New Fic: Five Times Mycroft was Envious of Sherlock 1/2
Title: Five Times Mycroft was Envious of Sherlock (and the One Time all the Truth Finally Came Out)
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 12K
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Pretty much what the title says.
Warnings: None. Just the Holmes version of sibling rivalry and jealousy.
Author’s Note: This was supposed to be a short story, but apparently I have issues. I have a younger sister, of course I have issues. :D Sorry Mycroft.
I started this on the train the day of the royal wedding. It was supposed to be a simple, quick fic, but it refused to remain that way, especially when Sherlock demanded that his side of the story be told as well. So this is the first part of a series I've titled Envy and Resentment. Coming later will be Sherlock's point of view, but this story can very much stand alone.
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"The mere existence of an additional child or children in the family could signify Less. Less time alone with parents. Less attention for hurts and disappointments. Less approval for accomplishments. . . . No wonder children struggle so fiercely to be first or best. No wonder they mobilize all their energy to have more or most. Or better still, all." - Adele Faber
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There were many words that Mycroft Holmes would and had used in association with his ‘relationship’ with his baby brother. Resentful was one such example. Antagonistic was another. Volatile. Difficult. Complex. At times distant. Often frustrating. Sometimes painful.
The fraternal bond between them was fraught with tension and with the expectations that each had of the other that the other had either failed to live up to or had wantonly defied. As such, disappointment was often another word that lingered silently between them, stalking up and down in No Man’s Land like an angry she-cat eyeing them both balefully and without mercy.
It seemed to him that Sherlock had always been the resentful one, even going as far as brandishing it as a symbol of honour. That was quite ridiculous, because if either of them had the right to be resentful then it was him. Obviously it was him. After all, it was always Sherlock who caused all the problems, who attracted attention like a politician sex scandal attracted the tabloids, who not only seemed to revel in chaos but also usually landed on his feet, his hair still artfully styled, his clothes barely ruffled, with a distinct feeling of the untouchable about him. Even that dark period with the drugs had been resolved with little loss of composure - well, other than for those three months that they had mutually agreed never to mention.
If he were any other man he would talk about unfairness, but since he had dealt with some of the most odious people to hold power and had seen firsthand the often miserable and oppressed lives they were apparently responsible for, he knew there was little in this world that was fair.
In short though, he knew his relationship with his brother was somewhat one sided and that the one side was absolutely and positively his. Their mother’s last request to him was that he was to look out for his brother. Come to think about it that had been one of her first requests as well, also the most frequent.
“Try and make sure Sherlock doesn’t get into trouble.”
“Watch that your brother doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“Do you think you could be a dear and have a word with your brother?”
And so on.
There were many things he had failed to do over the years but he was going to make sure that he would carry out Mummy’s last request for as long as he possibly could and to the best of his not insignificant ability, even if it meant both near constant worry and the harsh reminder of everything Sherlock had that he did not.
He was the older brother, it was his right, honour, privilege, duty and responsibility to help Sherlock and he would do so without resentment, because he was better than that. But that didn’t stop him from being just that tiny, weenie bit envious.
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ONE
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For six years and six and a half months he had been an only child.
This had not been a particularly bad thing. He had been more than capable of entertaining himself, and there had always been something that he could do. He had his bedroom, which was filled with nearly everything he asked for, from books to posters, to different toys to his own record player with a growing collection of his own records - Wagner was his favourite.
He was allowed nearly anywhere in the house or the gardens, but his favourite places were under the oak tree in the summer, Father’s library in the winter, and in the kitchens with Mrs Appleby at any time at all. Mrs Appleby made the most delicious bread and pastries and would often talk to him while she worked, slipping him something nice to try as she did so.
He didn’t have much chance to be lonely, what with there often being someone around - like his main tutor Mr Armstrong who taught him Mathematics, English, Literature, History, Politics, Geography, Science, Philosophy and Classics; Mr Perryman who taught him French, German, Spanish, Italian, Latin, Greek and Russian; and Miss Langsley who taught him Art, Dance and Music.
There was always someone to talk to, something to do, some book to read, music to listen to, thoughts to discuss and Mummy to make smile. He liked it when Mummy smiled. She had the prettiest of smiles and she would always listen when he told her about what he had learnt while she had been away, and sometimes she would come into his room at night and tuck him in, placing a kiss on his forehead. He loved those moments the most.
Then when he was six and six and a half months old that all changed. He just didn’t know it yet.
At six years and seven and three quarter months old he noticed that something was different. He just did not know what. He asked people of course, but no one told him anything, including Mummy. He thought about asking Father but he was still away on business. He tried to figure it out himself but nothing fitted. No one was sick, no one was leaving and nothing important had happened on the news. It was perplexing and a little frustrating, but there was nothing else to be done, so he busied himself with conjugating verbs, learning music scales and making Mummy smile.
At six years and seven and nine tenth months old, he overheard Mrs Appleby talking to Mummy and heard something that was obviously not meant for his ears. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop as that was rude but something made him stop and press against the door anyway.
“He’s asking questions you know,” Mrs Appleby was saying while she kneaded the dough. “He’s a very smart boy. He knows something is occurring.”
“I know,” Mummy said with a frown that he didn’t like to see, “but it is still early yet. I don’t want him to get his hopes up. We must wait until the twelve weeks mark at least. Then we will tell him.”
The subject changed and he drew away. Twelve weeks. He didn’t know what that meant but all he now had to do was wait.
At six years and nine and a half months his father returned from a long trip abroad. The next day he was called into the library to find both Father and Mummy waiting for him. This was it, he realised, they were finally going to tell him what was wrong.
“Mycroft, we have something important to tell you,” Father said solemnly. “Something that will change your life forever.”
“Mycroft, darling,” his mother said. “I’m going to have another baby. In six months time you are going to hopefully have a little brother or sister.”
Oh, he thought. He had not been expecting that. He did a quick calculation of what he knew about human baby growth - what was it the book had called it? Pregnancy? Nine months approximately for a human pregnancy, minus six months. Ah yes, now he understood about the twelve weeks.
“Mycroft, do you understand?” his father said gravely.
He nodded because of course he understood. In half a year's time he would have a little brother or sister who would slowly grow bigger and then he would be able to do things with them like play music, read books and talk about things.
He smiled. Mummy smiled back, a big proper smile which made him wanted to rush and hug her. He didn’t though because he didn’t want to hurt her or the baby, but he was sure she understood.
He looked up pregnancy as soon as he had the chance and read everything he could about it. He made a wall chart showing all the stages that the baby would go through and he ticked the time off on his calendar. He wanted to make sure that he knew everything.
His seventh birthday was the day he realised he was now too big to sit on Mummy’s lap, or at least Mummy’s lap was now too small for him.
He got a telescope for his birthday. He had wanted one for ages and it was perfect. He also got to feel the baby move for the first time and pressed his ear to Mummy’s tummy. It was a little strange but it made Mummy happy so it made him happy too.
When he was seven years and one and a quarter months old Mummy went to bed and stayed there. She had been tired for a long time and Doctor Forrester had come to visit. Doctor Forrester said there was nothing wrong with the baby but that it would be better if Mummy got as much rest as possible. Of course this meant that despite Mummy now being around much more since she was no longer working he still only got to see her briefly each day, and even then he didn’t like the way she looked so tired and pale in bed. He tried to make her smile but it was harder than normal and he missed the nights when she sometimes used to tuck him into bed. She reassured him that it wouldn’t be for much longer and then he would have a baby brother or sister. He told her he wanted a brother with big eyes and her smile.
She laughed and ruffled his hair, telling him that he would have to wait and see.
He was seven and two and three quarter months when he awoke to the sounds of people hurrying backwards and forwards. Hearing a car pulling up on the stones in the driveway, he rushed to the window in time to see Doctor Forrester exiting the car with a black medical bag.
Pulling on his dressing gown, he crept down the corridor to the top of the stairs that led from his floor - the top - to the middle floor where his parent’s bedroom was. Pulling his gown around him, he sat in the shadows and watched silently and forgotten as people passed below. He heard some screams. He thought it sounded like Mummy but he couldn’t be certain.
Frozen to the step, he buried his fingers in his ears and concentrated on conjugating Latin verbs - audiō, audīre, audīvī, audītum.
He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knew was someone shaking his shoulder and his father’s pale eyes in front of him. He opened his mouth to ask if it was all over now, if Mummy was alright, but the words stuck in his throat, unable to be forced out just in case the unthinkable had happened.
“Your mother is asleep,” his father said gravely as if he knew what he could not ask. “As you should be as well.”
He nodded with no complaint as he was guided to his feet and to his room.
“What happened?” he asked. “I heard… I heard her…”
“You have a brother,” Father said. “Sherlock.”
A brother? He frowned. By his calculations it was too early, over two weeks early.
“Is he?”
“He is fine,” Father said. “Small but with a powerful set of lungs on him. You can see him later, but first sleep.”
He went back to bed without protest, the terrors of the night already receding. He had a baby brother.
