New Fic: Five Times Mycroft was Envious of Sherlock 2/2
Previous part of the story: Five Times Mycroft was Envious of Sherlock
...And the One Time
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He had planned for it to be a special occasion, something light and pleasant, a chance to reminisce and become reacquainted with one of the most significant people of his childhood.
It did not exactly go that way.
Mrs Heath - Miss Langsley as she had once been - was turning sixty-five. Her husband had passed away two years earlier and they had never had children. From the contact he had endeavoured to keep over the years it was clear that what family she did have she was not particularly close to, no doubt one of the factors that had allowed her to spend her formative years tutoring and nurturing two precocious boys.
All things considered it made sense to him to invite her out for a pleasant afternoon meal with the option of extending further into the evening if the event went well. After all they had played as much a significant part in her life for a considerable length of time as she had in theirs, and he did like to be able to say thank you properly. One does not so easily forget the sweet, young lady who had endeavoured to develop his creative talents, however futile her efforts had been.
So he contacted her and was pleased by her delighted acceptance. He had his PA book a private room at a good but not ostentatious restaurant and rearranged his schedule to ensure they would not be interrupted.
He then invited Sherlock to join them.
It had only seemed right after all. Sherlock owed even more to the sweet natured lady who had guided him through the basics of violin playing and had encouraged his artistic talents than he did.
He should have known, however, that things would not go that smoothly after that. After all, he still had vivid memories of certain Christmas dinners - the first one after he had gone to Harrow had been particularly bad he seemed to recall. Ever the optimist that perhaps he and Sherlock could spend a few civil hours in each other's company, he had underestimated just how badly it would go.
It started when Sherlock was of course late.
This was of little matter and was hardly a surprise. Sherlock always did what Sherlock wanted to do with little thought for propriety or politeness. It did, however, give him the opportunity to reacquaint himself with the lady who he now recognised to have been his first childhood crush. All these decades and she was just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, older of course, but then he was hardly the wide eyed ten year old she remembered either. He was elated to discover that she still had her gentle prettiness and easy laugh that had captivated him so much as a child. She hugged him with real affection and he returned the embrace with warmth and delight, unable to prevent the slight blush when she pressed her lips briefly to his cheek.
His afternoon cleared of all pressing engagements - the Greek Ambassador would just have to wait - he allowed himself the luxury of ordering a good bottle of wine and savouring each sip as they conversed about everything and nothing.
Then Sherlock arrived, swooping in with that overly dramatic fashion he had, John somewhat unsurprisingly at his heels. The good doctor had not been included in the initial invitation and at least looked a little embarrassed to be there. Sherlock of course was not the least apologetic, ignoring the normal protocol for the notion of ‘invite me, invite my flatmate’.
He signalled for another table setting, refusing to turn this into an argument right from the start and watched as Sherlock altered before his very eyes.
“Miss Langsley,” Sherlock said, opening her arms to envelope her in a large hug.
She laughed, hugging him back, planting a warm kiss on his cheek.
“It’s Mrs Heath now,” she said with a laugh, leaning back to study him. “I got married, but I would much rather you called me Rebecca.”
“That might be,” Sherlock said all smooth and silkily, “but you will always be Miss Langsley to me. John, may I introduce you to the best art, dance and music teacher a boy could have ever wished for. It was under her guidance that I became the violinist I am today. Miss Langsley… Rebecca… my flatmate, colleague and friend, Doctor John Watson.”
Sherlock was preening. There was no other word for it. Had he been a peacock his feathers would have been raised and spread, shaking in a complex little dance. It wasn’t that he had anything against John, in fact he was more than a little thankful for the doctor’s stable presence in his brother’s otherwise chaotic life, but was it really that necessary to show off, highlighting the fact that unlike himself, Sherlock had someone to bring to such a gathering?
He flicked his eyes over Sherlock’s form and then confirmed what he had deduced by briefly inspecting John.
“Interesting case?” he said, deciding it was hardly worth pointing out Sherlock’s lack of time keeping skills. “I take it the husband did not take too kindly to being caught.”
“It was moderately distracting, yes,” Sherlock said taking a seat and motioning to John to do likewise. “I see you’ve started without us. Off the diet again today?”
He tried not to bristle. Sherlock always knew where to thrust the knife and then twist. He could keep his composure flawlessly when surrounded by politicians and businessmen and people who thought they were important but in the grand scheme of things were little more than glorified pawns. Yet faced with Sherlock and he suddenly found all the facades cracking and his inner twelve year old slipping out. Or his inner thirteen year old, the one who had just come home from Harrow for the first time to be greeted by the words, ‘You’re late… and you’ve got fat,’ from his surly younger brother. That had been a long Christmas break.
“One treat is not unreasonable,” he said evenly. “But we cannot all be bless with your… metabolism.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but was prevented from retorting by Miss Langsley - Rebecca - who rested her hand over Sherlock’s.
“You’re looking well,” she said smoothly to Sherlock. “Mycroft tells me you’re some kind of detective now.”
“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock said. “The only one in the world. I invented the job.”
Naturally the next fifteen minutes consisted of Sherlock telling her all about his latest escapades, The Man with the Twisted Lip and The Soho Vampire with some comment from John, but for the most part it was all Sherlock.
