited the blow, tensing in anticipation and trying not to lose eye contact with the man he hated so much.

"Robert, Robert please honey, don't-"

"Or what? What can you do, Agatha? Hmm?" The words were biting and Mycroft felt his mother's hand recoil from his arm as if it had suddenly become too hot to touch. There was a few moments of silence once more, tense and pulled out taut like a bow string, ready to fire.

"Go on then," Mycroft challenged, "Leave." Robert scoffed and the sound was bitter and chilling, sending a chill down Mycroft's spine. The show of weakness, as momentary as it was, didn't elude the older man and he sneered, Mycroft quickly leaping to cover it over with what words he could muster. "We don't need you." It was a bluff and he knew it. They would not be able to sustain a living if their father left and although it seemed a far off notion, something that would never happen to people like them, surely, the fact of the matter was that there was a good chance that not only would they barely be able to cling onto the house, but it was a possibility that they wouldn't even have the money to spare for food.

Robert Holmes grinned and it was the closest thing to the Devil that Mycroft had ever seen and he wondered if, like Sherlock, halfway through his book, the bookmark still placed at the just-past-halfway point, he too was descending into Hell as Dante had done. Except this Hell was more real, more dangerous.

"Oh," Robert sneered, "You don't? And who is going to pay the bills, Mycroft? Because I assure you, it certainly shall not be me. Do you have the guts to watch that brother of yours starve, boy? I'm sure you and he can look after Agatha by yourselves, you being such clever, clever boys and all." The tone was mocking and Mycroft knew that he'd had his bluff called on. That fact, however, didn't stop the surge of fury sparking through his veins and he let out a near audible growl, low in his throat, desperate to lash out yet he knew that Father was a lot larger, stronger and faster than he was.

"Don't you dare talk about them like that," Mycroft snarled and the words felt so familiar. The familiar leap to his families aid, never thanked for it and yet he did it anyway, the surge of protectiveness, despite how familiar and weary it could often get, was too strong to deny. They were his family, not his father's.

The smirk on Robert Holmes' face vanished, the cool mask on again and it was as if he was a snake, finished with toying with his victim and ready to strike for the kill.

"Your mother," he snarled, lowering his face to come close to Mycroft's, alcohol and cigarettes strong on his breath, "is better off dead, Mycroft. She is a sick, lonely woman. You're welcome to her." Mycroft stepped back as if he had been struck and father rose to stand at full height again, an air of infuriating nochalence being the only read Mycroft could get on him.

"And really Mycroft, we both know that, between the two of us, Sherlock will always choose me over you."

That hurt Mycroft more than anything that had been said, more than the belt that had been aimed at Sherlock, enough to make his throat close up for a second as he simply gaped at his father. The thing that hurt the most, Mycroft knew, out of everything in the known universe, was the truth. Because, in the end, what Father had said was true. It had always been true, always will be. When it came down to it, no matter what Mycroft did for Sherlock, he would not be his father for him, even when that was apparently all that Sherlock wanted. A father. Any father would do, just somebody that was supposed to be there for him, to be a tutor like Mycroft could never be, a protector like Mycroft feared he could never live up to. Sherlock's logical brain would always choose what he needed, not what he knew was right or what he wanted. And that would never change because he, Mycroft Holmes, would never be quite good enough for him.

He felt numb as he stood there, unable to move as Father moved for the door. Mycroft didn't react when Mother barged past and the screaming started again, this time louder, angrier, more dangerous but Father had already made his mind up. He was leaving. He was leaving and if that didn't break Sherlock one final time, Mycroft knew that it would break Mother. Everything he had done to protect his family and yet it was as if destiny had picked him out to be alone, his family cracked and broken around him.

Vaguely he could hear the back door being opened, Mother slamming into the wall in a hurry to put herself between her husband and the door, screaming all the while.

"Don't you dare leave me! Don't you dare leave me while I still fucking love you Robert Holmes! Don't you leave these boys on their own!" Mycroft knew that he should move. Knew that he should try to help but he just stood, numb and frozen in the kitchen like the last pillar to fall in a collapsing building. The last card in a house of cards. He was done.