True to his father’s word he was allowed to see both Mummy and the new baby that afternoon. Mummy looked pale and tired, but she smiled broadly and allowed him onto the bed for a careful hug.
Sherlock though was little, very little, much smaller than the pictures in the book had suggested. He was all squishy looking as well with wisps of fair hair.
Sat on the bed, propped up against the headboard they carefully placed the child in his arms and his eyes widened as he held the small, warm bundle. He could not believe that this was his brother, this small, fragile thing wrapped in a pale green blanket was a new human being.
“Promise me something,” his mother said watching him carefully. “Promise me that whatever will happen you will always look out for him.”
He looked down at the sleeping baby, so small and helpless, and he made that promise, made it and meant it.
Of course at that age he had no concept of what that promise truly meant and even for a year or so following that day the consequences still did not come to light, because for the most part there were other people around to look after the new baby.
Mummy did not go back to work, but he still did not see any more of her because she spent much of her time looking after Sherlock. Father was as usual away on business, but when he was back he too often split his time between the two boys. Mycroft understood that because there were now two of them he would have to share his parent’s attention and sharing was a good thing, but it still took a little getting used to. Then, as Sherlock grew from an infant into a toddler and from a toddler into a small child, he started to notice something else; somehow Sherlock seemed to be getting more attention.
He thought at first that it was just his imagination, but then after yet another of his mother’s exasperated sighs of, “You’ll never guess what your brother has done now,” he started to make a table of it all and quickly concluded that it wasn’t just his imagination; Sherlock really did get considerably more attention than him. (Sherlock got told off more often as well, but that went hand and hand with the attention).
From the moment he leant how to crawl Sherlock was all over the place, always playing with something that he should not be, reaching for things not meant for him, getting into places that he should not be. Rather than being content to sit still and watch the world, or read a book, or play quietly by himself, Sherlock had to be somewhere else doing something else. As such he could not be left alone for a moment without there being the possibility of grave consequences.
When he was sixteen months old, Sherlock almost managed to drown himself in the mud of a small duck pond after somehow managing to slip out of the straps in his buggy and squeeze through the railings beside the pond before anyone noticed. It was only their mother’s quick thinking that stopped him from suffocating after he had fallen face first into the shallow, muddy water.
At two years and two months old the whole household had been thrown into a panic after it was revealed that Sherlock had disappeared from the nursery. It was the day they had been supposed to go to the Air Show. Father had gotten tickets especially after he - Mycroft - had gotten to the final of the Under Sixteens National Essay Writing competition. His essay had been on the Battle of Britain and now he was to have the chance to see those planes in action.
He had been looking forward to it for weeks.
Then Sherlock had done his vanishing act and all thoughts of planes had disappeared from everyone’s minds.
They searched for him for ages, through the house and across the grounds. Then they called the police while Mummy did her best not to cry. It was a tense frightening time for all of them.
They found him in the end though, curled up in the wardrobe in the spare room, asleep with his thumb in his mouth, hugging one of Mummy’s old jumpers. Apparently he had gone exploring, found the wardrobe open and crawled in only for the door to shut behind him. He said he had shouted but no one had heard him, so he had curled up and gone to sleep, but now he was hungry so could he have some cake?
They gave him some proper food of course, and then he had some cake.
They never made it to the air show.
“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” Mummy said patting him on the head even as her eyes wandered to where Sherlock was now spinning round and round just because he could.
They managed to go the following year, but it wasn’t the same. He was no longer as interested in the planes, although Sherlock had naturally enjoyed it, clapping and cheering when the planes zoomed over head.
Then when Sherlock was two years and nine and a half months old, Mycroft saved his life. It was the first time that happened but would not be the last.
He had only gone into the library to find Father’s book on Colonial India and he had been horrified to find little Sherlock climbing - actually climbing - up the shelves near the door, his little fingers straining for the HMS Victory preserved as a replica in a bottle. It was their Father’s prize possession, something that only came down on special occasions and never without Father present.
His brother’s name was out of his mouth in an instant and then everything seemed to slow down. As small fingers curled around the thin end of the bottle, pale eyes widened and snapped towards him. There was a moment of guilty shock and then horror as the surprise movement sent the small body twisting. Then Sherlock was falling, his body arching backwards, rushing towards the floor.
Mycroft didn’t think, just moved on instinct, faster than he had ever done in his life. In those split seconds he knew he could only save one of them, but there was no doubt in his mind as to which one it would be.
The force of gravity sent them both crashing to the ground, Sherlock’s elbow digging painfully into his stomach as they landed, but most importantly it meant that Sherlock was on top. A split second later there was a smash as the large glass bottle collided with the oak wooden flooring.
Father was going to be furious.
There was a pause of course, the span of a heartbeat or two and then Sherlock did what any small child would have done following a shock like that; he burst into tears.
Time sped up and within moments the wailing child was lifted off him and wrapped securely in Mummy’s arms. Very little was said and the glass was quickly swept up and made safe. Sherlock’s cries finally lessened to sobs, his body no longer shaking.
After Mummy briefly checked that he was alright, Mycroft stood and watched stoically as everything happened around him. Then, after watching Mummy fussing over Sherlock, he turned and went to his bedroom. Once there he quietly shut the door and did something he hadn’t done in years, he sat in the corner between the wardrobe and his bed, buried his hands in his arms, and cried.
“He’s not like you,” Mummy said to him a few years later as they sat in the garden watching Sherlock attempting to catch a butterfly with his new net and nature set. “He always needs to be doing something or else he gets bored, and you know what tends to happen when he gets bored.”
Accidents, injuries, “experiments” as Sherlock liked to call them.
Placing down his book he looked across at Mummy, noting not for the first time the new lines around her mouth and eyes, the slight frown that was there more now than the smile, the tiredness that seemed to linger over her no matter what he did to make her life that little bit easier.
“You’ve always been so much more self contained than him, able to entertain yourself, not needing near constant attention.”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes returned to her younger son and his net. She would never appreciate just how apt her words had been and how they had helped crystallise the thoughts and feelings that had been churning in Mycroft for as long as he could remember.
Jealousy was an ugly emotion and he knew he should not really be jealous of his brother, especially as Sherlock could not help being who he was, but it still hurt to realise that she was right; Sherlock stole the attention, and if he was not mistaken, he always would.
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TWO
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There were a lot of things that Mycroft was good at. No, that he was excellent at. He was a natural at languages, his tongue moving easily over the different sounds as his mind moved over the patterns in grammar and syntax.
He had an affinity for mathematics, a mind made for seeing patterns, for solving problems, for contemplating equations. He liked the challenge, the thrill he got when he worked through a problem logically and systematically.
He was good with names and dates, had a memory that absorbed such information, stored it methodically ready to be retrieved at any given moment. History fascinated him, the constant rise and fall of Kings and nations, Empires and civilisations. Politics attracted him in particular, the study of both people and events; the patterns, the equations, the outcomes. With enough digging and enough eye for detail - especially seemingly insignificant detail - he could unravel people and events and then find out if he had been correct, and if he hadn’t been, why.
He enjoyed it more than he could say - the minute study, the heavy books, the pay off at the end. It took time and effort but it was worth it.
There were a few things though that he was not so good at. Sport for instance. With his thicker build and interest in sedentary pursuits this was hardly surprising. Physical exertion held no interest for him. To keep Mummy happy he did what was asked of him and gradually found activities he found at least tolerable. Fencing for one, archery for another. He supposed that chess did not exactly count as a sport although he was rather good at it.
There were other things he was less good at as well, like art. He understood the principle of it, enjoyed the history and beauty, but despite his best efforts he obviously lacked the artistic streak that Mummy’s family often showed. Miss Langsley tried her best, but it was painfully clear that his talents did not that way tend. He lacked true creativity, something he was not particularly perturbed about in terms of art, but one he mourned somewhat when it came to music.
Music was one of his great loves and had been from a young age. He, however, much to his disappointment, lacked any natural flair for it. He learnt to play the piano but more as a workman than an artist. He understood it intellectually but not instinctively. Despite his best efforts his fingers remained too clumsy for the delicate movements necessary for most other instruments. So he contented himself with the one instrument and played by rule rather than passion.
For him that was enough.
Of course it was Sherlock who inherited all the artistic flare.
By the age of five Sherlock had mastered the piano almost as well as Mycroft had by twice that age. Music seemed to come easily to him. The notes - according to Sherlock - danced around his head. For a while they wondered if they had some kind of musical prodigy on their hands, but then as with most things Sherlock lost interest and moved on.
At the age of six they persuaded Sherlock to try the flute instead. He agreed and for a few months Sherlock had a new interest and various squeaky noises came from his room.
It did not last long though.
“Makes my head dizzy,” Sherlock declared once it became clear that the flute had been abandoned along with his other former interests.
Realising they might do better with a complex instrument that did not require blowing, they settled on the violin. Sherlock, seeing it for the challenge that it was, took to it with all the passion and enthusiasm of a seven year old and by the time he reached eleven and three quarters, had finally - and after much persuasion - sat and passed his grade eight exams. Mummy was so proud. Miss Langsley - with whom Sherlock seemed to have a special bond - was ecstatic.
