Summary:
Sherlock has been sent down from school for being, well, Sherlock. Which means Mummy isn't happy. Which means Sherlock is on the receiving end of that unhappiness. And all of that leads to oral surgery, unfortunate chemical experiments, and, oh yes, Stoned Mycroft. On his birthday. Because the world needs some of that.
Notes:
This is the second installment in what is now a series. These will all be one-shot vignettes (most likely) on a central theme-unusual events occurring on the birthday of one or the other of the Holmes boys.
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Work Text:
"No," Sherlock said again, more firmly this time.
"Yes," said Mummy, even firmer.
"But I don't want to," Sherlock whined. "Why can't someone else do it?"
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." Mummy snarled. "You were sent down for the remainder of the term for drugging half of your housemates with a homemade emetic. We have had to forfeit the entirety of your fees. So for the remainder of what would have been that term, you are mine. You will do what I ask, when I ask it. We have had this conversation twice now. Do I need to repeat the consequences of non-compliance?"
Sherlock shivered slightly. The "consequences" consisted of an entire month with no computer access, no violin and no money. "No," he said sullenly.
"One more time?" Mummy snapped.
"No, ma'am," he sighed, rolling his eyes. Mummy gave him a quelling look but said no more.
It was appalling. How could anyone expect him to rise in the dark like this—half-four, for God's sake- and actually make conversation on top of getting himself dressed and out the door? Nonetheless, here he was, trapped in the kitchen while Mummy insisted on making him a light breakfast (bacon butty) and coffee to take with him. There were only two consolations in all of this—Mycroft, because of the nature of their mission, couldn't have any (and Sherlock would make sure the smell of bacon filled the entire car before he finally ate), and this particular unpleasant trip was taking place on Mycroft's birthday. Most likely not the kind of gift the fat git would prefer.
Though, to be fair (not that he ever would be, but still…) "fat" didn't really fit anymore. That lingering bit of softness around his brother's middle had melted away over the past two years, the legacy of Mycroft's job. The real one, not that "Ministry of Transport" nonsense. Everyone had carefully avoided telling Sherlock that his big brother was now officially a field agent of some kind, but it was so obvious. The mysterious absences, the ever-increasing number of stamps in his passport (which Sherlock pickpocketed on a regular basis, just to check), and most of all the shift in his body mass and general appearance. Mycroft was now whippet-thin, somewhat like Sherlock, in fact. And he gave off an air of competence that could already be daunting, despite his youth. Twenty-four today, and already a force to be reckoned with.
It was hateful.
A further unfortunate aspect of that job was what led to Sherlock's reluctant presence today. Mycroft was now subject to the Official Secrets Act. His job, then, required that only someone eminently trustworthy could be around him when he underwent any kind of anesthesia. Normally, that would have required either Mummy or Father, both of whom had the highest of security clearances. But Mummy was headed to Paris today for a three-day trip that could not be rescheduled, and Father was on a month-long diplomatic mission in Chechnya. Mycroft's condition had suddenly reached a critical point, and today was the only day he could clear in his own schedule to attend to it. Which meant that Sherlock was officially a "security observer" for the day. He wondered idly what the head of MI6 would do if he knew that potentially critical security information was in the hands of a disgruntled sixteen-year-old.
Mycroft wandered into the kitchen, a small bag in his hands and an ice pack held to his jaw. The swelling was visible nonetheless, the result of two impacted wisdom teeth that he'd been neglecting for the past two years. He looked exhausted and miserable, which served to raise Sherlock's spirits just a bit.
"Good morning, Mummy," Mycroft mumbled. He looked at Sherlock and simply raised his eyebrows—that was enough of a greeting between the two of them. Sherlock scowled back. Mummy just rolled her eyes—she'd long since learned to choose her battles.
Mummy reached over for her handbag, resting on the kitchen island, and dug out her keys. She handed them off to Mycroft—he would drive them to the clinic, but Sherlock would drive them home. For Sherlock, this was the only redeeming grace of the entire ordeal. Mycroft, in his Transport position, had actually managed to get him a dispensation for a provisional license to drive a car a full year early, but opportunities to drive were few and far between. The only reason Sherlock had been allowed to get the license was that Father didn't drive (Mummy said giving him a driver was safer for everyone on the road, including Father), and Mummy wanted to make sure he and Sherlock wouldn't be stranded at the house while she was away on business. Sherlock had had his license for two entire months now and had only driven farther than the village 4 times.
