A/N I'm a terrible person. There's a special place in Hell that had my name on it, like those posh parking spaces in hospitals. I have a parking space in Hell too o.O Honestly guys, I am so, so sorry for the recent posting awfulness I've been bestowing on you, I really do deserve all kinds of painful deaths D': My laptop is still playing up and due to the fact that I'm off on holiday this week, my work has punished me with about a million hours of shifts, leaving me no time to get into town and get it fixed, meaning I've had to do ridiculous things to write this up and post :'( And, to make matters worse, as I've just mentioned, I am off on holiday this week so my next update will be next Saturday and then I'm away for another week but then after that, posting WILL go back to normal as I'm putting my laptop in for fixing tomorrow before I go away so it'll be done for when I get back.

Which leads me to another apology: Sorry to all those reviews and wonderful people I have yet to reply to! D': I promise that I will reply very shortly, I'm just having to do it on my phone at the moment so it's positively a nightmare. However I want to say right now, THANK YOU SO MUCH! For being as wonderful and, as ever, patient as you are and for taking the time to review! To the people I can't PM:
Lailariel, you're too right :D You're actually spot on, I've been told so many times before that I'm a rambler and it is a huge problem for me but I am going to try and work on it, so I really honestly do thank you for your wonderful advice and constructive criticism, it honestly does help :) I'm always looking for tips on how to improve so thank you so much for the help and you obviously know what you're talking about as you've picked up on one of my many weaknesses there :)
To Catwoman, thank you so much for the review! I'm really, really glad you like it and that you like my Sherlock, he can be a handful to write! Thanks for reading!

To Anonymous, I'm sorry D': I know, I'm becoming one of those awful late posters that hurt us so much D': Posts will be resuming some form of normality soon, sorry for your wait my dear! Feel free to throw some rotten fruit at me :D

Anyways, this has turned kinda long so I really should get started with the fic. This chapter took a completely different direction to what I had planned so to be honest, I'm very very worried about it, especially after my writing confidence has taken a bit of knock lately due to external factors, so please, all constructive criticism is very welcome!

Disclaimer: I have teamed up with my psychiatrist and we are planning a Mission: Impossible style plan to find our boy, complete with jet packs and ninja ropes! We bought the jetpacks on eBay and made the ninja ropes using human hair (from our backs) and are hitting the most desolate and epic locations in the world to make us look cool , I mean, to find Sherlock!

The flat should have been dark when they returned. It was almost ten pm and although the police crew had been gone for a good few hours now, John and Sherlock had taken their time in returning, going for a walk before their meal and staying in the bar until it had started to get dark outside. Not that Sherlock was a keen drinker as, while he was apparently perfectly comfortable with having drugs addle his mind, drink was something he was less interested in, arguing that instead of aiding his thinking, it slowed him down and was therefore boring. John had rolled his eyes at that and ordered another drink for himself, determined to enjoy the night out. It wasn't as if he and Sherlock didn't go out often, being two men in a flat by themselves often meant that cooking was more dangerous than it was worth, however tonight was the first night that Sherlock had been back that John felt fully normal around him once again and he was determined to make the most of it.
When they caught a cab back to the flat, night had already fallen and the sky was almost completely black, casting shadows over the street as they made their way into the flat. Mrs Hudson was still awake, the TV in her flat sending the shrill laugh of a talk show audience into the hallway, the sound muffled through the wall but still enough to let the boys know that they didn't have to creep up the stairs so as not to wake their landlady. Sherlock was very rarely discreet for anyone however John had noticed that, despite the fact that Sherlock tried to hide it, the detective would make much less noise when entering the flat if he knew that Mrs Hudson was asleep.

The pair ascended the stairs, John talking about the job interview he had put in for the other day after struggling with this month's payment for the flat. Mrs Hudson had been generous enough to give him a very small fee for the flat during Sherlock's absence but now that he was back, the rent being shared between the two of them, the price was its usual and John was falling behind without a job. As always, Sherlock was only half listening to what he was saying.

"They said I could go in on Friday, have an interview. They'd decide it over the weekend I think but from what I heard they really liked the experience I'd put down on my CV so-"

"John, do you see that?" Sherlock interrupted. John narrowed his eyes at his flatmate for cutting him off but he looked nonetheless to where Sherlock had gestured.

At first, John didn't quite know what Sherlock was talking about. He frowned, opening his mouth and turning to Sherlock to say so but, at the last moment, he noticed it. Quickly, he closed his mouth and looked back up the stairs to rest his eyes on the faint glow coming from their living room. It looked as if a light had been left on inside, perhaps the lamp as the glow was fainter and strangely warmer, suggesting that it was being blanketed by the lampshade slightly.

