"I could just strangle you Sherlock! Do you know how worried I was?" Mycroft exclaimed as the sun was beginning to set, as they were just beginning to pack up the tent. Sherlock stood shamefully in the corner, folding his arms guiltily and keeping his eyes fixed on the dirt below him. He didn't want to look Mycroft in the eyes; he didn't want to see the anger. He knew that he had been wrong to stay out so late, but in all honesty it wasn't his intention to fall asleep. It was sort of the magic of the moment, it made him forget all the promises that he had made before they parted ways the night before.
"I'm sorry, I really am." Sherlock muttered sadly.
"I let you go out one time, Sherlock how do I know you weren't...well what were you even doing? What were you so fixated on doing that you had forgotten your brother?" Mycroft insisted. Well, Sherlock could very honestly think of something that was distracting enough...
"I was just with um, well I was with John. We were with his friends, and there was drinking involved, I suppose I just fell asleep, I'm sorry, I really am." Sherlock lied with a frown.
"You were at a rich kid party, were you?" Mycroft clarified, his tone veering something on amusement. Sherlock just shrugged innocently, knowing very well that he wasn't at any sort of party, despite his obvious interaction with a rich kid.
"Ya, I was. It's ever so easy to make friends Mycroft; I haven't the slightest idea why you don't try it." Sherlock snapped.
"Oh don't turn this on me Sherlock, don't you try." Mycroft warned, however Sherlock just smiled tauntingly at him, for antagonizing his brother was one of his greatest talents.
"I'm not turning it on you at all, I'm just stating the fact, and reintroducing your um...your loneliness." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"Oh stop that, just stop! Help me take down this tent Sherlock, and we'll continue this conversation later." Mycroft decided finally, stepping out of the tent to begin taking it down. They looked around the market for their dinner before going back home in a silent parade, Mycroft leading the way while Sherlock straggled purposely behind with the tent in his arms, Merlin chirping and flying circles around both boy's heads as they retreated back home. Sherlock was feeling quite drowsy, and the idea of going home to a nice dinner and a warm bed was becoming all the more tempting as he tottered around in the cold chill of the dying sunlight. John was on his mind once more, and he was becoming all the more tempted to just admit to Mycroft where he really had been. Mycroft had been trusted with all of his secrets, he was trustworthy enough of course, and yet Sherlock still didn't believe that he would understand love as well as he did magic. He had known their mother when she had the gifts; he had grown up watching her pull bunnies out of hats for him to play with, conjuring flowers out of thin air to make bouquets... Magic was a part of his everyday life, it was something forgivable. Love, on the other hand, was something altogether foreign for Mycroft. He had never fallen in love, he had never even considered the concept, and so how would he ever understand if Sherlock ever told him that he had fallen in love with John Watson? It was a concept far beyond Mycroft's reach of understanding, something Sherlock was sure his brother didn't even want to understand. Not only that, but it was forbidden by much more than the law, it was declared by God that his love was a sin. And so what hopes did Sherlock have that his brother might accept him, now having lost his innocence and added one more tally mark to his list of punishable crimes? As they sat around the dinner table Sherlock was quiet, thinking in his head all of the lines of poetry he was going to write to John, John who surely deserved beautiful sentences written in his honor. Sherlock was rubbish at poetry but it would seem that he was becoming ever better with love, for having been a stranger to it not a week or so ago, he was acting like a full out Romeo here, writing poetry, kissing in tents over picnic baskets. John was lucky to have him, just as Sherlock was lucky to have John.
"So did you have fun then, at this rich kid party?" Mycroft asked with a sneer, taking a rather aggressive bite out of his bread before staring at his brother, anxious for an answer.
"Well yes actually, I did." Sherlock agreed. That was no lie, for he had really enjoyed himself, however Mycroft still didn't seem the least bit amused. In fact he seemed angrier that Sherlock had gone out, rather than proud of his brother for socializing. Maybe he was jealous that he hadn't had these experiences when he was younger, the pride of having friends, the joy of just any old social interaction. Maybe he was just bitter that he had to grow up much too fast.