It was clear Mummy had misgivings on that aspect. "Sherlock, I need you to pay attention when you drive. You know how distracted you get. I'm only allowing this because I have to be on a plane in three hours. Listen to your brother, please." Sherlock scowled but held his peace—she was perfectly capable of changing her mind and calling the car service if he acted up.
"And Myc—do try not to make him nervous. I don't want the two of you ending up in a ditch, all right?" Mycroft nodded austerely. "Oh," she added, "and don't forget to call me this evening and let me know how everything went. I do wish we had taken care of this when you were Sherlock's age—it would have been so much easier!"
Mycroft glanced over at his brother. "Why yes, Mummy," he said smoothly. "You should probably see about making an appointment to get Sherlock checked over soon, shouldn't you?" He gave Sherlock a patently false smile. Sherlock glared death in return.
Mummy gave them each a kiss on the forehead (Mycroft allowed it graciously; Sherlock bristled and huffed), and they went out the kitchen door towards the garage.
When they reached the Range Rover (complete with Learner plates on front and back), Mycroft tossed his bag on the rear seat and waited impatiently for Sherlock to climb in. "Let's get this over with," he snapped. "I'm hoping to get back to work later this afternoon if all goes well."
"Nope," chirped Sherlock, opening his bacon butty and waving it around. "I can't take you to the train station since I have no licensed driver to ride back home with me. And you can't take the car and leave it there since that would leave me stranded at the house. You'll have to wait until Mrs. Carver comes in the morning to fix breakfast—Mummy asked her to give you a ride back to the station."
Mycroft sighed and started the engine.
Waiting for the surgery to be over was every bit as deadly as Sherlock had feared. When they arrived Mycroft was immediately ushered into the back area, and no one paid Sherlock any attention. He was left alone in a chilly waiting room, with a telly that only got 3 channels and some 3-year-old gardening magazines. He had brought along two books to read, but the chairs were so uncomfortable, and the air so cold, he found it difficult to focus. There was a tiny children's area down at the far end of the room, and he found a rubber ball in a basket of toys. He set up a routine of bouncing the ball against designated portions of the wall. This lasted for 15 minutes, before a middle-aged nurse came frowningly out, grabbed the ball in mid-air and thumped it decisively back into the basket.
Sherlock made a rude gesture behind her back.
In desperation, he finally wandered up to the reception desk and begged paper and a pen, then sat and designed impossible word puzzles and logic problems for the next hour. At that point, he was considering another session with the ball—perhaps the stern nurse was otherwise occupied. But he was saved when a short, balding aide came out, looked around in a perplexed way, and asked the empty room (and Sherlock) who was accompanying Mr. Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock wondered who the aide was looking for—one patient, one person in the waiting room—surely that was a simple enough problem for even the most dim-witted to solve? But the aide's eyes slid over Sherlock and looked towards the closed door, apparently intending to go look outside.
"I'm here with Mycroft," Sherlock piped up, in what was supposed to be his most-mature voice. Of course, owing to the wonders of hormones, it slid abruptly up two octaves in the middle, and Sherlock felt his fair skin flame in a blush.
The aide gaped. "But… he has to have someone to drive him."
"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, politely if not patiently. "I'm driving us home." He held up the car keys as evidence.
The aide blanched. "You're…um…how old are you, exactly? Thirteen? I really don't think…"
Sherlock pulled himself up to his full five foot, six inches, and thrust out his chest a bit. "I've had my license for some time, you know," he said irritably. "I'm starting university in August." Both true, though with major qualifiers—he'd had the provisional license for two months, and he was starting university two years early because he was a genius, and his school was at the end of their wits with him, and his parents had finally yielded to his endless wheedling. But still true.
"Well I suppose…" the aide said doubtfully. "But you may need some help. He's had a bit of an adverse reaction to the anesthetic, so he's very woozy and a little confused. And he's rather a lot bigger than you, isn't he?"
"Well of course he is," Sherlock said impatiently. "He's a few years older than I am." Well, almost 8, actually, but there was no reason to volunteer that. "If need be, if someone can help us to the car, we'll be fine." And he tried to radiate Mummy's air of aggressive competence.