Well of course it was. Because in some things nothing ever changes.
He settled back and did what he always did, sliding momentarily into the background, an art he had mastered over many years and perfected in government.
They did, however, manage to order their food with relative ease and politeness.
“Wait, so you two were home schooled?” John said after a tale of mischief and woe regarding four year old Sherlock and finger paints - mischief - and some rather painful attempts at learning how to waltz - woe.
“Hmm, yes, of course,” he replied sipping at the rather excellent glass of wine. “Until the autumn of our fourteenth years.”
“Try not to look so surprised, John,” Sherlock said in an amused tone. “It’s not difficult to deduce.”
“Yes,” John managed to say, “true, but it’s hardly norm- oh what am I saying? No, no, you’re right, it all now makes perfect sense. Your fourteenth years? A bit random isn’t it? Did they run out of things for you to learn, or….”
There was a pause as they all waited for John to catch up, which he did with a slight groan.
“You went to some sort of public school, didn’t you?”
“Very good,” Sherlock said with an expression of pride.
“Eton?” John said clearly guessing.
“Harrow,” he confirmed beating Sherlock to it. Of course Sherlock scowled lightly in his direction. John failed to notice, being as he was half choking on his food.
“Oh, god,” John managed, “for a moment there I thought you were going to say Hogwarts.”
Hogwarts? Ah yes, Potter, Rowling, wizards, Scotland.
He quirked his lips. “Not too dissimilar, I’m sure,” he said ignoring Sherlock’s confused expression. Clearly it was another part of modern culture that Sherlock had neglected.
“That was the last time I really saw them,” Miss Langsley - Rebecca - said, clearly taking pity on Sherlock. “Sherlock was thirteen, Mycroft obviously already at Oxford. Did you go to Oxford, Sherlock?”
Sherlock shifted a touch in his seat.
“Cambridge.”
“How wonderful. Did you enjoy it?”
“It was hateful.”
It was amazing how much feeling Sherlock could put into one simple word.
“Sherlock rather decided that University was not for him,” he said as delicately as he could.
That did earn him a death look.
“I lack Mycroft’s skill in dealing with mediocrity and sycophants,” Sherlock said bitingly. “The lectures were boring, the tutors were uninspiring and my fellow classmates were mostly imbeciles. I tolerated it for eighteen months before deciding my time could be far better spent elsewhere.”
Yes, a lot of that time had been spent blitzing his way through his trust fund once he turned twenty-one.
“Not all of us can be Mycroft,” Sherlock finished.
He shot Sherlock a tight smile. “I just did what I could,” he said keeping his voice level.
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, “I am well aware of what you can do. Our mother and just about everyone else were more than free with telling me.”
“Mummy was just rather upset by your decision to drop out,” he pointed out neutrally, trying not to wince as he remembered having to watch her pretend not to cry, especially after Sherlock had stormed out of the house.
“Mummy was just upset that I wasn’t you,” Sherlock said.
He pursed his lips together. “She only ever wanted the best for you.”
“No, she wanted me to be you,” Sherlock said. “Which is a ridiculous idea. Why inflict such an ordeal on the world? Not that that stopped Mummy from trying. All I ever heard was, ‘why can’t you be more like your brother?’”
“Sherlock. Mycroft.”
“I’m sure Mummy didn’t mean it like that,” he said as smoothly as he could. “She mostly cared about you finding something that made you happy. Like your music.”
“Yes, so you insist,” Sherlock said, “but the only person who cared about my music, truly cared, was Miss Langsley.”
He frowned and shook his head. “That’s not true,” he said. “I always cared about your music.”
Sherlock scoffed. “You humoured me. There’s a difference. You only encouraged me to try the flute because there was no way I could compete with you on the piano.”
“Compete with me?”
He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, searching desperately for some sort of clue as to what his brother was really thinking, but everything pointed to the fact that Sherlock truly believed what he was saying.
“You have always been the far better musician,” he said slowly. “That was obvious when at five you were playing the same pieces I was at twelve. I only encouraged you to try the flute because you lost interest in the piano and your talents were far too good to go to waste.”
“I didn’t lose interest in the piano,” Sherlock said, “I just realised it was pointless. It was obvious I was never going to be able to play it like you.”
“Like me?”
“Perfectly,” Sherlock said sounding as if he was forcing the word out.
For a moment he just stared at Sherlock again this time silenced in astonishment. Sherlock’s playing of the piano had always been a thing of beauty, to watch his small, young fingers dance across the keys while he bit his lip in concentration had been mesmerising.
“You played the flute?” John said breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Sherlock said rather sharply. “For a while at least.”
“Why did you stop?” John said.
“I became dissatisfied with it when I realised I couldn’t play it when angry or upset.”
Was that what that had all been about? Neither Mummy nor Father had told him that that part. All he had heard was that six year old Sherlock was refusing to play anymore.
“You told Mummy it made your head feel dizzy,” he said softly wondering how he could have missed something that obvious. Of course he wouldn’t have been able to play it while he was emotional and no doubt it wouldn’t have helped his thinking either.
“Obvious,” Sherlock said.
“So is that why you took up the violin?” John said.
“Oh, do you still play?” Miss Langs- Rebecca asked looking at Sherlock.
