Chapter 17

November

Five days after Sherlock and Molly's rescue

John was tired. It was a fatigue that was dragging him down that he just couldn't for the life of him quantify. The images of the bothy haunted him. Finding Sherlock lifeless on the ground, not moving and barely breathing. The scars that were scattered across his body, a patchwork of old and new that were testimony to Oliver's brutality. Molly's hollow eyes staring back at him as they worked together to save Sherlock's life.

The feeling of her lightweight body in his as he tackled her to the ground. The proof of what he'd felt when he saw her chart.

How were they still alive?

"Dr Watson?"

He jerked, looked up to find Giles scrutinising him with a look bordering on professional interest. He wiped his eyes. "Sorry. Been a hard few days."

Giles nodded. "True and before that you were in the field?"

He sniffed. "Yeah…wasn't entirely pleasant but at least I was fed. Had a bed to sleep in and hot water to shower." He sounded angry. Petulant. The unfairness of it all that his captivity at least had a measure of comfort. Was nothing compared to what Molly and Sherlock had gone through. Guilt rose, thinking of all the time he had spent at Baker Street or with Greg and Mycroft while they waited for any indication that the pair was even alive. He had been fairly comfortable while his friends starved.

He felt bile rise. Swallowed it down with difficulty as he thought about the photo Moriarty had shown him of a naked Sherlock standing almost hypothermic next to a lake. And the video…

Dammit.

He found himself over a bin, bringing up breakfast while Giles had a hand on his shoulder.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way." He said afterwards with a hot tea in his hands and the offending bin removed.

"How was it supposed to be?" Giles asked gently.

"I don't know. Sherlock back at Baker Street and Molly…" He sighed. "He's supposed to be indestructible." He said with sadness, "…not here. Not like this."

Giles kept quiet. John wasn't accustomed to sharing his thoughts like this. Even with Ella he had a reservation. Struggled to voice aloud his innermost thoughts. He was a soldier. He's been to war, dammit. He's made of sterner stuff than falling apart like this.

"Sherlock has yet to sleep more than a few hours before he wakes from nightmares. Molly…she's so quiet. I know she's hurting yet she's refusing to take the stronger meds. It's like Oliver had sucked the life out of them." He said. "I don't know how to fix this." He put to voice his frustration. Silence sucked up his words as he took a fortifying sip of his tea.

"Tell me about Moriarty." Giles said in the silence. He looked up; surprised. "What?"

"You spend almost two weeks with the man?"

He gave a grim smile. "He came for visits. He wasn't there the entire time. Most of the time I had freedom to do what I wanted. I could make tea. He had somebody come in to make food and I could go outside during daylight hours. It was nothing in comparison to what Sherlock and Molly experienced."

Giles tilted his head. "Dr Watson, that is not what I asked."

He frowned. He could feel anger rising. His hand clenched and he placed the mug on the side table by his chair. He took a calming breath, shifted in the chair.

"What is this?" he asked with a calm he didn't feel.

"Tell me about Moriarty." Giles said evenly.

"Why?"

Giles waited him out. He felt another hot surge of anger rise to the surface and he contained it with difficulty. The silence stretched out into minutes. Giles didn't move at all. Kept focused on him. He finally exploded from the chair when he couldn't take it anymore. He swore. Loudly and with a venom he had never experienced before. He kicked the chair for good measure, the impact of his foot bringing entirely too much satisfaction as he imagined Moriarty's smug face smashing into blood and bone. He gave the chair another kick for good measure and turned to Giles who still sat in the chair, a bored expression on his face.

"He's a prick." He said, as he stood before the other man with his arms straightened out next to his body, his hands in fists. "A sodden bastard that will do this world a favour with his death." His words came out in staccato. He gave a heartless half-smile, giving Giles a cold-hearted stare. "And what he's done…that is NOTHING compared to what Oliver is."

His words echoed back at him. He sighed tiredly, suddenly feeling the broken nights of sleep this last week. The constant worry as he watched his friends spiral. Saw their struggle, knowing that there was nothing he could do to save them from what was coming. His own struggles with PTSD and his own nightmares would be magnified for what they went through. His own nightmares were nothing in comparison to what they've experienced.

His throat muscles tightened. His eyes burned.