Astoundingly, it worked (or the aide at least realized that there were no other options). He bustled back through the swinging doors, giving Sherlock a "wait right here" as he left (as if, thought Sherlock sourly, he had some other option. It was like telling someone stuck on a malfunctioning lift not to go anywhere since help was on the way). Sherlock waited almost patiently, pleasantly abuzz in anticipation of actually driving almost 10 miles by himself. Well, nearly by himself, anyway. Hopefully Mycroft would be too befuddled to offer any "helpful" instructions.
That anticipation ebbed a bit when the doors swung open, and he saw his brother stumbling between two orderlies, his arms draped limply around their shoulders. He struggled a bit to identify the feeling that brought, and ultimately realized it was dismay. His brother, the smart one, the strong one, wasn't supposed to look like leftover pasta. It was…unsettling. Wrong, on some fundamental level.
He wasn't given time to come to terms with this, though. One of the orderlies looked up and beckoned with his chin towards the door. "Go open the doors, sonny," he said shortly. Sherlock was annoyed to feel his face flush again. He had to learn to stop that.
He did as he was told, though it went very much against the grain. At this juncture, he just wanted out of this building. They had nearly reached the main door when things took a turn for the worse.
Mycroft, who to this point had been a largely inert participant in this process, abruptly swung his head up and looked dazedly around. Then his eyes fixed on Sherlock (who had been watching Mycroft's movements with horrified fascination). A smile spread slowly across his face, and he waved one hand loopily towards his brother. "Lockie!" he slurred, in a fond, delighted tone. While Sherlock cringed in mortification, Mycroft turned to his bearers and beamed. "That's my baby brother," he said in a confiding tone. "He didn't speak until he was 4, but he does much better now."
Sherlock, unfortunately, couldn't prove that assertion at the moment, as his mouth was apparently welded shut.
Things got worse. Mycroft suddenly wriggled his arms loose and launched himself at his brother, draping himself across Sherlock's narrow shoulders while his much-smaller brother struggled to keep standing under the sudden weight. Mycroft, even a thin Mycroft, was nonetheless two inches over six foot and weighed north of 12 stone. Sherlock, delicate in frame and 8 inches shorter, came in at just under 8. Gravity, in the end, won the battle, as Sherlock's knees gave up the fight and they subsided together to the floor.
Sherlock lay prostrate under his brother, wondering if it really was possible to expire of embarrassment. Mycroft, completely unconcerned, erupted into a flood of high giggles. "Oops!" tittered the most repressed man on Earth.
The bearers, momentarily frozen by the dramatic collapse, now spun back into action, hauling an unprotesting Mycroft off of his brother and once more dragging him towards the door. Sherlock scrambled to his feet and hustled to open it before anything else went wrong.
The first inkling that this trip would not go the way Sherlock hoped came when the orderlies deposited Mycroft in the passenger seat. Mycroft looked around, in a perplexed but accommodating way, before slithering off and landing crouched in the footwell. The orderlies hauled him up and repositioned him, this time securing his seat belt before stepping away. Mycroft smiled cheerily, and then slowly slid sideways until his head was resting in Sherlock's lap. He looked up at his brother, clearly astounded by this new vantage point. "Your cheeks are still very smooth," he observed. "I doubt you'll ever be able to grow a beard."
Those cheeks were now flaming red and hot. Sherlock, with the bearers' grudging help, hauled his bemused brother out of the front and draped him limply across the back seat, positioning the seat belt loosely around his hips so that he could lie down. "This is a nice car," Mycroft crooned. "But I'd prefer a Jaguar, I think." He gave a sound halfway between a snort and a giggle. "It's better for my image."
The orderlies looked a little concerned. "Do you have far to go?" one of them asked uncertainly. "Is there someone you can call for help?" asked the other.
All Sherlock wanted was to get home. "We only live ten minutes away," he said stoutly. True, if you measured as the crow flies. In the car, the only way to get there in ten minutes was via levitation.
In the end, they let the brothers leave. The stern nurse came bustling out with a handful of papers that she shoved into Sherlock hands. "These are his aftercare instructions. He will need help once you get home," she told him, brows knit for emphasis. "Oh, and you'll have to stop and fill his prescriptions. It's extremely important."
Sherlock had reached the end of his patience. "Thank you for your help," he said, in his most-insincere tone. "I'm sure we can manage." He gave her his plastic Normal People smile and then turned his head determinedly away, waiting for her to get frustrated and leave. As was so often the case, it was a successful tactic. The nurse huffed in irritation and stomped back towards the building.
So. Here they were. In the car. The car that Sherlock was going to drive, all by himself, to the chemist and then home. Without Mummy or Father sitting reassuringly in the front seat next to him.
