(no subject)
i.
Before Sherlock, Mycroft had been Mummy's only son, and he had never upset her.
School would start in six weeks. It would be Sherlock's first year, and he hadn't uttered a single syllable in fourteen months. Prior to that point he had been relentlessly vocal, and there was no reason for this behavior, that Mycroft could see, other than to be perverse.
Mycroft was seated in his customary place at the dinner table. He was watching Sherlock, who was scraping his fork against the bottom of the table. It wasn't that Sherlock did this, exactly, at every dinner, but it was enough in league with his usual behavior that neither Mummy nor Daddy did anything about it anymore. Mummy was worried that she wouldn't be able to send Sherlock to school next year. Sherlock's brow was furrowed; slowly, blindly scratching some sort of four pronged petroglyph into the underside of the table.
"Enough, Sherlock," Mummy said.
Mycroft thought that since Sherlock had decided to stop talking, things could have nearly been considered peaceful, except for the fret tugging lines into Mummy's face. Sherlock didn't care about things like that. To Mummy he was still a baby, so she never got angry with him, but Mycroft knew better.
"I'm looking forward to school." Mycroft faced Mummy pleasantly but watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "I expect the classes will be somewhat more advanced this year." It was a lie. The only reason Mycroft went to school anymore was because it was less trouble than not going. If Mummy and Daddy didn't know this for certain, Mycroft knew they suspected it.
"Primary was rather boring," he confessed, "but I expect it will be a valuable experience for Sherlock." He looked at his younger brother now, as he spoke. Sherlock was slouched in his seat, only his head visible above the table. Those clear blue eyes which were so pretty on Mummy were sharp and calculating on Sherlock's narrow little face. Mycroft narrowed his own eyes and said, "you will be attending school, won't you? As soon as you outgrow this petulant mute act. It's tiresome."
"Mycroft," Daddy warned.
Mummy surveyed both her sons, her temper always even. "He'll speak when he's ready."
Mycroft felt his face grow hot. "He does speak! He does it all the time, when he thinks no one's looking. Don't you. Sherlock. I've heard you talking to yourself when you're playing."
All eyes were on Sherlock now. Even Daddy had stopped eating. When Mummy spoke, her voice was careful and only slightly strained.
"Is this true?"
Sherlock glared at her. The boy had a furious pout and in Mycroft's opinion he used it excessively. "I was listening," he said.
Mummy considered this, and nodded stiffly. Her mouth was pulled into a frail line, and her nostrils flared as she breathed in deeply. She went back to her dinner, but Daddy didn't. He was watching Mummy, his eyebrows slowly drawing down. He worried about her, Mycroft knew. He worried about her because of Sherlock.
Sherlock kicked the table, hard enough to rattle the silverware. He kicked it again, harder, and was ignored. Slowly, he reached for his glass of milk, and never once did he take his eyes off Mummy. He paused with his bony fingers just a hair's breadth from the glass, waiting for her to look at him. She didn't, and furiously, he knocked the glass over. Daddy jolted out of his chair, seized Sherlock by the wrist and dragged him to his room. He shut the door and returned to the table, eyes hidden behind the glare of his thick glasses. The way he sawed at his porkchop suggested that he would finish his dinner only as a matter of principle. Sherlock's milk had encroached upon his plate and Daddy staunchly ignored it. It soaked silently into the tablecloth while his knife screeched against his plate.
Sherlock was breaking everything in his room, by the sound of it. Mycroft wanted to explain to Mummy that Sherlock's behavior was just a juvenile bid for attention, but when he opened his mouth, Mummy cut him off with a shake of her head. She closed her eyes briefly and said, "Enough, Mycroft." She stood and laid her napkin on the table, then went into Sherlock's room. The cacophony increased, and then abruptly stopped. That would be when Mummy hugged him, like she always did when he was bad.
"I'm not angry, sweetheart," Mycroft heard her say. There arose from Sherlock a keening wail, the most noise he had made in fourteen months. Daddy had cleaned his plate, and he rose to bring his dishes to the kitchen, leaving Mycroft at the table, alone.
ii.
