Richard Book is Innocent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oxfordtweed) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tweedandtinsel2010-12-26 04:23 am
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2010-12-26 04:23 am
Learning to Care
Fandom: Sherlock
Character/s: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, a few others
Word Count: 3900
Rating: R; see warnings
Summary: No one knew exactly when, but something had gone terribly wrong in the Holmes family.
Notes/Warnings: Violence, manipulation, animal cruelty, drug addiction. Dark. Pre-canon through post-canon; spoilers for ASIP and TGG.
As ever, takes place in the same ‘verse as pretty much everything else, but nothing else is really required reading. As stated above, it is rather dark, but that’s probably par for the course since I wanted to explore the depths of ASPD/sociopathy. Even though I see Sherlock as asexual (the jury’s still out on Mycroft), I think he would have to have some sort of odd crush on people like John and Carol, even if he doesn’t really understand what’s going on, there. There will be more exploration of that aspect in a bit, but only hints of it in this piece.
Sherlock hadn’t heard his brother approach from behind. He was too involved in his experiment, and Mycroft was too skilled to allow himself to be heard. For almost a quarter hour, Mycroft silently watched as Sherlock slowly and delicately moved the pruning knife, making incisions and watching as muscle and flesh spread apart under its own tension.
“You can’t do this,” Mycroft said eventually, moving from where he stood in the doorway of the small shed.
Sherlock was startled out of his concentration, but didn’t jump or flinch.
“Why?” he asked.
Mycroft moved behind his brother, younger by seven years, and looked down at the cat. Not one he recognised, but too fat to be a stray. Most of its organs had been removed carefully, and all as intact and undamaged as a nine-year-old could reasonably manage.
“You know why,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock put down the knife. “Uncle Chadwick.”
Mycroft nodded. No one knew exactly when, but something had gone terribly wrong in the Holmes family. But rather than doing the polite thing and bowing out of the gene pool, they kept carrying on under the assumption that everything would eventually work itself out. For the most part, they all managed to learn to adapt, to hide in plain sight, but Chadwick Holmes had been the worst embarrassment imaginable.
“I’ve never done it to a person,” Sherlock insisted.
Mycroft’s gaze hardened. “And you won’t do it to any more animals,” he ordered.
“What about you and all your poisonous plants?” Sherlock asked.
“Purely theoretical,” Mycroft said, his voice stiff. “As must be your experiments from now on.”
“What if I use dead ones that I find?” asked Sherlock, not ready to let this go.
“No.” Mycroft rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. “Sherlock, this matter is not flexible. There are far more productive ways to channel your energy, and you must not entertain these ideas any longer.”
Sherlock looked at the vivisectioned ex-cat on the workbench mournfully. He was not mourning for the cat, however, but rather for his experiments that had been cut short.
“Let’s clean this up before Mummy finds out,” said Mycroft. “Bury the knife with it.”
Mycroft taught Sherlock self-preservation.
Mycroft never could bear to do any sort of actual work. He was a genius, but the problem with genius is that the genius often knows what he is. Mycroft knew exactly what he was, in every way, and he knew how to use this to get out of anything he didn’t want to do.
It wasn’t enough to talk other students into doing his class work for him. That was still problematic, because Mycroft would still have to copy it into his own writing, and getting everything word for word was more tedious and time-consuming than writing the paper himself would have been.
He practised smiles, vocal tones, inflections. A pause in just the right place and for the perfect length of time could achieve wonders. He learned to focus on what his hands were doing. Props often helped, and he got in the habit of carrying an umbrella with him because there were so many different ways in which an umbrella could be used and wielded. It added a whole new dialect to his body language, and one in which he quickly became fluent.
Talking students into doing his class work was a waste of time. Talking his way out of the assignments in the first place was far more efficient.
Sixth form taught Mycroft manipulation.
Despite Mycroft’s warnings, Sherlock never stopped his experiments, instead getting better at hiding them. He would find small animals that wouldn’t be missed, rather than picking up pets that had strayed too far from home. The small animals were more difficult to catch, but also decreased his own chances of being caught.
Sherlock never did forget what Mycroft had said about being productive, though. At first, he didn’t know what Mycroft had meant, having no idea how he could possibly do anything society might consider ‘productive.’
And then Carl Powers drowned and his shoes disappeared. It was so obvious, and yet the police had missed it; completely overlooked it, and when it was pointed out to them, completely refused to acknowledge it. Sherlock wrote over a dozen letters to Scotland Yard concerning the incident, four of which were sent in after the case closed.
Sherlock couldn’t believe how ignorant the police could be, and that these pathetic examples of intelligence could be allowed to chase after criminals made Sherlock want to scream.