He suddenly realized his hands were shaking a bit.
Mycroft's voice, floating from the back seat, startled him badly. "Can we get ice cream while we're out?" he asked hopefully.
That shook Sherlock right out of his semi-funk. "No," he said sternly, unconsciously imitating Mummy. "We have to go pick up your medicine."
"Oh," Mycroft said, with a despondent sigh.
Once he brought himself to actually start the car and pull out of the car park, Sherlock began to find the drive surprisingly anti-climactic. This was easy. There were few cars on the road; it was only just past 8, and this area had very few commuters.
And then it got strange. Five minutes into the trip Mycroft suddenly started humming to himself. Odd, mildly annoying, but tolerable. But then he segued into singing. Mycroft, like the rest of the family, was musical; not so talented as Sherlock, but very capable, with a solid, warm tenor. Right now, however, he was singing a song Sherlock had never heard before. A, well, a lewdsong. A very lewd song.
Mycroft stopped momentarily. "You should sing too," he said earnestly. "No, I really…no," stammered Sherlock. "I, erm, I don't know that song."
Mycroft tried unsuccessfully to sit up, only to slide back down again. "Oh. I can teach you. I'd like that. Here, start with me: 'I'd like you to touch— '" "NO!" howled Sherlock. Then, in a more subdued tone, "No. We can do that later, after we get home." And I give you your pain medicine and you pass out, Sherlock thought thankfully.
"I suppose," Mycroft huffed, in a sulky tone more fitting to Sherlock than to his stodgy older brother.
After a couple of minutes of offended silence, Mycroft reverted to humming again, though, since he was now humming the song he had been singing earlier, it was still astoundingly awkward to listen to. Sherlock's far-too-efficient brain kept helpfully supplying the words, even though he had no desire to hear them ever again, externally or internally. Particularly not in association with his brother.
They reached the village without further incident. Mycroft had apparently forgotten his momentary snit and was still humming to himself (thankfully, not the same song). Annoyingly there was nowhere to park that was close to the chemist; Sherlock finally parked under some trees on the other side of the village green. He rolled the windows down a bit—it was warm in the sun, and Mycroft would be staying in the car. He suddenly realized, as he prepared to walk away, that he had no money for the medicine. Mummy had an account at the chemist's, actually, but Sherlock was no longer allowed to charge against it since the unfortunate Digitalis Incident when he was 12. (Really, though, that was much more their fault than his—who, in their right mind, gives alethal poison to a 12-year-old without checking with a responsible adult? Even if he did have a (forged) note from his mother. In the end it was probably just as well that Mummy found it in his room before he got a chance to taste a bit to monitor the effects).
He walked to the back door of the car and swung it open. "Mycroft," he said firmly, "give me your wallet." He didn't actually expect instant compliance, but it was best to start the negotiations on the high end of the scale. He was astounded, then, to see Mycroft writhe a bit on the seat, shimmy his hand underneath himself and tug out the wallet, holding it out obediently.
Well, on reflection, that took all the fun out of things. He opened the wallet, removed the money required for the medicine (plus his usual "convenience fee" of an additional £10) and handed the wallet back with a sigh.
Mycroft, though, wasn't putting it away, but was rather digging awkwardly for more cash. He pulled out a £20 note and waved it at Sherlock. "Here," he said. "Take it." Sherlock, completely adrift at this sudden largesse, shook his head before he could think about it. "No, I have enough," he said.
Mycroft's face abruptly crumpled. "You never let me give you gifts anymore," he said mournfully, the money and wallet drifting sadly to his lap.
A peculiar, unpleasant sensation gripped Sherlock by the throat. It was horrible, and he needed to make it stop. And he especially needed to make Mycroft stop making that face. "Oh, sorry," he found himself stammering. "I, erm, I misunderstood. I just thought you meant I hadn't taken enough for the medicine." He thought about it for a second, then realized that Mycroft would never remember this tomorrow. "Um. Thank you." And he slipped the bill out of his brother's limp hand.
Mycroft beamed.
He had to wait ten frustrating minutes outside the shop door for the chemist to open—apparently 9 am was considered quite early enough to start business, thank you very much. He found himself reflexively looking back across the green at the car, unwillingly aware of his brother draped limply across the back seat. He forced himself to stop; after all, having someone abscond with the car would relieve him of his responsibility, wouldn't it? And he could walk home from here quite easily.