"What would you prescribe, Doctor?"

He blinked. He was still standing beside the chair, his body still taut with tension. On the verge of letting go.

"I don't understand." He managed to say, his voice strained.

"If you were your patient…what would you prescribe?"

He sniffed. Relaxed his body and sat down in the chair with legs that seemed to have gone rubbery. He wiped his face and was surprised when he felt a wetness on his cheeks. Somehow he'd been crying and he hadn't even been aware of the tears that were coursing its way down. He took his time, thinking about what the other man was asking. It was a bit disconcerting – the way Giles had brought him to this point. Without pushing…without even an inkling that he was being steered to acknowledge his own humanity. His own hurt. He had a sudden understanding why Mycroft had chosen this man to help Sherlock and Molly. And by definition help him help his friends.

He cleared his throat. "Focus on the basics first. Sleep would be good. Looking after physical needs. Exercise and good wholesome food." He quirked a smile. "Allow yourself to be vulnerable to someone you trust and verbalise what you're feeling."

Giles nodded. "You would agree that you had not followed any of those directives."

John looked away. Suddenly aware that his own wellbeing mattered as much as did his friends. That if he was to be effective to them, he needed to make sure he met his own needs. That he'd be no use to them if he didn't look after himself once they finally realised the full horror of what they'd experienced when their physical bodies healed.

"No." he said softly.

"Then I would suggest you follow your own advice and take a break. Come back tomorrow after you rested and looked after yourself." He was about to protest but Giles held up a hand. "They will still be here tomorrow, Dr Watson. They are well looked after. Trust me."

And he found unexpectedly that he in fact did trust the other man.

"Okay, we can pull apart the basic compounds of the drug." Giles said, indicating the paper that was lying on his desk. "What can you remember about Friday night?"

Sherlock stood beside the bookcase in the psychiatrist's study. John was seated in one chair, watching the two men interact. He remembered the cellar and the professionalism Giles had shown in the volatile situation regarding Sherlock's disassociation. And the way Sherlock trusted this man with his innermost thoughts was something to behold.

He remembered his own horror when he had first laid eyes on Sherlock at the bothy. Had realised the full extent of physical trauma that his friend and Molly had endured as they had catalogued their old and new injuries in the hospital for official records. Not to mention the mental trauma that had come to the fore.

Giles had managed something that John had never thought he'd see. Sherlock willing to open himself to someone else on a deeper level. And he attributed a lot of that to Molly. His friend was willing to do anything for her. He was aware that Oliver had used that protectiveness to get Sherlock to behave and do as he was told. To use it to break him down completely and then condition him to his will.

He was still in awe at Sherlock and Molly's strength at surviving Oliver. He wasn't so sure that he'd have done as well as they did.

"I remember leaving the common room. John and the agents were watching a football game on telly. I needed to think about how to approach the potential link between the smuggler and Oxley." Sherlock frowned and then closed his eyes. John knew that he was utilising his mind palace, trying to place events in their proper order.

"I remember opening the door…" His hand raised in the air and it looked like he was swiping something to the left and then back to the right. He huffed and opened his eyes.

"Nothing. There's just nothing after that."

"Okay," Giles said, glancing down at the paper. "There is a benzodiazepine compound which tracts with your blackout."

"Not helpful though." Sherlock stated.

"Maybe…maybe not." Giles said and leaned back in his chair. "We can try and retrieve it using hypnotism." Giles held up one hand, forestalling Sherlock who was about to say something. "But it's not always reliable."

Sherlock moved to the chair next to John and sat down. His hands tented beneath his chin in a familiar pose that John found comforting.

"If you think back, Sherlock, to the other times – is there anything that stands out? A familiar face or a sense of people or place?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Just the physical manifestation of the drug. Headache, tremors and sore muscles."

John nodded. "His first symptoms were masked by the viral infection after our visit to Brad Vine's estate. He complained about a headache which I attributed to the fever and general malaise he was struggling with. The second round he had similar symptoms to an acute migraine attack."

"Well, looking at the compounds – they make sense."

"What about the doctor?" John piped up.

"What?" Sherlock's gaze sharpened and he dropped his hands as he focused on John.

"Brad said that he'll ask his doctor to drop in on you when we went hunting."

"I don't remember him."

