Chapter summary: John learns things about his and Sherlock's childhood - things that he never thought could have happened. And Sherlock realises John Watson is different from anyone else. He's definitely different.

Author's Note: Apologies in advance for my mistakes. Thanks for reading and please, review!

Italics are for John's memories.

They were in John's room. John was sitting across Sherlock who already had an idea of what his brother was about to say.

Sherlock hated himself. He hated himself because he hadn't been able to deduce all the things John did behind his back - all the things John wanted to do and never had told him about: John was joining the army. John was going to Afghanistan. John was going to fight for their country.

John was going to a war.

And Sherlock didn't want John to die.

"I'm joining the army."

Sherlock stared at his brother. He moved his dark curls off his forehead. Sherlock didn't blink. He only stared at John - his eyes were cold.

Mycroft, who was standing behind John noticed the hatred on Sherlock's eyes.

"I know."

"I... "

"Did mummy know?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"Does father know?"

"Yes."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and then at John.

And John feared Sherlock for the first time in his life.

"And I presume Mycroft had used his 'powers' to get you into the army when you don't have the practice needed as you're a recent graduated doctor," said Sherlock, coldly.

"I'm sorry -"

"You never told me," whispered Sherlock, cutting John off. "You... you waited for the last minute to tell me you're going to a war to die?"

"Sherlock -"

Sherlock slammed a hand on the table filling the space between them. "Am I nothing to you? When was I meant to be told about this?" asked Sherlock, indignantly. "When I was sent your dead body?"

John shook his head. Little tears were already filling his blue eyes. "You're my brother, Sherlock. I -"

"No."

"I'll back, I promise. I promised to Mummy -"

"You're not John Holmes. You're not my brother."

John frowned. And his heart was beating hard inside his chest. "What are you talking about?"

"We are different! You were just a replacement. You're not John Holmes. You're not my brother!"

Suddenly, all came out of his chest. Sherlock just spat it on John's face. Everyone knew John was adopted, even John himself knew. He had been adopted when he was only seven years old and he had always been fine with that. There was no point in denying the truth. John knew Sherlock and Mycroft were his brothers only because they shared their last name with him and that was because Mr and Mrs Holmes - father and mummy had adopted him. But John felt Mycroft and Sherlock were like his real brothers - as if they had been born all from the same mother. Mycroft and Sherlock, yes, they were mummy's natural children. But John wasn't. John only arrived at their house and joined the picture one day from out of the blue.

Mycroft and Sherlock had been conceived, loved, expected children. John hadn't.

Mummy and father had always given John the same love they gave to Mycroft and Sherlock. Mummy and father made John feel as if he had always been their child. They never loved one over the other; they had the same things, they went to the same places and mummy and father loved them equally.

A replacement? A replacement of what?

A replacement of whom?

John tried very hard not to fall to the floor. His knees were strong, but not his eyes. Heavy and painful tears fell over his cheeks. The man in front of him saw the damage he had caused. John was speechless.

But Sherlock wasn't.

Sherlock had so many things to say - so many things to tell John. John had caused pain in his heart and Sherlock hated him for it. John had always made things better. When their parents told him off after some silly experiment, when their classmates bullied him, when he was called 'freak' and 'crazy' John had always been there to remind him there was someone who loved him, who believed in him, and that person was John.

And John was now leaving Sherlock - John was leaving when Sherlock most needed him.

Sherlock was struggling with himself. He had recently made a discovery about himself and he had fears. Sherlock needed John to know what was happening to him, what he felt within his chest. However, he couldn't say it. Sherlock decided to keep it to himself and then their mother died. The woman he had loved - the only woman Sherlock had loved with all his heart died and now he felt alone.

'I've got John. I have my brother. John will understand'.

But John was leaving to fight for someone else. John was being selfish. John was leaving him alone. John was going to die.

And suddenly Sherlock conceived John had to know the truth.

If john had hurt him, he was going to hurt him as well.

"You're not John Holmes. you were just a replacement. A new piece of furniture father bought to mummy because John, the real John Holmes died!"

John stared at Sherlock in horror. The tears were countless and cold, strangely cold running down his face. John couldn't believe it.