"Hm." Mycroft murmured, evidently not able to come up with a good enough response to that.
"Look, I'm sorry okay? I said it before, and I meant it. I know that it was irresponsible, and I'm really making it difficult for you to trust me." Sherlock said with a frown.
"Yes indeed, oh yes. Don't expect the luxury of leaving this house ever again." Mycroft teased. Sherlock just frowned, direly hoping that he was kidding.
"Mycroft he's different, you know, than other people. He's kind to me, he doesn't care that I'm poor, I think he genuinely likes me for who I am." Sherlock insisted in a small voice.
"John, right? You're talking about John?" Mycroft presumed with a careless lift of his eyebrow.
"Yes I'm talking about John." Sherlock agreed quickly.
"You say he's kind to you, yes?" Mycroft clarified, looking over at Sherlock as if this was the first of many questions, all that might lead up to the conclusion Mycroft was hoping to get.
"Yes, he's very kind. You say him before, you saw him with me." Sherlock pointed out.
"And does he know then? Your little secret? How do you know he won't go blabbing to his father about the sorcerer he accidently befriended?" Mycroft wondered in a snap.
"I trust him, but he doesn't know, and he wouldn't tell, I'm sure of it!" Sherlock insisted.
"Oh, so you would trust him with your secrets then? Secrets that could get you hanged by the very man who sits at the head of his dinner table?" Mycroft challenged.
"Yes, yes of course I do! He knows a secret of mine already, and I know one of his, we trust each other, we're friends and that's..."
"You told him of something? Of a secret?" Mycroft breathed desperately, his face paling as he began to wonder what secrets Sherlock was revealing to people he barely knew.
"Well no...he rather figured it out for himself." Sherlock admitted with a little flush. Mycroft looked at him sternly, wondering of course, what Sherlock could have possibly confided in John.
"What does he know Sherlock?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, staring down at his plate shamefully. Obviously he couldn't tell Mycroft, not when he already seemed to oppose the relationship that was blossoming under his very nose.
"It's um; well it's kind of personal." Sherlock admitted in the smallest of voices, almost as if he was ashamed to keep something from his brother.
"Personal? You mean you would trust a stranger over your own brother?" Mycroft challenged, sounding offended in the highest degree.
"I never told him anything, Mycroft trust me, he found out on his own. I had no intentions of telling anyone." Sherlock said flatly, his face growing so hot that his ears began to burn red. Mycroft sat back on the bench in a defeated sort of way, as if he was still astounded that Sherlock would dare keep anything from his very own brother.
"I see." Mycroft muttered, almost as if he had decided he was not going to pry any longer. Now of course they both knew that to be false, for Mycroft was the king of snooping into other people's business, however Sherlock dared not remind him of the fact. Mycroft's silence, in its own way, was his form of a guilt trip. However his stubbornness would pass, in time, and maybe he would even forget about this mishap the next morning. Sherlock could only hope so, because if he had Mycroft trying to worm his secrets from him during every conversation, well that would certainly be a disaster. But no, Mycroft was never going to get this secret from him, he would rather die than let Mycroft know of the things he had been up to in the last twenty four hours. Some secrets were meant to be kept safe, even from the ones who were closest to you. They were kept secret for a reason, after all. 