"If you look at it logically," John said, waving a hand in the air. "They would need a doctor or at the very least someone who is comfortable with syringes and injections. Someone who would understand what Oliver did. Who can direct the whole process comfortably."

"Yes. That makes sense," Giles said contemplatively. "We need to look at psychiatrists that had contact or a relationship with Oliver." He reached for his drawer. He took out a small black book out of it, rifling through the pages. "Moriarty developed the designer drug that Oliver gave me during the last two weeks at the bothy. He was quite proud of it in fact." Sherlock said softly. "It's entirely possible that he had a hand in the development of this drug."

"He's locked up." John said. "Surely Mycroft would be aware if Moriarty's involved."

"He's secure." Sherlock said. "Mycroft has extensive protocols in place. He gets daily reports from the warden on visual inspection."

"Fine." John said. "Moriarty is secure but there is nothing that could've prevented him from having developed this drug before his incarceration. Working in conjunction with Oliver?" he questioned Sherlock.

"Entirely feasible." Sherlock said. "I know that both he and Oliver had plans for me in the end. Oliver wanted me for himself and Moriarty wanted another consulting criminal. A way to get to my brother through me. Oliver had never seemed very interested in Mycroft and now with my brother's kidnapping attempt…" he trailed off, tightened his lips and dipped his head into a thinking pose John had seen him use.

John shifted in the chair he sat in as he thought over their conversation. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." He said, drawing both Giles and Sherlock's attention. "Looking at this from a doctor's perspective…you've had two sessions with these people, Sherlock. What can they possibly 'brainwash' you into with two sessions?"

Sherlock showed a sudden interest in what he was saying. Giles straightened up. "Very good, John." He said and Sherlock winched.

"Oh, sorry Sherlock." Giles said immediately. "But John has a point. There is a hidden motive behind these sessions."

Sherlock's left hand clenched and he rubbed his shoulder. A tell that John knew well. His friend was struggling with what Giles was saying. It must've triggered a memory. A thought that was bringing anxiety to the fore.

"I think there were more than two sessions." Sherlock said, dropping his hand and relaxing his left hand. He ignored John's surprise.

"Why would you think that?" Giles asked.

"I don't know. Just a feeling." He huffed in frustration. "Besides, Alex had said that Oliver had put things in place in case I ever escaped. A way to bring me back to him. What if he hadn't told Oliver everything. If Oliver had kept some of his conditioning words to himself."

"If that is so, how would these people know it?" John asked. "If Oliver kept everything important close to his own chest…it doesn't make sense."

"He kept video files of the …cellar." Sherlock seemed to take a strengthening breath. He didn't look at Giles or John, kept his eyes focused downwards on his hands that were gripping the chair. "If they got a hold of the files and recreated the scene with the drugs divorcing me from reality…" he looked up at Giles, "…it can be entirely conceivable that in that moment I'll be vulnerable. Do what they want? Then it wouldn't matter how many sessions it would take. All they would need to do is take me back to that moment and then reinforce what Oliver had already conditioned me for."

Giles nodded. "That fits the scenario." He put the opened book on the desk. "And entirely feasible with what Oliver had done during the four months he had you."

"Okay, but that doesn't answer the question." John said in the silence that flowed from Giles' statement. "What is it all for?"

"I wish I knew." Sherlock said. "When looking at crime…motivation is usually easy. Money, jealousy or sentiment like love or hate. Revenge. Taking me – that was Moriarty's idea. His motivation to get Mycroft to dance to his tune and a way to control me. His motivation is in line with playing the Game. To not be bored and school yard one up ship on Mycroft." Sherlock said, ticking off his fingers. "Oliver's motivation was clearly money. I made him a lot of it with his challenges." He said the last word with a venom and a sneer. "He took Molly for the sole reason to control me. To make sure I behaved. He had a choice between you," he said to John, "and Molly. In the end he took her as he didn't want the hassle of dealing with you physically. He knew that we'd attempt to escape the first chance we got. That I'd trust you to be physically able to fight. With Molly…" his lips thinned. "…with her, her strength lay in her mental fortitude, not so much in her ability to fight. Yet," he looked apologetically at John, "…he had made a mistake by taking her. I survived because of Molly. She has a mental strength that kept us sane, more importantly she had this ability to provide hope somehow that we'll get out of there and survive Oliver…and with Alex, his motivation had to do with money in the end. To get me to help him be more successful in his chosen profession." He fisted a hand, pressed it against his lips. "I need more data." He said in the end, dropping his hand. "There are two possibilities. Revenge or money. I just can't see which one it is clearly."

