Fic: The Seat of Reason

[thesardine]

Title: The Seat of Reason
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock, Mummy
Genre: Gen
Word Count: 3800
Note:  Said I to myself, "you really need to lighten up.  Write something happy for a change!"  So naturally I went and signed up for H/C Bingo, a guaranteed angst-fest.  Nicely done, me!

Mycroft makes sure Sherlock's coat is buttoned and that he has his books for school. "Have you got your scarf?" he asks. Mummy has a cup of coffee, and she is standing at the window looking out at the yard.

"I'm afraid I must have left it at school," Sherlock says blithely. His adult teeth are late in coming, and he lisps through the gap where his incisors had been. Mycroft pauses and looks down at him. Sherlock has been smiling nearly non-stop for three days. He natters on about school, about his homework, and cartoons; all the things he usually despises. Mycroft recognises the cadence of his speech from one of the television programs he has taken to watching religiously lately.

"What are you playing at?" Mycroft finally asks. Sherlock smiles, his eyes wide and uncannily innocent.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Mycroft presses his lips together and pulls open the front door. Let him have his little game.

Two days later Sherlock is still smiling, but his eyes have gone hard and fierce, like a little animal backed against a wall.

Catherine Bradshaw sits one seat diagonally in front of Mycroft, and he can just make out the line of her undergarment beneath her pressed white shirt. She didn't used to wear one but Mycroft finds he likes it, and he watches her tuck a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, unconsciously delicate. Catherine isn't very clever, but she's sweet and kind. Her canines have grown in slightly crooked, which gives her shy but frequent smile a pleasing sort of asymmetry. That summer Mycroft had seen her with her older sister at the shops on Hammond street. She had been wearing a powder blue dress, and in the afternoon sun just after the rain, she had been so pretty that Mycroft had found it physically painful. It doesn't matter that she isn't clever.

A black ladybird creeps over the heel of Catherine's shoe. Mycroft watches it circumnavigate her stockinged ankle until she jumps with a small, startled noise and brushes it away. It flies some distance to land on the windowsill, and Mycroft ducks his head, smiling. Catherine likes to draw ordinary things like flowers and trees. She has one dog and one cat, and Mycroft suspects a goldfish as well. Her older sister has just gone on to University this year; Catherine has been sorting through the clothes she'd left behind, and cautiously experimenting with her makeup. She smells like gentle, unscented soap.

Mycroft bends over his exam, carefully marking three answers wrong and illustrating precisely how he arrives at his erroneous conclusion. He is consistently third in his class: it's better not to be too clever.

Dear God, we ask you to heal the broken in heart and bind up their wounds.

One month after Sherlock's seventh birthday, he and Mycroft had stood amidst a small, sombre gathering as the sun edged up to its zenith on the longest day of the year. Mycroft had glanced at the sky, free of rain, but hung with fluffy white clouds along the horizon. Six swallows in sets of three had darted over the parish. Sherlock had slipped one small, cool hand into Mycroft's and ducked his head against his hip, wiping the trickling sweat from his brow onto the hem of Mycroft's jacket. He was flushed from the sun and exhausted. Mummy stood to Mycroft's right, her arms folded tightly around her waist. Her blue eyes stared down at the earth, unseeing.

May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.

"Do you think you did well?" Catherine asks at the end of class. "What am I saying, I'm sure you did." She looks away, blushing. She speaks almost too softly to hear, but Mycroft catches every word, always. He fumbles for a reply, but his voice has lodged in his throat, and they face each other for one silent and excruciating moment. What does one say under such circumstances? Unbidden, all that come to mind are snatches from Sherlock's television programs. Phrases like Jolly good! and Miss McClackerty, what are we going to do? Mycroft feels the heat rise to his face. He is usually quite good at conversing with his classmates on their level. He has made a study of it, imitating the socially savvy with pronounced success.

Catherine stammers an awkward farewell and escapes to her desk, quickly gathering up her books. She has a bit of jam on the cuff of her sleeve.

Mycroft scolds himself. An abominable performance. He ought to be better than that. Before he can berate himself further, the intercom blips and the secretary pages him to the Headteacher's office. Mycroft's heart drops so quickly he feels nauseous.

He gathers his books, Catherine Bradshaw forgotten. He knows without doubt something's happened to Mummy and he is dizzy when he stands. He numbly makes his way to the front of the room, though he keeps his chin up, eyes forward; a clever boy but ordinary. Presentation is everything in society. Mycroft feels his classmates eyes upon him as he opens the door and steps out into the hall. They respect him but they aren't his friends.

If something's happened to Mummy he and Sherlock will likely be made wards of the state. Mycroft won't reach his majority for another four years and even then he isn't likely to be let to have Sherlock back. What if they take the house?