"I'll never forgive you! You can't leave me here to die Robert, I won't let you leave these boys here, I won't! Don't you-" Another thud, a cry and Mycroft's brain began to reboot, making sense of the noises around him.

By the time he was fully aware of everything around him, it was too late. The doorway was empty, apart from Agatha Holmes, screaming out into the evening air, tears streaking her face, making distorted patterns in her make-up and making her eyes red. Like the Devil had left with Father and left behind a demon to scar his mother, the last deed of a man Mycroft would never again call Father. He watched as his mother's knees almost gave way, shaking as she fell into a kitchen chair, harsh, wracking sobs wrenching from her. He knew what it was like. As he was afraid for Sherlock, she was afraid for both her boys, her two beloved boys who she did not even know now if they would live. No father, barely a mother and no money and Mycroft knew how that kind of heartbreak felt. Because she could never rest. Never forgive herself. Never allow herself a moment of respite because she would forever carry the brand Mycroft knew all too well. I was not good enough to save my family. Except, unlike Mycroft, she could not cure herself, could not even try to mend what was broken.

He trod quietly towards her, opening his mouth once and closing it before he actually managed to speak. She looked haggard, tired and there was a broken sound to her sobbing that sounded as if it was coming from somewhere deep in her soul as it shattered, turning itself inside out and simply screaming.

"Mother-"

"Get out."

He flinched. The voice was so venomous, so filled with anguish that it made bile rise in his throat and he gulped, stepping a step closer.

"Please, Mother, Sherlock needs-"

"I said get out!" she screamed and Mycroft backed up so quickly that his feet almost tripped over each other.

"Get out! Get out! Get out!"

Mycroft took one last look and his wide, incredulous eyes could barely even comprehend the sight, the woman who had raised him looking so broken and overpowered that she didn't even look herself, instead she looked like something was trying to crawl out of her skin, like she was writhing within herself, fury and anguish and pain and hatred bubbling like hot oil beneath her surface. His breath heavy and his palms clammy, Mycroft scurried from the room, his throat feeling tight and burning as if it was contracting around a hot poker, almost painful and he had to close his eyes against it.

He slammed the kitchen door, turning, his mind set on running straight upstairs but with no idea of what he was going to do next. Instead, he was met with the sight of Sherlock, stood at the end of the hall, staring at the door as if it had bit him. Mycroft made to say his name, but the idea didn't even leave his head, not making it to his mouth.

"He – he's gone, isn't he?" Sherlock said, barely audible, "Should… should we go after him?" Mycroft said nothing, the tightness in his throat only growing until he could stand it no longer. He should be angry at Sherlock for eavesdropping and tell him off. Or tell him it was going to be okay. Or assure him that father was coming back. The only thing he knew not to do, from experience, was to leave him alone. And yet the tightness in his throat was too much to handle, the room was too hot, the sobbing from the room behind him was sending searing daggers of pain into the back of his head and he had to get out of there.

So he did what he knew he shouldn't. Ignoring Sherlock's question, Mycroft gave him one last, long, sad look and then, without saying a word, slowly walked past him, not speaking as he walked up the stairs.

He would never forgive himself for what he knew was one of the biggest mistakes of his life that day. The very day that Sherlock Holmes stopped trusting him. The day that he betrayed his brother's faith in him and worst of all, the day he failed to save his brother.

But most of all, he would never forgive Robert Holmes for taking the choice away.

A/N Okay, so, I hope this gave some explanation as to why Mother was as she was. Robert pretty much left her and her sons to die and she had nothing she could do about it. Naturally, as a mother, this killed her inside, the agony of seeing her own sons struggle and not being able to help and she, if you will, did become unstable due to the stress and agony and her already sick body. With Sherlock looking as he did, he was an everyday reminder of the pain and betrayal and failure she had suffered at the hands of her husband and, in her head, now Sherlock. So I know that she's still an evil wicked witch, yet I hope this cleared a few things up. Nobody is evil without a cause.

Anyway, thank you so, so much for reading once again! Leave a review if you'd like or just say hi and in any case, have a great week! See you soon XD