Mycroft was very proud of his brother and made no secret in enjoying hearing him play whenever he was back from Harrow and then later Oxford, but he could not help but wonder what it might have been like to be truly able to make his own music.
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THREE
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If Harrow taught him how to relate to his peers of the male gender, then university brought him into contact with the fairer sex.
For all his confidence and natural intellect, he quickly came to realise that around young ladies he was far from graceful. He was fine when dealing with them on an academic standing. He was not one foolish enough to believe that women were not equal in that respects, but in any other situation, especially social ones outside of his formal experiences, he was rather at a loss. His extensive education had not equipped him for matters of the heart. So rather than taking part in the elaborate courtships that seemed to happen around him, he stood back and observed, hoping to gain some important information that might help him in the future.
He did discover some very interesting facts - that attraction and romance were not as simple or easy to predict as he had hoped. This mildly frustrated him. It appeared that intelligence, charm, attitude, confidence, behaviour, appearance and looks all seemed to play a role in the complicated dance between the sexes, but to what degree remained different in each case.
For some relationships, mainly of the sexual kind that rarely survived past the first encounter or two, intelligence took a step back and physical looks were elevated above the others, often hoisted on the broad backs of confidence and alcohol.
For more long term relationships then appearance and looks could play a key role at the beginning but would then be later pushed aside for intelligence and behaviour and introducing compatibility.
Overall it was far from simple and despite his efforts there was no formula he could develop to help him. However, when it came to his own attempts at matchmaking, it was obvious that there were a few things that did not need to be left to chance. He could always make sure he was well presented and turned out, his clothing neat, shoes polished, shirt pressed. He made sure that he listened to what a young lady told him, remembering their stories and jokes, and complimenting them in return.
There was one thing that he could not do, though, and that was change his looks.
He was, in his eyes, a rather standard looking man, neither stunningly handsome but nor by any means unattractive. He was tall, broad, well built although with a tendency to spread so he had to watch what he ate. He had a face that was recognisable but was at the same time somewhat forgettable - something he was planning on putting to his advantage later. On the downside his hair was already showing signs of thinning, but that could hardly be helped.
He looked, overall, rather like father, although with a thicker build and no moustache. It could have been far worse and he was far from unhappy. His experiences at university gave him some confidence and certainly some opportunity to improve himself, and having graduated he had taken the skills into his new job, although put on the back burner for the most part as he did not have that much time to spare on wooing someone.
Then came cousin Violet’s wedding.
It had been a rather grand affair, but then she was marrying someone with a title. It had, however, given him the opportunity of wearing a morning suit for the first time since graduating university. The suit had, he had to admit and Mummy had confirmed, made him look rather handsome.
The wedding went smoothly, and even Sherlock, now seventeen and brooding under the thick hair that had darkened considerably in the past few years, had behaved. That just left the tedium of the reception and the polite mingling that was required.
Snagging a glass of champagne, he positioned himself to the best advantage and scanned the room for who he could find. Most of the untold stories were rather tedious. Uncle Horden was still having an affair with his secretary, the chap with the laugh was in serious financial difficulty, and the bridesmaid was not going to have any luck with the head usher if the way the usher’s eyes had lingered on one of the more handsome serving boys was anything to go by.
Not the most thrilling array of humanity he had to admit, although….
His gaze alighted on a young lady talking to cousin Elspeth. She seemed nice, pretty in an understated way, passionate if her expressive hands were anything to go by, intelligent from what he had caught of their conversation, and single.
Interesting.
Mind made up, he wandered through the throng, hovering briefly while appearing to have no destination in mind before being pulled into conversation with the two young ladies.
The young lady in question turned out to be called Grace, a Literature undergraduate at Kings and a rather interesting person to talk to. They had a considerable amount in common and he found himself laughing at one of her jokes and wondering if maybe she would be amenable to meet up sometime, for tea perhaps. She was unattached, smart, from a good family and someone he felt he could grow to like very much indeed.
Then she asked him about his family.
He pointed out Mummy easily enough, alone following the death of Father the year before. Then with a small sigh he had pointed to the side of the room where Sherlock was sat, slouching in his chair with an expression of intense boredom. His long legs were crossed lazily in front of him, his tie askew, his top button undone and his usual curly hair brushed out straight and falling artfully across his forehead and into his eyes. Apparently he had not been pleased with his last hair cut, Mummy had said, so was rebelling by making it look longer than it normally would be. They had left him to it as sometimes you had to accept that there were some battles you were just not going to win.
Unfortunately for him, the next words out of Grace’s mouth thrust him firmly into a new battle that up to that moment he had not even known had existed.
“That’s your brother?” Grace had said in obvious surprise. “But he’s gorgeous.”
And there he had it, a new revelation, a new brutally honest truth and he stammered slightly as the world tilted briefly before righting itself with the truth he had failed to see up until then, that with his angular face, high cheek bones and care free attitude, Sherlock had inherited the best their family had to offer in terms of looks.
Sherlock was, as Grace had put it, gorgeous.
It was just one more thing to add to the list.
*-*-*
FOUR
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He went because Mummy had asked him to, because after Father’s death there was no one else to go.
He knew Cambridge well but only from the point of view of an outsider. He had chosen Oxford instead, following in the family tradition, walking the corridors his ancestors had trod.
Sherlock - in his usual Sherlock way - had declared that he much rather preferred to attend Cambridge, so to Cambridge he had gone.
As such to Cambridge Mycroft now found himself searching for the place his baby brother had elected to hide himself away in. It took him a little longer than he had expected and even when he did find it he wasn’t sure if it was the right place. It was hard to believe that this was in fact his baby brother.
The bouncy curls that had darkened from fair to the traditional Holmes dark brown were gone, completely shorn off to the length that a soldier could have been proud of. His face had lost the last of his childhood roundness making him appear all high cheekbones and piercing eyes. His late growth spurt had now finished leaving them eye to eye with barely half an inch in it. He hadn’t shaved in three - no four - days from the length of his stubble, a touch fairer than the hair on his head and with a slight auburn hue when it caught the light. From experience he knew that Sherlock’s voice had deepened to a rich baritone and now faced with his brother stretched out on his bed, a rather tight t-shirt revealing a chest that was more defined than he would have expected, it was impossible to deny that his brother was now well and truly a man.
“Oh, should have guessed it would be you,” Sherlock drawled barely glancing up from the book on criminology he was reading. “Who else was Mummy going to send?”
Who else indeed. It had always been the same.
“Mycroft, go find your brother.”
“Mycroft, call your brother for dinner.”
“Mycroft, please talk to your brother. He listens to you.”
After various mild protests he had given up trying to explain to Mummy that Sherlock did not in fact listen to anyone, and certainly not to him.
“Nonsense, dear,” Mummy had said. “He’s always listened to you.”
That might have been true for a brief few years when Sherlock had been very young, but even that had changed by the time Sherlock had reached six or seven.
This time it had been, “Mycroft, could you be a dear and look in on your brother. I fear he is struggling somewhat.”
So demand issued he had dutifully rearranged his calendar and dispatched himself off to Cambridge.
“She’s just concerned for you,” he said mildly while scanning his eyes briefly around the room. Chemistry text books not on his core reading list. Violin recently used. Clothes left haphazardly across furniture. His new PC used but not currently on. Boxing gloves, that would explain his posture - bruised ribs? Two wine glasses, both used, only one by Sherlock. No lipstick or lip-gloss marks on the other though. Interesting.
“Seen enough?” Sherlock snapped. “I’m here, I’m alive, what more do you want?”
To know that he was alright of course, but he didn’t say that out loud.
“I hear you haven’t been attending your lectures,” he said instead.
He had heard more than that, some that concerned him greatly, but he thought he would start with something a little less… confrontational.
“Using your new position to spy on me? That really the best use of the tax payer’s money?” Sherlock snapped, slamming the book shut.
He blinked but hid the look of surprise. Of course he hadn’t been spying on him. There was hardly any need. People tended to tell him about what Sherlock was doing whether he wanted to hear about it or not. And even if he wasn’t being kept fully up-to-date then he still would not have considered invading his brother’s privacy to that degree.
“I am simply concerned about you,” he said neutrally. “You don’t seem particularly…” What? Happy? Content? Peaceful? “…focused.”
Sherlock snorted. “Focused?” he said springing to his feet. “Focused on what? Have you seen this place, it's so boring! The course, the people, the lecturers, boring, boring, boring. They’re so dull. No originality. No insight. Just the same small, narrowed minded ideas redressed, repackaged and regurgitated to the polite applause and congratulations on becoming ‘one of us’.”
Fingers scratched through shorn hair as Sherlock paced back and forth.
“How could you stand it? They think they’re so big, so clever, but all they do is steal work from other people, others who are brighter, more unique, more brilliant than them, amalgamate it and then pass it off as their own. And sex, they are so obsessed with screwing and drinking and killing what little minds they have. It’s so tedious, so insular, so very, very dull!”