Finally, the doors opened and he swept past the clerk to hustle to the counter in the back. Despite his being the only person in the shop, though, it still took an additional 15 minutes for the prescriptions to be readied and paid for. He managed to keep himself from being comprehensively rude only by remembering what Mummy's reaction would be if word of such behavior got back to her (and it would, oh it would. The male chemist was the same one who'd been involved in the Digitalis Incident).
He stomped down the pavement and across the green, swearing huffily under his breath the entire way. He couldn't actually do so out loud, at least not in the village—too many people here had known him since he was in nappies, and wouldn't hesitate to ring his parents. He longed for the day when he could live in obscenity-ridden anonymity.
He unlocked the car and tossed the medicine on the passenger seat, mildly surprised that Mycroft hadn't greeted him, or at least commented. And then he looked in the back seat, and had a brief moment of utter terror—it was empty.
Sherlock gaped for a moment, then pulled himself rigorously back under control. He needed to deal with this rationally (ignoring the raw panic trying to rip through his stomach). Mycroft couldn't have been gone far on his own, and they were in their own village, so anyone who saw him would have come to his aid (the one value of busybodies, in Sherlock's opinion). So all he had to do was take a walk around the square, ask in a couple of the shops, and someone would almost certainly have seen where Mycroft went.
And then a horrible, horrible thought occurred. It slithered insidiously into his head, and once lodged there was impossible to remove. Mycroft was an agent. The sole reason Sherlock was with him was to protect his security clearance. What if his departure wasn't a case of him wandering off in his confusion? What if someone had been following him, following them, and took their opportunity when Mycroft's idiot little brother was stupid enough to leave an incapacitated agent alone in the car?
Sherlock came perilously close to hyperventilating then. He suddenly wanted Mummy, in a visceral kind of way. If there had been a way to call her, or Father, he would have done so, instantly. But then, gradually, some of Father's lessons started bubbling up into his consciousness.
Step 1: Assess the situation. Determine what you know, not what you suspect, wish, or fear. Well. All he knew was that, in the roughly 25 minutes he was away from the car, Mycroft had left it. There was currently no sign of him, and nothing in the car (he took a quick scan of the back seat and floorboards) to indicate he left anything other than voluntarily. But nothing to preclude it either.
Step 2: Examine your assets, and your liabilities. Honestly and without qualification. That was not quite so clear-cut. His only asset, truthfully, was his brain (not that that wasn't profoundly valuable). His liabilities—his ignorance of the true situation. The lack of adult support (as mortifying as that was to admit). And, to be truthful, the punishing fear that kept beating against his awareness.
Step 3: Ascertain the best immediate course of action, in light of steps 1 and 2. Reassess as needed based on events and changes in circumstances. All right then. Sherlock gave himself a firm mental shake, shoving the terror far into the background, or at least as far as he could manage.
He started to walk systematically around the edge of the green, trying not to call attention to himself if anyone was, had been, watching the car. He considered following his initial thought and asking in the shops, but reconsidered—anyone who witnessed an abduction by foreign agents would make themselves a potential target, and he didn't want to bring that down on the (mostly) harmless grannies who ran the shops surrounding the green.
He was heartened, on his second, wider circuit, to see what could be Mycroft's footprints leading through the hydrangea hedges that surrounded the rugby field on the back side of the green. It wasn't clear-cut—the grass was a little too dry to take a firm impression—but it was recent, and the right size. A wave of relief swept through him as he hurried in what he hoped was pursuit.
As he pushed through the last of the hedges, he considered calling for Mycroft, but hesitated—again, did he want to call attention to his presence? On reflection, probably not.
The trail thinned as he left the hydrangeas, so he had to retrace his steps now, looking carefully for a mark from those distinctive, expensive shoes (the ones Sherlock was secretly jealous of, though he would never admit it). His focus was such that the voices nearing his position were much too close before they registered on his consciousness, and the individuals matching those voices were also much too close.
And that was a Very Bad Thing indeed.
Harrow, two weeks previously
Sherlock had never been popular at school. At first he was too silent, and too odd, his mild autism and hypersensitivity forming barriers between him and other young children, who mistrusted anything, anyone, different. As he grew, those barriers waned as his skill at masking his differentness improved, but others popped up in their stead—his intelligence, his lack of understanding of social cues everyone else grasped innately.