"Why can't it be both?" Giles asked. Sherlock's eyes widened and he blinked. "Oh…"

John watched the play of light on his friend's face. Saw a smile form and for the first time since they sat down in Giles' office to discuss the possible reasons behind the drugs and the men's motivation, Sherlock grinned. It was familiar, something he had always looked forward to seeing on his friend's face before Oliver came and brought hell. It brought an unexpected ache that was centred over his heart. It was good to see it again.

Sherlock had really come a long way towards recovering from his time with Oliver.

"Brilliant." Sherlock exclaimed. "Oh…that makes sense."

"Care to explain to the rest of us." John asked. Felt his lips tuck upwards in a smile. Sherlock glanced at him and stood; his whole body seemed to be vibrating with an energy that seemed to be bursting out of him.

"I need to speak to my brother first." He turned and left, leaving John and a highly bemused Giles behind.

It had been a day since Sherlock had swept into his office with some intriguing observations that he had managed to glean from his conversation with Giles and John.

It had merit and had set off another round of planning between them. There were four scenarios that he could see clearly as a result. It narrowed the possible next steps that their quarry could take. The question remains – how far they were willing to go to see this to the end and what was acceptable risk.

One he wasn't willing to compromise on was Sherlock and Molly's safety. He and Sherlock had a very vocal disagreement in that regard. Sherlock was prepared to do what was necessary. What he couldn't seem to understand was the impact it would have on John and Molly if he allowed one of the scenarios to reach an obvious conclusion with him back in Oliver's remnant's hands in order to flush them out. Mycroft had vehemently opposed it, to his own surprise. It was really a testimony to how much he had changed as well because of what Oliver had done.

He had another talk with Giles afterwards. There had been more planning as they tried to put mitigation in place in case Mycroft's worst fears came to the fore. A way to put preventative measures in place so that Sherlock at least would have protection and support.

What he had not told any of them yet was the fact that Moriarty wasn't at Sherrinford anymore. He couldn't take the chance that Sherlock would let it be known that he knew about it when they had him drugged out and at their mercy. He took it as a necessary risk and one he was willing to carry the consequences of keeping everyone in the dark. He put it at a 20 per cent risk that the man would become a visible member of whatever it was that they were planning. A risk but minimal at best.

Besides, Moriarty could be managed if he shows himself. He was a known entity that both he and Sherlock had dealt with. But the hidden men behind Oliver – they were unknown. They were smart. Patient. Willing to wait and be cautious. Oliver had been smart but in the end, had been overly confident in his own abilities. That had led to his downfall and his death in the end.

Money. Power. Retribution. Whole countries had gone to war because of those very reasons, or less.

Lady Smallwood had not been pleased when he had called her to request the file to be closed again. She had fished around for his reasons but he wasn't sure how much influence Moriarty and the mystery man behind it all had over the people that worked in office. So, he did as was requested. Closed the file on Oliver.

That's why he was wary when he received another memory stick this morning. A box had landed on his desk. Hand delivered by some junkie that had been given fifty pounds. It took him a while before he made the decision and stood up and locked his door. Messaged Anthea that he didn't want to be disturbed and he pushed the stick into the USB port, starting the video file with a click.

It was Sherlock. He was bloody, bruised and broken. Pressed against Oliver on a couch. Oliver was shushing his little brother, pushing his head into the crook of his neck. Mycroft looked down and found he was gripping the arm rests of his chair. He relaxed his grip. Sherlock obviously had been crying. His sobs softened and then his breathing slowed down. His body started to relax under the voice and gentle coaxing of the other man. Enough that Mycroft knew that his brother was about to fall asleep.

"Don't fall asleep, Mr Holmes."

That voice. Oliver admonished his brother, a hint of steel in it and Sherlock reacted. Stiffened and moved his head. He hugged himself at that point, trying to self-soothe and it was something Mycroft had only seen a few times when Sherlock was younger. Shortly after the biggest mistake of his life. One he regrets even now. Oliver was speaking again, talking to his brother. Asking him if he would like to listen to Molly's screams or answer questions. His brother's voice was barely a whisper when he agreed to the questions.