 It took a couple of days; a couple of very beautiful days, for Mycroft to finally figure out what was going on. John was smart enough to not try anything on the weekends, for he knew that Mycroft was at the tent with Sherlock as he performed, and so John was very nice and respectful, taking Sherlock politely out to lunch only to buy them both a sandwich to share and pulling him back to a deserted alley or something. Now it wasn't like they were spending night upon night together, in fact they hadn't been together like that since the first night, for Sherlock was still much too cautious to ask Mycroft to leave. He knew that his brother was on his trail, and so he was being ever so cautious. It was a rather last cause of course, simply because Sherlock knew all too well the extent to which his brother might go in order to know every little aspect of Sherlock's life. He knew that there was something more, of course there had to be when John came to take Sherlock to lunch every day, and yet Mycroft in all of his idiocy was never able to figure out just what was going on. And of course, Sherlock had no intentions of telling him anything. John kept up his promise very well, for every day since that first and revolutionary kiss Sherlock had received another one, without fail. Sometimes John had absolutely no time, for his tutor often insisted he stay in for lunch, and he would run down to the market in something of a frenzy, acting like he had just escaped through the window just to fulfill his daily quota. He was persistent, that was for sure, and every day John arrived he made sure to remind Sherlock that he would kiss him every day, just so that in how many years he could insist that he was right all along. And every day Sherlock was becoming more and more convinced that this love, whatever it was, it wasn't just a fairytale, it wasn't just something that was created for a night and forgotten in about a week. He had the strangest feeling that John would be true to his word, and Sherlock had a very abstract vision of the future, him in his sixties, trying to perform magic to an indifferent crowd, and John hobbling over with his leather gripped walked just to give Sherlock a kiss before his nursing home attendant finally tracked him down. And yet maybe by then they would have some sort of better excuse to be around each other, yes maybe in forty years they would think of something. Sherlock was in no way doubtful of John's love, for not only was he excited to get a kiss but he was always anxious to hear what Sherlock had done for the day, if he had the time he would ask about his dreams, his magic tricks, and the money he had collected the day before. Once or twice John had brought him a couple of textbooks, annoyed after hearing Sherlock persistently complain that he was an uneducated fool. One was an English book, filled with all sorts of prose and poetry (to try to improve his poetry skills, or so John claimed), and the other was an old calculus textbook, a ratty old thing that looked as if it had been thrown about a lot. And yet Sherlock accepted them graciously, so excited to learn something new that he sat up to the light of a candle most every night, wrestling with math equations in his attempts to make them work. John could never quite understand how he found them enjoyable, however it was the mere satisfaction of getting one correct that was motivation enough for Sherlock to continue on. Other nights he would sit up alone and read books and poems until his eyes got droopy, reading of the love and the tragedy that had been laid before him in very confusing, difficult language. Half of the stories made almost no sense to him, and he found himself jumping around every other word trying to grasp any sort of meaning from the seeming grab bag of complicated English words. Nevertheless he usually got the point across, and he was particularly enjoying snippets of Dante's Divine Comedy. In fact, Sherlock was reading about Dante's decent into Hell just as he realized he was probably heading the same way, for a gasp from his brother across the room was enough to startle him back into reality. Mycroft was standing near the kitchen table, standing with an expensive piece of parchment unfolded in his fingers, his face growing pale as his eyes trailed about the words that had been left there for one pair of eyes, and one pair alone... 

"What have you got?" Sherlock demanded, throwing aside the book and getting to his feet in an attempt to defend whatever letter Mycroft had stumbled across.
"J.W... that's John Watson, isn't it?" Mycroft clarified with trembling hands, clenching the piece of paper in his hands angrily as he stared up at his brother, almost too dumbfounded to speak.
"I have no idea what you're...what you're talking about." Sherlock forced, starting towards the paper so as to rip it out of Mycroft's hands. However his plan backfired, for instead of grabbing the paper Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's wrist instead, pulling him closer as the poor boy yelped, and holding him in something of a chokehold against his heaving chest.
"Your touches are like a beautiful array, ones I try to recreate in my head." Mycroft growled, reading from the paper while Sherlock struggled to free himself from his brother's vengeful grasp.
"Don't, just stop reading! I know what it says, I know..."
"For nothing was ever quite so beautiful, as when you woke up in my bed." Mycroft spat, making Sherlock wince against his brother's chest, struggling to contain the tears that were threatening to brim underneath his lids. He didn't know why he felt the urge to cry, there seemed to be no logical explanation, however his brother's hold alone was enough to remind him that he would never approve.
"It's not what it sounds like, Mycroft please, just understand..."