By the time he reached sixth form, he had honed those barriers to a razor edge, with his lethal tongue leading the attack. He didn't care what the other boys at Harrow thought (well, first Winchester, and then Harrow. The change in location really hadn't made much difference). And the whole sports/gossip/social status obsessions of his peers were deathly dull (as were most of the participants). It wasn't until this year, though, that he had managed to make true enemies.
At first he found the concept somewhat intriguing—how had his actions, similar to actions taken (or not taken) in previous years led to something so different this year? Was it age? Increased testosterone? That mild interest, however, evaporated after the second beating. By the fourth, when Ronald Calhoun and his cohorts broke his collarbone—he had to lie and say he tripped on the stairs—and left him with blood in his urine for a day, he began to seriously consider telling someone. But that went very much against the grain, not least because he knew it would likely lead to his changing schools yet again, and encountering a new crop of mentally deficient thugs.
In the end, he decided on a different approach—lethal retaliation. Retaliation that would lead even the dimmest cretin in the group of four to realize that Sherlock was not to be trifled with, even if, at two years younger than many of his classmates, he was at a physical disadvantage.
Getting the materials together had been laughably easy. His chemistry skills were already advanced enough that he could calculate dosages, and their efficacy, to a hair, so he had no qualms about administering his concoction—he would hurt them, but do no serious, permanent damage.
This time. That was the implication he wanted them to assimilate. Sherlock chose not to do more, but could, and certainly would, if they continued.
He even carefully thought out the delivery vehicle. Calhoun, Becket, and the Harrison twins had now ransacked Sherlock's room twice. He planned, once this operation was completed, to rig a device that would shock anyone touching his doorknob in his absence. But for this, he went to a bakery outside of school and brought back a dozen delectable little honey cakes (he did eat one before tainting the rest). He prepared a syringe and injected his tasteless, colorless emetic into each remaining cake, and placed the box carefully on the corner of his desk. And then he went to class, and waited.
It didn't take long. Sherlock came back from his fourth class of the day to pick up a textbook, and found the door to his room hanging open, his belongings strewn across the floor and chocolate syrup poured over them. But that was nothing to his desk—where every item was torn or broken, but the box of honey cakes was gone. Sherlock picked up the mess, and grinned to himself.
It was epic. The Foul Four (as Sherlock mentally referred to them) had clearly helped themselves to the full contents of the box, a contingency Sherlock took into account in setting the dosage. But that was the upper safe end of the potential scale of effects, so things were, well, dramatic in scope.
Sherlock was seated at the farthest end of the table at dinner, but still heard the beginnings of the upheaval. ("Upheaval". So apt a description. Sherlock caught himself snickering and had to quickly rein it in. There was still a chance he'd get clear of this with no repercussions). There was shouting, the clattering of plates, trays, silverware, and a horrified scream or two. Then everyone was throwing themselves away from the group at the other end of the table as if avoiding lepers.
The overall noise in the room was too loud to hear any graphic sound effects, at least from Sherlock's distance. But the view was stunning—Calhoun, Becket, and Cam and Sam Harrison positively erupting in vomit, repeatedly and violently. A sobbing younger student was led solicitously out (presumably to the loo) by his friends, who carefully avoided touching him—he had apparently been in the initial direct line of fire, so to speak. And oh, now came a new, thrilling wrinkle—Becket had abruptly grabbed at his bum with a howl and pelted towards the loo as well, with his other hand still over his mouth. An added bonus—Sherlock hadn't hoped for bowel disruption as well, so that was a nice little addition.
Sherlock floated back to his room in a positive glow of happiness. He had no doubt his message had been heard, loud and clear, and there was every reason to hope it would be understood.
That happiness, of course, hadn't lasted long. Though Sherlock had been extremely careful in obtaining his materials and creating the emetic, he had been seen with the bakery box coming back into school. And, though it was clear Sherlock's house master was somewhat sympathetic after he viewed the remains of Sherlock's things that Sherlock had carefully picked up and placed in a box under his bed, for just this eventuality, in the end he had no choice. A meeting of the higher-ups was held, Mummy and Father were called, and Sherlock was sent down for the last month of term.
It was worth it.
The Very Bad Thing took the shape of two unexpected, and wholly unwelcome, arrivals from the rugby field—Calhoun and Becket. Who, with Sherlock's typical luck, had been sent down along with Sherlock, and lived only two miles away – and had apparently decided to come to the village to play rugby at just the wrong time.