What if Mummy has left? When Mycroft was nine Mummy had left for a full year, "to have a rest," Daddy had said, but Mycroft knew she had been in the sanatorium. What if she has to go back there? What if she doesn't want him and Sherlock anymore, what if Sherlock is too much trouble? Mycroft steadies himself with a hand on the wall. He has reached the office already and his knees feel as though they may give at any moment. He swallows tightly and composes himself. Presentation is everything. If Mummy has left then Mycroft will simply have to find a way to make do.

Mrs. Lambeth has the telephone tucked against her ear, and she looks up as Mycroft enters.

"Here he is," she says, and then covers the receiver with one hand. "You're Mycroft, aren't you?"

"Yes," he says clearly.

"We can't get a hold of your mother, sweetheart."

Mycroft's heart pounds sharply and he nearly misses what she says next.

"There's been some sort of incident at the primary school, and we need to speak with her urgently. Do you know where she might be?"

"What's happened?" Mycroft's chest releases, but a new trepidation settles over him. Sherlock was constantly causing "incidents" and it's likely Mummy is just ignoring the phone.

"Just a bit of a fuss, dear, but they do need to speak with your mum. Did she happen to mention where she might be this afternoon?"

"No." Of course she hadn't. Mummy barely speaks at all these days.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Lambeth sighs.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Lambeth escorts Mycroft to the primary school, and he hears Sherlock pounding on a closed office door. He seems to be making some sort of hoarse, croaking noise that makes Mycroft's stomach seize and his hands go cold. The office staff are all milling about, fretting uselessly.

"He attacked a student," someone explains. "With a pen." The pounding has stopped, but it is succeeded with a loud crash as Sherlock knocks something over, a book case. He will not be allowed back to this school.

Mycroft's heart is in his throat. Mummy can't find out about this, but she most assuredly will. The school will talk to her eventually, and Mycroft has to clean this up right now before it gets even further out of hand.

The only person he can think to call is their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Dougherty. She's widowed and is constantly bombarding their mother with offers to "help with the boys" since Daddy died.

He gives the secretary her phone number and she places the call. If Mrs. Dougherty can't come get them, Mycroft doesn't know what he'll do. He steps into the closed office and Sherlock punches him in the kneecap. He staggers, but manages to shut the door before making a grab for his brother.

"Sherlock!" he hisses. Sherlock is an absolute wreck; bloody about the nose and chin, his curls in some places matted and in others frayed. His face is mottled and tear stained, and he screamed himself hoarse a long time ago, leaving only the ragged wet rasp Mycroft had heard from the other side of the door. Mycroft feels his composure slipping once again; anxiety, embarrassment, and fear curdling in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock has never thrown a tantrum of this magnitude. Mycroft doesn't know what to do. Mummy is going to be so upset.

The Headteacher's desk has been swept clean, its contents littering the floor. The bookcase indeed has been overturned, as well as the desk chair, a filing cabinet, and a plastic potted plant. Sherlock stands in the center of the room, his small shoulders heaving, his face twisted in a mask of fury. The buttons have been torn from his collar, which is stained pink with tears and blood. His hands curl into claws and he lunges for Mycroft again.

"Aristotle argued that sensory information - that's your five senses -" said daddy, "- that sensory information traveled straight to the heart, because he thought the heart, not the brain, was the seat of reason. He said 'educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.'"

Mycroft seizes Sherlock by the wrist and twists him around, clapping a hand over his mouth to stop him making that awful noise. He sinks against the door, holding Sherlock to him closely. He measures the time by his own jagged breaths as Sherlock struggles and claws at his hand. If Daddy were here he would simply lift Sherlock up and carry him out to the car. "Let's not worry your mum," he would say.

Sherlock abruptly goes slack in his arms, and Mycroft pulls his hand away. Oh God, what has he done? He has blood on his hand, and he hadn't been thinking, he just wanted Sherlock to be quiet, but he hadn't been able to breath with his nose bloodied the way it is. Mycroft draws up his knees, cradling his brother against him. He begins to panic and tries to stop. This isn't the time. Sherlock is breathing through his mouth, but he's unconscious. He'll be all right. The little beast! Why did he always do this? Mycroft's hands are shaking.

He presses his face to his brother's hair, willing himself steady. Sherlock's knuckles are red on both hands - the right from having hit someone, the left from having been hit; the marks are different; a ruler most likely. Corporal punishment is on the brink of banishment nationwide, and Mycroft has never known the teachers here to have used it. They would have done it as a last resort, it would have only made things worse. There are no means to discern what set Sherlock off initially.

Sherlock shifts, then snorts as he tries to breath through his blocked up nose. He blinks groggily and makes a quiet keening noise from the back of his ravaged throat. He turns his face into Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft strokes the back of his head and desperately wishes things were different.

It begins to rain on the drive home, that endless November drizzle. Mycroft looks out from the passenger window as Mrs. Dougherty drones on about her sons who had been killed in the war.