Sherlock flopped back down on the bed, twisting onto his side to lie facing the wall.
The problem was Sherlock was right. He too had gone to university hoping to meet people who would stretch and challenge him. He too had come away disappointed. How had he stood it? He had stood it because that was what had been expected of him. The family expectations had been laid on his shoulders and he had done what they had wanted. He had always done what they had wanted. Even his present job was at least as much family expectation as it was his own interests and desires. He was following his father’s footsteps, walking the path that had been laid out for him since infancy.
Sherlock was different though. Sherlock did not concern himself with what other people thought. He just did what he wanted to do, how he wanted to do it.
He wished he could do that.
In the end he managed to drag Sherlock out of his room and found somewhere they could eat and talk. He engaged Sherlock in talking about what he did enjoy, about his new interest in boxing, in what they were going to do for Mummy’s birthday. It was rather pleasant. They even partook in their old game of deducing the people around them, although Sherlock did grow a little impatient at some of the thing he missed.
Over all it was a rather pleasant day. Far better than it might have been.
Three weeks later Sherlock dropped out of Cambridge and declared he would never go back. No amount of cajoling, arguing or tears on Mummy’s behalf were enough to persuade him otherwise. Sherlock stuck to his guns, raised two fingers up at family tradition and once again did what he wanted to do, everyone else be damned.
Despite being certain it was a terrible idea, Mycroft could not help but admire the attitude it took to do such a thing.
*-*-*
FIVE
*-*-*
Even by his standards it had been a long day.
Entering his apartment, he shifted his eyes briefly to the sensor in the corner of the hallway, patiently waiting for it to power down once it had registered his iris patterns. Some would argue that it was rather elaborate security for the private residence of a ‘minor government official’, but he had learnt that the hard way. He had no desire to go through ‘that’ again.
It had been fifty-two and a half hours since he had last been home and he could tell. It wasn’t that it had been empty all that time, it was obvious that Mrs Lee had been in to do the cleaning and he had no doubt that his dry cleaning would be hanging up and his fridge restocked with healthy ready prepared, home cooked meals, but still the place felt sparse and unlived in. Then again that was hardly surprising. All in all he spent little time here. In fact he spent far more time at his office, considerably more time in fact, to the point where the wry thought had crossed his mind that he should have claimed that as his second home.
He carefully stowed away his umbrella and hung up his jacket before making his way to the living room. There he was greeted by the bluish glow of the aquarium and the soothing hum of the tank from the moment he stepped in.
He was not a man prone to fancies or emotional sentimentality but he would admit that his fish were his pride and joy. His aquarium acted as both a pleasant distraction from the pressures of his work and as an effective form of relaxing entertainment. He had spent many an enjoyable spare hour simply sat watching his fish, feeling the tensions in his body slowly fade away even as he noted the changes in the fish behaviour or hierarchy. They also had the added benefit of being able to survive without him, especially since he had set up automatic filters, sensors and feeding systems. Not that he didn’t like doing it himself, but it gave him peace of mind that should he be unexpectedly away from his apartment for longer than planned - like today - he was not about to return to a shoal of dead fish.
Death threats were a part of his job and as such part of his life. As inconvenient as the majority of them were - and the vast majority were little more than a tiresome annoyance, amounting to little more than a vague smile and nod of acknowledgement on his behalf - they had been made doubly worse when after one such assassination attempt - pitiful, they hadn’t even managed to get into the same room as him - he had finally been able to return home after an extended ‘vacation’ to find half of his fish dead. It had taken years to re-establish the tank as he wanted it.
The moment had almost been as bad as they day he had caught five year old Sherlock standing on his desk chair, leaning over his fish tank with a small sieve obviously liberated from the kitchen, and a large saucepan filled with water resting beside him on the desk. From Sherlock’s shocked and clearly guilty expression he had not been expecting him back so soon, and from his passionate defence to Mummy later that day, he clearly hadn’t thought through the consequences of standing on a wheeled swivel chair to reach up to the shelves above the desk.
A twist of his body and Sherlock went one way as the chair went the other. It would have been okay if Sherlock had been the only casualty, the boy now more than used to scrapes and falls, but of course in his normal Sherlock way he had to make as much chaos as he could.
In this case, as the chair moved from under his feet, he automatically went to brace himself on the desk, his arms striking the handle of the saucepan with enough force to send it, the water it contained, and the two unsuspecting goldfish already retrieved from the tank - Agamemnon and Achilles - flying through the air.
Agamemnon survived the ordeal, Achilles did not.
Sherlock, his sleeve still soaked from where it had been dipping in the water, claimed he had only wanted to study them. Paris and Helen - his other two fish - never knew how close they had come to a rather dramatic end.
Sighing at the memory he took a moment to check the readouts from his current aquarium, one his brother was not allowed near. Everything looked adequate, and picking up his fish journal he jotted down the date and some observations. After all it always paid to do these things properly. He had, after all, only recently added some small black and silver stripped loaches, known for being peaceful fish but prone to being picked on, especially by red scats, a rather pretty fish but one that was generally more aggressive. One of his red scats in particular liked to flick around pretending to be the boss - he wasn’t, but the other fish seemed to humour him about it. Ah yes, there he was, and yes he was bothering some of the new loaches.
Now that was interesting.
He watched with amusement as that particular red scat was interrupted in his bothering of his new tank mates by a rather non descript loach. For a moment there appeared to be some kind of standoff, and then, much to his surprise, the red scat - who yes, in his mind was called Sherlock - suddenly seemed to back down and away from the challenging loach.
How interesting.
It seemed that even in the fish world each Sherlock had a John Watson. He would have to keep an eye on those two.
Almost aptly his report on the real John Watson was still lying on his coffee table. It had been a most fascinating read, almost as captivating as first meeting the man himself.
Despite what his brother believed, his surveillance of and interest in Sherlock’s life had less to do with Sherlock and far more to do with him. This was simply because for every three death threats he received regarding solely himself, one would be foolish enough to threaten his family and loved ones as well. Of course with both Father and Mummy having already passed away, and being without a significant other, the only family and loved ones he had left was Sherlock, and he was damned if he was going to lose him as well.
So some security, whether Sherlock accepted or agreed with it, was necessary. For his own peace of mind at least. His brother might have a lifetime’s experience of getting into and out of trouble, but that didn’t mean that he should add to it.
John Watson had rightly concerned him.
A former soldier and doctor, with apparent PTSD, who within hours of being introduced to Sherlock was moving in with him. His military record was exemplary but erratic, and reading between the lines the good doctor appeared to have taken part in a number of missions no army doctor had any right to have been near. He had been shot in the line of duty, flown home, rehabilitated and then basically cast off into the wild. He had no family other than an alcoholic sister, no assets to fall back on and very little money. His bank balance showed a net loss each month, little helped by his apparent online gambling habit.
So here was in individual in pain and cast adrift by his support structure, lacking in direction and in desperate need of funds. A man with trust issues, abandoned by those he had been loyal to, military trained and more than capable of taking a life. He was the ideal type to be for hire; an informer, a spy… an assassin.
He had had no choice but to confront this Doctor Watson. His brother’s life could well have been at stake. There was already more than just a couple of suspects as to who could have hired such a person, but as of yet no firm leads.
He had started with scare tactics at first, a show of power to make it clear just who it was this Doctor Watson was tangling with. Then he moved onto money. A man for hire once would always be for hire again. His loyalty would always be to the highest bidder and if he could control Watson in that way he could severely limit the damage.
Watson refused the money.
That… surprised him.
He went for personal detail, the ‘I know who you are’ tactic. Watson had looked uneasy but not in the way he had expected. He called the bluff on his PTSD and left him with an ultimatum, to choose a side; him or whoever had hired him in the first place.
Watson had gone for his gun, but then surprised him.
It turned out that John Watson, doctor and former soldier, really was just that. Not a hired hand, an assassin in baggy jumpers, or some kind of spy. He truly had been introduced to Sherlock by chance and was there because he wanted to be and not because he was being paid to be.
It seemed that against all the odds, Sherlock had a new flatmate, a sidekick and a friend. John enjoyed Sherlock’s company and Sherlock likewise. They tolerated each other’s vices and idiosyncrasies and filled a gap in each other’s lives. Someone to talk to, someone to share things with, someone to make cups of tea with. 221B, with all its clutter and mess had a kind of homely feel about it. It was warm and lived in. It wasn’t the sort of state he could have lived in himself, the lack of order would unsettle his mind to the point of distraction, but it seemed to work for Sherlock.
Someone to come home to.
Shutting his observation book, he searched through the tank again just to check where Sherlock the red scat now was. He finally spotted it down in one corner, alone, no doubt sulking. But even as he watched the red scat was approached by the loach from earlier who settled nearby and seemed to simply be content to wait.
He was definitely naming that loach John Watson.
Book down he turned back to his quiet home, catching a glimpse of the Edwardian clock on the wall. Yes, it was definitely time for bed. He had a video conference with his French opposite number in less than six hours, and plenty need to be done before then.
He switched off the light and retreated to his bedroom, alone.