For years after, he continued to send in letters, eventually numbering into the thousands. He didn’t care if anyone was reading them; he just wanted someone to know that they were wrong.
Scotland Yard taught Sherlock contempt.
Mycroft’s particular tract in the government had been almost purely accidental, but one which he soon found he most definitely enjoyed. He had been able to get his foot in the door through his father, and while he did view such things as cheating, it meant that he got to skip a lot of the more undignified work that most people had to put up with for years before ever moving into an office.
He was 24 when the first attempt on his life was made, and the whole incident had lasted less than a minute. Mycroft knew better than to walk alone at night, but things had been remarkably quiet lately, giving him a sense of security that even he knew was false.
The man was waiting for him behind his car. It had obviously been his first hit, because he came at Mycroft with a knife that had been entirely too large to wield with any real precision. He was all flailing arms and panic, and it was only by chance that the blade had caught on the fabric of Mycroft’s jacket, giving it the purchase it needed to drive itself into his side. It also got the man close enough to Mycroft for him to have been able to snap the man’s neck. Before his assailant even hit the tarmac, police sirens rang out in the near distance. Leaning against his car and clutching at his side, Mycroft looked above him for the CCTV camera that had undoubtedly caught the action, and nodded lightly at whoever was operating it.
He knew how he’d be expected to behave, and adjusted his breathing to simulate the appearance of the emotions, bringing himself to a state of near-hyperventilation. He had just killed a man, and he should have been in shock about this. Guilt and fear and adrenaline all competing for purchase on his mind.
His suit had been new; just purchased, tailor-made earlier that week and that it had been ruined so quickly was all he could think about.
The assassin taught Mycroft hate.
Sherlock had never been in the habit of keeping friends. They were time consuming and often high-maintenance, and if you didn’t treat them just right, they’d just start yowling and eventually leave.
Sherlock found it easier to skip the formalities and went straight to treating everybody exactly the same; teachers and students alike. He found them all tedious, boring, and transparent. He could see right through every single person on a cloudy day, and never hesitated to make this known.
He very quickly learned that people didn’t just dislike those that were smarter than the rest, but they tended to outright fear intelligence. Sherlock flaunted it, throwing his brilliance in everyone’s faces, often correcting his teachers and calling out other students for their hilariously wrong answers.
Everyone seemed to expect that Sherlock would be the target for bullies, but as it happened, he was the only person who was immune to them, to the point that he had become one himself. He never threw any punches or pushed people, instead using his wit and observation to bully people; sixth form was an exercise in psychological warfare, and Sherlock Holmes was a global superpower.
Sixth form taught Sherlock arrogance.
She phoned him every week, always under the guise of checking in. The conversation would always start off sweetly, but by the five minute mark, the focus would turn from pleasant chatter to painful comparisons.
She never hesitated to tell Mycroft that his father had already done this or accomplished that by the time Father was his age. If Mycroft had any sort of work ethic at all, he could be prime minister by now, but he was and would always be an indolent little boy.
Mycroft had no desire to be prime minister; he knew that wasn’t really where the power was, and so did Mummy. He’d remind her of this, and point out that he was already far more successful than anyone his age, but it was never good enough. He could always be better, and she’d reminded him of this fact every week.
She may have been right, but Mycroft would never let her know that; never give her the satisfaction. He did continue to move up in the ranks though, however slowly the progress at these early stages. This was not done by putting in longer hours or harder work, but through eliminating competition. He became especially good at digging up the sort of information that would persuade the subject to resign almost instantly. In one case, he even had a man tried for treason, having uncovered some very compelling evidence against him.
And still, every week she would phone him to say how much better he could be if he just put in the effort, and would all but ignore when he did get promoted. And every week, he would end their conversations feeling like he had something to prove.
Mummy taught Mycroft ruthlessness.
Their meeting had been purely that of chance. He was standing outside under a lamp, working on his third cigarette when a girl he hadn’t seen before walked up to him as though they’d known one another for years. As he was still trying to work out her behaviour, she took his cigarette and took a long drag before handing it back.
She didn’t thank him, nor did she walk away after that, and it was the first time Sherlock had ever been well and truly confused. The confusion was new, and therefore interesting, so he held onto it for a few moments, analysing its every aspect, until he drew the conclusion that being confused was also highly irritating, and he didn’t care for it at all.
He’d decided right then and there that he was going to figure out why she had behaved so oddly toward her, but before he could figure out a way to ask, she rather suddenly cursed the person she was living with. After a brief conversation, she’d revealed a contempt of university life that resonated all too familiarly with Sherlock. She’d left her flat to escape a party she hadn’t agreed to host, and was on her way to the shop to buy some cigarettes.