“Yes,” Sherlock said as John muttered something about 3am in the morning.
This at least led them onto the less volatile subjects of music and then art, neither of which he was particularly talented in but did allow them to finish their main meal and consider the dessert menu.
“So have they always been like this?” John asked as the menus were collected again. “This… bickering.”
“In some respects very much so,” Miss… Rebecca said shooting both him and Sherlock an amused but gentle smile. “There has always been some rivalry and animosity between them but it wasn’t nearly as bad when they were younger. They used to work well together. I remember when Mycroft used to take Sherlock to feed the ducks. It was the most adorable sight ever, Sherlock with his fair curls and dungarees…”
“Fair curls?” John said with a wide grin.
“Oh yes,” Rebecca continued, “I would have hardly recognised him now, except for those eyes. Your eyes haven’t changed one bit, Sherlock love, and you’re just as handsome as I knew you would be.”
Self-preservation had him ignoring the smug look on Sherlock’s face.
“It’s a shame that the relationship between the two of you had to change.”
“Well, it was Mycroft’s fault,” Sherlock said.
He raised his eyebrows. “My fault?”
How could it have possibly have been his fault? He had done the sacrificing after all. He had done all the running around, all the looking after, all the hard work.
“If I recall,” he continued, “you were the one who started ignoring me.”
“After you abandoned me.”
He abandoned him? He raised his eyebrow.
“I didn’t abandon you. I went to school,” he said.
“Yes,” Sherlock said sharply, “and left me with Mummy and all those idiots she kept making me socialise with.”
He forced himself not to wince. He had warned Mummy that it wouldn’t be a good idea but she had been determined that Sherlock should learn how to interact with his own peers.
“I can hardly be blamed for that,” he said.
“Yes, but you were always the perfect one.”
“And you were the passionate one,” he bit back.
“Passionate but not perfect. Second class. Not as good.”
He gave a small laugh. “That’s not true, you’re brilliant. I’ve always said so.”
Sherlock scowled. “And yet clearly not as brilliant as you. Mummy always made that so very clear.”
“Don’t be so childish, Mummy never compared us.”
“Never compared you to me, you mean. I was forever being told to be more like you.”
“And yet she spent far more time with you than she did with me.”
“Hardly.”
“Of course she did.” He didn’t mention that he had made a chart about it when he had been eleven. He didn’t think Sherlock would take that particularly well.
“Scolding me, shouting at me, telling me off, maybe,” Sherlock said.
“Partly, perhaps,” he conceded thinking back to the chart, “but everything we did revolved around you. ‘I’m sorry, Mycroft, we can’t do that, Sherlock would never sit still long enough’. ‘I’m sorry, Mycroft, you know Sherlock won’t eat that’. ‘I’m sorry, Mycroft, we’ll get you another goldfish, you know what you brother’s like’.
“Oh, not the goldfish incident again,” Sherlock groaned. “I was five. You had fish, I needed fish. It was as simple as that.”
He pursed his lips together. “You killed one of them.”
“I didn’t mean to. It was an experiment.”
“You never asked.”
“You weren’t there.”
“You could have waited.”
“You wouldn’t have let me anyway.”
“They were my fish. I was well within my entitlement to prohibit you from experimenting on them.”
“You went out of your way to stop me from doing anything interesting.”
“I went out of my way to keep you safe.”
“You were always Mummy’s favourite.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, that was you, her golden child, quite literally if you recall.”
“Ha, as if she ever cared about that. From what she dressed me in she probably wanted a girl, and anyway, I was never as good as you.”
“I was seven years older,” he said gravely, “you just couldn’t wait to grow up.”
“That’s because you always got to do the more interesting things.”
“Which you got to do far sooner than I ever did.”
“That’s hardly my fault. Do you have any idea what it was like knowing that you were the one that got everything.”
“I got everything?”
“Yes, everything. Look at you, you’re older, brighter, taller.”
“I can hardly do anything about my age or height, but you’re just as bright, just as brilliant, and you got the artist talent and the looks.”
“Artistic talent? You speak twenty-two languages fluently, thirteen of them like a native, understand and can get by with half a dozen more, and that doesn’t include Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic, Old Testament Hebrew, Esperanto, Sign Language, Semaphore and Morse Code. Have I missed any?”
He decided not to remind him of Egyptian Hieroglyphics.
“I, on the other hand, only managed to master less than half of those. You may remember how disappointed Mummy was. And you think some ability with a brush and a bow is going to make up for that?”
“You have more talent with language than I have with the artistic pursuits,” he pointed out.
“You waltz, Mummy put your watercolours up on the wall, you nailed Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.”
He frowned. “I attempt to not tread on my partner’s toes or embarrass myself, my watercolours went with Mummy’s colour scheme, and it took me five years of hard practice to nail the first movement of Moonlight Sonata. It took you less than six months.”
For a moment he saw a flicker of something that might have been akin to confusion or doubt cross Sherlock’s face.
“And yet Mummy made no effort to hide the fact she loved you more, and you never bothered to pretend that I was anything more than a nuisance and an inconvenience.”
The words struck like a blow to the chest, compressing his heart as surely as the heart attack that had killed Father. It was rare for him to be caught off guard or to hear something that unexpected that for a long moment he struggled with how to respond.