"They were bright boys. Like you, Mycroft."

Mycroft turns his shoulder to Mrs. Dougherty and leans against the door, depleted. Sherlock is curled up in the back seat, under the old woman's coat.

"Sherlock," she'd admonished when she'd arrived at school. She'd cleaned his face with a kerchief wetted on her tongue and he hadn't even squirmed. "Such a herman," she'd said, and the phrase was unfamiliar. Mycroft knows she'd placated the Headteacher when she'd arrived. He doesn't know what she said but he can imagine. He doesn't like that she may have spoken of Daddy.

"...and he built a bicycle just with scraps from the yard! Oh, he could do anything he put his mind to, my Richard. Always one for building things. Do you like to build, Sherlock?"

They narrowly avoid manslaughter at the crosswalk, easing to a halt well past the stop line. Mrs. Dougherty likely shouldn't even be allowed to drive at her age.

"I've got plenty of space for building, and experiments of all sorts - you two come round one of these days." She pauses and peers into the rear-view mirror. "I'll show you the trick with battery acid," she adds coyly. Mycroft doesn't need to look to know Sherlock's tousled head has pricked up at that: he's always getting into the chemicals at home. He drives Mycroft to distraction, mixing bleach and ammonia based solvents in the toilet, along with various other things, like grass. Mummy doesn't know about that and never will.

"If my Peter were alive he'd be able to show a thing or two. Such a deft hand, he was, so clever."

Sherlock is never sorry for any of the things he does. He's a selfish little heathen, and Mycroft truly hates him sometimes. Mycroft presses his forehead to the window tries to focus instead on the effect of their velocity on the raindrops on the window. They rarely drive fast enough to move them off gravity's course.

Mrs. Dougherty lets them off at home, and holds her coat out above Sherlock like an awning against the rain.

"Ooh!" she shrieks. "Better run quick, young man!" Sherlock hurries up the steps with barely the ghost of a smile. Mycroft digs into his pocket for the key and when he pushes the door open he turns to find Mrs. Dougherty has kneeled on the step and pulled Sherlock in against her. His bony hand is fisted in the fabric of her coat and Mycroft resists the urge to leave them there and slam the door behind him. Mrs. Dougherty pets his brother's head - his brother - and whispers something in his ear that Mycroft can't hear. Sherlock glances at him and then nods. He lets Mrs. Dougherty kiss his forehead, and then follows Mycroft inside.

Janitsch is playing at maximum volume inside. Mycroft recognises the Il Gardallino ensemble, one of the few recordings Mummy owns on cassette. It switches off abruptly as Sherlock disappears into the parlour, and Mycroft hears a murmured exchange.

"Mycroft?" Mummy calls. Mycroft numbly hangs his coat and then follows Sherlock's path. He has curled up on the sofa, shoes and all, and Mummy gives Mycroft a searching and vaguely worried glance.

"It's fine," Mycroft lies. She hesitates, then nods. She dials down the volume, and switches the music back on. It's the symphony she'd been rehearsing when Daddy had had his diagnosis. Mycroft watches her from the doorway as she stands before the stereo. He wills her to turn around, to talk to him, but she doesn't. Her honey-blonde hair is drawn neatly behind her in a tortoise-shell barrette, but her dress seems ill-fitted and hangs from her shoulders. She is far too thin.

Mycroft goes into Daddy's office and shuts the door. He sits, picks up the phone, and dials Sherlock's school. Mycroft's voice hasn't quite broken yet, and it's easy to make them think he's Mummy.

It's night and Mycroft stands at the edge of his desk, his fingers hovering over the drawer handle. He can hear the sombre sound of Mummy's cello drifting up the stairs. Sherlock likes to watch when she plays, so Mycroft knows he is alone. He pulls open the drawer and reaches for the photograph tucked in the back beneath his spare notebooks and the old birthday cards he feels too sentimental or guilty to discard. He sits on the floor beside his bed and pulls up his knees.

It's a black and white photograph in a heavy pewter frame: a portrait of Daddy when he had been at University. His hair was dark and had been thinning even then, and he had the same long nose as Mycroft. He is only just smiling, one side of his mouth crooked up over his teeth, and he's looking at something to the left of the frame, up and out, as though thinking of all the things he will do one day. Mycroft curls around the picture and Mummy draws a long tremulous note from her cello. She had played with the London Symphony Orchestra before Daddy had died, but she can't anymore because of him and Sherlock.

Mycroft presses his forehead to his knees, the photograph tucked against him. His throat is swelling painfully and he doesn't want to cry. His shoulders shake as he breathes through his teeth. Crying is juvenile. It won't solve anything. And Mycroft doesn't care at all what Catherine Bradshaw thinks. That's juvenile too. Mycroft has more important things to attend to: he can't afford to be irrational.