Sherlock wasn’t sure why he’d done it since sharing was never something he’d learned to do properly, but after that, he offered her one of his. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen, but her insulting his brand hadn’t even been on his list of possibilities. He knew he should have been put off by this, but for one reason or another, he couldn’t bring himself to take issue and laughed instead. He could not recall a time when anybody had behaved in any similar way toward him and he found it strangely refreshing to be seen as an equal and accepted, rather than something to be merely tolerated. It was new, different, and although he didn’t know the word for what he was feeling, almost humbling. More importantly, this strange woman was the first person he’d seen as his own equal.
Carol taught Sherlock respect.
Mycroft had, rather erroneously, thought that the nine months Sherlock had been missing was a reflection of the worst a person could possibly feel. All that pain and desperation of not knowing if his only sibling was dead or alive was something brand new and terrifying.
But he’d been wrong. So very wrong. After finding Sherlock, he’d arranged for the boy to be admitted to a private clinic, where hopefully, he’d be able to get himself sorted. He obeyed Sherlock’s wishes and didn’t visit, which he frankly thought was easier than going to see him in that state would have been. When Sherlock was released, Mycroft gave him space and tried not to interfere too badly.
A week later, Sherlock disappeared again, and the whole mess started all over again. Mycroft threw everything he had into finding his brother, and again only managed to catch up with him after getting lucky. This time, Sherlock had been arrested during a raid. When Mycroft went to pick him up, Sherlock had somehow managed to look even worse than after he’d been hit by the car. This time, he was deep in withdrawal and had been sick all over himself at one point.
Six times, the cycle had repeated itself before Mycroft had ordered so much surveillance on Sherlock that he couldn’t even go to the shop without setting off alarms, of both the literal and figurative sense. And still, somehow, Sherlock had managed to slip away unnoticed. Part of Mycroft knew that he should just be used to this behaviour, and accept the inevitable. Sherlock was out of control, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not even Mycroft, who had made it his job to make sure Sherlock stayed safe and out of trouble; Mycroft who was very quickly beginning to climb through the ranks and gather more pull and power by the day.
But there was another part of him, one he didn’t know what to do with or how to handle, that knew the only thing that would ever stop Sherlock would be the thing that also got him killed. No amount of intervention or meddling was ever going to stop him from destroying himself. The only way Sherlock would stop was because he wanted to, and it was clear to everybody that stopping was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind.
Sherlock taught Mycroft fear.
He’d been clean a fortnight; a new personal record. Getting around Mycroft’s minions was proving easier and easier, despite security being increased every time he was released. This time, he’d simply slid into his coat – a gift from Mycroft, given to him when he was picked up from the clinic earlier that month – and left the flat with intent.
The coat was clearly an expensive affair, done up to fit Sherlock, had Sherlock weighed about two stone more than he actually did. A hint, no doubt. Mycroft probably spent a fortune on the thing. Sherlock estimated that he could probably get about £30 for it.
On his way to his dealer, he happened upon a crime scene, complete with flashing lights and perimeter tape. Without realising he was doing it, Sherlock glanced over slightly at the scene. A young woman in her pyjamas and a large coat had been attacked and left in an alley, and CID and SOCO were only contaminating the evidence.
Almost compelled, Sherlock proceeded to announce every scrap of evidence missed by the police, rather conclusively proving the husband’s guilt. He’d known that it was a stupid idea, since the police wouldn’t listen, and never have, but he still found himself rather unpleasantly surprised when he was detained for his efforts. He was further surprised when, not even twenty minutes later, the detective inspector who had detained him had let him out of the back of the car and told him that he was free to go, and then thanked him for his help. For the first time since he was ten years old, he felt like he could actually be worth something; that he was, for once, useful to someone. There was a familiar buzz, deep in his chest that he used to get when he was a kid, writing angry letters to Scotland Yard. Now, he had an actual person to send the letters to.
Detective Inspector Lestrade taught Sherlock satisfaction.
She was one of the few people to ever manage to confuse him. While, yes, she was very good at her job, and could often get terribly complicated tasks done within hours after being asked, she could also be infuriating, even by her third day. He’d checked and verified her records personally, and while there was always something he missed, he was fairly certain that something very serious was happening.
When she refused the prime minister admittance to Mycroft’s office, he had decided to fire her. She clearly wasn’t up to the task, and he couldn’t afford the liability.
Before firing anybody, he always liked to go through their file one last time; not so much to find anything he could use against them – by this point, if he wanted someone to disappear, it was just a simple matter of ordering it – but rather just something of a developed ritual.