Sherlock's first impulse, honed by two terms' worth of painful experience, was to take to his heels. Sherlock was fast—the only sport he somewhat enjoyed was running hurdles for the track team at school. But he instantly rejected that—he couldn't take off for home without locating Mycroft. So, confrontation it was.
Calhoun, of course, threw the first volley, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's curls before he could dart back out of reach. "Sherlock Holmes, you little prick. I must be living right today." Sherlock quickly reached out both arms and clapped his hands over Calhoun's ears, skipping backwards as the larger boy let go of Sherlock's hair to clasp his hands to his own head with a curse. Unfortunately, Becket had moved into a flanking position so Sherlock's dodge put him within reach of his other tormentor, who quickly grabbed Sherlock's wrists and twisted his arms up behind his back.
"Stay still, you twat," Becket snarled as Sherlock made a concerted effort to snap his wrists out of the punishing grip. "You've got a lesson coming, and we're gonna give it to you right now."
"Becket, you couldn't teach fish to swim," Sherlock said coolly. "You'd have to have Calhoun spell out all of the words over four letters long for you, so I really think any lesson would take more time than you're willing to devote." He gave another fierce jerk and managed to get his right arm free, though that meant that the left took a painful twist as he half-spun far enough to get a knee up, aiming for Becket's bollocks but only managing to drive his bony kneecap painfully into Becket's fleshy upper thigh. Becket gasped but held on, and retaliated by letting go of Sherlock's painfully-twisted left arm to slam a fist full-bore into Sherlock's midsection. Sherlock curled around the pain, struggling for breath, and that, unfortunately, allowed Calhoun to slide in, grasp the back of Sherlock's head and bring it down swiftly on Calhoun's rising knee.
Sherlock was suddenly aware of being on the ground, unsure how he got there. Becket quickly solved that problem, though, by leaning over to leer in Sherlock's face before giving him a full-bore kick to the ribs. "I puked in Aubrey Lindham's lap," he snarled, as he punctuated the statement with another kick. "I got sent down, and my mum confiscated my car," with another kick. "I shat myself in public," he howled, and this last kick was hard enough to completely steal Sherlock's breath.
Sherlock, though he certainly knew better, couldn't stop himself. "Oh," he panted. "Just a typical day for you, then."
He couldn't say he was completely surprised when, after a soundless gasp of rage, Becket grabbed the shoulders of Sherlock's jacket and hauled him bodily upright, then shoved him into Calhoun's grasp. "Hold him," he rasped, and then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folding knife.
Sherlock was afraid. He'd have to admit that to himself, though never to them. He didn't really think they'd intentionally kill him, but they might well do so accidentally. He was, reluctantly, just about to shout for help when he, they, heard violent rustling through the bushes behind them. Becket and Calhoun froze, and all three boys looked towards the path, and saw a dazed Mycroft Holmes stagger into view. Calhoun, uncertain, released Sherlock, who gratefully subsided to his knees on the grass.
Mycroft was clearly more coherent than he had been in the car—the look on his face on seeing his little brother at knifepoint could have curdled milk. Of course, his coordination still left something to be desired, and he listed just a tad to one side as he walked carefully over to the three boys. Calhoun and Becket eyed him warily—he was older and taller than they, of course, but not dauntingly so. And he wavered just a bit as he stood, which made up what passed for Calhoun's mind.
"Shove off then, mate," he said harshly, and gave Mycroft a rough push on the shoulder that almost overbalanced him. Sherlock made an abortive move towards his brother in a reflexive action, which stalled in its tracks when he saw his brother abruptly straighten, and shift, and move, and Calhoun was suddenly flat on his back with Mycroft's knee across his throat and Mycroft's long fingers gripped like an iron vise around one pudgy wrist. "So," said Mycroft casually, in a voice as cold as the Arctic Sea, "I understand that you and your friend have had some difficulties with my little brother. Or rather not, as it appears—since the two of you together have found it helpful to combine forces to safely attack one rather undersized boy." Sherlock made a small outraged noise; one of Mycroft's eyebrows lifted slightly in his direction and he subsided.
Becket had hovered uncertainly on the edge of this, not brave enough to challenge Mycroft physically on his own. At this, though, he bristled. "Someone needs to teach him a fucking lesson. And it might as well be us, since we're the ones he damn near poisoned."