"I understand just perfectly, Sherlock, I understand just fine!" Mycroft roared, taking Sherlock by the neck and pushing him away for a moment, his fingers wrapped around his esophagus so that Sherlock was able to breathe, and yet it was still constraining enough that he almost thought he shouldn't. He had never seen Mycroft this angry, for one in his life his brother seemed to be beyond words, instead of growing pale his skin became red and blotchy, his face contorted into an expression of rage that was virtually undefinable. His eyebrows were slanted in an almost cartoon image of anger, and his scowl was so deep that Sherlock was afraid he would never smile again. Sherlock just closed his eyes, gripping to his brother's wrists in a desperate sort of way, as if begging him to let go all while assuring him that it was alright if he held on. Sherlock had disobeyed him, he understood that, and punishment was in order, so long as Sherlock could survive it. This was what he got for keeping secrets for so long.
"So that's why he has been so courteous, that's why you've been keeping him around!" Mycroft growled, his fingers reaching out to almost touch across Sherlock's jawbone, almost as if he was wondering who else had the honor of touching Sherlock's face before him.
"It's not like that, Mycroft it's more than that; I know you've never fallen in love but..."
"Never fallen in love? You think that, Sherlock, that I am incapable of loving?" Mycroft challenged.
"You've never mentioned it before." Sherlock managed between his struggled breaths, too worried now to open his eyes, fearful of what he might see staring back at him. Mycroft was preferable when he didn't feel anything, and yet now that he was enraged and insulted all at the same time, well of course the result wasn't entirely pleasant.
"I can feel...love, Sherlock. I love you dearly; you mean the world to me, the only family I have left..." Mycroft breathed, and Sherlock could feel his hands almost trembling as he stroked his thumbs against Sherlock's cheeks, almost as with the intention of wiping away the tears that had not yet fallen, and all the tears that had fell before.
"And you've poisoned yourself, you've tainted your purity, you've let that boy drain your of your pristine beauty and you've let him ruin you. You trust that boy with your heart? You trust that boy with your innocence?!" Mycroft roared, finally throwing Sherlock away from him in a fit of anger, sending the poor boy tumbling back to his bed, tripping over his own feet before finally falling onto his blankets with a yelp. Mycroft stood before him suddenly, tears falling from his usually emotionless eyes, his hands trembling as he held them up, almost so as to hold Sherlock down, and yet he didn't touch him, almost as if he couldn't.
"You've given him the very thing that made your soul shine... you've let him rub his filthy hands upon your skin, a boy who will love you for a night and leave you the next, a boy who will damn your soul to Hell..." Mycroft breathed, forcing out his words as if he was choking on them, as if they simply didn't want to be said. Sherlock didn't even know what he was supposed to say, he didn't know if he could say anything at all, Mycroft's apparent rage had paralyzed him, frozen him trembling to the bed while his brother hovered menacingly over top of him, the only things moving now were the tears that rolled in synchronization down the brother's faces.
"He can have my heart now, he can have it forever, he will keep it safe, he will keep us safe." Sherlock assured in a breath.
"Oh have you no idea the treachery of men?" Mycroft growled, finally turning away from where Sherlock had fallen, finally holding his hands to his face, almost as if he didn't want to display his weakness any longer.
"I can see no possible treachery in him." Sherlock assured carefully. "I love him."
"Of course..." Mycroft whispered, so softly that Sherlock could hardly hear him through his hands, almost as if he didn't want to be heard. "Of course you love him Sherlock."
"What can you say to convince me otherwise? Mycroft, I'm not convinced that you have ever suffered a broken heart, how can you warn me to keep mine intact?" Sherlock whispered. Mycroft was quiet for a moment, letting the air simmer with the sting of Sherlock's question, almost as if he wanted Sherlock to ponder it as well.
"I have had a broken heart, for it is breaking now." Mycroft whispered, and with that he started off towards his side of the room, collapsing onto his bed before pulling the curtains shut around him, as if to try to hide his broken form from his brother, who was no entirely speechless, wondering what he had done wrong, and why it had hurt Mycroft so badly.