He had been looking out for Sherlock for so long now that it had basically become second nature. It was something that he did as surely as dressing in a three piece suit and carrying an umbrella. He was the older brother, it was both his responsibility and his privilege to do so. When Mummy had said to him to go talk to Sherlock, to go help Sherlock, to go and advise Sherlock, he had, sometimes more reluctantly or put upon than others, but he had always gone. It never occurred to him that Sherlock would view it somewhat differently. Nor had it occurred to him that Mummy’s sighs and worry could ever have been read as anything less than her unconditional love for her youngest son.
He went to say something but found that for once he was without words.
He closed his mouth again and pressed his lips together.
Sherlock scowled at him and then rose to his feat, dropping his napkin onto his plate.
“Come along, John,” Sherlock said firmly, “we’re leaving.”
John was shooting them concerned looks, his eyes darting between them, but he dutifully rose to his feet as Sherlock turned to bid farewell to Rebecca.
“Sherlock, you need to sit down,” Rebecca said softly, placing her hand over his.
Sherlock graced her with a pleasant and apologetic smile but made no effort to retake his seat.
“You were always my favourite tutor,” he said instead, “and I’m sorry you had to witness yet another of our… disagreements… but we really should go.”
“Sherlock,” he managed rising to his feet to face his brother.
“I believe you’ve said enough, Mycroft,” Sherlock all but spat. “John, come on.”
“Sherlock. Mycroft. Sit down, now.”
It was a tone of voice he had not heard in over two decades and yet it resonated through him just had it had when he had been a child. His knees started to bend automatically and a quick glance at Sherlock showed that he too was at least fighting the natural instinct to return to his chair.
Opening his mouth he went to protest but stopped when he saw Miss Langsley’s face, the disapproving frown that he remembered so well, the way she met and kept his gaze showing that she would not take no for an answer. There was, after all, a reason why she had lasted so long as their tutor.
He sat and was gratified when Sherlock sat also, his mouth starting to form a much remembered pout.
He had a reasonably good idea of what was going through John’s head though. The good doctor had never been one for hiding his thoughts or emotions and his slightly wide eyed look of poorly contained amazement as he retook his seat also was not the hardest to read.
“Now, boys,” Miss Langsley was saying. “It is quite obvious that you two have rather a lot of talking to do. No Sherlock, you will have your time to talk, but right now I am speaking. It is quite clear that the issues you had as children have only increased with age and they obviously need addressing. Now, I am no fool to think that everything can be sorted out in one sitting, so don’t look at me like that, Mycroft.”
He hadn’t been aware that he had been looking like anything.
“But in a moment I am going to request that John here accompanies me for a trip to the small gallery I saw just down the road. When we get back I expect both of you to still be in this room. What you do while we are away is up to you, but first I would just like to remind you of a fond memory of mine.
“Mycroft you must have been about eight as Sherlock you were about seventeen months old. Your mother had allowed you to go to the park and feed the ducks, or dacks as you used to call them back then Sherlock.”
Scowling, Sherlock averted his eyes.
“It was one of your favourite past times, Sherlock,” Miss Langsley continued. “And yours too, Mycroft believe it or not. In fact it helped bring about your first sentence, Sherlock. Do you remember what that was, Mycroft.”
Sherlock’s first sentence? He sent his mind back, finally managing to vaguely pull on images of that particularly incident.
“I believe it was akin to, ‘No, no, no, my dacks.’”
Sherlock’s scowl deepened. It wasn’t that much different to the look his seventeen month old self had had while at the park and being told they had to go home because the ducks were all gone. Now that he recalled, much of what Sherlock had said at that age had involved possessive ownership. It had all been ‘my dacks’, or ‘my book’, or ‘my cake’.
“Almost right,” Miss Langsley said with a small smile. “Actually, what he said was, ‘No, no, no, My, dacks.’”
He frowned running the sentence back through his head. He noted the emphasis in what she had said but could not determine why that was important.
“You used to take him to the park,” Miss Langsley said to him softly. “You used to play with him, read to him, bounce him up and down. Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, you used to sing to him. Did you never realise, Mycroft, love? It wasn’t ‘my’ he was saying, as in belonging to him, it was ‘My’ as in short for Mycroft. ‘No, no, no, Mycroft, look, there are the ducks’.”
It was as if her words had sucked the air out of the room.
He had forgotten. How could he have forgotten? Sherlock laughing as he tickled him. Sherlock lifting his arms up to be swung round and round. Sherlock crawling into his lap for a story and then falling asleep, thumb in mouth.
‘No, no, no, My, dacks.’
Or had he just not realised? Why hadn’t he realised?
Sherlock had liked him at some point, idolised him even, addressed everything to him, and then that had changed. How had that changed? What was it Sherlock had said, he had abandoned him?
Could that have really have been it? No, not quite, there were more issues there than just that. Issues on both sides.
“Good, you’re both now using those brilliant minds of yours,” Miss Langsley said rising to her feet. “John, I believe that is our cue to leave them to it. And boys.”
He looked across at her, the young face he remembered now lined and grey, but still so commanding and wise.
“Use this opportunity wisely.”
Then she and John were both gone, and it was just him and Sherlock left, a lifetime of envy and resentment between them.