"So?" John asked, "They left the lamp on when they left, it's no big deal Sherlock." He continued walking up the stair but stopped when Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm, holding his back, not moving from the spot on the stairs in which he had apparently fixed himself. The detective's eyes did not move from where they were observing the glow from the room and when he spoke it was with the same deductive tone that he used on cases.

"Daylight would provide sufficient lighting to take prints and evidence from the room, especially as it only began to get dark two and a half hours ago, long after the police team would have left," Sherlock explained, "So why would anyone turn on a light unless they're in the dark?"

"Maybe they stayed and straightened the place out, like they said they might," John suggested, rolling his eyes, feeling already tired even though it wasn't especially late.

"They? Actually, only Father suggested that idea and unfortunately," Sherlock gave a small smile at this and it was a wry, cheeky smile that made John grin, "somebody shot him down in flames even though we really could have used the help." Sherlock tried to look pointedly at John but the other man was grinning too much to take seriously.

"Whatever," John jibed, "So did you. Anyway, it's probably nothing Sherlock, really. They probably left it on for us and you're just-"

"An unused light was left on in Baker Street and Mrs Hudson didn't turn it off?" Sherlock cut in, "Mrs Hudson who used the ridiculously useless energy saving light bulbs she sees on TV adverts and recycles" John noticed how mockingly Sherlock said "recycles", like it was the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. Despite this, John felt a chill run through him as he considered Sherlock's words and a stab of concern for Mrs Hudson ran through him as his mind began to imagine what kind of person would be in their flat at this time of night.

"Wait, you think- you think that he's come back?" John dropped his voice to a low whisper part way through his question, worry now bubbling in his stomach. If the man was back, even with John's army training and Sherlock's skill at hand-to-hand, there wasn't much of a chance they'd win a fight with him, considering that the man was a marksman, and a good one by the look of his victims, and that John's gun was tucked away in his bedroom and not in plausible reach.

Sherlock didn't say anything, his face giving nothing away and John had a wait for a few tense moments before he said anything.

"I don't think-" he cut himself off, as if he was still thinking the thought through and hadn't quite reached a conclusion yet. John waited and a moment later, Sherlock's expression relaxed a little, making John's shoulders slump in relief and he let out the breath he had been holding, before Sherlock's eyes darkened and the lithe detective started climbing the stairs again, fury practically rolling from him as he passed John, fists clenched.

Swallowing back confusion and concern, John scampered to follow him

It was a fact. Simply a statement of fact, nothing more or less, like telling someone that the earth went around the sun. Any other person could not argue with that but, as John well knew, Sherlock Holmes was anything but an ordinary person. And if there was anything that John did know, it was that Sherlock was never one to simply sit back and accept facts. One of his friend's most annoying traits was his argumentative side and John felt like groaning at the challenging face he pulled at Mycroft.

"Stop what, Mycroft?" Sherlock snarled. Mycroft stepped forwards unhurriedly, making Sherlock tense up in anger, body coiled like a spring.

"Don't play dumb Sherlock; we both know that you're too smart for that. You know what I'm talking about," Mycroft said smoothly.

"Spell it out for me." The words were a challenge, a test at Mycroft's patience and John could see it visibly working. He wanted nothing more than to step in and stop what he could imagine being a very ugly argument but when it came to the Holmes brothers, it was very difficult to find the right words to prevent anything. It was like being a college student trying to break up an argument between Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton.

Mycroft ground his teeth and it was the first sign of any emotion that John had caught since he had entered the room.

"You'll have to excuse me for bringing Dr Watson into this Sherlock; this is, after all, between me and you. However, I am wondering if the doctor knows about these cases you've been taking on," Mycroft said, his voice betraying none of the annoyance that his movements did. Sherlock on the other hand appeared to be the epitome of irritation as he listened to his brother and John was concerned that Sherlock was going to cause himself injury if he clenched his fists any more than he already was doing.

"You know all about the cases Sherlock has been taking on, don't you doctor?" Mycroft asked. John didn't reply, knowing that Mycroft already knew the answer. So far, John had heard very little about the things Sherlock had been investigating, only hearing fleeting mentions of them here and there.

Mycroft apparently need an answer as he continued regardless. "They're all cases given to him by Robert Holmes," he explained, "All of them. Each one he had attended personally."

"Your point being?" Sherlock snapped. Mycroft took another step forward and now he was only a few paces away from where Sherlock was standing. John noticed that the elder man's signature umbrella was missing from the ensemble and the lack of it unsettled him. In a strange way it made Mycroft seem incomplete, like a limb had been removed from him.