And there it was. The thing he had missed, buried in her medical records which had, at her hire, only merited a quick glance. Prosopagnosia; an inability to recognise faces. Suddenly, he realised a whole new use for the girl. When she arrived in his office later that evening, Mycroft had informed her that she was being relocated, effective immediately.
Having one of his minions constantly following him around was not something that he was used to, and he would frequently have to remind himself to treat the girl kindly. He would call her ‘dear,’ rather than by her name so that she would more easily recognise him, and eventually he found that he had even begun to mean it. The more time he spent around her, the more comfortable with her presence he became. He could very easily pretend to be friendly or kind to people, when the situation called for it, but he didn’t have to pretend with her. When he laughed with her, it was an honest laugh, with an honest smile.
Anthea taught Mycroft gentleness.
There was just something about the funny little man with the psychosomatic limp that Sherlock found intriguing. He was a man who, at first glance, had the appearance of someone who could very easily be pushed around, but right away Sherlock noticed something more; something that wasn’t kept out in the open.
This suspicion was confirmed when he took John to the first crime scene, and John argued with him as they hovered over the body of a woman who had been killed by a psychotic cabbie. Sherlock still hadn’t been completely sure about John until it came time to explain all of his deductions, because no one was ever smart enough to keep up. But while Lestrade and Anderson accused him of making things up, John openly praised his abilities.
It was right then that Sherlock had decided to keep John around for a while. He was just as big an idiot as the rest of them, but he was a smart idiot, eager to learn and willing to accommodate Sherlock’s habits. Even when John failed at his attempts at deductions, Sherlock still found it difficult to fault him, because even though he was wrong most of the time, he tried, and that was far more than could be said of most people. John wanted to learn how to improve, and Sherlock found himself wanting to help him.
John taught Sherlock tolerance.
Sherlock had, according to himself, been reliably informed that he didn’t have a heart. And he believed it, right up until Moriarty had walked away. He had to get John out of that vest. If John got hurt because this sadist decided to pick a fight, Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever be able to forgive himself. Sherlock didn’t know what this new crushing feeling in his chest was, but it was terrifying and he wished it would go away.
Four hours later, he found himself severely concussed and staring at anything other than Mycroft, who in turn was staring at anything other than Sherlock. Neither of them said anything, because they both knew exactly what the other was thinking. It didn’t take the British Government and the world’s only consulting detective to figure it out, either, because at that moment, they weren’t either of those things. They both knew that they would never be normal, but this might be the closest either would ever come to feeling like they were.
“I... I have to go,” Sherlock said, his voice low and cracked.
“You can’t.”
It wasn’t an order, as the words usually were when Sherlock declared that he would be checking himself out of whatever clinic or hospital Mycroft had checked him into. It was a plea, quiet and desperate.
“I can’t stay here,” Sherlock insisted. “It’s too...”
He didn’t have a word for it, and that annoyed him. But whatever it was, he knew that he could not stay where he was while John was somewhere else. The incompetent hospital staff hadn’t even put them in the same room and wouldn’t tell Sherlock anything of what was going on. He knew that Mycroft could get the information in as little as two minutes, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He had gotten John into this mess, and he didn’t deserve any favours for it.
“I’m going,” he declared again.
As he reached for the drip needle in his arm, Mycroft pulled a large, silk handkerchief from inside his jacket and handed it to Sherlock. For once, he couldn’t bring himself to meddle or stand in his little brother’s way. He just turned his head so he didn’t have to watch as Sherlock wrenched the drip from his arm and wrapped the handkerchief around the puncture to keep from bleeding everywhere.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” Mycroft said.
For a moment, Sherlock considered it. But, no. If he was going to be receiving bad news, he decided that he’d much rather hear it while at home. Home was comfortable and familiar. He gingerly pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the door, surprised to find Mycroft following him.
“You can’t keep me here,” he snapped.
“I don’t plan on it,” said Mycroft. “But I also can’t let you walk home in this state. I’d much rather give you a ride.”
It wasn’t what Sherlock had expected, and he blinked.
“Why?” he asked, trying not to sound as suspicious as he felt.
“So that I know you get home safely,” Mycroft said. “And so I know where to find you tomorrow.”
Sherlock wanted to tell him a few choice phrases, but found that his head suddenly hurt quite badly.
“If you care about Dr Watson, you’ll let me take you home, and you’ll stay there,” Mycroft said. “I know you don’t want to be here, and I’m respecting that.”
After a few moments, Sherlock nodded and stepped aside, motioning for Mycroft to lead the way. He was eager to get home so he could comfortably wait for whatever bad news was certain to be coming his way, and if Mycroft was actually offering to let that happen, he wasn’t about to turn it down.
