A/N: A little brotherly story as I felt that very few people actually write them.

This vaguely mentions twisted abuse...

I own nothing and make no profits.

I hope you enjoy and review!

When Sherlock slept, the monster could strike. It had been a long time since the incident with the real monster, but both the real and dream monsters had followed Sherlock like the plague.

It wasn't a real monster, of course, at the age of ten Sherlock knew that monsters did not exist. The real monster was named Marius Holmes and he was eighteen. Marius was the Holmes' boys' cousin, a cousin whose family frequently visited. He was nothing like Sherlock and his brother. Marius was, in one word, twisted.

There was once a time that Sherlock had been blamed for pulling the wings off of a pidgeon. Mummy had slapped him and told him that that was a 'sick and disturbed' thing to do. Maruis and Mycroft had watched, one smugly knowing the truth, the other sadly deducing it.

Marius had, at the age of thirteen, left five year old Sherlock hanging upside-down by his feet from a tree. Mycroft had discovered him and had known the culprit instantly.

"But you mustn't tell mummy!" Sherlock had protested, swaying dizzily on the spot as Mycroft sat him on his lap.

"Why ever not?"

"Because Marius said he'd cut off my toes," Sherlock had whispered, utterly terrified. Mycroft's face had hardened then. He knew that Maruis was utterly capable of that.

"Well I shall never let him," Mycroft had promised.

Marius had managed to get away with an extreme amount of horrid acts for the next five years. He'd nearly drowned Sherlock, blamed the mysterious poisoning of the cat on Sherlock and even got Sherlock lost in London at the age of eight and managed to get away with it.

Sherlock had, though, always retained his toes; he assumed that the keeping of the toes meant that the threat would always be there.

At the age of ten, Sherlock's dreams had been infiltrated by the beastly boy and Sherlock's over-active imagination had caused him to imagine even worse tortures. Mycroft Holmes had watched this all unfold and, at the age of seventeen, had grown enough both physically and mentally to finally feel ready to confront his brother's tormentor.

It had been a pleasant start to the day, Sherlock had convinced Mycroft to play an early-morning game of tennis before it got too warm and they'd had a good deal of fun. Upon returning to the house for breakfast, they discovered Marius and his parents at the table and Sherlock had almost bolted, had Mycroft's large, warm and reassuring hand pinned Sherlock to his side. Noticing the two, Marius turned and gave them both a shark-toothed grin and a wave. Sherlock sat next to his brother for breakfast and barely ate a slice of toast, instead assessing how substantially Marius had bulked up. Under his thin and, frankly too-small shirt, Sherlock could easily see the muscles rippling with every movement Marius made.

They'd all retired to the garden then and, in an effort to put as much distance between his brother and cousin, Mycroft had offered to take Sherlock to the woodland on the edge of their land to climb the trees. They had left before mummy could offer for Marius to join them. Mycroft had kept a watchful eye on Sherlock as the boy flew almost effortlessly around the treetops. He'd also kept an eye on the ground for any signs of the loping creep that he assumed would make an appearance at some point.

After an hour or so with no threats the brothers decided to return to the house. They exited the woodlands and began the trek back to the house. Sherlock had, naturally, become bored after Mycroft had run out of conversation that Sherlock deemed stimulating. He'd asked to run ahead a little to check on the dyed plants he was growing in the greenhouse. Having decided that there was probably very little threat now of Marius appearing, Mycroft had agreed and allowed Sherlock to sprint off, after promising to leave as soon as Mycroft caught up.

Sherlock had run as fast as was physically possible in the near-midday heat and exploded eagerly into the greenhouse.

And every nightmare he had had for the past five years was suddenly staring him in the face. From the damage that lay about his psychopathic cousin, Sherlock could tell that his dyed plants had been cut with the rusty trimming scissors in Marius' hand. A lot of mummy's plants had been stabbed or trodden on.

"Hello," Marius greeted, wiping some of the evidence on his hand onto Sherlock's anorak that hung on the wall.

"Hello," Sherlock repeated nervously. There was a five metre by five metre patch of tomatoes between them, but Sherlock was not sure that it was enough to be safe.

"Where did you and Mikey run off too so rudely without me, then?" Marius asked, malice flickering in his eyes.