"Sherlock, please try to understand," Mycroft said and this time, the tone had become a disturbing mimicry of pleading, so ill-fitting to Mycroft that the sound came out all wrong to John's ears, "Try to think past your own need for approval and think. Really think. Something isn't right here and through all of this… fighting for his love, you know that, deep down. There are things that don't add up and you are missing them because of Robert's puppetry over you. He-"

"Stop it," Sherlock spat. His eyes were fixed on Mycroft, the heat of them burning into his brother's soul and the older Holmes struggled to hold the gaze, sealing his own off with ice to try and hold back the flurry of emotions he could see being barely restrained in his little brother's face. There was fury there and hurt but most of all, there was betrayal. Betrayal that only made emotions Mycroft had long since buried come out like a sickness in his stomach. Guilt. Sorrow. Pain. There was an accusation in Sherlock's gaze that hurt more than all of those feelings put together. Father might never have been there for me. But neither was you.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, listen to me. The cases he's been giving you, his "sudden" appearance, it's all wrong. You can't see it because you're too busy scrambling for his attention," He tried to take a breath to calm himself but his voice was raising and he couldn't help the anger in it, "For God's sake, you're a child Sherlock! A goddamn child and you need to grow up and realise that things don't work like they used to! This has to stop, Sherlock. Robert Holmes is-"

"You can't even call him Father, can you Mycroft?" Sherlock said. John strained to hear him as his voice had dropped so low, however Mycroft seemed to hear him just fine as the older man looked as if he had been struck. "You're so angry with him; you won't even call him father. Well, Mycroft, you're not exactly whiter than white yourself and I still call you 'brother'"

"H- he doesn't deserve it," Mycroft said through gritted teeth. It was the first time John had ever heard Mycroft stutter and he suddenly felt his blood run cold with something akin to fear at the menacing step that Sherlock took, a dark mirror image of his brother's actions, bringing him so close to Mycroft that he thought he might really strike him.

"Of course," Sherlock growled and it was a confused mix of sarcasm and dry realism, "He doesn't, not according to my big brother, right Mycroft? Because you just love playing God. That's why you tell me not to call him father but it's perfectly alright to call you my big brother." Mycroft visibly swallowed and it was in that second, with Sherlock's face pressed only inches from Mycroft's own, that he knew. He knew what Sherlock was going to say next, he knew what Sherlock knew and there was nothing he could do about it. And the thought of that made him sick to the stomach.

"You don't deserve that, Mycroft. Do you know why? Do you ever wonder why I didn't go to you after I faked my death?" He let the question linger in the air, unanswered, like a plague hanging in the wind before death struck, "Because I know what you did Mycroft! I knew, from the moment I saw that article. There was only one person in the world who knew that information – you don't think I didn't know?" Sherlock made a scoffing sound, bitter and condescending. Mycroft saw John gaping from where he was stood behind Sherlock, mouth open in shock. He ignored him. All that mattered right now was Sherlock. Sherlock knew and that was all that was important.

"Sherlock," he began, "You must understand that the reasons why I told Moriarty the things I did were very important, it was a necessary evil Sherlock." He was about to continue, to force Sherlock to believe him. He had to believe him. If he didn't, then Mycroft didn't know how he was ever going to wipe those words from his memory. To wipe the expression on Sherlock's face from his mind, the suddenly blank, uncaring mask that feel over him as he said the words that Mycroft knew would haunt him forever. It was the same expression that had washed over Sherlock all those years ago, in that memory-haunted house when Mycroft had told him the thing he had regretted for years to come. He had taught his own brother to be less than human.

And what did that make him?

"I don't care," Sherlock said blankly and Mycroft blinked into silence, "I'm telling you so that you know. Not because it needs discussion. I don't care what you did, I do not hold grudges, Mycroft. I do not blame you." Mycroft tried to form words but today was a first for everything as he found himself speechless, thoughts tripping over themselves and stacking up in his mind as he tried to process what Sherlock had just said. Was it forgiveness? He knew Sherlock too well to truly believe himself forgiven and yet a part of him wished to believe it. A part of him just wanted to leave, right then and not have to question it or take it apart, simply to fool himself into believing that he had received absolution and never have to think otherwise. Except, he knew Sherlock. He knew that there was nothing between them that Sherlock had ever forgiven him for, or worse, forgotten.

"That's what our family does, isn't it Mycroft? It's just what we do. We lie and cheat and manipulate each other to our best advantage, all of us. We have all do it and we'll do it in the future," Sherlock said and it was John's turn to move forward this time. Mycroft saw him make a move to put a hand on Sherlock's arm, as if to move him away, but he stopped the gesture halfway and retracted his arm, looking away as he did, speechless.

"I understand it Mycroft. But I don't forgive it."