"Excellent. Let's start with your childhood…"

Oh. Oliver was good. Really very good. Again, Mycroft had to take his hat off to the man that had managed to penetrate his brother's psyche. Break him down.

"Who was your best friend, Mr Holmes?"

"John…"

"No. We're talking about your childhood. Who was your best friend when you were a child."

Silence. A short intake of breath from Sherlock and he shifted against Oliver. His hands tightened around his biceps. Mycroft could see the indentations and white of skin.

Don't…don't do this…

Sherlock echoed his own thoughts. A broken whisper begging not to relive this memory. Oliver persisted and in the end, he breathed, "Victor Trevor."

"Tell me about Victor."

"He…we played pirates."

"How old were you?"

"Five."

"That would make Mycroft 12?"

Mycroft leaned in unconsciously. His brother's answer was barely audible. His lips opened and closed and then he leaned into Oliver, pressing his face into the man's shirt. Begging for mercy. He'd never seen his brother like this before. He was completely vulnerable. Broken. He moved his hands, grabbing Oliver's shirt and he shifted tighter into the man. It looked like he was trying to smother himself. Oliver didn't let up. Soothed him, patting his back, telling him that he needed to do this. That it would be okay in the end.

Mycroft felt hatred well up at the man that had hurt his brother in this way. If he hadn't been dead…

Slowly Oliver managed to coax Sherlock around until he was lying again with his cheek against the man's chest. His arms pulled up and by his chest, resting against Oliver.

"Good. You're doing good, Mr Holmes. Tell me about Victor. What happened with Victor?"

"I…I don't know what you mean?"

"It's very obvious Mr Holmes that something happened between you, your brother and Victor. Tell me about it."

"Please…"

"Shush…you can do this…come now, or we go back to the headphones?"

Sherlock stilled. Took a ragged breath. Then another. Then he whispered. "He left."

"Who did?"

"Victor left."

"Why?"

Silence. Sherlock took two more slow breaths. His hands clenched and he winced. Oliver seemed to read his little brother. Understood to wait him out. The silence stretched and then Sherlock's shoulders slumped.

"Because of Redbeard."

Mycroft sat up straight. His mouth dried and fear and regret surged to the fore, flooding his body with cortisol and adrenaline. His stomach fluttered uncomfortably and he wanted to stretch out and switch off the video but he found he couldn't. Even though he knew what was coming.

He didn't need to hear Sherlock answer Oliver anymore.

His own memory was enough.

"Look what I found, Myc. It's limestone. Did you know it's composed of calcite and aragonite."

Mycroft looked up from his book he was reading. Sherlock was buzzing with excitement, his eyes bright as he showed the rock to his older brother. His hands were dirty, smeared with soil and grass. The pirate hat sat skew on his curls, an eye patch hung around his neck. His wooden sword that he never seemed to be without sat flush against his leg. He'd pushed it through his shorts, held in place by a rope that he'd somehow managed to fashion into a makeshift belt. Every now and again he had to pull the sword up as it sagged or retighten the rope.

"Go away," he said, trying to refocus on the book he was reading.

"Mummy said you're supposed to look after us." Sherlock said, pouting.

"So?" He didn't move the book. A shuffle of feet and then there were two. He sighed, put the book down and looked when Victor came into view. His pirate hat at least sat the proper way on his head. A bit more composed than his brother. Sherlock looked at his friend. His hand holding the rock dropped to his side.

"We want to go outside."

"No."

"Please Myc. It's boring inside…"

"You were just explaining to me the sedimentary rock you found, Sherlock."

"Myyyyc."

"No. Now go away."

"I want to show Victor where I found the rock."

Mycroft squinted at his younger brother. Blue eyes met his, a pleading look on his younger brother's face.

"Fine. But I'm not going outside." He shuddered. He didn't like the sun. Didn't like getting sweaty and dirty. Clearly his younger brother is yet to learn decorum. To be less wild and a bit more dignified. Sherlock dropped the rock in Mycroft's lap and grabbed Victor dashed off with Redbeard in tow.