"What?"

Mycroft appeared in the scene. He was pale and he tried to calm Sherlock who was still standing in front of John, shouting at him. He tried to put himself between them feeling the tension on his brother's voice. And his biggest fear was watching Sherlock hurting, hitting John - something that had never happened. But Sherlock was standing so close to the young doctor that it was a very possible thing to happen.

"John, Sherlock is not -"

"Shut up, Mycroft! He needs to know! Mummy lost a baby and he was going to be John Holmes, the real and the only one. But one day in those political events she saw you at that orphanage alone and when she knew your name and your date of birth she kicked the floor like a spoil brat and father bought you!" shout Sherlock to his older brother and then turned to John. "You're not my brother! We're different, we're not brothers, John! You're nothing!"

John gasped for more air and looked into Sherlock's gray eyes. Those eyes, his brother's eyes had always been so calm, so peaceful. Sherlock's eyes had always been like a calm cloudy day.

Now Sherlock's eyes were like a storm meant to destroy everything on the way.

Sherlock was destroying him. Sherlock was tearing his heart to countless bits.

Sherlock was killing him.

"Sherlock... we... I...," John couldn't find the proper words. "I know we're not biological brothers but I love you - you're my brother."

"You are not my brother!" said Sherlock, emphasizing each word by hitting John's chest with his index finger. "You are nothing to me!"

Mycroft saw the fury growing within Sherlock and Mycroft himself was ready to slap or even punch Sherlock in the face but John stopped his hand. He moved Mycroft from his place between them, until he and Sherlock were just inches apart.

Sherlock's fury disappeared when he noticed John's blue eyes. Those eyes he used to look at and know everything by just looking at them were now red and full of tears. John was crying even more than when Mummy died.

His anger caused something he had never want to occur. Suddenly his face changed, and he tried to touch John, to touch his brother, but he couldn't.

"I'm sorry, John."

A long silence filled the room, John's old room. It still had the blue curtains, his library full of books and over his desk was his Biology book they used to read on their afternoons making experiments. On a frame hanging on the wall was the needlework Mummy made for John. For the John Holmes who died many years ago.

Mycroft felt the pain that John was feeling.

"We are brothers, John."

Silence fell over them again. The other man couldn't help but try to get close to him. But the recent graduate Doctor stepped back.

"You said it. Don't you remember, Sherlock? You said the truth. We are not brothers."

"John, I didn't mean it."

"You said it Sherlock. We are different."

"Please, don't go -"

"I'm a doctor, and my country needs me. I don't have anything to do here. I don't belong to this family," said John, his voice was only a mere whisper. "I'm nothing."

"Please, don't go. Please, John, I need you."

John shook his head. He had heard enough. He had had enough. "I'm sorry, Sherlock Holmes."

John's heart couldn't take it.

"I need you."

John woke up with tears in his eyes. He looked at his surroundings and realised he was in his room.

He could hear Sherlock playing the violin downstairs.

It was four in the morning.

"You had a nightmare."

John only nodded and kept on reading the newspapers. He was able to feel Sherlock's gaze on him, his cloudy gray eyes on him, deducing him. And John only hoped Sherlock would never realise the reasons of his nightmares. Let alone the content of them, what they were about.

"And the therapist?"

"No limp, no therapist," replied John.

Sherlock sipped more of his coffee, still concentrated on his new flatmate. There was something about John Watson... there was something about him and Sherlock couldn't lay a finger on it. The man was far from extravagant, far from being a new specimen. John Watson was an ordinary, common English man. He was so predictable, so human.

But John Watson was different. And Sherlock didn't know why.

Sherlock Holmes didn't know why John Watson was so boring, so ordinary and yet absolutely fascinating to his eyes.

"It wasn't about Afghanistan."

John nodded.

Sherlock frowned. "You had a difficult childhood - not the best upbringing I'd say if you have a sister who's a drinker."

John swore Sherlock was still being indifferent when it came about emotions. Sherlock was still spitting people's life stories without even paying attention to their feelings.

"Yes, I suppose."

