The first time we meet I am seven and he is pink. My mother holds him in a blanket, both of them crying. The blanket is a deep purple. Later in life I will come to realize that I unconsciously associate him with this color.
My father comes over to the two of them, patting the baby's fine, still-damp hair and beckons for me to join them. I try to hide my disgust and am moderately successful. I hate him at once; not because I am jealous. I am old enough to take care of myself and clever enough to take care of my parents, and jealously would assume I have some sort of closeness with them to begin with. I love my parents dearly, but in the distant way you love someone who can never quite understand you or be a part of your world.
No, I hate him because he is wet and pink and normal. I know my parents are thinking the same. Babies are not capable of complex thought; they react purely on instinct, a comfort I will never have again. He will grow up and laugh at my mother's jokes and my father's brashness. He will attend Christmas dinners without having to be bribed and he will be so painfully, tragically human. And every time I look at him I will be reminded of what I can never be.
Sherlock is blonde for the first year of his life, a fact which none but my immediate family members are privy to. His curls grow in quickly and bounce when he walks. He is more coordinated than I was at that age, something my parents are never tired of telling me, but his first word comes at around five months, a good three weeks after mine. If you must know, mine was cake, his, a garbled attempt at violin.
I have my father's dark hazel eyes, but my brother's are as ice blue as my mother's. They complement his blondness well, but when his hair goes dark they are positively radiant. Our relatives will not stop talking about this, and I loathe him all the more because he is the pretty child and I am the one who congratulates my uncle on his divorce before my aunt knows about it.
Mummy organizes dinners at least twice a month. Usually they are limited to extended family only, but occasionally the dining room chairs are occupied by local politicians or other equally influential people. Bruce Smyth is one such character—his job is related to parliament in some way, although I never am interested enough to ask for specifics. His son, Nigel, is about my age, handsome and chestnut haired. He has above-average intelligence; dim-witted compared to me but the best I can ask for at these social gatherings. I keep him under the impression that we are friends and sometimes claim we are going to go play upstairs as an excuse to leave the table. Once in my room I give Nigel a sweet and a picture book and contemplate other things on my own.
The only thing I enjoy about these dinners is afterwards when, occasionally, my father will request that Sherlock and I perform a duet. By age four, Sherlock is adequate on the violin. I am, at age eleven, an excellent pianist. We don't practice together much but Sherlock is so intuitive that he can feel my intent. He reacts quickly to even a slight change of pace or volume. Sometimes I test him by purposely speeding up or skipping a stanza. He barely falters each time, and after the third time I attempt this, I realize he is anticipating the challenge. We rarely talk from day to day but our musical act is practically a bonding activity.
Once we play Ave Maria, and I look over at Sherlock to see that he has closed his eyes. He leans into every pulse of the music, eyebrows tensing and relaxing with every draw of the bow across the strings. There is something so utterly pleased about his expression, even in deep concentration, and my hatred swells because he can be satisfied with such a mundane thing. Just when I think he might be extraordinary, might be like myself in some way, he proves to me just how average he is. I slam my hands down on the keyboard and storm out of the room.
I glance at Sherlock right before I reach the staircase. He doesn't look at all surprised. Just a bit confused, and perhaps disappointed that the piece was left unfinished.
We don't play music together after that. Sherlock sticks to classic violin sonatas, and I learn songs from my mother's favorite musicals. I play Les Mis and it becomes like an anthem to me. One day more. And then another. And another. And on and on.
I am never a child who can stomach something so routine as a bedtime story. After only a few times through, I have it memorized. Reading comes as easily to me as anything else. By age four I can read novels; by age nine I have read every book in our house, including our mother's mathematics textbooks.
Sherlock, however, takes to this ritual like a good little child. I am sometimes forced to fill in for our father when he is away on business, and I can tell by the way Sherlock's eyes trace the words as I read them aloud that he too is a fast learner. I cannot comprehend why someone who can read would prefer the same book over and over again.
His favorite is a rather dumbed-down version of Redbeard the Pirate, a swarthy sea captain who searches for treasure alongside his brother. After his brother dies, (or "goes away" as the childish book euphemizes), Redbeard must continue on his quest alone. He finds the treasure, of course, and lives, as the book so poignantly puts it, happily ever after. The phrase disgusts me more every time I read it. So inaccurate. So predictable.
I change the ending, once, just to see if he's paying attention.
"And Redbeard, broken over the loss of his brother, gave up on his quest and shut himself away for the rest of his life."
As soon as my words differ from what's written, Sherlock stares up at me, a look of almost betrayal on his face.
"That's not how it ends," he says.
"Stories don't always end happily, little brother," I reply.
Sherlock doesn't let me read for him after that.
When he comes to me for advice, I am hardly shocked. He is five and hasn't had enough time to figure out how isolated I am from the outside world. It is the evening, past his bedtime, when I hear a small knock on my door.
"Mycroft?" he calls in a shy voice. I tell him to come in. He closes the door behind him and sits on the corner of my bed before turning to me with his blue, blue eyes. In a trembling voice, he says, "There's something…I need some help."
I realize I am a source of fear to him, and, strangely, I desire to rectify this. Perhaps it is because I am taller than him. Perhaps it's because I'm older or cleverer. Whatever the reason, I don't want my little brother to be afraid of me. I climb out of bed, where I was reading a book on policymaking, and sit next to him.
"Of course," I say with what I hope is a reassuring smile. "What can I do?"
Sherlock takes a deep breath and tugs a hand through his dark curls. "There's a girl in my class."
I spring up, inexplicably angry at the tedium of his request. Of course it was going to be something like this. Sherlock isn't like me. Sherlock is normal. I try to divert the conversation. "You know, dear brother, mummy is much better with these matters-"
"She isn't!" Sherlock blurts out. "Mummy would tell me to be nice to her."
I snort, opening the door to my bedroom and signaling for Sherlock to exit. "Well of course, you'll want to be nice to a girl you like."
Sherlock looks at me with incredulity. "But I don't! I don't like her."
I slowly shut my door again.
"I want to read books during lunch break, but she keeps telling me I should come eat with her. And she touches my hair and talks to me every morning. I've tried telling her to go away but she keeps telling the teacher that I'm being mean."
My mind is racing. Sherlock, reading books during his lunch break just like I did in primary school. Sherlock, wanting to avoid human contact just like me. Could I be interpreting the signs correctly?
"Mycroft," he says, and I snap back to reality. "You got rid of cousin Ellie, that time in the kitchen. When she was trying to get you to go to church with her. You said something, something about her stealing sweets from her pantry, and that you'd tell her parents if she didn't leave you alone, remember? And she never bothered you again."
Sherlock beams. He takes my continued silence as an invitation to continue talking.
"And there was that other time, with Mr. Saul's son. He kept saying rude things about mummy's cooking, and you mentioned something about his mother sending him to the hospital for food poisoning and that shut him up. You know things, Mycroft. You see them. Teach me to see them, too."
For a moment, we merely stare at each other, curiosity flashing in his eyes. Against my better judgment, against my years of hatred towards him, against every fiber of my being screaming that he is normal, I cannot crush the fleeting flower of hope that has bloomed in my chest.
"I call it deduction."