Stupid dog.

Mycroft took the rock and placed it gingerly on the side table as he picked his book up again. Redbeard was not even theirs. It belonged to Victor but Sherlock seemed to have taken to the dog and the dog to him. Whenever Victor came over for a play date, the dog would be there. Following them everywhere. He never liked dogs. They leave hairs everywhere, dirty paw prints trekking behind Sherlock's footprints when they come in from outside. Mycroft didn't understand why Mummy allowed the animal inside. Dogs should be kept outside. Always.

He was able to read his book in silence and peace for an hour before he got interrupted by the boys and dog returning from whatever outside adventure they'd had. Cheeks flushed; Sherlock ran into the sitting room. Mycroft sniffed, wiggled his nose at the smell. Clearly they've been to the south paddock with the lambs.

"Sherlock!" His brother skidded to a halt, turned to look at Mycroft, a wide grin on his face. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, just needed to put this away," he said, holding a grubby hand up that had what looked like strands of wool.

"How did you get that?" Mycroft heard himself ask.

"It was hanging off the fence post. I want to test how tough it is." His five-year-old brother had just gotten a chemistry set from his parents; his insatiable curiosity seemed never ending. "Did you know Wiltshire's shed their coats in summer."

"Yes. Go away."

"Can we leave Redbeard with you. We want to go to the treehouse and Redbeard hates it because he can't get up there.

"No."

"Pleeease Myc. Please, please, please…"

Mycroft eyed the dog and his brother. "Fine." The door slammed shut soon after and he was left with Redbeard that whined at the closed door. It took ten minutes and he had enough. Besides, the dog was scratching at the door, leaving grooves in the wood and he knew Mommy wasn't going to like that.

He opened the door and let the dog go.

It was getting dark by the time he realised that his brother and Victor hadn't returned yet. He had to be honest, he was a little concerned. Mummy will definitely not like it when they got home and he didn't know where they were. She did task him to look after the boys. He hated it. Just because he was older, why did she think he'd be willing to play big brother. He had more important matters to attend too.

He gave a small sigh. Grabbed his gumboots and put them on and trekked his way to the treehouse his father had built in a towering oak. It was suspiciously quiet. He called out to them but no one answered. In the end, he climbed the tree and hated every moment of it. He hated legwork. Hated any kind of physical activities.

There was no-one in the treehouse.

Bugger.

He stood at the top, surveyed the land he could see from his vantage point. Utilised his intellect as he scanned the horizon. Thought about the rock Sherlock had so proudly shown him. There was one place his brother could've picked it up. One place where they were forbidden to go…

He ran. He actually ran but fear drove him forwards, even when breathing hurt and it felt like fire. His heart seemed to be racing, threatening to erupt from his chest and his legs were decidedly getting rubbery when he finally entered the clearing that his brother knew he was never ever allowed to go at alone.

Sherlock looked up, tears in his eyes. He was on his knees, his hands gripping the sides of the old well.

"What did you do!" Mycroft screamed as he rushed forward. Afraid of what he was going to find.

"It wasn't me." Sherlock sniffled. Crying. "It wasn't me, Myc. You let Redbeard out."

"I…I didn't." he lied. "He was with you and Victor."

He sank down on his knees beside his little brother and looked. There was a sizable hole in the rotten planks that had been placed there a long time ago. He could see Victor, whose white face looked up at him from the bottom of the well. He was seated on an outcropping, tears and blood equally making treks over his cheeks. Redbeard was lying with his head on Victor's lap. Tongue lolled out, eyes half-mast and a stiffness to the dog that didn't seem natural. Mycroft suddenly knew that the dog wasn't alive anymore.

"Victor, are you okay?" He shouted down at the boy. Ignored his little brother. Victor shook his head. Held his one arm out, the other he kept cradled to his side. Mycroft heard a sob from next to him.

"Stop it Sherlock. Sentiment isn't going to get Victor out of there." He grabbed his little brother by his arm. Shook him. "Just stop it, okay. Stop crying." Sherlock stared up at him in shock. Eyes wide and then his tears stopped. He wiped his eyes and pushed Mycroft away from him. For the first time in his life, Mycroft didn't know what to do.

He couldn't leave Victor alone. Couldn't leave Sherlock alone. Couldn't let Sherlock run to the house alone.