*-*-*
The End
Series to be continued with Sherlock's story.
...And the One Time
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He had planned for it to be a special occasion, something light and pleasant, a chance to reminisce and become reacquainted with one of the most significant people of his childhood.
It did not exactly go that way.
Mrs Heath - Miss Langsley as she had once been - was turning sixty-five. Her husband had passed away two years earlier and they had never had children. From the contact he had endeavoured to keep over the years it was clear that what family she did have she was not particularly close to, no doubt one of the factors that had allowed her to spend her formative years tutoring and nurturing two precocious boys.
All things considered it made sense to him to invite her out for a pleasant afternoon meal with the option of extending further into the evening if the event went well. After all they had played as much a significant part in her life for a considerable length of time as she had in theirs, and he did like to be able to say thank you properly. One does not so easily forget the sweet, young lady who had endeavoured to develop his creative talents, however futile her efforts had been.
So he contacted her and was pleased by her delighted acceptance. He had his PA book a private room at a good but not ostentatious restaurant and rearranged his schedule to ensure they would not be interrupted.
He then invited Sherlock to join them.
It had only seemed right after all. Sherlock owed even more to the sweet natured lady who had guided him through the basics of violin playing and had encouraged his artistic talents than he did.
He should have known, however, that things would not go that smoothly after that. After all, he still had vivid memories of certain Christmas dinners - the first one after he had gone to Harrow had been particularly bad he seemed to recall. Ever the optimist that perhaps he and Sherlock could spend a few civil hours in each other's company, he had underestimated just how badly it would go.
It started when Sherlock was of course late.
This was of little matter and was hardly a surprise. Sherlock always did what Sherlock wanted to do with little thought for propriety or politeness. It did, however, give him the opportunity to reacquaint himself with the lady who he now recognised to have been his first childhood crush. All these decades and she was just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, older of course, but then he was hardly the wide eyed ten year old she remembered either. He was elated to discover that she still had her gentle prettiness and easy laugh that had captivated him so much as a child. She hugged him with real affection and he returned the embrace with warmth and delight, unable to prevent the slight blush when she pressed her lips briefly to his cheek.
His afternoon cleared of all pressing engagements - the Greek Ambassador would just have to wait - he allowed himself the luxury of ordering a good bottle of wine and savouring each sip as they conversed about everything and nothing.
Then Sherlock arrived, swooping in with that overly dramatic fashion he had, John somewhat unsurprisingly at his heels. The good doctor had not been included in the initial invitation and at least looked a little embarrassed to be there. Sherlock of course was not the least apologetic, ignoring the normal protocol for the notion of ‘invite me, invite my flatmate’.
He signalled for another table setting, refusing to turn this into an argument right from the start and watched as Sherlock altered before his very eyes.
“Miss Langsley,” Sherlock said, opening her arms to envelope her in a large hug.
She laughed, hugging him back, planting a warm kiss on his cheek.
“It’s Mrs Heath now,” she said with a laugh, leaning back to study him. “I got married, but I would much rather you called me Rebecca.”
“That might be,” Sherlock said all smooth and silkily, “but you will always be Miss Langsley to me. John, may I introduce you to the best art, dance and music teacher a boy could have ever wished for. It was under her guidance that I became the violinist I am today. Miss Langsley… Rebecca… my flatmate, colleague and friend, Doctor John Watson.”
Sherlock was preening. There was no other word for it. Had he been a peacock his feathers would have been raised and spread, shaking in a complex little dance. It wasn’t that he had anything against John, in fact he was more than a little thankful for the doctor’s stable presence in his brother’s otherwise chaotic life, but was it really that necessary to show off, highlighting the fact that unlike himself, Sherlock had someone to bring to such a gathering?
He flicked his eyes over Sherlock’s form and then confirmed what he had deduced by briefly inspecting John.
“Interesting case?” he said, deciding it was hardly worth pointing out Sherlock’s lack of time keeping skills. “I take it the husband did not take too kindly to being caught.”
“It was moderately distracting, yes,” Sherlock said taking a seat and motioning to John to do likewise. “I see you’ve started without us. Off the diet again today?”
He tried not to bristle. Sherlock always knew where to thrust the knife and then twist. He could keep his composure flawlessly when surrounded by politicians and businessmen and people who thought they were important but in the grand scheme of things were little more than glorified pawns. Yet faced with Sherlock and he suddenly found all the facades cracking and his inner twelve year old slipping out. Or his inner thirteen year old, the one who had just come home from Harrow for the first time to be greeted by the words, ‘You’re late… and you’ve got fat,’ from his surly younger brother. That had been a long Christmas break.
“One treat is not unreasonable,” he said evenly. “But we cannot all be bless with your… metabolism.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but was prevented from retorting by Miss Langsley - Rebecca - who rested her hand over Sherlock’s.
“You’re looking well,” she said smoothly to Sherlock. “Mycroft tells me you’re some kind of detective now.”
“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock said. “The only one in the world. I invented the job.”
Naturally the next fifteen minutes consisted of Sherlock telling her all about his latest escapades, The Man with the Twisted Lip and The Soho Vampire with some comment from John, but for the most part it was all Sherlock.
Well of course it was. Because in some things nothing ever changes.