*-*-*
And the One Time
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 12K
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Pretty much what the title says.
Warnings: None. Just the Holmes version of sibling rivalry and jealousy.
Author’s Note: This was supposed to be a short story, but apparently I have issues. I have a younger sister, of course I have issues. :D Sorry Mycroft.
I started this on the train the day of the royal wedding. It was supposed to be a simple, quick fic, but it refused to remain that way, especially when Sherlock demanded that his side of the story be told as well. So this is the first part of a series I've titled Envy and Resentment. Coming later will be Sherlock's point of view, but this story can very much stand alone.
*-*-*
"The mere existence of an additional child or children in the family could signify Less. Less time alone with parents. Less attention for hurts and disappointments. Less approval for accomplishments. . . . No wonder children struggle so fiercely to be first or best. No wonder they mobilize all their energy to have more or most. Or better still, all." - Adele Faber
*-*-*
There were many words that Mycroft Holmes would and had used in association with his ‘relationship’ with his baby brother. Resentful was one such example. Antagonistic was another. Volatile. Difficult. Complex. At times distant. Often frustrating. Sometimes painful.
The fraternal bond between them was fraught with tension and with the expectations that each had of the other that the other had either failed to live up to or had wantonly defied. As such, disappointment was often another word that lingered silently between them, stalking up and down in No Man’s Land like an angry she-cat eyeing them both balefully and without mercy.
It seemed to him that Sherlock had always been the resentful one, even going as far as brandishing it as a symbol of honour. That was quite ridiculous, because if either of them had the right to be resentful then it was him. Obviously it was him. After all, it was always Sherlock who caused all the problems, who attracted attention like a politician sex scandal attracted the tabloids, who not only seemed to revel in chaos but also usually landed on his feet, his hair still artfully styled, his clothes barely ruffled, with a distinct feeling of the untouchable about him. Even that dark period with the drugs had been resolved with little loss of composure - well, other than for those three months that they had mutually agreed never to mention.
If he were any other man he would talk about unfairness, but since he had dealt with some of the most odious people to hold power and had seen firsthand the often miserable and oppressed lives they were apparently responsible for, he knew there was little in this world that was fair.
In short though, he knew his relationship with his brother was somewhat one sided and that the one side was absolutely and positively his. Their mother’s last request to him was that he was to look out for his brother. Come to think about it that had been one of her first requests as well, also the most frequent.
“Try and make sure Sherlock doesn’t get into trouble.”
“Watch that your brother doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“Do you think you could be a dear and have a word with your brother?”
And so on.
There were many things he had failed to do over the years but he was going to make sure that he would carry out Mummy’s last request for as long as he possibly could and to the best of his not insignificant ability, even if it meant both near constant worry and the harsh reminder of everything Sherlock had that he did not.
He was the older brother, it was his right, honour, privilege, duty and responsibility to help Sherlock and he would do so without resentment, because he was better than that. But that didn’t stop him from being just that tiny, weenie bit envious.
*-*-*
ONE
*-*-*
For six years and six and a half months he had been an only child.
This had not been a particularly bad thing. He had been more than capable of entertaining himself, and there had always been something that he could do. He had his bedroom, which was filled with nearly everything he asked for, from books to posters, to different toys to his own record player with a growing collection of his own records - Wagner was his favourite.
He was allowed nearly anywhere in the house or the gardens, but his favourite places were under the oak tree in the summer, Father’s library in the winter, and in the kitchens with Mrs Appleby at any time at all. Mrs Appleby made the most delicious bread and pastries and would often talk to him while she worked, slipping him something nice to try as she did so.
He didn’t have much chance to be lonely, what with there often being someone around - like his main tutor Mr Armstrong who taught him Mathematics, English, Literature, History, Politics, Geography, Science, Philosophy and Classics; Mr Perryman who taught him French, German, Spanish, Italian, Latin, Greek and Russian; and Miss Langsley who taught him Art, Dance and Music.
There was always someone to talk to, something to do, some book to read, music to listen to, thoughts to discuss and Mummy to make smile. He liked it when Mummy smiled. She had the prettiest of smiles and she would always listen when he told her about what he had learnt while she had been away, and sometimes she would come into his room at night and tuck him in, placing a kiss on his forehead. He loved those moments the most.
Then when he was six and six and a half months old that all changed. He just didn’t know it yet.
At six years and seven and three quarter months old he noticed that something was different. He just did not know what. He asked people of course, but no one told him anything, including Mummy. He thought about asking Father but he was still away on business. He tried to figure it out himself but nothing fitted. No one was sick, no one was leaving and nothing important had happened on the news. It was perplexing and a little frustrating, but there was nothing else to be done, so he busied himself with conjugating verbs, learning music scales and making Mummy smile.
At six years and seven and nine tenth months old, he overheard Mrs Appleby talking to Mummy and heard something that was obviously not meant for his ears. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop as that was rude but something made him stop and press against the door anyway.
“He’s asking questions you know,” Mrs Appleby was saying while she kneaded the dough. “He’s a very smart boy. He knows something is occurring.”
“I know,” Mummy said with a frown that he didn’t like to see, “but it is still early yet. I don’t want him to get his hopes up. We must wait until the twelve weeks mark at least. Then we will tell him.”
The subject changed and he drew away. Twelve weeks. He didn’t know what that meant but all he now had to do was wait.
At six years and nine and a half months his father returned from a long trip abroad. The next day he was called into the library to find both Father and Mummy waiting for him. This was it, he realised, they were finally going to tell him what was wrong.
“Mycroft, we have something important to tell you,” Father said solemnly. “Something that will change your life forever.”
“Mycroft, darling,” his mother said. “I’m going to have another baby. In six months time you are going to hopefully have a little brother or sister.”
Oh, he thought. He had not been expecting that. He did a quick calculation of what he knew about human baby growth - what was it the book had called it? Pregnancy? Nine months approximately for a human pregnancy, minus six months. Ah yes, now he understood about the twelve weeks.
“Mycroft, do you understand?” his father said gravely.
He nodded because of course he understood. In half a year's time he would have a little brother or sister who would slowly grow bigger and then he would be able to do things with them like play music, read books and talk about things.
He smiled. Mummy smiled back, a big proper smile which made him wanted to rush and hug her. He didn’t though because he didn’t want to hurt her or the baby, but he was sure she understood.
He looked up pregnancy as soon as he had the chance and read everything he could about it. He made a wall chart showing all the stages that the baby would go through and he ticked the time off on his calendar. He wanted to make sure that he knew everything.
His seventh birthday was the day he realised he was now too big to sit on Mummy’s lap, or at least Mummy’s lap was now too small for him.
He got a telescope for his birthday. He had wanted one for ages and it was perfect. He also got to feel the baby move for the first time and pressed his ear to Mummy’s tummy. It was a little strange but it made Mummy happy so it made him happy too.
When he was seven years and one and a quarter months old Mummy went to bed and stayed there. She had been tired for a long time and Doctor Forrester had come to visit. Doctor Forrester said there was nothing wrong with the baby but that it would be better if Mummy got as much rest as possible. Of course this meant that despite Mummy now being around much more since she was no longer working he still only got to see her briefly each day, and even then he didn’t like the way she looked so tired and pale in bed. He tried to make her smile but it was harder than normal and he missed the nights when she sometimes used to tuck him into bed. She reassured him that it wouldn’t be for much longer and then he would have a baby brother or sister. He told her he wanted a brother with big eyes and her smile.
She laughed and ruffled his hair, telling him that he would have to wait and see.
He was seven and two and three quarter months when he awoke to the sounds of people hurrying backwards and forwards. Hearing a car pulling up on the stones in the driveway, he rushed to the window in time to see Doctor Forrester exiting the car with a black medical bag.
Pulling on his dressing gown, he crept down the corridor to the top of the stairs that led from his floor - the top - to the middle floor where his parent’s bedroom was. Pulling his gown around him, he sat in the shadows and watched silently and forgotten as people passed below. He heard some screams. He thought it sounded like Mummy but he couldn’t be certain.
Frozen to the step, he buried his fingers in his ears and concentrated on conjugating Latin verbs - audiō, audīre, audīvī, audītum.
He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knew was someone shaking his shoulder and his father’s pale eyes in front of him. He opened his mouth to ask if it was all over now, if Mummy was alright, but the words stuck in his throat, unable to be forced out just in case the unthinkable had happened.
“Your mother is asleep,” his father said gravely as if he knew what he could not ask. “As you should be as well.”
He nodded with no complaint as he was guided to his feet and to his room.
“What happened?” he asked. “I heard… I heard her…”
“You have a brother,” Father said. “Sherlock.”
A brother? He frowned. By his calculations it was too early, over two weeks early.
“Is he?”
“He is fine,” Father said. “Small but with a powerful set of lungs on him. You can see him later, but first sleep.”
He went back to bed without protest, the terrors of the night already receding. He had a baby brother.
True to his father’s word he was allowed to see both Mummy and the new baby that afternoon. Mummy looked pale and tired, but she smiled broadly and allowed him onto the bed for a careful hug.