He yelled in frustration, turned full circle and then dropped to his knees beside the well again. Victor shivered. He was hugging himself again, the infernal dog still on his lap.

"Myc?" Sherlock's small voice and he turned on his brother in frustration. "Mycroft, Sherlock. How many times do I have to tell you that my name is Mycroft. Not Myc. For once, get it right. Don't be an idiot."

Sherlock shrunk into himself. Fresh tears started again, running down his cheeks in a continuous stream that let his own guilt grow and flare. He sat down, wiped his face with both his hands. "Just…be quiet. I need to think."

Sherlock hiccupped but mercifully didn't say another word. He finally remembered the rope that Mr Henderson kept in the shed. It wasn't that far away and he could be back here in less than five minutes. He told Sherlock to wait and walked at a brisk pace to the shed, his muscles protesting at the unusual task he was asking of it. He vowed to do more exercise after today, not sure how he'll achieve it with A-levels coming up and he'll be busy with his studies. The rope was thick and rough in his hands and surprisingly heavy. He shouldered it as best he could and grabbed a torch that was in the shed and made his way back to the boys. The sun had settled behind the trees and it was getting really hard to see, so he switched on the torch and asked Sherlock to hold it while he figured out a way to tie the rope around a nearby tree.

At least it seemed long enough and he was satisfied with his maths and deductions when he dropped it in the well and it landed right by Victor. Victor looked at the rope and back up at them, Sherlock kept the torch shining down the well. Whatever was going on, clearly the boy wasn't in any state to grab the rope and tie himself to it. Mycroft mumbled, pulled the rope back up and then tied it around Sherlock's middle, using a square knot he'd learned from a scout leader a long time ago. His fingers felt dumb as he did the knot but he remembered the steps and slowly implemented each step until he was certain that it wouldn't slip. Sherlock was quiet, and hadn't said a word since he asked him for silence. It worried Mycroft a little but at least it meant he could work in silence. Could consider all his options.

He gave Sherlock instructions on what to do when he was down in the well. Told him to leave the dog, which brought a fresh wave of silent tears. He ignored his own guilt. Squished it down with vehemence. His arms hurt by the time the rope went slack and Sherlock tugged to let him know that he'd reached bottom. He looked down, Sherlock still had the torch in his hand and had coaxed Victor to stand. His brother followed his instructions exactly, pulling the rope around both of Victor's legs and around his waist. Mycroft fed the rope down until he was certain both boys were secure. Sherlock held onto Victor and looked up.

It was the hardest physical exertion he has ever done in 12 years that he'd been aware of. He had pulled the rope around his shoulders, turned and had started to walk away from the well. His gumboots dug into the ground and he grunted with effort when the rope pulled tight and he took the full weight of both five-year-olds. He could hear Victor scream and the rope jerked, nearly pulling him off his feet. He set his feet. Sweat started dripping down his face. He struggled to see in the waning light. Determination came when he thought of how much trouble he'd be in if he had to walk home to explain to his parents where the two boys were. No. He had to do this. Get them out. Get their stories aligned.

One which will be beneficial to all.

So, he set his shoulders. Gripped the rope tight and dug in deep and moved centimetre by centimetre further away from the well. By his estimation, it took five agonising minutes before both boys were clear of the well.

He rushed towards them, unhooked the rope and checked Victor out. He had a cut on his head, which wasn't that bad considering. But it was Victor's arm that had him rush to the nearest bush where he threw up in a very undignified manner. He felt shame at his body's response to the image of the boy's arm, the bone jutting out of a nasty cut. He took a moment to just breathe. Centre himself and then he went back. He didn't look at the arm.

"Okay. We need to go back home. Sherlock, this is very important okay. Victor broke his arm falling out of the treehouse. Do you understand."

"But…that's not…"

He crouched down beside his little brother. Held his face and forced him to look at him. "Mummy and Daddy are going to be so very cross if they found out where you were playing. Do you want them to be cross, Sherlock?"

Sherlock mutely shook his head. Eyes glanced away to look at Victor's white face, pinched tight with pain.

"Okay. Victor fell out of the treehouse. Say it."

"Myc…"

"Mycroft, Sherlock. I told you. My name is Mycroft. You're not little anymore. You need to call me by my full name."

