Chapter summary: A kiss brought two brothers together. But a bullet will tear them apart again.

Author's note: Thanks for the support! I thought people would throw tomatoes to my face after that kiss!

Apologies in advance for my mistakes. Thanks for reading and please, review!

John couldn't remember how it happened, but in mere seconds and with a quick movement, Sherlock had pushed him until he was leaning against a wall and he was kissing him.

Sherlock, his brother, the man he had grown up with, the man he used to play with as kids, the man he used to call 'brother' as kids was now kissing him.

Sherlock was kissing him.

The doctor saw Sherlock's eyes closed, felt his hands cupping his face and then one on the back of his neck, deepening the kiss. And soon John found himself closing his eyes, opening his mouth and their tongues were dancing together.

It felt different.

It felt nice, soft, warm.

The kiss was doing things to him.

And soon John felt something being pressed against his thigh.

And John remembered Mycroft's words.

"Sherlock bringing his sex toy to Baker Street and having loud sex wasn't casual. He's trying to get you into his bed. And he will do it."

"We're brothers!"

"Technically speaking, it wouldn't be incest."

"Mycroft, please! I can't -"

"I'm not asking you to get into our brother's bed and satisfy him. I'm merely warning you. Because Sherlock does not stop until he gets what he wants. You know that. He insisted for more than five years until Mummy got him that skull."

John opened his eyes and as soon as he felt the detective's hand touching him there, in his private places, John pushed Sherlock off him with more force than necessary.

"Don't touch me!"

Sherlock blinked once, twice.

"John, I thought -"

"Don't ever touch me again!"

It hurt.

Sherlock looked at John's blushed face.

John looked sick.

Sick.

"I'm -"

"Don't you dare to touch me again!" John shouted angrily.

It hurt.

And then everything fell into its place and Sherlock understood what Jim tried to say.

"You?" Sherlock said, hurt.

And then memories he thought he had deleted were back.

It was a Christmas - a fantastic Christmas because Mummy finally got him a skull. Sherlock remembered Mycroft's face when he deduced the night before Christmas day that he was getting new clothes because he was fat.

"And Mycroft is getting new clothes because he put on weight again, five to seven pounds, and a new classy bag for university."

"That's fantastic, Sherlock!"

"You know you do that aloud?"

'That's fantastic!' Who said that?

John.

Sherlock remembered that summer night - that hot night in which he ruined the jumper his Mummy had knitted for him. Sherlock remembered having dinner altogether and something happened - something happened because he remembered Mummy crying.

But what had happened?

"Am I your brother, Sherlock?"

Who said that?

John.

John said something to his parents... Mummy cried -

"I know it was a mistake to say that, but it's the truth and -"

"Don't be so stupid, John. You're my brother."

That shadow always present in those vague, almost deleted memories of his childhood was John.

The man he had just kissed was his brother - that boy his parents adopted. That boy who when grew up became and doctor and joined the army and left him.

John Watson was his brother John - John Hamish Holmes.

"Sherlock, listen -"

"Sorry, boys! I'm soooooo changeable!" Jim said, stepping into the pool again. "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

Sherlock's eyes fell on John's.

This was the end.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but," Jim laughed sarcastically. "everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

There was a red dot on Sherlock's chest. "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

John turned to Jim and watched him nodding - giving the sniper the signal.

"Sherlock!"

"He's fine," Mycroft said calmly, a cup of coffee in his hands. "The bullet barely hurt him."

John turned to him. "Barely? I'm a fucking doctor, Mycroft!" the doctor burst angrily. "He lost blood -"

Mycroft assented. "He's awake and he said he wants to see you."

John buried his head on his hands. "He kissed me."

"Naturally."

"Damn you, Myc."

"What else do you expect me to say?" Mycroft said, strangely enough, calmly. "He's in love with you."

"Don't," John said, pointing at his old brother with his finger. "Sherlock's not in love with me."

Mycroft looked at him. "He gave Moriarty a memory stick with enough information to destroy this government. He knew my superiors would probably hang me for treason but he chose to keep you safe." The politician tilted his head. "He chose you. He doesn't want you to be his sex toy - he loves you."