Mycroft hadn't brought any books to class today. At half past eleven he rose and, without ceremony, left the school. It was a five minute walk to the primary school and what with all the screaming it was easy to deduce that 1) Mycroft's calculations had been off, and 2) Sherlock was already in the headteacher's office. When he opened the door to the office, Mycroft noticed several things. Sherlock's jacket was half off, indicating that before this began, he had intended to leave school. Sherlock's teacher was present, meaning she had found it necessary to leave her class under the temporary supervision her assistant while she bodily escorted Sherlock to the headteacher's office. She had also found it necessary to smack Sherlock on the left cheek, probably when he had bitten her, if the red ring of indents at the base of her thumb were anything to go by.
Mycroft's entrance had the curious effect of producing silence. Curious, but not unusual. Mycroft had always unnerved adults, and though that they should be intimidated by a twelve year old boy said little for their mettle, Mycroft had come to believe that their apprehension was probably well placed. Sherlock, predictably, used this opportunity to twist free from his captor, darting behind Mycroft and leaning his back against Mycroft's legs, facing the door. The headteacher, a large but gentle-looking man, was about to speak, but Mycroft had no patience for whatever inanity he would inevitably utter.
"My brother," Mycroft began, 'is exceptionally intelligent. He is also excessively energetic, and as such, the normal coursework will be insufficient to keep him occupied. I propose an alternate course of study, which I will arrange, and suggest that your focus be on manners and proper conduct." He spared Sherlock a withering glance. "These are by far his weakest areas.
"I think it best if Sherlock accompanies me for the remainder of the day, and I urge you to contact our parents regarding the amended coursework which I will provide." Mycroft concluded his delivery with a prim nod, and left abruptly with Sherlock in tow. The headteacher followed after them with a bumbling rebuttal, but Mycroft turned and once again silenced him.
"I really must be getting back to class," he said, with inarguable finality.
"I suspect you will very much enjoy chemistry." He told Sherlock as they continued out of the school. "That is, if you can keep still and quiet. It can be very dangerous."
Once outside, Sherlock shrugged the rest of the way into his jacket, buttoning it fastidiously up to his neck. The scarf was gone, Mycroft noted. He gave his brother a sidelong glance. "Only your second day, Sherlock," he said. "what will Mummy think?" A black cloud descended over Sherlock's features, and with a long, swiping swing, he smacked Mycroft on the backside.
iii.
Later, Mycroft didn't know if he should rue the day he taught Sherlock to play Deductions. They were sitting in the living room, Sherlock on his stomach on the floor. He was seven, Mycroft was fourteen. Mycroft was observing Sherlock, and Sherlock was observing a pair of glasses he had found at the park, before it had started to rain. Mycroft set his book aside, rose from his father's chair, and stood over Sherlock a moment before crouching down. Sherlock spared him a fleeting glance; the most he ever gave anyone was a darting sort of look that slid right past its victim into the far off place Sherlock tended to occupy, a place composed of straight lines and rapid tangents. Mycroft sank to his knees beside Sherlock and asked in a keen but civil manner, "What do you see?"
"They're greasy," Sherlock promptly replied. "The hinges are loose. When I look through them it's blurry." Sherlock held the glasses before his nose and drew them away, gauging the focal point. Mycroft felt what could only be described as a thrill of excitement, but he clamped down on it quickly and discarded it. He held out his hand and said, "May I?" Sherlock eyed him warily before handing them over. So suspicious for a little boy. Mycroft held the glasses towards the window, observing both sides of the lenses.
"Greasy," he confirmed, "but only on the inside, where he has settled them on the crown of his head. His hair has been...not heavily, but carefully oiled. Hyperopic - that means he can't see close up - so he is engaged in an occupation that requires focus on something minute, before he brings the glasses up on his head so that he can see farther away. You observed that the hinges are loose. They are a trifle too small for their owner, though you can see they are of a considerable size, so he must a big man, or overweight. The frame is distorted particularly on the right side, where he removes them with his right hand; you can see how this would bend the arm. The lenses are scratched. He cleans them, but not with a proper cloth, like Daddy's. He uses the end of his shirt, an unusually coarse material. And," Mycroft ran a fingernail along the edge of the lens, near the frame. "He's a barber." He showed Sherlock the tiny cropped bit of hair that could only have come from a man's haircut. "If it had been his hair cut, the barber would have had him remove his glasses, but he didn't, meaning someone was wearing them at the time that this hair got in there. As you can see it's not the only one, so whoever owned these glasses encountered a stay hair, wiped it off with his shirt, or apron, and repeated the process ad nauseum. So we have a large, right handed, hyperopic barber who wears his glasses when he's cutting hair, then raises them when he speaks with his customers at the register. No one at the salon matches this description, but Daddy's barber, Mr. Browning, does." Mycroft folded the glasses neatly and handed them back to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him now, with a palpable intensity. Mycroft looked straight back. When he stood, Sherlock rolled to sit on his knees and watched Mycroft leave the room, returning with a delicate, silver filigree locket. Mycroft held it out to Sherlock, who tried to snatch it, but Mycroft raised it away.