Sherlock though was little, very little, much smaller than the pictures in the book had suggested. He was all squishy looking as well with wisps of fair hair.
Sat on the bed, propped up against the headboard they carefully placed the child in his arms and his eyes widened as he held the small, warm bundle. He could not believe that this was his brother, this small, fragile thing wrapped in a pale green blanket was a new human being.
“Promise me something,” his mother said watching him carefully. “Promise me that whatever will happen you will always look out for him.”
He looked down at the sleeping baby, so small and helpless, and he made that promise, made it and meant it.
Of course at that age he had no concept of what that promise truly meant and even for a year or so following that day the consequences still did not come to light, because for the most part there were other people around to look after the new baby.
Mummy did not go back to work, but he still did not see any more of her because she spent much of her time looking after Sherlock. Father was as usual away on business, but when he was back he too often split his time between the two boys. Mycroft understood that because there were now two of them he would have to share his parent’s attention and sharing was a good thing, but it still took a little getting used to. Then, as Sherlock grew from an infant into a toddler and from a toddler into a small child, he started to notice something else; somehow Sherlock seemed to be getting more attention.
He thought at first that it was just his imagination, but then after yet another of his mother’s exasperated sighs of, “You’ll never guess what your brother has done now,” he started to make a table of it all and quickly concluded that it wasn’t just his imagination; Sherlock really did get considerably more attention than him. (Sherlock got told off more often as well, but that went hand and hand with the attention).
From the moment he leant how to crawl Sherlock was all over the place, always playing with something that he should not be, reaching for things not meant for him, getting into places that he should not be. Rather than being content to sit still and watch the world, or read a book, or play quietly by himself, Sherlock had to be somewhere else doing something else. As such he could not be left alone for a moment without there being the possibility of grave consequences.
When he was sixteen months old, Sherlock almost managed to drown himself in the mud of a small duck pond after somehow managing to slip out of the straps in his buggy and squeeze through the railings beside the pond before anyone noticed. It was only their mother’s quick thinking that stopped him from suffocating after he had fallen face first into the shallow, muddy water.
At two years and two months old the whole household had been thrown into a panic after it was revealed that Sherlock had disappeared from the nursery. It was the day they had been supposed to go to the Air Show. Father had gotten tickets especially after he - Mycroft - had gotten to the final of the Under Sixteens National Essay Writing competition. His essay had been on the Battle of Britain and now he was to have the chance to see those planes in action.
He had been looking forward to it for weeks.
Then Sherlock had done his vanishing act and all thoughts of planes had disappeared from everyone’s minds.
They searched for him for ages, through the house and across the grounds. Then they called the police while Mummy did her best not to cry. It was a tense frightening time for all of them.
They found him in the end though, curled up in the wardrobe in the spare room, asleep with his thumb in his mouth, hugging one of Mummy’s old jumpers. Apparently he had gone exploring, found the wardrobe open and crawled in only for the door to shut behind him. He said he had shouted but no one had heard him, so he had curled up and gone to sleep, but now he was hungry so could he have some cake?
They gave him some proper food of course, and then he had some cake.
They never made it to the air show.
“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” Mummy said patting him on the head even as her eyes wandered to where Sherlock was now spinning round and round just because he could.
They managed to go the following year, but it wasn’t the same. He was no longer as interested in the planes, although Sherlock had naturally enjoyed it, clapping and cheering when the planes zoomed over head.
Then when Sherlock was two years and nine and a half months old, Mycroft saved his life. It was the first time that happened but would not be the last.
He had only gone into the library to find Father’s book on Colonial India and he had been horrified to find little Sherlock climbing - actually climbing - up the shelves near the door, his little fingers straining for the HMS Victory preserved as a replica in a bottle. It was their Father’s prize possession, something that only came down on special occasions and never without Father present.
His brother’s name was out of his mouth in an instant and then everything seemed to slow down. As small fingers curled around the thin end of the bottle, pale eyes widened and snapped towards him. There was a moment of guilty shock and then horror as the surprise movement sent the small body twisting. Then Sherlock was falling, his body arching backwards, rushing towards the floor.
Mycroft didn’t think, just moved on instinct, faster than he had ever done in his life. In those split seconds he knew he could only save one of them, but there was no doubt in his mind as to which one it would be.
The force of gravity sent them both crashing to the ground, Sherlock’s elbow digging painfully into his stomach as they landed, but most importantly it meant that Sherlock was on top. A split second later there was a smash as the large glass bottle collided with the oak wooden flooring.
Father was going to be furious.
There was a pause of course, the span of a heartbeat or two and then Sherlock did what any small child would have done following a shock like that; he burst into tears.
Time sped up and within moments the wailing child was lifted off him and wrapped securely in Mummy’s arms. Very little was said and the glass was quickly swept up and made safe. Sherlock’s cries finally lessened to sobs, his body no longer shaking.
After Mummy briefly checked that he was alright, Mycroft stood and watched stoically as everything happened around him. Then, after watching Mummy fussing over Sherlock, he turned and went to his bedroom. Once there he quietly shut the door and did something he hadn’t done in years, he sat in the corner between the wardrobe and his bed, buried his hands in his arms, and cried.
“He’s not like you,” Mummy said to him a few years later as they sat in the garden watching Sherlock attempting to catch a butterfly with his new net and nature set. “He always needs to be doing something or else he gets bored, and you know what tends to happen when he gets bored.”
Accidents, injuries, “experiments” as Sherlock liked to call them.
Placing down his book he looked across at Mummy, noting not for the first time the new lines around her mouth and eyes, the slight frown that was there more now than the smile, the tiredness that seemed to linger over her no matter what he did to make her life that little bit easier.
“You’ve always been so much more self contained than him, able to entertain yourself, not needing near constant attention.”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes returned to her younger son and his net. She would never appreciate just how apt her words had been and how they had helped crystallise the thoughts and feelings that had been churning in Mycroft for as long as he could remember.
Jealousy was an ugly emotion and he knew he should not really be jealous of his brother, especially as Sherlock could not help being who he was, but it still hurt to realise that she was right; Sherlock stole the attention, and if he was not mistaken, he always would.
*-*-*
TWO
*-*-*
There were a lot of things that Mycroft was good at. No, that he was excellent at. He was a natural at languages, his tongue moving easily over the different sounds as his mind moved over the patterns in grammar and syntax.
He had an affinity for mathematics, a mind made for seeing patterns, for solving problems, for contemplating equations. He liked the challenge, the thrill he got when he worked through a problem logically and systematically.
He was good with names and dates, had a memory that absorbed such information, stored it methodically ready to be retrieved at any given moment. History fascinated him, the constant rise and fall of Kings and nations, Empires and civilisations. Politics attracted him in particular, the study of both people and events; the patterns, the equations, the outcomes. With enough digging and enough eye for detail - especially seemingly insignificant detail - he could unravel people and events and then find out if he had been correct, and if he hadn’t been, why.
He enjoyed it more than he could say - the minute study, the heavy books, the pay off at the end. It took time and effort but it was worth it.
There were a few things though that he was not so good at. Sport for instance. With his thicker build and interest in sedentary pursuits this was hardly surprising. Physical exertion held no interest for him. To keep Mummy happy he did what was asked of him and gradually found activities he found at least tolerable. Fencing for one, archery for another. He supposed that chess did not exactly count as a sport although he was rather good at it.
There were other things he was less good at as well, like art. He understood the principle of it, enjoyed the history and beauty, but despite his best efforts he obviously lacked the artistic streak that Mummy’s family often showed. Miss Langsley tried her best, but it was painfully clear that his talents did not that way tend. He lacked true creativity, something he was not particularly perturbed about in terms of art, but one he mourned somewhat when it came to music.
Music was one of his great loves and had been from a young age. He, however, much to his disappointment, lacked any natural flair for it. He learnt to play the piano but more as a workman than an artist. He understood it intellectually but not instinctively. Despite his best efforts his fingers remained too clumsy for the delicate movements necessary for most other instruments. So he contented himself with the one instrument and played by rule rather than passion.
For him that was enough.
Of course it was Sherlock who inherited all the artistic flare.
By the age of five Sherlock had mastered the piano almost as well as Mycroft had by twice that age. Music seemed to come easily to him. The notes - according to Sherlock - danced around his head. For a while they wondered if they had some kind of musical prodigy on their hands, but then as with most things Sherlock lost interest and moved on.
At the age of six they persuaded Sherlock to try the flute instead. He agreed and for a few months Sherlock had a new interest and various squeaky noises came from his room.
It did not last long though.
“Makes my head dizzy,” Sherlock declared once it became clear that the flute had been abandoned along with his other former interests.
Realising they might do better with a complex instrument that did not require blowing, they settled on the violin. Sherlock, seeing it for the challenge that it was, took to it with all the passion and enthusiasm of a seven year old and by the time he reached eleven and three quarters, had finally - and after much persuasion - sat and passed his grade eight exams. Mummy was so proud. Miss Langsley - with whom Sherlock seemed to have a special bond - was ecstatic.
