Dear Mycroft,

Apparently Harry's school are coming over again to play cricket. I might end up running into that annoying Molly girl again. Perhaps I shall escape to the library. Mycroft, I hate having to interact with people. John's all right, I suppose, but most people aren't. However did you cope?

Term's been all right so far. Nothing has happened. I came top in Chemistry in the last test. I'm middling in everything else. John's top in Biology and History, which is a strange mix.

How are you? You haven't written in ages, Mycroft. I know you're busy but I really hope you're all right. Really I do. I worry about you, my dear brother. – God, I'm starting to sound like you. But truly, Mycroft. Write back soon. Even if there is nothing to say.

Sherlock

Mycroft nibbled the inside of his lip a little, his fingers absently creasing the edges of this latest letter. It was true that he hadn't replied to the last one, which had arrived two weeks ago now. He didn't often find the time. And anyway –

He had been berated by that Anthea girl. You should write back. He's your brother. Like it mattered to her. And why should he take advice about social convention from a woman who spent most of her time silently typing?

Dear Sherlock,

I'm sorry I didn't have time to reply to your last letter. I hope this missive finds you well. Well done for coming top in Chemistry. I knew you had it in you to do well.

Mycroft

'What's wrong, Sherlock?'

His eyes flicked towards the girl who followed him like a lamb following a shepherd, or like she thought he was her guardian angel. She had made several comments to him on the way down to the cricket-pitch, but he had ignored most of them. This one, however, made him shudder a little.

'Nothing.'

'Really.'

He tried to shrug her off. She must have hazarded a guess that something was wrong, as a last-ditch attempt at starting a conversation. His emotions couldn't possibly have been that visible.

'Sherlock, you can tell me. I won't tell anyone else.'

Sherlock sat down heavily on a tussock of grass, a short distance away from the other spectators. Molly Hooper sat next to him, still staring at him in that disconcertingly penetrative manner.

For a moment he regarded her. He didn't know her all that well – at all, indeed. Yet he knew that she told the truth when she said she wouldn't tell anyone. She was trustworthy – that much was obvious.

But Sherlock Holmes had never been one to reveal his personal problems, not to his family, not to anyone.

A breeze caught his blazer. A piece of paper rustled slightly in his inside pocket. He winced a little, and his eyes, quite by accident, caught Molly's. He drew a breath, and said:

'I think my brother's trying to distance himself from me.'

'Your brother? – Oh, is he the one who went to war?'

'I presume Harry told you.' She nodded. 'Yes. Mycroft. He's –' He paused for a long moment. 'I think he's working for the secret service, so obviously he can't tell me that much, and obviously he's very busy. But he doesn't write to me as much anymore, and when he does he –'

Molly threw him a sympathetic glance. 'You must be very close.'

'Close? Hardly!' Sherlock allowed himself a chuckle. 'Mycroft and I don't get on. Never have.'

Molly's eyes seemed to question him.

'But,' Sherlock said, and faltered, 'but he is the only person who understands me, the only person I can talk to about... things. I care about him. He cares about me.'

Perhaps he would have said something else, but the sonorous voice of the umpire cut across the pitch then, and the first batsman went to take his place at the wicket. Sherlock squinted; he didn't recognise the boy. He saw John in second place and tried to smile at him. Then, turning back, he seemed to notice Molly Hooper there for the first time, and started visibly.

'Why did I tell you all that?' he said at once, almost disgusted.

'Because...' Molly looked hopeful. 'Because you needed to get it out, and because you trust me?'

'Why would I trust you more than – more than John?' Sherlock asked.

'You haven't told John?'

'I can't.'

'He would understand.'

'Would he?'

'You're forgetting,' Molly reminded him. 'John knows what it is to have a sibling. John knows what it is – not to get on with a sibling.'

Sherlock, startled, cast his gaze back to the cricket pitch. John had just moved forwards to take his place at the wicket. He eventually identified Harry as the backstop. For a minute he regarded them both, and then said:

'John and Harry don't get on?'

Molly just raised one eyebrow and didn't reply.

At supper that evening, John, celebrating a second consecutive cricketing victory, had found himself at a full table surrounded by rejoicing team members, cheering spectators, and good sports from the girls' school who didn't resent their loss. Sherlock meanwhile ended up sitting elsewhere , with Molly but not speaking much to her, and went up to his dormitory early, not much liking the noisy atmosphere in the dining-hall.

He was absorbed in a book about chemistry when William Farrell returned. The boy looked somewhat distressed. Sherlock shot him a glance but didn't think to ask him what was wrong; however, Farrell, being talkative, told him anyway.

'Ah, I've found you,' he said. 'I thought you might have wanted to get away from it all.'

'I can't abide the aftermath of a sports match,' Sherlock said vaguely.

Farrell looked confused for a moment. 'No, I mean – oh, did you come up earlier? Before it all –'

'Farrell, what's happened?'

The book fell from Sherlock's hands. He was aware that his face looked surprised despite itself.

'Oh!' Farrell waved his hand a little. 'Nothing too tragic – it's just John and Harry. They've had a – well, a bit of a major tiff. It got a bit loud so we had to intervene. You probably ought to know though, because – well, John's upset, and –'

'Haven't the girls gone home?' asked Sherlock, with a glance at the clock.

'Oh, they have now,' Farrell replied. 'John's in the San. with his nose in a hanky. It's not serious. He'll be up soon.'

Sherlock's face contorted. He didn't know how to react. John and Harry, arguing! Last time he had seen them together – but they had written letters since – and to be perfectly honest he hadn't seen much of them in the holidays – and he had always thought that they got on famously! What had happened? Why hadn't he known about it? Why hadn't he – guessed?

'What did they argue about?' he asked, in a voice quieter than he intended.

'Oh, things,' Farrell said. 'I didn't catch too much of it. I think the result of the cricket was the last straw though. Wait – ssh! – I think he's coming.'

There were indeed footsteps on the corridor carpet outside; a moment later the door opened and John shambled in, rubbing his nose, which was still flanked by stray flakes of blood. He tossed a reddened handkerchief into the laundry-basket by the door and went to sit on his bed, only then noticing that the room was already occupied.

'Evening, Sherlock, Will,' he said vaguely.

'Are you all right?'

John looked astonished. He had been waiting for that question to come from William Farrell, who, being normal, would surely be curious and concerned about him. He perhaps hadn't expected to hear it in Sherlock's voice.

'I'm – I'm fine, Sherlock,' he stammered.

'Farrell told me what happened.' Sherlock's voice was gentler than usual, and there was more than a hint of genuine concern in there, a bizarre sound from one so aloof.

John shrugged. 'It was my fault, really. Shouldn't have said – things. I don't know. I don't know how it happened. Anyway, me and Harry –' He didn't need to finish his sentence.

'I hope it blows over soon,' Farrell supplied, filling an awkward silence.

'I hope so,' John said, leaning back onto his pillow.

'I hope so too,' said Sherlock, shooting a glance towards John that was filled with more empathy than he had ever shown in his life before. Perhaps John was curious about this outpouring of emotion, but he did not question it, merely acknowledging it with a grateful but tired smile, and falling asleep where he lay.