Jim Moriarty taught them both how to care.
Character/s: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, a few others
Word Count: 3900
Rating: R; see warnings
Summary: No one knew exactly when, but something had gone terribly wrong in the Holmes family.
Notes/Warnings: Violence, manipulation, animal cruelty, drug addiction. Dark. Pre-canon through post-canon; spoilers for ASIP and TGG.
As ever, takes place in the same ‘verse as pretty much everything else, but nothing else is really required reading. As stated above, it is rather dark, but that’s probably par for the course since I wanted to explore the depths of ASPD/sociopathy. Even though I see Sherlock as asexual (the jury’s still out on Mycroft), I think he would have to have some sort of odd crush on people like John and Carol, even if he doesn’t really understand what’s going on, there. There will be more exploration of that aspect in a bit, but only hints of it in this piece.
Sherlock hadn’t heard his brother approach from behind. He was too involved in his experiment, and Mycroft was too skilled to allow himself to be heard. For almost a quarter hour, Mycroft silently watched as Sherlock slowly and delicately moved the pruning knife, making incisions and watching as muscle and flesh spread apart under its own tension.
“You can’t do this,” Mycroft said eventually, moving from where he stood in the doorway of the small shed.
Sherlock was startled out of his concentration, but didn’t jump or flinch.
“Why?” he asked.
Mycroft moved behind his brother, younger by seven years, and looked down at the cat. Not one he recognised, but too fat to be a stray. Most of its organs had been removed carefully, and all as intact and undamaged as a nine-year-old could reasonably manage.
“You know why,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock put down the knife. “Uncle Chadwick.”
Mycroft nodded. No one knew exactly when, but something had gone terribly wrong in the Holmes family. But rather than doing the polite thing and bowing out of the gene pool, they kept carrying on under the assumption that everything would eventually work itself out. For the most part, they all managed to learn to adapt, to hide in plain sight, but Chadwick Holmes had been the worst embarrassment imaginable.
“I’ve never done it to a person,” Sherlock insisted.
Mycroft’s gaze hardened. “And you won’t do it to any more animals,” he ordered.
“What about you and all your poisonous plants?” Sherlock asked.
“Purely theoretical,” Mycroft said, his voice stiff. “As must be your experiments from now on.”
“What if I use dead ones that I find?” asked Sherlock, not ready to let this go.
“No.” Mycroft rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. “Sherlock, this matter is not flexible. There are far more productive ways to channel your energy, and you must not entertain these ideas any longer.”
Sherlock looked at the vivisectioned ex-cat on the workbench mournfully. He was not mourning for the cat, however, but rather for his experiments that had been cut short.
“Let’s clean this up before Mummy finds out,” said Mycroft. “Bury the knife with it.”
Mycroft taught Sherlock self-preservation.
Mycroft never could bear to do any sort of actual work. He was a genius, but the problem with genius is that the genius often knows what he is. Mycroft knew exactly what he was, in every way, and he knew how to use this to get out of anything he didn’t want to do.
It wasn’t enough to talk other students into doing his class work for him. That was still problematic, because Mycroft would still have to copy it into his own writing, and getting everything word for word was more tedious and time-consuming than writing the paper himself would have been.
He practised smiles, vocal tones, inflections. A pause in just the right place and for the perfect length of time could achieve wonders. He learned to focus on what his hands were doing. Props often helped, and he got in the habit of carrying an umbrella with him because there were so many different ways in which an umbrella could be used and wielded. It added a whole new dialect to his body language, and one in which he quickly became fluent.
Talking students into doing his class work was a waste of time. Talking his way out of the assignments in the first place was far more efficient.
Sixth form taught Mycroft manipulation.
Despite Mycroft’s warnings, Sherlock never stopped his experiments, instead getting better at hiding them. He would find small animals that wouldn’t be missed, rather than picking up pets that had strayed too far from home. The small animals were more difficult to catch, but also decreased his own chances of being caught.
Sherlock never did forget what Mycroft had said about being productive, though. At first, he didn’t know what Mycroft had meant, having no idea how he could possibly do anything society might consider ‘productive.’
And then Carl Powers drowned and his shoes disappeared. It was so obvious, and yet the police had missed it; completely overlooked it, and when it was pointed out to them, completely refused to acknowledge it. Sherlock wrote over a dozen letters to Scotland Yard concerning the incident, four of which were sent in after the case closed.
Sherlock couldn’t believe how ignorant the police could be, and that these pathetic examples of intelligence could be allowed to chase after criminals made Sherlock want to scream.
