When I was young, my parents delightedly told me I would be getting a baby brother. I was less than thrilled, but tried to get used to the idea. After all, I reminded myself, I would be the older brother. I could teach him what I knew. He would worship me. So when Mum went to the hospital, I calmly waited at home without complaint. Dad came and got me the next day and brought me to Mum's room, looking happier than when my principal called me a genius and suggested I take classes at the secondary school, to which I willingly agreed. Mum was holding a tiny bundle.
"Mikey, meet William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Your new little brother."
My first impression was that something must have gone wrong. He was too small. Of course, that was simply biology reacting to the sight of a child. Natural protective instincts. The baby was unremarkable except for a shock of black hair. To be honest, I was a little disappointed. Any child related to me should have looked a bit more extraordinary at birth.
But at the same time…he was my little brother. And even though I knew Mum was brilliant and Dad would try his best, he would need a serious protector. Someone who would always watch out for him. Tragically, that job would fall to me.
He was talking at his first birthday, before he could even walk. And, even worse, he did worship me. To the point where he asked if he could be called Sherlock instead William of so he could have a "funny name" like me. While he had decent deductive skills (nothing compared to mine) he would constantly make careless mistakes, overlooking dust patterns or marks on the floor. Also, there was his obsession with pirates.
To be fair, this was probably at least partly my fault. I took him to see the Pirates of the Caribbean one weekend to improve my knowledge of pop culture. While I quietly tallied the historical inaccuracies, Sherlock sat next to me, enthralled. The next day, he announced his ambition to become a pirate.
For his birthday, Dad built him a tree house and he would hang a skull-and-crossbones flag from the window and stand on the roof in a paper hat and a plastic sword, yelling things like "Avast!" or "Prepare the plank!"
I had told him, countless times, that pirates did not actually make their prisoners walk the plank. His response was to attempt to disembowel me with his plastic sword. I suppose it was justified.
The first time that I ever truly had to act as a protector for Sherlock was when he was seven. It was February fourteenth and I had returned from student government and was looking forward to studying British history accompanied by the slice of strawberry cake that my mother always baked on Valentine's Day. Instead, I was greeted by my mother's worried face.
"Sherlock had a rough day at school today."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. Something about sending a valentine to someone. Anyway, he got roughed up quite a bit and he won't come out of his tree house."
"That's terrible. Excuse me."
Mum snatched the plate of cake out of my hands and gave me the same glare that made my substitute Latin teacher quit, back when I needed to learn Latin.
"He needs his brother."
Because, and only because of her cruel and unusual withholding of the cake I had fantasied about all day, I braved the rope ladder that led to Sherlock's treehouse.
"Sherlock."
"Go away."
"Spare me the dramatics, little brother. I'm not leaving until you agree to leave the tree house and stop worrying Mummy and Daddy."
"Did Mum withhold cake?"
"We're talking about you, not me."
"That means yes."
I took a moment to say a silent prayer that I would have the strength not to murder him.
"Fine. Come up."
I climbed, a bit awkwardly into the tree house. It was decorated with bright silk scarves, blue being the dominant color, and an enormous skull-and-crossbones flag that he'd bought with money he'd won from me after a game of operation. Lying on a pile of pillows stolen from the couch was Redbeard, the family Irish Setter, looking dignified in a pirate hat with a feather. Sherlock sat in the corner, head in his arms.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock lifted his head. He had a black eye and his cheekbone was still faintly bleeding, from being rubbed in concrete, I deduced. There had been at least three attackers, two of which had been bigger than him. The way he moved suggested bruises on his abdomen and lower back. Despite my mantra of not caring, I felt a pang.
"What happened to you?"
"Why should you care?"
"Mum and Dad are worried. And…so am I."
Silence.
"If you don't tell me, I'll just deduce it."
Silence.
"Fine."
It's nice, relying on facts, slipping on the armor that deducing provides.
"You sent someone a valentine. And she didn't return your affections, so much so she complained to her friends. Three of them, most likely male, decided to warn you off, possibly because of affection towards her, or possibly because they desired advancement. They did this behind the school after classes ended."
Sherlock smirks.
"What? Did I get it wrong?"
"Well, you were right about the valentine. But…"
His voice trails off, allowing me to simmer in my failure.
"What did I get wrong?"
"It was a boy."
"Excuse me?"
"I sent the valentine to a boy. Not a girl."
Sherlock looks at me triumphantly. I have to admit that I'm a bit surprised.
"Well done, little brother."
"Thank you."
Without warning, he starts sobbing.
"They-they called me a freak. Mycroft…I don't understand. Wh-why am I such a freak? It…it hurts, Mycroft."
I suppress a sigh. Dealing with overly emotional little brothers is not high on my to-do list.
"Sherlock, you're not a freak. They're just stupid goldfish."
"So why do I care so much?"
"Caring is not an advantage. Remember that, Sherlock. Always, try not to care."
"I can't go back to school."
I personally believe Sherlock would be a lot brighter if Mum agreed to let me homeschool him, but she insisted he interact with his peers. Parents could be idiots sometimes.
"Will you go back if I can get rid of the boys who beat you up?"
Sherlock looks up eagerly.
"Will you kill them for me?"
"No. Absolutely not. But I can make sure they're not at your school. Just tell me their names. In return, you have to go back to school tomorrow and eat dinner at the table tonight."
I hold out my hand to shake.
"Deal?"
He nods. His hand is sticky, probably from carving his initials on the tree.
"Deal."
It takes me five minutes to enter into the school files and send incriminating emails to the principal. The three boys who beat my little brother up for liking another boy, including the recipient of the valentine will be expelled tomorrow for attempting to hack into the school's grading system and raise their scores on the recent exam. I also contact several teachers who owe me favors and warn them to watch over Sherlock.
My little brother will be safe.
A/N
Do you guys want more of this? I love Mycroft. He's one of my favorite characters
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