Mycroft's world stopped. His breath caught, his heartbeat seemed to stutter; the job, his position he had gained suddenly became nothing as he lost the boy he had looked after all his life. The person that he had made his position in the world revolve around, the difficult but comfortable locality around his brother that he had somehow clung on to shattered and, with it, it seemed as if the world had shifted, taking his place in the world with it. He had always known that Sherlock had never forgiven him for the things he had done but he had never heard the words. Now they were spoken, they drifted in the air, lost thoughts in a crowded brain. It was finally too much. Mycroft had pushed too far this time and he knew it, every fibre of him knew it. He had pushed too far and he had lost his brother, any and all link they once had had broken under the pressure.

"Sherlock-"

"Get out." There was nothing to the voice now, no anger or sadness, if anything there was even a mild disinterest as his brother broke eye contact with him and it was as if the last shred of his brother was pulled from him as the gaze tore away.

"I-"

"Get out," he repeated. Mycroft opened his mouth again but closed it, jaw clenching as he too looked away. His fingers grasped at the air by his side and he realised only after he had done so that he had been grasping for his umbrella, only to find that it was not there. He had left it behind, in the car, knowing that seeing him without it, Sherlock would instantly know what Mycroft had intended to do by coming here. Mycroft had left it behind because he knew that, some way or another, tonight was going to be another addition to the list of wounds Mycroft had inflicted already on his brother. If only he had known how deep this one would cut, he would never have left it behind.

"I said that I understood it. Now get out," Sherlock reiterated. Mycroft took a second to gather himself before he straightened, looking Sherlock dead in the eye.

"You say that it's what the Holmes family does," Mycroft said, pausing for a moment, "But I know for a fact that you, Sherlock, would not have done what I did." He wanted to say more, to tell him he was sorry or that he was proud of him or to say goodbye because he never wanted to face that broken moment of pain in Sherlock's eyes ever again, but he didn't. He was a Holmes. It was what they did.

He flickered his gaze away and without saying anything more, he moved past him, stopping momentarily at the coffee table to retrieve the file he had left there upon entry. He stared at it for a moment, regarding it with a hopeless longing before he turned his attention to John.

"For when he's feeling more…" he tried to think of the word, "When he's ready. Take a look over them yourself, John. They might prove useful. He might listen to you." He handed the files to John and he looked ready to protest but Mycroft didn't give him the chance, instead he ignored both him and the silent, immobile figure of his brother and marched out of the room, the sound of his shoes on the stairs sounding hollow and loud in the silence.

Several moments passed in silence as neither of the men remaining spoke. John watched Sherlock carefully, waiting for a movement or words but there was none, as if he was frozen to the spot.

"Sherlock," John said finally, "I don't – I don't mean to take sides but… I think Mycroft could be right. I mean, I'm not sure, but maybe you could possibly entertain the idea that your dad might not be all you-"

Sherlock spun round so fast that it made John jump and the shock caused his words to cut off sharply. The look he gave him, however, was enough to keep them from returning. Not you too John. Please, not you too.

John nodded, sighing.

"Alright," he said, "I get it. Alright." Sherlock gave a jerky nod and eyed the files in John's hand but said nothing.

"You need to go," Sherlock said suddenly. John's eyes widened.

"Wait, what?"

"Go. Leave. Get out," Sherlock said and for a second John was off balanced until he caught onto Sherlock's tone. It was close to that which he used when he was trying to figure out a case and needed John's thoughts to not be in the room because they were too noisy for Sherlock to think. There was something else in the tone too but John didn't question it, not after the look of betrayal and hurt Sherlock had already given him. He would question him on it later, but not right now. Right now that was not what Sherlock needed.

He nodded, subconsciously holding the files closer to himself as he decided that despite how much he disliked Mycroft for what he done to Sherlock, he was right about Robert Holmes. And even if Sherlock wouldn't see it, John was determined to find out what it was, starting now.

"Okay," John said slowly, "I'll um, I'll just… go upstairs then, shall I?" Sherlock nodded and waved a hand irritably, apparently now bored of the conversation and he watched as the detective flopped down on the sofa, brow furrowed in concentration. John didn't say anything else, leaving silently, clutching the files as he took one last look into the darkened living area and, with a sigh, made his way to his room.

A/N Okay, I know D': It's not worth the wait, you can say it D': There was a bit I really liked that I wanted to add onto the end but it didn't quite fit so I had to remove it and that hasn't helped my cause at all :S I'm hoping it's just my paranoia and not my actual writing that's making me worry but nonetheless, all criticism and/or reviews are not only welcomed, but much loved and appreciated and they made me cry with joy and love! :D So please feel free to say hello and, once again, sorry again and, as ever, thank you so much for reading! See you soon!