For years after, he continued to send in letters, eventually numbering into the thousands. He didn’t care if anyone was reading them; he just wanted someone to know that they were wrong.
Scotland Yard taught Sherlock contempt.
Mycroft’s particular tract in the government had been almost purely accidental, but one which he soon found he most definitely enjoyed. He had been able to get his foot in the door through his father, and while he did view such things as cheating, it meant that he got to skip a lot of the more undignified work that most people had to put up with for years before ever moving into an office.
He was 24 when the first attempt on his life was made, and the whole incident had lasted less than a minute. Mycroft knew better than to walk alone at night, but things had been remarkably quiet lately, giving him a sense of security that even he knew was false.
The man was waiting for him behind his car. It had obviously been his first hit, because he came at Mycroft with a knife that had been entirely too large to wield with any real precision. He was all flailing arms and panic, and it was only by chance that the blade had caught on the fabric of Mycroft’s jacket, giving it the purchase it needed to drive itself into his side. It also got the man close enough to Mycroft for him to have been able to snap the man’s neck. Before his assailant even hit the tarmac, police sirens rang out in the near distance. Leaning against his car and clutching at his side, Mycroft looked above him for the CCTV camera that had undoubtedly caught the action, and nodded lightly at whoever was operating it.
He knew how he’d be expected to behave, and adjusted his breathing to simulate the appearance of the emotions, bringing himself to a state of near-hyperventilation. He had just killed a man, and he should have been in shock about this. Guilt and fear and adrenaline all competing for purchase on his mind.
His suit had been new; just purchased, tailor-made earlier that week and that it had been ruined so quickly was all he could think about.
The assassin taught Mycroft hate.
Sherlock had never been in the habit of keeping friends. They were time consuming and often high-maintenance, and if you didn’t treat them just right, they’d just start yowling and eventually leave.
Sherlock found it easier to skip the formalities and went straight to treating everybody exactly the same; teachers and students alike. He found them all tedious, boring, and transparent. He could see right through every single person on a cloudy day, and never hesitated to make this known.
He very quickly learned that people didn’t just dislike those that were smarter than the rest, but they tended to outright fear intelligence. Sherlock flaunted it, throwing his brilliance in everyone’s faces, often correcting his teachers and calling out other students for their hilariously wrong answers.
Everyone seemed to expect that Sherlock would be the target for bullies, but as it happened, he was the only person who was immune to them, to the point that he had become one himself. He never threw any punches or pushed people, instead using his wit and observation to bully people; sixth form was an exercise in psychological warfare, and Sherlock Holmes was a global superpower.
Sixth form taught Sherlock arrogance.
She phoned him every week, always under the guise of checking in. The conversation would always start off sweetly, but by the five minute mark, the focus would turn from pleasant chatter to painful comparisons.
She never hesitated to tell Mycroft that his father had already done this or accomplished that by the time Father was his age. If Mycroft had any sort of work ethic at all, he could be prime minister by now, but he was and would always be an indolent little boy.
Mycroft had no desire to be prime minister; he knew that wasn’t really where the power was, and so did Mummy. He’d remind her of this, and point out that he was already far more successful than anyone his age, but it was never good enough. He could always be better, and she’d reminded him of this fact every week.
She may have been right, but Mycroft would never let her know that; never give her the satisfaction. He did continue to move up in the ranks though, however slowly the progress at these early stages. This was not done by putting in longer hours or harder work, but through eliminating competition. He became especially good at digging up the sort of information that would persuade the subject to resign almost instantly. In one case, he even had a man tried for treason, having uncovered some very compelling evidence against him.
And still, every week she would phone him to say how much better he could be if he just put in the effort, and would all but ignore when he did get promoted. And every week, he would end their conversations feeling like he had something to prove.
Mummy taught Mycroft ruthlessness.
Their meeting had been purely that of chance. He was standing outside under a lamp, working on his third cigarette when a girl he hadn’t seen before walked up to him as though they’d known one another for years. As he was still trying to work out her behaviour, she took his cigarette and took a long drag before handing it back.
She didn’t thank him, nor did she walk away after that, and it was the first time Sherlock had ever been well and truly confused. The confusion was new, and therefore interesting, so he held onto it for a few moments, analysing its every aspect, until he drew the conclusion that being confused was also highly irritating, and he didn’t care for it at all.
He’d decided right then and there that he was going to figure out why she had behaved so oddly toward her, but before he could figure out a way to ask, she rather suddenly cursed the person she was living with. After a brief conversation, she’d revealed a contempt of university life that resonated all too familiarly with Sherlock. She’d left her flat to escape a party she hadn’t agreed to host, and was on her way to the shop to buy some cigarettes.