Mycroft was very proud of his brother and made no secret in enjoying hearing him play whenever he was back from Harrow and then later Oxford, but he could not help but wonder what it might have been like to be truly able to make his own music.
*-*-*
THREE
*-*-*
If Harrow taught him how to relate to his peers of the male gender, then university brought him into contact with the fairer sex.
For all his confidence and natural intellect, he quickly came to realise that around young ladies he was far from graceful. He was fine when dealing with them on an academic standing. He was not one foolish enough to believe that women were not equal in that respects, but in any other situation, especially social ones outside of his formal experiences, he was rather at a loss. His extensive education had not equipped him for matters of the heart. So rather than taking part in the elaborate courtships that seemed to happen around him, he stood back and observed, hoping to gain some important information that might help him in the future.
He did discover some very interesting facts - that attraction and romance were not as simple or easy to predict as he had hoped. This mildly frustrated him. It appeared that intelligence, charm, attitude, confidence, behaviour, appearance and looks all seemed to play a role in the complicated dance between the sexes, but to what degree remained different in each case.
For some relationships, mainly of the sexual kind that rarely survived past the first encounter or two, intelligence took a step back and physical looks were elevated above the others, often hoisted on the broad backs of confidence and alcohol.
For more long term relationships then appearance and looks could play a key role at the beginning but would then be later pushed aside for intelligence and behaviour and introducing compatibility.
Overall it was far from simple and despite his efforts there was no formula he could develop to help him. However, when it came to his own attempts at matchmaking, it was obvious that there were a few things that did not need to be left to chance. He could always make sure he was well presented and turned out, his clothing neat, shoes polished, shirt pressed. He made sure that he listened to what a young lady told him, remembering their stories and jokes, and complimenting them in return.
There was one thing that he could not do, though, and that was change his looks.
He was, in his eyes, a rather standard looking man, neither stunningly handsome but nor by any means unattractive. He was tall, broad, well built although with a tendency to spread so he had to watch what he ate. He had a face that was recognisable but was at the same time somewhat forgettable - something he was planning on putting to his advantage later. On the downside his hair was already showing signs of thinning, but that could hardly be helped.
He looked, overall, rather like father, although with a thicker build and no moustache. It could have been far worse and he was far from unhappy. His experiences at university gave him some confidence and certainly some opportunity to improve himself, and having graduated he had taken the skills into his new job, although put on the back burner for the most part as he did not have that much time to spare on wooing someone.
Then came cousin Violet’s wedding.
It had been a rather grand affair, but then she was marrying someone with a title. It had, however, given him the opportunity of wearing a morning suit for the first time since graduating university. The suit had, he had to admit and Mummy had confirmed, made him look rather handsome.
The wedding went smoothly, and even Sherlock, now seventeen and brooding under the thick hair that had darkened considerably in the past few years, had behaved. That just left the tedium of the reception and the polite mingling that was required.
Snagging a glass of champagne, he positioned himself to the best advantage and scanned the room for who he could find. Most of the untold stories were rather tedious. Uncle Horden was still having an affair with his secretary, the chap with the laugh was in serious financial difficulty, and the bridesmaid was not going to have any luck with the head usher if the way the usher’s eyes had lingered on one of the more handsome serving boys was anything to go by.
Not the most thrilling array of humanity he had to admit, although….
His gaze alighted on a young lady talking to cousin Elspeth. She seemed nice, pretty in an understated way, passionate if her expressive hands were anything to go by, intelligent from what he had caught of their conversation, and single.
Interesting.
Mind made up, he wandered through the throng, hovering briefly while appearing to have no destination in mind before being pulled into conversation with the two young ladies.
The young lady in question turned out to be called Grace, a Literature undergraduate at Kings and a rather interesting person to talk to. They had a considerable amount in common and he found himself laughing at one of her jokes and wondering if maybe she would be amenable to meet up sometime, for tea perhaps. She was unattached, smart, from a good family and someone he felt he could grow to like very much indeed.
Then she asked him about his family.
He pointed out Mummy easily enough, alone following the death of Father the year before. Then with a small sigh he had pointed to the side of the room where Sherlock was sat, slouching in his chair with an expression of intense boredom. His long legs were crossed lazily in front of him, his tie askew, his top button undone and his usual curly hair brushed out straight and falling artfully across his forehead and into his eyes. Apparently he had not been pleased with his last hair cut, Mummy had said, so was rebelling by making it look longer than it normally would be. They had left him to it as sometimes you had to accept that there were some battles you were just not going to win.
Unfortunately for him, the next words out of Grace’s mouth thrust him firmly into a new battle that up to that moment he had not even known had existed.
“That’s your brother?” Grace had said in obvious surprise. “But he’s gorgeous.”
And there he had it, a new revelation, a new brutally honest truth and he stammered slightly as the world tilted briefly before righting itself with the truth he had failed to see up until then, that with his angular face, high cheek bones and care free attitude, Sherlock had inherited the best their family had to offer in terms of looks.
Sherlock was, as Grace had put it, gorgeous.
It was just one more thing to add to the list.
*-*-*
FOUR
*-*-*
He went because Mummy had asked him to, because after Father’s death there was no one else to go.
He knew Cambridge well but only from the point of view of an outsider. He had chosen Oxford instead, following in the family tradition, walking the corridors his ancestors had trod.
Sherlock - in his usual Sherlock way - had declared that he much rather preferred to attend Cambridge, so to Cambridge he had gone.
As such to Cambridge Mycroft now found himself searching for the place his baby brother had elected to hide himself away in. It took him a little longer than he had expected and even when he did find it he wasn’t sure if it was the right place. It was hard to believe that this was in fact his baby brother.
The bouncy curls that had darkened from fair to the traditional Holmes dark brown were gone, completely shorn off to the length that a soldier could have been proud of. His face had lost the last of his childhood roundness making him appear all high cheekbones and piercing eyes. His late growth spurt had now finished leaving them eye to eye with barely half an inch in it. He hadn’t shaved in three - no four - days from the length of his stubble, a touch fairer than the hair on his head and with a slight auburn hue when it caught the light. From experience he knew that Sherlock’s voice had deepened to a rich baritone and now faced with his brother stretched out on his bed, a rather tight t-shirt revealing a chest that was more defined than he would have expected, it was impossible to deny that his brother was now well and truly a man.
“Oh, should have guessed it would be you,” Sherlock drawled barely glancing up from the book on criminology he was reading. “Who else was Mummy going to send?”
Who else indeed. It had always been the same.
“Mycroft, go find your brother.”
“Mycroft, call your brother for dinner.”
“Mycroft, please talk to your brother. He listens to you.”
After various mild protests he had given up trying to explain to Mummy that Sherlock did not in fact listen to anyone, and certainly not to him.
“Nonsense, dear,” Mummy had said. “He’s always listened to you.”
That might have been true for a brief few years when Sherlock had been very young, but even that had changed by the time Sherlock had reached six or seven.
This time it had been, “Mycroft, could you be a dear and look in on your brother. I fear he is struggling somewhat.”
So demand issued he had dutifully rearranged his calendar and dispatched himself off to Cambridge.
“She’s just concerned for you,” he said mildly while scanning his eyes briefly around the room. Chemistry text books not on his core reading list. Violin recently used. Clothes left haphazardly across furniture. His new PC used but not currently on. Boxing gloves, that would explain his posture - bruised ribs? Two wine glasses, both used, only one by Sherlock. No lipstick or lip-gloss marks on the other though. Interesting.
“Seen enough?” Sherlock snapped. “I’m here, I’m alive, what more do you want?”
To know that he was alright of course, but he didn’t say that out loud.
“I hear you haven’t been attending your lectures,” he said instead.
He had heard more than that, some that concerned him greatly, but he thought he would start with something a little less… confrontational.
“Using your new position to spy on me? That really the best use of the tax payer’s money?” Sherlock snapped, slamming the book shut.
He blinked but hid the look of surprise. Of course he hadn’t been spying on him. There was hardly any need. People tended to tell him about what Sherlock was doing whether he wanted to hear about it or not. And even if he wasn’t being kept fully up-to-date then he still would not have considered invading his brother’s privacy to that degree.
“I am simply concerned about you,” he said neutrally. “You don’t seem particularly…” What? Happy? Content? Peaceful? “…focused.”
Sherlock snorted. “Focused?” he said springing to his feet. “Focused on what? Have you seen this place, it's so boring! The course, the people, the lecturers, boring, boring, boring. They’re so dull. No originality. No insight. Just the same small, narrowed minded ideas redressed, repackaged and regurgitated to the polite applause and congratulations on becoming ‘one of us’.”
Fingers scratched through shorn hair as Sherlock paced back and forth.
“How could you stand it? They think they’re so big, so clever, but all they do is steal work from other people, others who are brighter, more unique, more brilliant than them, amalgamate it and then pass it off as their own. And sex, they are so obsessed with screwing and drinking and killing what little minds they have. It’s so tedious, so insular, so very, very dull!”
Sherlock flopped back down on the bed, twisting onto his side to lie facing the wall.