Mycroft pondered that for a second or two, knee still comfortably across Calhoun's neck. "Well, I quite agree that there are things Sherlock needs to learn," he said reasonably. His speech was still slightly slurred from medication, but perfectly clear. His face changed, and that glacial chill was back. "But believe me, if Sherlock had wanted to poison you he would certainly have done so successfully. We're part of a very capable family." He let the implications of that linger in the air momentarily. Then he gracefully stood, pulling Calhoun up with him with evident ease, while Calhoun shuddered and rubbed at his throat.
Mycroft retained his grip on Calhoun's wrist; Sherlock was fairly sure there would be finger-shaped bruises there tomorrow. Now, though, his other hand suddenly darted out and grabbed Becket's hair, dragging him over into Mycroft's immediate orbit as well. "Now," he said, in an utterly implacable, lethal tone, "we are going to come to an understanding. You don't need to know where I work; you don't need to know what I do. What you do need to know, however, is that if I ever hear that you, or your friends, or your family, or anyone remotely connected with you, inconveniences my brother in the future, there is every likelihood that you will disappear, to somewhere quite unpleasant, for a very long time. You will not have Mummy and Daddy to rescue you; Mummy and Daddy may well end up with problems of their own. All of these things are very much within my power. Look at my face; do you have any reason whatsoever to doubt me?"
And they didn't. No, they didn't—nor did Sherlock, who was now frankly gaping. Becket and Calhoun, by now pale and trembling a bit, shook their heads fervently.
"Excellent," Mycroft purred. "Now. You have five minutes' head start. I expect you to use them running away from here as fast as your pudgy little legs will allow. You will tell no one about this conversation. Is all of this clear?" Calhoun's head bobbed, and Becket fervently copied him. Mycroft released Calhoun's arm and Becket's hair and looked at them expectantly. When neither moved, he raised one hand and waggled his fingers dismissively, and they suddenly took to their heels. Within seconds they were out of sight, crossing the rugby field and heading for home.
Sherlock and his brother both stared after them for a moment, Sherlock still kneeling in the grass and really not looking forward to trying to rise. He suddenly had incentive, however, when Mycroft abruptly gave a sigh, slid to his knees, and then tipped forward onto his face. He lay prone for a moment, and Sherlock realized his shoulders were heaving. Sherlock panicked. "Myc!" he squeaked, his unreliable voice sliding up to a terrified treble as he threw himself over to his brother.
He stopped in his hurried lunge, though, when he heard a surprising sound, and Mycroft rolled lazily onto his back. "This kind of thing," he chortled, "is the reason I hate field work." He looked at Sherlock's dumbfounded face and laughed harder. "There's just…there's entirely too much…stupid," he said, squinting his eyes at his brother.
Sherlock found himself, to his surprise, fighting a grin. "Well it's partly your own fault," he said. "Why on Earth did you get out of the car in the first place?"
Mycroft, almost beside himself, lowered his voice a tad and tilted his head a bit towards Sherlock. "I had to take a piss," he said baldly. And Sherlock blinked, and threw himself down on his back next to his brother, and howled.
Late that evening, Mycroft finally felt sober enough, and comfortable enough, to call Mummy and give her a report. A highly edited report, of course. No knives or potentially serious injuries were mentioned; by the time Mummy got back Sherlock's bruises should have faded enough to be less alarming.
The two of them had had a surprisingly convivial evening. Mummy had put dinner in the fridge for them; Mycroft's mouth was too sore to eat much, but the risotto was quite good once reheated, as was the birthday cake (chocolate and coconut) that Sherlock discovered hidden in the pantry. After dinner they both wandered into the lounge, neither one feeling well enough to do anything but not tired enough to go to bed. They sat on the couch together (Mycroft was surprised. But Sherlock seemed curiously reluctant to move away). After Sherlock's third pained whine as he tried to find a comfortable position, Mycroft reached into his pocket, pulled out the bottle of pain pills and made him take one. His baby brother was now draped along the couch with his head in Mycroft's lap. Small snores periodically drifted out of his mouth, and Mycroft's conversation with Mummy evinced no reaction at all.
After the topic of the dental work and the eventful drive was exhausted, Mummy turned to a more-typical maternal focus. "So," she said. "Was your birthday quite as bad as you feared?"
And Mycroft thought about it, and was surprised at his own answer. He looked down at his prickly little brother, curled trustingly against him. "You know, Mummy, it wasn't. It really wasn't."
Notes:
The business about "security observers"? Not entirely made up. Above a certain level, people with ultra-high security clearances even require an observer IN THE ROOM while undergoing surgery. Honest.