Sherlock wasn’t sure why he’d done it since sharing was never something he’d learned to do properly, but after that, he offered her one of his. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen, but her insulting his brand hadn’t even been on his list of possibilities. He knew he should have been put off by this, but for one reason or another, he couldn’t bring himself to take issue and laughed instead. He could not recall a time when anybody had behaved in any similar way toward him and he found it strangely refreshing to be seen as an equal and accepted, rather than something to be merely tolerated. It was new, different, and although he didn’t know the word for what he was feeling, almost humbling. More importantly, this strange woman was the first person he’d seen as his own equal.
Carol taught Sherlock respect.
Mycroft had, rather erroneously, thought that the nine months Sherlock had been missing was a reflection of the worst a person could possibly feel. All that pain and desperation of not knowing if his only sibling was dead or alive was something brand new and terrifying.
But he’d been wrong. So very wrong. After finding Sherlock, he’d arranged for the boy to be admitted to a private clinic, where hopefully, he’d be able to get himself sorted. He obeyed Sherlock’s wishes and didn’t visit, which he frankly thought was easier than going to see him in that state would have been. When Sherlock was released, Mycroft gave him space and tried not to interfere too badly.
A week later, Sherlock disappeared again, and the whole mess started all over again. Mycroft threw everything he had into finding his brother, and again only managed to catch up with him after getting lucky. This time, Sherlock had been arrested during a raid. When Mycroft went to pick him up, Sherlock had somehow managed to look even worse than after he’d been hit by the car. This time, he was deep in withdrawal and had been sick all over himself at one point.
Six times, the cycle had repeated itself before Mycroft had ordered so much surveillance on Sherlock that he couldn’t even go to the shop without setting off alarms, of both the literal and figurative sense. And still, somehow, Sherlock had managed to slip away unnoticed. Part of Mycroft knew that he should just be used to this behaviour, and accept the inevitable. Sherlock was out of control, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not even Mycroft, who had made it his job to make sure Sherlock stayed safe and out of trouble; Mycroft who was very quickly beginning to climb through the ranks and gather more pull and power by the day.
But there was another part of him, one he didn’t know what to do with or how to handle, that knew the only thing that would ever stop Sherlock would be the thing that also got him killed. No amount of intervention or meddling was ever going to stop him from destroying himself. The only way Sherlock would stop was because he wanted to, and it was clear to everybody that stopping was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind.
Sherlock taught Mycroft fear.
He’d been clean a fortnight; a new personal record. Getting around Mycroft’s minions was proving easier and easier, despite security being increased every time he was released. This time, he’d simply slid into his coat – a gift from Mycroft, given to him when he was picked up from the clinic earlier that month – and left the flat with intent.
The coat was clearly an expensive affair, done up to fit Sherlock, had Sherlock weighed about two stone more than he actually did. A hint, no doubt. Mycroft probably spent a fortune on the thing. Sherlock estimated that he could probably get about £30 for it.
On his way to his dealer, he happened upon a crime scene, complete with flashing lights and perimeter tape. Without realising he was doing it, Sherlock glanced over slightly at the scene. A young woman in her pyjamas and a large coat had been attacked and left in an alley, and CID and SOCO were only contaminating the evidence.
Almost compelled, Sherlock proceeded to announce every scrap of evidence missed by the police, rather conclusively proving the husband’s guilt. He’d known that it was a stupid idea, since the police wouldn’t listen, and never have, but he still found himself rather unpleasantly surprised when he was detained for his efforts. He was further surprised when, not even twenty minutes later, the detective inspector who had detained him had let him out of the back of the car and told him that he was free to go, and then thanked him for his help. For the first time since he was ten years old, he felt like he could actually be worth something; that he was, for once, useful to someone. There was a familiar buzz, deep in his chest that he used to get when he was a kid, writing angry letters to Scotland Yard. Now, he had an actual person to send the letters to.
Detective Inspector Lestrade taught Sherlock satisfaction.
She was one of the few people to ever manage to confuse him. While, yes, she was very good at her job, and could often get terribly complicated tasks done within hours after being asked, she could also be infuriating, even by her third day. He’d checked and verified her records personally, and while there was always something he missed, he was fairly certain that something very serious was happening.
When she refused the prime minister admittance to Mycroft’s office, he had decided to fire her. She clearly wasn’t up to the task, and he couldn’t afford the liability.
Before firing anybody, he always liked to go through their file one last time; not so much to find anything he could use against them – by this point, if he wanted someone to disappear, it was just a simple matter of ordering it – but rather just something of a developed ritual.