The problem was Sherlock was right. He too had gone to university hoping to meet people who would stretch and challenge him. He too had come away disappointed. How had he stood it? He had stood it because that was what had been expected of him. The family expectations had been laid on his shoulders and he had done what they had wanted. He had always done what they had wanted. Even his present job was at least as much family expectation as it was his own interests and desires. He was following his father’s footsteps, walking the path that had been laid out for him since infancy.
Sherlock was different though. Sherlock did not concern himself with what other people thought. He just did what he wanted to do, how he wanted to do it.
He wished he could do that.
In the end he managed to drag Sherlock out of his room and found somewhere they could eat and talk. He engaged Sherlock in talking about what he did enjoy, about his new interest in boxing, in what they were going to do for Mummy’s birthday. It was rather pleasant. They even partook in their old game of deducing the people around them, although Sherlock did grow a little impatient at some of the thing he missed.
Over all it was a rather pleasant day. Far better than it might have been.
Three weeks later Sherlock dropped out of Cambridge and declared he would never go back. No amount of cajoling, arguing or tears on Mummy’s behalf were enough to persuade him otherwise. Sherlock stuck to his guns, raised two fingers up at family tradition and once again did what he wanted to do, everyone else be damned.
Despite being certain it was a terrible idea, Mycroft could not help but admire the attitude it took to do such a thing.
*-*-*
FIVE
*-*-*
Even by his standards it had been a long day.
Entering his apartment, he shifted his eyes briefly to the sensor in the corner of the hallway, patiently waiting for it to power down once it had registered his iris patterns. Some would argue that it was rather elaborate security for the private residence of a ‘minor government official’, but he had learnt that the hard way. He had no desire to go through ‘that’ again.
It had been fifty-two and a half hours since he had last been home and he could tell. It wasn’t that it had been empty all that time, it was obvious that Mrs Lee had been in to do the cleaning and he had no doubt that his dry cleaning would be hanging up and his fridge restocked with healthy ready prepared, home cooked meals, but still the place felt sparse and unlived in. Then again that was hardly surprising. All in all he spent little time here. In fact he spent far more time at his office, considerably more time in fact, to the point where the wry thought had crossed his mind that he should have claimed that as his second home.
He carefully stowed away his umbrella and hung up his jacket before making his way to the living room. There he was greeted by the bluish glow of the aquarium and the soothing hum of the tank from the moment he stepped in.
He was not a man prone to fancies or emotional sentimentality but he would admit that his fish were his pride and joy. His aquarium acted as both a pleasant distraction from the pressures of his work and as an effective form of relaxing entertainment. He had spent many an enjoyable spare hour simply sat watching his fish, feeling the tensions in his body slowly fade away even as he noted the changes in the fish behaviour or hierarchy. They also had the added benefit of being able to survive without him, especially since he had set up automatic filters, sensors and feeding systems. Not that he didn’t like doing it himself, but it gave him peace of mind that should he be unexpectedly away from his apartment for longer than planned - like today - he was not about to return to a shoal of dead fish.
Death threats were a part of his job and as such part of his life. As inconvenient as the majority of them were - and the vast majority were little more than a tiresome annoyance, amounting to little more than a vague smile and nod of acknowledgement on his behalf - they had been made doubly worse when after one such assassination attempt - pitiful, they hadn’t even managed to get into the same room as him - he had finally been able to return home after an extended ‘vacation’ to find half of his fish dead. It had taken years to re-establish the tank as he wanted it.
The moment had almost been as bad as they day he had caught five year old Sherlock standing on his desk chair, leaning over his fish tank with a small sieve obviously liberated from the kitchen, and a large saucepan filled with water resting beside him on the desk. From Sherlock’s shocked and clearly guilty expression he had not been expecting him back so soon, and from his passionate defence to Mummy later that day, he clearly hadn’t thought through the consequences of standing on a wheeled swivel chair to reach up to the shelves above the desk.
A twist of his body and Sherlock went one way as the chair went the other. It would have been okay if Sherlock had been the only casualty, the boy now more than used to scrapes and falls, but of course in his normal Sherlock way he had to make as much chaos as he could.
In this case, as the chair moved from under his feet, he automatically went to brace himself on the desk, his arms striking the handle of the saucepan with enough force to send it, the water it contained, and the two unsuspecting goldfish already retrieved from the tank - Agamemnon and Achilles - flying through the air.
Agamemnon survived the ordeal, Achilles did not.
Sherlock, his sleeve still soaked from where it had been dipping in the water, claimed he had only wanted to study them. Paris and Helen - his other two fish - never knew how close they had come to a rather dramatic end.
Sighing at the memory he took a moment to check the readouts from his current aquarium, one his brother was not allowed near. Everything looked adequate, and picking up his fish journal he jotted down the date and some observations. After all it always paid to do these things properly. He had, after all, only recently added some small black and silver stripped loaches, known for being peaceful fish but prone to being picked on, especially by red scats, a rather pretty fish but one that was generally more aggressive. One of his red scats in particular liked to flick around pretending to be the boss - he wasn’t, but the other fish seemed to humour him about it. Ah yes, there he was, and yes he was bothering some of the new loaches.
Now that was interesting.
He watched with amusement as that particular red scat was interrupted in his bothering of his new tank mates by a rather non descript loach. For a moment there appeared to be some kind of standoff, and then, much to his surprise, the red scat - who yes, in his mind was called Sherlock - suddenly seemed to back down and away from the challenging loach.
How interesting.
It seemed that even in the fish world each Sherlock had a John Watson. He would have to keep an eye on those two.
Almost aptly his report on the real John Watson was still lying on his coffee table. It had been a most fascinating read, almost as captivating as first meeting the man himself.
Despite what his brother believed, his surveillance of and interest in Sherlock’s life had less to do with Sherlock and far more to do with him. This was simply because for every three death threats he received regarding solely himself, one would be foolish enough to threaten his family and loved ones as well. Of course with both Father and Mummy having already passed away, and being without a significant other, the only family and loved ones he had left was Sherlock, and he was damned if he was going to lose him as well.
So some security, whether Sherlock accepted or agreed with it, was necessary. For his own peace of mind at least. His brother might have a lifetime’s experience of getting into and out of trouble, but that didn’t mean that he should add to it.
John Watson had rightly concerned him.
A former soldier and doctor, with apparent PTSD, who within hours of being introduced to Sherlock was moving in with him. His military record was exemplary but erratic, and reading between the lines the good doctor appeared to have taken part in a number of missions no army doctor had any right to have been near. He had been shot in the line of duty, flown home, rehabilitated and then basically cast off into the wild. He had no family other than an alcoholic sister, no assets to fall back on and very little money. His bank balance showed a net loss each month, little helped by his apparent online gambling habit.
So here was in individual in pain and cast adrift by his support structure, lacking in direction and in desperate need of funds. A man with trust issues, abandoned by those he had been loyal to, military trained and more than capable of taking a life. He was the ideal type to be for hire; an informer, a spy… an assassin.
He had had no choice but to confront this Doctor Watson. His brother’s life could well have been at stake. There was already more than just a couple of suspects as to who could have hired such a person, but as of yet no firm leads.
He had started with scare tactics at first, a show of power to make it clear just who it was this Doctor Watson was tangling with. Then he moved onto money. A man for hire once would always be for hire again. His loyalty would always be to the highest bidder and if he could control Watson in that way he could severely limit the damage.
Watson refused the money.
That… surprised him.
He went for personal detail, the ‘I know who you are’ tactic. Watson had looked uneasy but not in the way he had expected. He called the bluff on his PTSD and left him with an ultimatum, to choose a side; him or whoever had hired him in the first place.
Watson had gone for his gun, but then surprised him.
It turned out that John Watson, doctor and former soldier, really was just that. Not a hired hand, an assassin in baggy jumpers, or some kind of spy. He truly had been introduced to Sherlock by chance and was there because he wanted to be and not because he was being paid to be.
It seemed that against all the odds, Sherlock had a new flatmate, a sidekick and a friend. John enjoyed Sherlock’s company and Sherlock likewise. They tolerated each other’s vices and idiosyncrasies and filled a gap in each other’s lives. Someone to talk to, someone to share things with, someone to make cups of tea with. 221B, with all its clutter and mess had a kind of homely feel about it. It was warm and lived in. It wasn’t the sort of state he could have lived in himself, the lack of order would unsettle his mind to the point of distraction, but it seemed to work for Sherlock.
Someone to come home to.
Shutting his observation book, he searched through the tank again just to check where Sherlock the red scat now was. He finally spotted it down in one corner, alone, no doubt sulking. But even as he watched the red scat was approached by the loach from earlier who settled nearby and seemed to simply be content to wait.
He was definitely naming that loach John Watson.
Book down he turned back to his quiet home, catching a glimpse of the Edwardian clock on the wall. Yes, it was definitely time for bed. He had a video conference with his French opposite number in less than six hours, and plenty need to be done before then.
He switched off the light and retreated to his bedroom, alone.
*-*-*
And the One Time