Sherlock dropped his head, worried his lips. Sniffled and wiped a very snotty nose, the back of his hand glinting in the light of the torch.

"What about Redbeard?" It was so soft, the words barely registered. Mycroft quelled his guilt. Pushed it way way down.

It was just a dog.

"Sherlock. Redbeard ran away okay."

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes drifting towards the well. "That is what we're going to tell our parents. Victor fell out of the treehouse. Redbeard ran away. If we don't, our parents are going to be so very cross."

Sherlock swallowed a sob. Tears trekked down and he blinked. Finally met his brother's gaze.

"Okay."

"Say it then." Mycroft needed to make sure they understood. Wouldn't slip up.

"We were playing in the treehouse. Victor slipped and fell. Redbeard ran away."

Mycroft patted Sherlock on the shoulder, turned to Victor. Made him say the same. Only then did he pick up Victor. It was hard but he knew that there was no way the little boy would be able to walk all the way back to the house. His arms ached and his back and legs were sore by the time they made it back. As they opened the back door, he heard the crunch of wheels on the stones of the driveway. They turned, not even bothering to go inside.

"Thanks for sharing about Redbeard, Sherlock. I know that wasn't an easy thing to do…"

Mycroft heard Oliver's voice. It overlayed his own guilt. The lies he had told his parents so he wouldn't get into trouble. The consequences of Sherlock's broken trust. His brother hadn't talked to him for six months afterwards. Had gone from an active, carefree boy to brooding and angry. The psychologist his parents in the end had gotten was a complete quack. Had made everything worse.

Victor had left. Didn't want to play with Sherlock anymore. That had been worse than the dead dog at the bottom of the well. The well he had boarded up again, sneaking out of the house the next day when he had felt it safe to do so.

And finally, the video ended. A black screen greeted him.

Call me.

A number underneath. Written in bold, white letters. He contemplated his options. Stared at the screen and the number, while his own guilt rose to the surface on his actions so long ago. It didn't matter what he'd done since to try and protect his brother. He knew that moment had been a pivot point for Sherlock. Had broken the bond they had and it had taken many years for it to return. Sherlock's drug habit at uni had come to the fore and it was only then really that they had started forging a tentative bond again. The trust slowly rebuilt since then.

Now this.

He took his phone out, made his decision and dialled the number that was on the screen.

"Thought you might call." The voice was lilting. The accent clear.

"What is the point?" he asked Moriarty.

The consulting criminal chuckled. "To bring to your attention what I can do. Imagine the ramifications when this gets out to the media. What would your parents say, Mycroft."

Mycroft stayed silent. Waited the man out.

"Okay, if you want to be that way. You have a meeting scheduled with Interpol this afternoon regarding the taskforce you had set up to close my operations in Barcelona?" Moriarty paused and then continued when Mycroft didn't reply. "I want you to decline the meeting."

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can. You're Mycroft Holmes. People listen when you tell them WHAT TO DO!" Mycroft winched. Pulled the phone from his ear. "You made Sherlock believe, didn't you. Tell your lies so you wouldn't get into trouble with Mummy and Daddy. You and me, Mycroft…are not that different, are we? Decline the meeting, pleeease."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to do this for me. Decline the meeting or Sherlock will suffer. You wouldn't want Molly to be a single parent before their baby girl is even born, do you?"

"Sherlock is protected."

Moriarty chuckled. His phone dinged and he opened the attachment. It showed Sherlock, passed out on an old mattress. A needle stuck in his arm. He looked …strung out. Images from uni overlayed the current one and he remembered the fear of one day finding his brother dead. OD'd on a drug he couldn't stay away from.

"You'll get him back. Today even. Decline the meeting."

Moriarty rang off. Mycroft phoned Sherlock. Listened to his phone ring. It was answered after the fifth ring.

"Sherlock is currently high and can't come to the phone. Please call back later."

Moriarty closed the connection, leaving nothing but white noise. Mycroft swore. Uncharacteristically and vulgar but he finally had to give it to the other man. He's been outplayed by the criminal consultant. Moriarty didn't need to tell him. He knew what would happen if he phoned anyone and asked about Sherlock.

He did the only thing he could.

He cancelled the meeting.