And there it was. The thing he had missed, buried in her medical records which had, at her hire, only merited a quick glance. Prosopagnosia; an inability to recognise faces. Suddenly, he realised a whole new use for the girl. When she arrived in his office later that evening, Mycroft had informed her that she was being relocated, effective immediately.
Having one of his minions constantly following him around was not something that he was used to, and he would frequently have to remind himself to treat the girl kindly. He would call her ‘dear,’ rather than by her name so that she would more easily recognise him, and eventually he found that he had even begun to mean it. The more time he spent around her, the more comfortable with her presence he became. He could very easily pretend to be friendly or kind to people, when the situation called for it, but he didn’t have to pretend with her. When he laughed with her, it was an honest laugh, with an honest smile.
Anthea taught Mycroft gentleness.
There was just something about the funny little man with the psychosomatic limp that Sherlock found intriguing. He was a man who, at first glance, had the appearance of someone who could very easily be pushed around, but right away Sherlock noticed something more; something that wasn’t kept out in the open.
This suspicion was confirmed when he took John to the first crime scene, and John argued with him as they hovered over the body of a woman who had been killed by a psychotic cabbie. Sherlock still hadn’t been completely sure about John until it came time to explain all of his deductions, because no one was ever smart enough to keep up. But while Lestrade and Anderson accused him of making things up, John openly praised his abilities.
It was right then that Sherlock had decided to keep John around for a while. He was just as big an idiot as the rest of them, but he was a smart idiot, eager to learn and willing to accommodate Sherlock’s habits. Even when John failed at his attempts at deductions, Sherlock still found it difficult to fault him, because even though he was wrong most of the time, he tried, and that was far more than could be said of most people. John wanted to learn how to improve, and Sherlock found himself wanting to help him.
John taught Sherlock tolerance.
Sherlock had, according to himself, been reliably informed that he didn’t have a heart. And he believed it, right up until Moriarty had walked away. He had to get John out of that vest. If John got hurt because this sadist decided to pick a fight, Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever be able to forgive himself. Sherlock didn’t know what this new crushing feeling in his chest was, but it was terrifying and he wished it would go away.
Four hours later, he found himself severely concussed and staring at anything other than Mycroft, who in turn was staring at anything other than Sherlock. Neither of them said anything, because they both knew exactly what the other was thinking. It didn’t take the British Government and the world’s only consulting detective to figure it out, either, because at that moment, they weren’t either of those things. They both knew that they would never be normal, but this might be the closest either would ever come to feeling like they were.
“I... I have to go,” Sherlock said, his voice low and cracked.
“You can’t.”
It wasn’t an order, as the words usually were when Sherlock declared that he would be checking himself out of whatever clinic or hospital Mycroft had checked him into. It was a plea, quiet and desperate.
“I can’t stay here,” Sherlock insisted. “It’s too...”
He didn’t have a word for it, and that annoyed him. But whatever it was, he knew that he could not stay where he was while John was somewhere else. The incompetent hospital staff hadn’t even put them in the same room and wouldn’t tell Sherlock anything of what was going on. He knew that Mycroft could get the information in as little as two minutes, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He had gotten John into this mess, and he didn’t deserve any favours for it.
“I’m going,” he declared again.
As he reached for the drip needle in his arm, Mycroft pulled a large, silk handkerchief from inside his jacket and handed it to Sherlock. For once, he couldn’t bring himself to meddle or stand in his little brother’s way. He just turned his head so he didn’t have to watch as Sherlock wrenched the drip from his arm and wrapped the handkerchief around the puncture to keep from bleeding everywhere.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” Mycroft said.
For a moment, Sherlock considered it. But, no. If he was going to be receiving bad news, he decided that he’d much rather hear it while at home. Home was comfortable and familiar. He gingerly pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the door, surprised to find Mycroft following him.
“You can’t keep me here,” he snapped.
“I don’t plan on it,” said Mycroft. “But I also can’t let you walk home in this state. I’d much rather give you a ride.”
It wasn’t what Sherlock had expected, and he blinked.
“Why?” he asked, trying not to sound as suspicious as he felt.
“So that I know you get home safely,” Mycroft said. “And so I know where to find you tomorrow.”
Sherlock wanted to tell him a few choice phrases, but found that his head suddenly hurt quite badly.
“If you care about Dr Watson, you’ll let me take you home, and you’ll stay there,” Mycroft said. “I know you don’t want to be here, and I’m respecting that.”
After a few moments, Sherlock nodded and stepped aside, motioning for Mycroft to lead the way. He was eager to get home so he could comfortably wait for whatever bad news was certain to be coming his way, and if Mycroft was actually offering to let that happen, he wasn’t about to turn it down.
Jim Moriarty taught them both how to care.