Mycroft grips the picture frame so tightly it digs into his fingers. His father would have never been so frightened that he suffocated Sherlock or hurt him. His father had been thoughtful and calm. He had said the heart is the seat of reason, but he had never explained what that meant, and Mycroft can't figure it out. It seems his heart wants only useless or impossible things. Mycroft sucks in a breath and finally the tears escape. Once he begins to cry he finds he can't stop, and then he's crying so hard that he feels he'll be sick.

The door clicks and slowly opens. Mycroft can still hear Mummy playing downstairs, so he knows it's Sherlock. There's no way to disguise what he's doing, so Mycroft keeps very still with his face turned away and hopes Sherlock will leave him alone. His shoulders shake with the effort. He hears the door close, hears Sherlock padding over the carpet.

"You're crying," Sherlock says. His voice is soft and still scratchy from his fit this afternoon. "Are you crying because of me?"

Mycroft swallows thickly. "Not everything is about you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sits beside him. Their shoulders brush and Mycroft knows Sherlock is trying to peer into his face from below, through the small gap between his chest and his knees. Sherlock won't see the picture, but he'll recognise the frame. Mycroft knows Sherlock sorts through his things.

"You're crying because you miss Father."

Mycroft doesn't answer. Sherlock shifts and Mycroft can tell he's drawn up his knees as well and begun to pick at the carpet.

"I don't," Sherlock says. "I don't remember him."

"Yes you do."

Sherlock leans his head against Mycroft's shoulder. It's only been five months since Daddy passed, and Sherlock remembers everything. In this capacity only his ability exceeds Mycroft's. Sherlock begins to stroke Mycroft's arm.

"Don't cry," he says.

Mycroft breathes deeply, then turns and presses his eyes against his knees. He looks at his brother. "I'm not crying."

Sherlock continues to pet his arm. "Do you want to hear a story?" he asks.

The offer catches Mycroft by surprise. He wants Sherlock to leave him alone, but he finds himself saying, "Okay."

Sherlock's gaze slips away and he picks at a bit of lint on Mycroft's pyjama sleeve. "Mycroft, Mycroft," he says. "Mycroft went down to the ocean and he saw a crab. It had eight legs and two claws, and one claw was bigger than the other, and it had little black eyes. It buried itself in the sand and let the waves come up over it. Then a dog came and it pinched the dog. The end."

They are silent for a time. The story is curious and unexpectedly soothing. Last summer the four of them had been to the seashore but Mycroft doesn't know how much of Sherlock's story is inspired by truth.

"Do you want to hear another?"

"Okay."

Sherlock takes a moment to compose his next story. "Mycroft went down to the ocean and he saw a big wave. He wanted to go in the wave but it was raining so he didn't. Then the wave broke into tiny pieces on the shore." Sherlock pauses. "The end." He turns and scrubs his face against Mycroft's shoulder. He shifts in closer. "Mycroft?" he whispers.

"What?"

"Do you want to hear a poem?"

"Okay."

Sherlock is silent again for awhile, and when he speaks his voice is even softer than before.

"An ant has antennae
And so does a beetle.
Their bones are on the outside.
It's called an exoskeleton.
Inside is sort of yellowy white."

He stops. His picking at Mycroft's sleeve has stilled. Cautiously, Mycroft asks, "Is that all?" Sherlock doesn't answer.

"That's a nice poem, Sherlock. Thank you."

Sherlock pulls his arms in close to him. He says "Mycroft?" and his voice trembles.

"What?"

He says almost inaudibly; "I rolled up six pill bugs and squished them."

Mycroft takes this in, uncertain. Sherlock so rarely says what he means. "Today?" he asks, and Sherlock nods. "Because you were angry?"

Sherlock nods again and his tears spill over. His lips pull back over his teeth, and his breaths are thick and wet. Mycroft sets the photograph aside and a knot rises in his throat.

"No one likes me," Sherlock cries, and Mycroft feels something twist inside him. He pulls his brother into his lap. Sherlock has had a bath and his cool, damp ringlets smell like shampoo. He coughs through his ragged gasps and lets out that tight quiet keen. When did he learn to cry so quietly?

Mycroft knows he should have seen it from the beginning; the cartoons, the pleasant inanities. It's the same as Mycroft does every day, and he knows exactly how it feels. Sherlock could never pretend to be ordinary. It hurts just knowing he had tried.

In a hoarse whisper, Mycroft says "I like you a lot, Sherlock." Crying, he says, "Don't cry."

Later, Mycroft lifts a half-sleeping Sherlock into the bed and crawls in beside him, pulling him close. He can still hear Mummy playing downstairs, sad and low. It is cold in his room and Mycroft pulls the blanket up over their heads and tucks it in around them. Safe in this cocoon, he cradles his brother against his heart, as though they are the only two people on Earth.