John considered this for a moment.

Mycroft was... right. That memory stick Sherlock gave Moriarty with the condition to let him go had enough information not only to destroy the government but also to destroy Mycroft - Mycroft could have been killed for treason... well, that's what the politician said and that's what happened between politicians like Mycroft, right?

But it was a forbidden love. John would never feel for Sherlock that love. John couldn't imagine himself kissing Sherlock, whom he considered was his brother. The doctor couldn't even imagine having sex with Sherlock. For God's sake, they were brothers! Not biological brothers, it wouldn't be incest, technically speaking, but no! John might like and fancy both genders, but no.

"He knows," John whispered. "Moriarty told him. You should have seen him, Myc... you should have seen his face when he looked at me and remembered." the doctor licked his lips. "He knows we're brothers. He knows who I am."

Mycroft sighed.

This was probably, surely, going to hurt.

Again.

"Not any more."

"What?"

"Sherlock doesn't remember you, John," the politician said softly. "The shock of being shot, the emotions of that moment... everything worked perfectly and he doesn't remember you any more."

John frowned. "Perfectly?" he was angry. "How could you?"

"John, I wish your happiness and Sherlock's more than anything in this world," Mycroft confessed. "But I believe this is for the best."

"How can this be for the best? He's my brother!"

"Tell me what you would say."

The doctor was confused. "What?"

"If you told Sherlock the truth. What would you tell him?"

John remained silent for a moment.

He was speechless, because clearly, he would never know how to start. 'Hey Sherlock, I just got back from Afghanistan, I needed a place to live and found you just by chance'? 'Sherlock, listen, I know I was a prick when I left but forgive me?' What would he possibly say? How could he explain everything that had happened between them?

And let's add the fact that Sherlock seemed to like John.

"I shall take your silence as an answer to my question."

"It's not fucking easy, Mycroft!" John burst.

The politician took his umbrella and walked to the door. "He wants to see you."

Damn.

"Mr. Holmes -"

John opened the door and had to try, very hard, not to laugh at the sight. Sherlock was sitting on a bed, his back resting on what looked like soft and comfy pillows. His upper body bare, an important bandage across his left shoulder and arm and a nurse trying to change the bandage and clean the wound.

"You're not doing it properly!" The detective looked up and met his eyes. "Ah, John, he will do it."

The nurser turned to him. "Mr. Holmes -"

"He's a doctor!"

John nodded. "It's OK, I can do it."

Once the nurse left John sat next to Sherlock's bed and examined the wound.

"Does it hurt?" John asked while he let his fingertips touch the small wound left.

Sherlock's eyes were on his. "No."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wear a bandage for long days," John said causally. "It'll itch a bit."

"The doctor said so, yes."

There was a long silence until John finished cleaning the wound. Sherlock's left shoulder had five to ten stitches and there were some purple bruises around the wound. Moriarty's men were clever: they only shot him on the shoulder, on a safe place where no harm could be done. Mycroft was right, the bullet barely hurt Sherlock but yet he had lost lots of blood for sure.

The detective looked pale, defenceless.

"He made a different call."

John frowned. "What?"

"Moriarty. He could have killed me," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "But he didn't. Why?"

"You should be happy."

"Why?"

"For being alive," John replied. "Safe and sound."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Someone kept him from killing me."

"Why?"

"No," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "The question is: who?"

John sighed. "The doctor say you can leave tomorrow."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, as if hurt.

"Home. Your brother said he will discharge you tomorrow."

"I don't want Mycroft."

Sherlock looked at John.

"You know I can't do it," John said, and faked a smile. "Only relatives."

The detective rolled his eyes.

"I can come and visit tomorrow. I'm sure Mrs Hudson will want to come too."

"Hmm."

John stopped at the door. "You OK?"

"Me? Yes."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Good," John said and licked his lips. "Will see you tomorrow."

Promise for next chapter: Sherlock and Mycroft talk and a strange woman appears.