He settled back and did what he always did, sliding momentarily into the background, an art he had mastered over many years and perfected in government.
They did, however, manage to order their food with relative ease and politeness.
“Wait, so you two were home schooled?” John said after a tale of mischief and woe regarding four year old Sherlock and finger paints - mischief - and some rather painful attempts at learning how to waltz - woe.
“Hmm, yes, of course,” he replied sipping at the rather excellent glass of wine. “Until the autumn of our fourteenth years.”
“Try not to look so surprised, John,” Sherlock said in an amused tone. “It’s not difficult to deduce.”
“Yes,” John managed to say, “true, but it’s hardly norm- oh what am I saying? No, no, you’re right, it all now makes perfect sense. Your fourteenth years? A bit random isn’t it? Did they run out of things for you to learn, or….”
There was a pause as they all waited for John to catch up, which he did with a slight groan.
“You went to some sort of public school, didn’t you?”
“Very good,” Sherlock said with an expression of pride.
“Eton?” John said clearly guessing.
“Harrow,” he confirmed beating Sherlock to it. Of course Sherlock scowled lightly in his direction. John failed to notice, being as he was half choking on his food.
“Oh, god,” John managed, “for a moment there I thought you were going to say Hogwarts.”
Hogwarts? Ah yes, Potter, Rowling, wizards, Scotland.
He quirked his lips. “Not too dissimilar, I’m sure,” he said ignoring Sherlock’s confused expression. Clearly it was another part of modern culture that Sherlock had neglected.
“That was the last time I really saw them,” Miss Langsley - Rebecca - said, clearly taking pity on Sherlock. “Sherlock was thirteen, Mycroft obviously already at Oxford. Did you go to Oxford, Sherlock?”
Sherlock shifted a touch in his seat.
“Cambridge.”
“How wonderful. Did you enjoy it?”
“It was hateful.”
It was amazing how much feeling Sherlock could put into one simple word.
“Sherlock rather decided that University was not for him,” he said as delicately as he could.
That did earn him a death look.
“I lack Mycroft’s skill in dealing with mediocrity and sycophants,” Sherlock said bitingly. “The lectures were boring, the tutors were uninspiring and my fellow classmates were mostly imbeciles. I tolerated it for eighteen months before deciding my time could be far better spent elsewhere.”
Yes, a lot of that time had been spent blitzing his way through his trust fund once he turned twenty-one.
“Not all of us can be Mycroft,” Sherlock finished.
He shot Sherlock a tight smile. “I just did what I could,” he said keeping his voice level.
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, “I am well aware of what you can do. Our mother and just about everyone else were more than free with telling me.”
“Mummy was just rather upset by your decision to drop out,” he pointed out neutrally, trying not to wince as he remembered having to watch her pretend not to cry, especially after Sherlock had stormed out of the house.
“Mummy was just upset that I wasn’t you,” Sherlock said.
He pursed his lips together. “She only ever wanted the best for you.”
“No, she wanted me to be you,” Sherlock said. “Which is a ridiculous idea. Why inflict such an ordeal on the world? Not that that stopped Mummy from trying. All I ever heard was, ‘why can’t you be more like your brother?’”
“Sherlock. Mycroft.”
“I’m sure Mummy didn’t mean it like that,” he said as smoothly as he could. “She mostly cared about you finding something that made you happy. Like your music.”
“Yes, so you insist,” Sherlock said, “but the only person who cared about my music, truly cared, was Miss Langsley.”
He frowned and shook his head. “That’s not true,” he said. “I always cared about your music.”
Sherlock scoffed. “You humoured me. There’s a difference. You only encouraged me to try the flute because there was no way I could compete with you on the piano.”
“Compete with me?”
He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, searching desperately for some sort of clue as to what his brother was really thinking, but everything pointed to the fact that Sherlock truly believed what he was saying.
“You have always been the far better musician,” he said slowly. “That was obvious when at five you were playing the same pieces I was at twelve. I only encouraged you to try the flute because you lost interest in the piano and your talents were far too good to go to waste.”
“I didn’t lose interest in the piano,” Sherlock said, “I just realised it was pointless. It was obvious I was never going to be able to play it like you.”
“Like me?”
“Perfectly,” Sherlock said sounding as if he was forcing the word out.
For a moment he just stared at Sherlock again this time silenced in astonishment. Sherlock’s playing of the piano had always been a thing of beauty, to watch his small, young fingers dance across the keys while he bit his lip in concentration had been mesmerising.
“You played the flute?” John said breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Sherlock said rather sharply. “For a while at least.”
“Why did you stop?” John said.
“I became dissatisfied with it when I realised I couldn’t play it when angry or upset.”
Was that what that had all been about? Neither Mummy nor Father had told him that that part. All he had heard was that six year old Sherlock was refusing to play anymore.
“You told Mummy it made your head feel dizzy,” he said softly wondering how he could have missed something that obvious. Of course he wouldn’t have been able to play it while he was emotional and no doubt it wouldn’t have helped his thinking either.
“Obvious,” Sherlock said.
“So is that why you took up the violin?” John said.
“Oh, do you still play?” Miss Langs- Rebecca asked looking at Sherlock.
“Yes,” Sherlock said as John muttered something about 3am in the morning.
