A brother shares childhood memories and grown-up dreams. ~Author Unknown
"I want to be a pirate."
Mycroft looks down from his latest book at his little brother.
Sherlock is standing in the door to their bedroom, a paper hat on his head, shirt to short, pants rolled up at the ends, wielding a cardboard sword. His whole appearance is rather ridiculous, and Mycroft finds himself smiling.
"You can't be a pirate, Sher," he says, "pirates are the bad guys."
Sherlock crosses his arms, sword and all, and glares, "I can be whatever I want," he says in that haughty, I know everything tone that he will never lose.
"Of course you can," Mycroft says, and has to stifle a laugh behind his hand as his brother saunters out of the room, his shirt untucked from the back, curling hair sticking out around his ears, waving his cardboard sword.
Mycroft didn't expect the pirate idea to be anything other than a game for a few days, but Sherlock is insistent.
"Will you be my first mate, Mycroft?" five year old Sherlock asks him one day. Mycroft is doing his homework. They're sitting at the kitchen table. Sherlock's feet still don't quite reach the floor and he is swinging his legs so the shock reverberates through the floor. Mycroft grits his teeth.
"Your what?"
"First mate," Sherlock says, turning to him with wide, open eyes. "You know, my side kick, partner, the one who has your back."
"I'm your brother, I can't be your first mate, Sherlock," Mycroft says as gently as he is capable of with his patience wearing thin. "Why don't you ask your friends at school?"
Sherlock looks at him, and Mycroft sees something incredibly haunting and hurtful in those eyes, something that cuts him down to the bone. "I don't have friends," his little brother says, as if it is the simplest fact in the world, and then hops down from the table and walks away.
Mycroft can't concentrate on his work after that.
They get Sherlock a dog.
His parents had protested at first, saying that they wanted to keep a clean house and that they had enough problems to worry about with their two boys in school, but Mycroft had won them over in the end.
Sherlock holds the squirming puppy exactly the right way, looks straight into it's eyes and says, "I'm going to name you Redbeard."
Mycroft smiles at that, but wisely choses not to say anything.
It looks like Sherlock has found his first mate.
Sherlock and Redbeard are completely inseparable.
The dog is incredibly loyal, and at times too smart for his own good, much like Sherlock, Mycroft reflects as he watch his little brother run through the grass, waving his cardboard sword, the dog bounding along at his heels.
Redbeard is gentle and well trained, thanks to Sherlock's tireless work, and while he will listen to Mycroft, it is Sherlock he responds to with rapt attention, snapping his head around to attention of the boy so much as whispers his name.
Sherlock pays this devoted loyalty back in kind. He keeps Redbeard well brushed and fed so his coat glistens. They go for daily romps, or "secret missions searching for treasure" as Sherlock so often calls them.
"Rebeard and I went on a mission today," he would proclaim at dinner, all laughing eyes and wild curls.
Mummy would look up and smile. "Did you, dear?"
"We found treasure!"
"What kind of treasure?" Mycroft asks.
Sherlock challenges him with his eyes. "Redbeard brought me a stick. He was very proud."
Mummy looks at him in warning, so Mycroft just says, "well done, Redbeard."
The dog, who is sitting with his chin resting on Sherlock's knee, blinks.
Sherlock comes home crying almost everyday.
Mycroft doesn't know what the problem is because Sherlock will not tell him. He runs straight to his room and slams the door, Redbeard at his heels. When Mycroft pounds on the door he only receives a distraught, "Go AWAY Mycroft!"
Because Sherlock is too young to have a lock on his door, Mycroft waits, and after a few hours peeks inside.
His little brother is curled up against his dog's side, fingers combing methodically through his fur. As Mycroft watches, Sherlock lifts his head and cups the dogs nose, bringing their faces close together. Mycroft can just make out the tear tracks on his little brother's cheeks as Sherlock whispers secrets in his dog's ear.
When Sherlock is older he still goes to Redbeard for comfort.
There's white along the dogs jawline that Sherlock still so lovingly cups close, and creaks and aches in bones. Redbeard does not run at Sherlock's side anymore, he walks, and at times even when Sherlock calls can only lift his head.
Mycroft knows that the dog's time is dwindling but is not quite sure how he will broach the subject with his brother. Sherlock is not the brightest, well, he's not compared to Mycroft anyway, but even he can not deny the truth.