"Mycroft took me tree-climbing. He thought you'd be bored," Sherlock replied, feigning nonchalance.

"Bored? Me? Chasing you around a large wood? Never," Marius drawled, scratching his cheek with the scissors.

"Sorry, I didn't see you on the way to ask you to join us," Sherlock shrugged. Marius nodded slowly.

"Couldn't have gone out of your way a little to find me?" he suggested. Sensing a dangerous turn in the conversation, Sherlock decided to change the subject rapidly.

"You're joining the army," he stated, having made the deduction at breakfast and discussed it with Mycroft on the walk to the wood.

"Mhm," Marius hummed, "Yes. They like people that can, oh, I don't know... Cut off a toe or two without remorse,"

"Good luck then," Sherlock squeaked, taking a step backwards.

It was too late.

Marius cleared the tomatoes easily and stood before Sherlock, scissors resting on Sherlock's cheek.

"I don't need luck," Marius whispered, "I need practice," and he dragged the scissors down Sherlock's cheek hard enough to cut, all the while pinning him to the spot with a massive hand around Sherlock's neck. His breath, hot and rancid and stinking of food hit Sherlock's face, nearly damp due to their proximity. Sherlock had completely frozen.

Then Marius spun around as if having heard something, looking as confused as Sherlock felt.

"I would advise you to unhand my brother," Mycroft stated coolly, entering through the smaller back door of the greenhouse.

"I'd advise you to piss off, Mikey," Marius replied.

"Unhand him now," Mycroft repeated.

"Or what?"

"Or I shall be forced to use this," Mycroft replied, calmly taking his father's revolver from his breast pocket. He slowly clicked off the safety and turned the chamber. A bullet clicked into place. Marius froze, then, but his grip tightened around Sherlock's throat and Sherlock began to choke.

"You wouldn't dare," Marius challenged.

"He's going to kill me!" Sherlock yelled, thrashing.

"Well I shall never let him," Mycroft replied, holding the gun at an extremely odd angle. With one final, dark look at his cousin, Mycroft pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shot reverberated about the glass room, shocking Sherlock so much that he barely noticed the hand releasing his throat or his cousin dropping to the floor with a howl.

Mycroft, however, swept quickly into action. He placed the gun near the now unconscious Marius' hand and pulled Sherlock away, gently releasing him near the door. He removed the scissors from Marius' other hand and hid them in a flowerpot.

"Outside," he then hissed at Sherlock, grabbing Sherlock's hand and running. They ran a few hundred yards down a hill to the pond opposite and Mycroft quickly dunked his hands in it and then dried them on his handkerchief.

"Powder burns," he explained, then gave the handkerchief to Sherlock, "You fell out of a tree and cut your face, we were on the way back to the house when we heard the shot. Marius had stolen father's gun and accidentally shot himself in the foot," he stated calmly. Sherlock nodded, "Now let us pretend to the best of our ability that we are concerned," Mycroft smiled tightly, leading Sherlock back to the greenhouse where the parents had already discovered Marius.

The brute lived, as was the intention, but vowed never to go to his cousin's house again- or so mummy told them when she arrived back from hospital. Mycroft then explained Marius' history of tormenting Sherlock to her, but not the shooting incident. Mummy apologised multiple times to Sherlock, then, and hugged him for a very long time.

After dinner, Sherlock sat with Mycroft in the study.

"Where did you get the gun?" he asked.

"I'd had it with me since breakfast," Mycroft admitted, "I felt that we needed a final solution."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied earnestly. Mycroft smiled kindly.

"Do not mention it," he replied, but then his face hardened, "Ever. From today I vow never to touch a firearm again. You are not to tell a soul what really occurred today, understood?"

"I'll never tell," Sherlock promised.

That night, Sherlock crept into his brother's room and unabashedly clambered into Mycroft's bed. Mycroft accepted him with as much grace as one could at two in the morning and made sure to hold Sherlock's hand the entire night. For once, Sherlock did not dream of his cousin; Sherlock dreamt about Mycroft saving him from various situations with his cool voice and the revolver.

Though he'd never admit it, those dreams would guard his sleep from nightmares until the day Sherlock died.