This at least led them onto the less volatile subjects of music and then art, neither of which he was particularly talented in but did allow them to finish their main meal and consider the dessert menu.
“So have they always been like this?” John asked as the menus were collected again. “This… bickering.”
“In some respects very much so,” Miss… Rebecca said shooting both him and Sherlock an amused but gentle smile. “There has always been some rivalry and animosity between them but it wasn’t nearly as bad when they were younger. They used to work well together. I remember when Mycroft used to take Sherlock to feed the ducks. It was the most adorable sight ever, Sherlock with his fair curls and dungarees…”
“Fair curls?” John said with a wide grin.
“Oh yes,” Rebecca continued, “I would have hardly recognised him now, except for those eyes. Your eyes haven’t changed one bit, Sherlock love, and you’re just as handsome as I knew you would be.”
Self-preservation had him ignoring the smug look on Sherlock’s face.
“It’s a shame that the relationship between the two of you had to change.”
“Well, it was Mycroft’s fault,” Sherlock said.
He raised his eyebrows. “My fault?”
How could it have possibly have been his fault? He had done the sacrificing after all. He had done all the running around, all the looking after, all the hard work.
“If I recall,” he continued, “you were the one who started ignoring me.”
“After you abandoned me.”
He abandoned him? He raised his eyebrow.
“I didn’t abandon you. I went to school,” he said.
“Yes,” Sherlock said sharply, “and left me with Mummy and all those idiots she kept making me socialise with.”
He forced himself not to wince. He had warned Mummy that it wouldn’t be a good idea but she had been determined that Sherlock should learn how to interact with his own peers.
“I can hardly be blamed for that,” he said.
“Yes, but you were always the perfect one.”
“And you were the passionate one,” he bit back.
“Passionate but not perfect. Second class. Not as good.”
He gave a small laugh. “That’s not true, you’re brilliant. I’ve always said so.”
Sherlock scowled. “And yet clearly not as brilliant as you. Mummy always made that so very clear.”
“Don’t be so childish, Mummy never compared us.”
“Never compared you to me, you mean. I was forever being told to be more like you.”
“And yet she spent far more time with you than she did with me.”
“Hardly.”
“Of course she did.” He didn’t mention that he had made a chart about it when he had been eleven. He didn’t think Sherlock would take that particularly well.
“Scolding me, shouting at me, telling me off, maybe,” Sherlock said.
“Partly, perhaps,” he conceded thinking back to the chart, “but everything we did revolved around you. ‘I’m sorry, Mycroft, we can’t do that, Sherlock would never sit still long enough’. ‘I’m sorry, Mycroft, you know Sherlock won’t eat that’. ‘I’m sorry, Mycroft, we’ll get you another goldfish, you know what you brother’s like’.
“Oh, not the goldfish incident again,” Sherlock groaned. “I was five. You had fish, I needed fish. It was as simple as that.”
He pursed his lips together. “You killed one of them.”
“I didn’t mean to. It was an experiment.”
“You never asked.”
“You weren’t there.”
“You could have waited.”
“You wouldn’t have let me anyway.”
“They were my fish. I was well within my entitlement to prohibit you from experimenting on them.”
“You went out of your way to stop me from doing anything interesting.”
“I went out of my way to keep you safe.”
“You were always Mummy’s favourite.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, that was you, her golden child, quite literally if you recall.”
“Ha, as if she ever cared about that. From what she dressed me in she probably wanted a girl, and anyway, I was never as good as you.”
“I was seven years older,” he said gravely, “you just couldn’t wait to grow up.”
“That’s because you always got to do the more interesting things.”
“Which you got to do far sooner than I ever did.”
“That’s hardly my fault. Do you have any idea what it was like knowing that you were the one that got everything.”
“I got everything?”
“Yes, everything. Look at you, you’re older, brighter, taller.”
“I can hardly do anything about my age or height, but you’re just as bright, just as brilliant, and you got the artist talent and the looks.”
“Artistic talent? You speak twenty-two languages fluently, thirteen of them like a native, understand and can get by with half a dozen more, and that doesn’t include Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic, Old Testament Hebrew, Esperanto, Sign Language, Semaphore and Morse Code. Have I missed any?”
He decided not to remind him of Egyptian Hieroglyphics.
“I, on the other hand, only managed to master less than half of those. You may remember how disappointed Mummy was. And you think some ability with a brush and a bow is going to make up for that?”
“You have more talent with language than I have with the artistic pursuits,” he pointed out.
“You waltz, Mummy put your watercolours up on the wall, you nailed Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.”
He frowned. “I attempt to not tread on my partner’s toes or embarrass myself, my watercolours went with Mummy’s colour scheme, and it took me five years of hard practice to nail the first movement of Moonlight Sonata. It took you less than six months.”
For a moment he saw a flicker of something that might have been akin to confusion or doubt cross Sherlock’s face.
“And yet Mummy made no effort to hide the fact she loved you more, and you never bothered to pretend that I was anything more than a nuisance and an inconvenience.”
The words struck like a blow to the chest, compressing his heart as surely as the heart attack that had killed Father. It was rare for him to be caught off guard or to hear something that unexpected that for a long moment he struggled with how to respond.