This made Sherlock think twice before telling John his deductions about him. Most people - most men would have punched him in the face for that, and most women would have slapped him hard across the face. But John Watson never looked at him. John Watson only confirmed his deductions and continued reading and sipping tea.

John Watson was different.

"You're different."

John froze, but he didn't say anything. He knew he had to act, that he had to pretend whatever Sherlock said meant nothing to him when actually everything Sherlock said felt like a knife stabbing his heart.

"Different?"

Sherlock nodded. "Anyone would have punched me."

"I'd punched enough people in the past."

After a long silence, and when Mrs Hudson appeared to wash their cups and ask them what they wanted for lunch, John decided to ask. If he was going to pretend, he had to do it well. He couldn't just act, pretend he was indifferent to what Sherlock said or did. It was within John's nature to be curious. After all, he was 'normal' and 'ordinary' and an 'idiot' as Sherlock had told him once.

John had to join the game. He had to ask.

Even when he already knew all the answers.

But every time you ask, you won't always hear what you want to hear. Sometimes you have to be careful, because people's answers can hurt.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

John shrugged. "What about your childhood?"

"What about it?"

"Are you going to repeat my questions all the time? I've answered yours. You've to answer mine."

Sherlock was tipping something on his phone. His eyes not focused on John anymore. "I asked but you didn't answer."

"Because you have already deduced it."

"Fair enough. What do you want to know about my childhood?"

"Whatever you want to tell me," replied John.

"I don't really know what you want to know - I can deduce it, though. But you may as well ask, you've earned the chance."

John frowned. "Earned?"

"You do the shopping and you haven't complained about the violin," explained Sherlock. "Take this conversation as a reward."

"As a reward? You're not bloody Sean Connery, you know," joked John.

Sherlock frowned. "Sean Connery?"

"James Bond. You don't remember when..."

John stopped talking when he realised what he was about to say. 'You don't remember when I made you watch those films when we were teenagers and we caught a cold?'

Sherlock was staring at him.

John panicked for a moment.

"I might have deleted that one."

"Forget it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was home schooled until my parents decided I needed to 'socialise'. I had been mostly raised by maids while my mother had tea with the Queen and my father had affairs with the women who worked for him."

John choked on his tea.

His father? Richard Holmes an unfaithful man?

John couldn't believe it. No, he refused to believe that. Richard loved their mother. He was always there for them, for mummy as well. He had never done such thing.

Sherlock must have been wrong, yes. Of course. Maybe it was something else he had deleted it because of the drugs.

"What?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why are you surprised?"

Shit.

"Well... as I said when we met here to see the flat I'd looked you up on the internet. Your father was the PM - he was a good man -"

"A married man with two children chooses to have affairs - do good men do that, John?" said Sherlock, cutting John off.

John decided he didn't want to ask more.

Because whatever Sherlock was going to tell him, it was probably something John didn't want to hear.

Or know.

"You've got questions."

John shook his head. "No."

"No, I don't see much him much - he's dead. And if you ask Mycroft he will probably tell you it was my fault," said Sherlock, bitterly.

"Why your fault?"

John knew he shouldn't be asking. It was suspicious. But he hadn't been there when their father died. He was fighting for his country, he was fixing men and running and trying to survive.

"Because according to Mycroft my addiction killed him."

"So it was true then?"

"Lestrade does not only bullies me with drugs busts to see if I'm holding evidence but also because he owes Mycroft the currently position he's occupying now within the Scotland Yard," explained Sherlock. "I'm clean if that's what you want to know but you don't dare to ask."

"Good."

Sherlock frowned. "You should call her."

"How did you - never mind."

"Sentiment. How dull people are. If you don't want to do it even when you know she's your sister, you should do it for the social conventions that rule our world."

John chuckled, sadly. "Says the man who calls his own brother his 'arch enemy'."

Sherlock walked to the windows and picked up his violin off his armchair. "If my other brother had survived, I wouldn't be the only one who has to deal with Mycroft and his hateful treats."

John gazed away. "So you had another brother?"

"Stillborn," said Sherlock and turned to John. "His name was John."

Next chapter: Mycroft visits his little brothers.