Work Text:
"Sherlock Holmes, you've ruined your trousers. Mummy will not be pleased."
Nine year old Sherlock stands and attempts to dust off the tell-tale mud stains along the knees of his trousers. He'd gotten wrapped up in another case (a fascinating study of how the average earthworm copes with the deceased body of a fallen comrade) and paid no attention to his clothing. Mummy is very particular -- trousers must be ironed and hemmed. Shirts are to be tucked in unless one is sleeping, shoes must be polished until they shine. Everything formal, there is no room for casual when it comes the Holmes family.
However, even the finest of clothing London has to offer cannot turn a tall scrawny weed of a boy with overgrown curls into a person who is worthy of the Holmes surname. Sherlock can count on one finger just how many other children he could genuinely call friend but that's fine. It is. Life is a biological accident -- every last one of them (wretched as they are) are a product of a catastrophic explosion within universe. They're nothing special, he's nothing special.
As they taunt him ruthlessly, he silently plots out the various ways in which each child could cease to exist.
Friends.
He doesn't have friends.
All he needs to get by is the world at large, an ever expanding wealth of scientific text, specimens and copious amounts of self inflicted isolation. If the atrocious children offer an important variable that's missing from his life, he'll turn to Mycroft instead. He's a rubbish big brother and Sherlock would rather die than admit it but he loves Mycroft, idolizes him. It hurts when he's disappointed.
He has ruined his trousers; ruined Mycroft's mood, ruined all of it by attaching himself to a fleeting heartbeat.
"You won't tell her," Sherlock states.
Surely he wouldn't.
Mycroft's lips pinch together in a tight line. "If you were to leave at this very moment, you would have approximately ten minutes to change. I will not, however, guarantee success. Your height fails to make up for your poor speed."
Sherlock blinks, dumbfounded. "Why are you helping me?"
For a moment, Mycroft appears unguarded. It's almost like watching a butterfly emerge from its cocoon, bright and cautious. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared and the ice returns. Frost, Sherlock thinks. If he could harness such control over his own face; his emotions...the world would bend to his will. Bullies would flinch at his cold apathetic demeanor.
"Two minutes, Sherlock. The clock is ticking," Mycroft clips.
Sherlock takes off in a rush; aching legs kicking up dirt as he dodges trees and branches. He's nearly home free when-
Oomph.
He smacks the ground, landing face first in a pile of decaying leaves. They smell earthy and damp and he knows he should get back on his feet but curiosity gets the better of him. He pushes himself up and onto his knees. The soil is gritty and cool beneath his fingertips, making him long for his microscope. Perhaps he could collect a sample. He scoops up a handful and stands, stained knees now even worse for the wear.
A low buzzing sound, a vibration.
He pockets the soil and proceeds to stand stock still. A fat honey bee flits past - wings rapidly fluttering against the wind. Fascinated, he tags along until it comes to a hive nestled high up in a flowering tree. Horse chestnut.
The honey bee enters as countless others depart; a busy tarmac of tiny lives intersecting. How simple they live without surmise -- no awkward dinners or forced holidays. No lectures or condescending tones. No impossibly high expectations. Freedom, he thinks. How sweet it must taste.
"Apis," he whispers, voice full of wonder. The forest is brimming with life; around him a whole world stretching out under gray skies. Someday, he swears it, he'll make his own way. He'll carve out a space for himself and he won't have to answer to anyone ever again. He'll play his violin (a hobby deemed not only acceptable but welcomed) and break every rule that society has to offer.
Happy.
Much like the humbled honey bee.
"Sherlock," a voice calls out. His heart thumps harder, faster. Mummy. He's out of time.
He glances back only once, longing, before trudging along.
At dinner, Mycroft glares. As it turns out, mummy placed the blame for the ruined clothing upon him.
-
'You were supposed to be watching him, Mycroft. I'm sure you're well aware of the consequences of not minding your sibling, are you not? '
Mycroft is though he'd do anything to remain in blissful ignorance. If it were possible to delete that particular fact, he would. He has yet to master such a skill.
When Sherlock is of an appropriate age, he will learn of the brother he could've had. Should've had. He loves Sherlock so but...Sherringford Holmes should be the one to keep him safe. He would've rushed Sherlock upstairs before mummy had caught wind of anything being amiss. He was everything Mycroft could never amount to. But they do not speak of it in such terms. Instead, he is away. It's a much kinder way of saying, Out of sight, out of mind. Accidents happen, lives are lost. Hearts are broken, this is how we learn. Sentiment is not an advantage, Mycroft.
Despite the warning, he loves. Quietly; as wide and vast as the ocean.
He will protect William Sherlock Scott Holmes until his dying breath and if there is life after this, he will shield him there also.
-
At dinner, he spears a brussel sprout and (frequently) wishes he could've taken Sherringford's place. The shadows we cast linger after we're gone; they taunt the living and always, always leave a scar.
He'll make damn sure the only shadow that's two steps behind Sherlock is his own.
-
The next day, Sherlock returns to his bees (friends) as Mycroft reads a novel nearby.