"Careful," he snapped, "It's Mummy's." He held it out again and this time Sherlock took it gently, turning it over in his hands. "Now,' said Mycroft, "What can you observe?"
iv.
The trip back from London was utterly silent. When Mummy had tapped on Mycroft's door and asked, "Where's Sherlock?" he had lied and told her he was at the library. He then walked to the train station and bought a ticket to London, where Sherlock was undoubtedly harassing the authorities about Carl Powers' missing shoes. Sherlock was not allowed to take the train on his own, and he most definitely was not allowed to run amok in London, where the number of ways in which he could be terminally injured ran into the thousands. He had already been hit by two cars right there in the neighborhood.
Mycroft did not want Mummy to know he had allowed this to happen, not while the situation was still salvageable. Deducing Sherlock's location was rudimentary. Mycroft found him at New Scotland Yard, where a young female officer was trying to uncover his name, and whether his parents were nearby, while Sherlock harangued her about her incompetency and the general ineptitude of the Metropolitan Police Service. Mycroft had dragged him back to the train station, too furious to speak.
It had taken the entire train ride and half of the walk home for Mycroft to reign in his temper. It was just getting dark, and he could see the lights on in every room in their home, though they were still some distance away.
"Not a word about this to Mummy, Sherlock."
Sherlock stopped walking, and Mycroft knew from long experience that he had one eye ticked in the derisive squint he adopted when he was both irked and confused. "Why?"
Mycroft spun and faced him, teeth pressed tightly together, but his expression as pleasant as possible. "Why?" he repeated in his most prim and lilting tone. "Sherlock, surely you don't suppose that your behavior today was acceptable. Not when Mummy has laid down specific rules, for your own safety, that forbid you from venturing off alone. Don't you think it would be rather distressing for her to learn that you had placed yourself in such danger, in London of all places? Especially as no one knew where you were."
"You knew where I was," Sherlock countered, flatly.
"I deduced where you were. The method is not - "
"You're never wrong. And anyway, it was obvious where I was. You agreed that the missing shoes were relevant, yet you refused - "
"Because no one gives a damn about the shoes, Sherlock!" Mycroft paused, then tried to continue smoothly but he couldn't keep the angry tremor from his voice. "You've deliberately disobeyed Mummy. You've caused me to have to take the train into London to fetch you back. You've been gone five hours and by now you've made Mummy sick with worry. You are nine years old Sherlock, and this sort of selfish, irresponsible behavior is unacceptable." Mycroft's voice had lowered into a dangerous hiss, and he stopped himself. Sherlock glared back at him.
"Everything was there except - "
Mycroft slapped him, hard, a flat open palm across his cheek. A red print blossomed there almost immediately, and Mycroft felt himself inexplicably and painfully angry with Mummy. Sherlock's wide blue eyes stared blindly across the street.
Mycroft had never hit anyone before. He closed his fist, rubbing his fingers against the palm, then turned and went home. He heard Sherlock follow, sixteen paces behind. When he got in, Mycroft apologized to Mummy, explaining that they had gotten caught up in some irrelevant mystery and had lost track of the time. Sherlock went straight to his room without speaking to anyone. There were three and a half months left of school, and that summer Mycroft tested out of the sixth form and went straight to University.
v.
"You can't stay here anymore, Sherlock."
Mycroft was home for the Christmas holidays. Sherlock was seated across from him at the dinner table, and the plates had already been cleared. Sherlock's face was badly bruised along the left side; an old, mottled green, indicating the fight had taken place roughly two weeks before the holidays began. His hair was in bad need of cutting. At 13 he still refused to let anyone touch his head unless under the direst coercion, which Mycroft for the last four years had failed to regularly provide. Sherlock appraised him evenly.
"You mean to have me come live with you at University. I refuse."
"Hasty, Sherlock, as always. Surely you don't suspect that I make this offer for my own convenience. Have you considered the benefits? The laboratory alone I thought would be sufficient to entice you."