He had been looking out for Sherlock for so long now that it had basically become second nature. It was something that he did as surely as dressing in a three piece suit and carrying an umbrella. He was the older brother, it was both his responsibility and his privilege to do so. When Mummy had said to him to go talk to Sherlock, to go help Sherlock, to go and advise Sherlock, he had, sometimes more reluctantly or put upon than others, but he had always gone. It never occurred to him that Sherlock would view it somewhat differently. Nor had it occurred to him that Mummy’s sighs and worry could ever have been read as anything less than her unconditional love for her youngest son.
He went to say something but found that for once he was without words.
He closed his mouth again and pressed his lips together.
Sherlock scowled at him and then rose to his feat, dropping his napkin onto his plate.
“Come along, John,” Sherlock said firmly, “we’re leaving.”
John was shooting them concerned looks, his eyes darting between them, but he dutifully rose to his feet as Sherlock turned to bid farewell to Rebecca.
“Sherlock, you need to sit down,” Rebecca said softly, placing her hand over his.
Sherlock graced her with a pleasant and apologetic smile but made no effort to retake his seat.
“You were always my favourite tutor,” he said instead, “and I’m sorry you had to witness yet another of our… disagreements… but we really should go.”
“Sherlock,” he managed rising to his feet to face his brother.
“I believe you’ve said enough, Mycroft,” Sherlock all but spat. “John, come on.”
“Sherlock. Mycroft. Sit down, now.”
It was a tone of voice he had not heard in over two decades and yet it resonated through him just had it had when he had been a child. His knees started to bend automatically and a quick glance at Sherlock showed that he too was at least fighting the natural instinct to return to his chair.
Opening his mouth he went to protest but stopped when he saw Miss Langsley’s face, the disapproving frown that he remembered so well, the way she met and kept his gaze showing that she would not take no for an answer. There was, after all, a reason why she had lasted so long as their tutor.
He sat and was gratified when Sherlock sat also, his mouth starting to form a much remembered pout.
He had a reasonably good idea of what was going through John’s head though. The good doctor had never been one for hiding his thoughts or emotions and his slightly wide eyed look of poorly contained amazement as he retook his seat also was not the hardest to read.
“Now, boys,” Miss Langsley was saying. “It is quite obvious that you two have rather a lot of talking to do. No Sherlock, you will have your time to talk, but right now I am speaking. It is quite clear that the issues you had as children have only increased with age and they obviously need addressing. Now, I am no fool to think that everything can be sorted out in one sitting, so don’t look at me like that, Mycroft.”
He hadn’t been aware that he had been looking like anything.
“But in a moment I am going to request that John here accompanies me for a trip to the small gallery I saw just down the road. When we get back I expect both of you to still be in this room. What you do while we are away is up to you, but first I would just like to remind you of a fond memory of mine.
“Mycroft you must have been about eight as Sherlock you were about seventeen months old. Your mother had allowed you to go to the park and feed the ducks, or dacks as you used to call them back then Sherlock.”
Scowling, Sherlock averted his eyes.
“It was one of your favourite past times, Sherlock,” Miss Langsley continued. “And yours too, Mycroft believe it or not. In fact it helped bring about your first sentence, Sherlock. Do you remember what that was, Mycroft.”
Sherlock’s first sentence? He sent his mind back, finally managing to vaguely pull on images of that particularly incident.
“I believe it was akin to, ‘No, no, no, my dacks.’”
Sherlock’s scowl deepened. It wasn’t that much different to the look his seventeen month old self had had while at the park and being told they had to go home because the ducks were all gone. Now that he recalled, much of what Sherlock had said at that age had involved possessive ownership. It had all been ‘my dacks’, or ‘my book’, or ‘my cake’.
“Almost right,” Miss Langsley said with a small smile. “Actually, what he said was, ‘No, no, no, My, dacks.’”
He frowned running the sentence back through his head. He noted the emphasis in what she had said but could not determine why that was important.
“You used to take him to the park,” Miss Langsley said to him softly. “You used to play with him, read to him, bounce him up and down. Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, you used to sing to him. Did you never realise, Mycroft, love? It wasn’t ‘my’ he was saying, as in belonging to him, it was ‘My’ as in short for Mycroft. ‘No, no, no, Mycroft, look, there are the ducks’.”
It was as if her words had sucked the air out of the room.
He had forgotten. How could he have forgotten? Sherlock laughing as he tickled him. Sherlock lifting his arms up to be swung round and round. Sherlock crawling into his lap for a story and then falling asleep, thumb in mouth.
‘No, no, no, My, dacks.’
Or had he just not realised? Why hadn’t he realised?
Sherlock had liked him at some point, idolised him even, addressed everything to him, and then that had changed. How had that changed? What was it Sherlock had said, he had abandoned him?
Could that have really have been it? No, not quite, there were more issues there than just that. Issues on both sides.
“Good, you’re both now using those brilliant minds of yours,” Miss Langsley said rising to her feet. “John, I believe that is our cue to leave them to it. And boys.”
He looked across at her, the young face he remembered now lined and grey, but still so commanding and wise.
“Use this opportunity wisely.”
Then she and John were both gone, and it was just him and Sherlock left, a lifetime of envy and resentment between them.
*-*-*
The End
Series to be continued with Sherlock's story.