Sherlock, quite hilariously, in Mycroft's opinion, was undergoing puberty. He had adopted a soft and almost sub-vocal tone to avoid any undue stress to his vocal chords which might cause any embarrassing squeaks or cracks. "Though tempting," he murmured, "I'm quite satisfied to have been rid of your meddlesome presence these last four years. You have no idea how peaceful it's been."
"Quite the contrary, my dear Sherlock, I have every idea of how...refreshing...the change has been. However, out of concern for your future, I think it best to remove you from a situation which surely you must find exhaustingly repetitive. After all, we wouldn't want that great brain of yours to waste away now, would we?"
"Indubitably. But I think you'll find that I have every means of amusing myself without your interference."
Mycroft's patience was already wearing thin. He surveyed his brother narrowly. "My interference, Sherlock, is arguably the only reason you are still alive. You've clearly been taking no great pains to that end. My offer is perfectly reasonable, and I certainly will have better things to do than hover over your every move. You are already failing your current courses and have no hope of attending University without my interference, in which case you will miss out on a truly admirable forensics program as well as be denied access to a far more comprehensive laboratory than you will ever be granted on your own dubious acclaim." Mycroft could see his words taking effect. Of course, he had crafted his delivery well in advance, and he knew his brother better than anyone. "I've arranged for a flat beginning in July. You'll have your own room. I of course will be busy with my own research, but I'll see to it that you have properly approved access to all materials, and that you are sufficiently prepared to pass your GSCEs. You will be enrolled in September in any course that catches your fancy, but I will not ask that you attempt a degree unless you desire to do so."
"Then what do you ask?"
Mycroft smiled smugly. "Clever boy." He then abandoned all pretense of pleasantry. "You are to pass all of your classes this term. No more fights, no more disappearances. No more "cases" until you join me in London. You are to obey Mummy in every instance, Sherlock. It's been thirteen years since she had any peace, and you are going to give it to her for the next six months, or I renege my offer."
Sherlock watched him with a blazing intensity. He was a pitiable little thing, gawkish now and overly thin, scabs about his lip and brow, helplessly seething with boredom.
"Think it over," Mycroft said.
vi.
Sherlock managed to drag himself from the floor to the refrigerator, but when he opened the door only the tiny white light stared back at him. The motor kicked on, a tinny hum, and Sherlock lost track of time staring into the fridge in all it's desolate, white nothingness. He closed the door when it started to chill his feet. Stupid, really. There hadn't been anything in the fridge since Mycroft had left. Sherlock sank into a chair at the kitchen table, sprawling his lanky form over it. It gave him an ant's eye view of the grain, and he concentrated on the temperature of the wood against his skin. He felt feverish, dehydrated, and he closed his eyes. It was night. Was it night? But not the same night. He had slept all day on the kitchen floor.
He remembered going with a girl, some girl, he couldn't remember her name. They had had sex. He remembered doing it, and he could smell it on himself now. It smelled like...it smelled like what it was: stale semen and vaginal fluid. Revolting. But now that he had had sex, he didn't have to do it again. The speed had been much better than the sex.
It was four o'clock. Not in the afternoon. That meant he had slept all day and most of the night, and it would be morning again soon. Then he could go and get some orange juice. Sherlock slid out of his chair to wait until such a time. The speed had been much better than the sex. It eliminated petty needs like sleep and food. Everything had seemed so much better, nothing had bothered him. When Sherlock had made it home by noon the next day, the floor had seemed as good a place as any, and for once sleep had come to him immediately.
It was cool on the floor, but dirty. Orange light filtered in from the street below throwing the kitchen into a dingy sort of chiaroscuro. Mycroft still had the cleaner come round once a week, on Tuesdays, but she was probably a spy. Mycroft had recently taken a minor position in the government, but Sherlock knew he wouldn't be satisfied until he had effected a silent and bloodless coup, until he had all of England under his thumb like he did Sherlock. Sherlock inched his way along the floor until he was fully under the table. His mouth was gummy, dry.
In May, Sherlock would attain his majority. Then he could rent his own flat in central London. He would get a new address and a new phone number so that Mycroft couldn't call or drop by or check up on him. He would finally be free.
The faucet was dripping. It dripped in D sharp. Sherlock hooked his ankle around the chair he had been sitting in and drew it in so that he was enmeshed in a cage of table legs and chairs. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself and waited for the thin grey dawn.