Redbeard is ten now, and Sherlock dangerous and emotionally unpredictable, too smart, and fifteen. Losing his only friend will shatter his little brother, but Mycroft does not want to be cruel to the poor creature.
He approaches Sherlock one night when his brother is doing his homework. His legs don't swing against the chair legs now, and Redbeard's chin is resting on the top of his feet. "Sherlock-"
"I know," his brother says quietly, without looking up from his work.
Mycroft looks at him, long and hard. "You do?"
"Yes," Sherlock whispers, still without looking at him. "I've talked to Mum and Dad about it. It's happening next week."
Mycroft falters for a moment, then pushes through. "Are you alright?"
Sherlock glares daggers at him and does not reply.
Mycroft understands his cue, and leaves.
Sherlock does not cry as Redbeard takes his last breaths.
Very gently, he moves his dogs head until it's in his lap, and Mycroft hears him whispering statistics and math and secrets and words like, "Just go to sleep, I'm right here, go to sleep, it will all be over soon, go to sleep," and then one broken strangled, fragmented sentence that is as close to "i love you" as Sherlock Holmes will ever get, "thank you."
Mycroft turns away.
Finally, after what feels like years, Sherlock comes to Mycroft.
He's not quite crying, but his breath is hitching in his throat and he whispers, "Mycroft, I don't know, I can't-"
Striding across the room, Mycroft ignores all the years spent with slamming doors, fights and sharp words. He pulls his little brother into his arms.
Sherlock tenses, but Mycroft holds him tighter and whispers, "I know Sher, I know."
"You don't," Sherlock hisses. Mycroft can hear the gentle snick of teeth on skin as Sherlock bites his lip.
"I don't," Mycroft admits, and curls his fingers into his brother's hair. "But I think I can help you."
Sherlock pulls away and looks at him with eyes that are so much older than the little boy Mycroft remembers. "How?"
Mycroft smiles and shows him how to organize himself.
Mycroft's mind is a city-a buzzing metropolis of information and hurt and life and wonder.
His little brother's mind is an elegant palace with grand staircases and muddy dog prints down the halls.
It's years later, when Mycroft is sitting beside his brother's hospital bed, that Sherlock brings up the pirate game.
His little brother is lying with his hands folded across his stomach, skin pale and waxy, hair a frizzled mop against his pillows. Mycroft smoothes it back, and Sherlock opens glazed eyes and blinks at him. "Mycroft?"
Mycroft nods and leans back. "You're an idiot, Sherlock." It's not exactly what he's planning to say, but he's so furious the words slip out.
Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows and glares at him. "It helps me think-"
"It's killing you. You have to stop."
His little brother pouts, and it's so comical that Mycroft nearly laughs. Nearly.
"I'm serious, Sherlock."
Sherlock rolls his eyes and throws himself back down against the pillows. He doesn't say anything, and after a minute Mycroft gets up to leave.
"Don't tell Mummy," Sherlock says, so softly that Mycroft barely hears him.
"What?"
Sherlock looks at him, incredibly small on the bed. "Please don't tell Mum about this, Mycroft. Not this time. She doesn't need to hear about this."
Mycroft sighs, and Sherlock smirks, knowing he's won.
"Mycroft?"
"Yes?"
"I don't think I want to be a pirate anymore."
Mycroft stares at him, wondering if his brother truly has come down from his high, or if his mind is still floating in wild places. "Alright," is all he can think to say.
Sherlock closes his eyes, and Mycroft leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him
Mycroft knows that Sherlock has flat lined thirty seconds after it happens.
His phone rings off the hook, but he gets a text from Athena: CODE 1
Which means, Sherlock Holmes's life is in danger.
They developed the system with Lestrade after the DI had pulled a high Sherlock off the street for the fifth time.
Mycroft's throat closes. He can't get the words out he needs to get to the car, can't even move.
Another second later, a text from John.
He's in the ambulance.
There's no mention of Sherlock's physical condition, but Mycroft feels sick. Forcing himself to breathe, he retreats into the city in his mind and pictures a laughing, wild-haired young Sherlock running through field with Redbeard until he is able to call Athena, "Get the car," he says, "Now."
And then he runs.
Sherlock is stable by the time Mycroft reaches the hospital.
John is pacing outside his door, but Mycroft ignores the army doctor and pushes past him to see Sherlock.
His little brother has so many tubes, wires and iv's strapped to him that all Sherlock can really see is Sherlock's dark curls. Oxygen snakes around his face, white tubes standing out against whiter skin, and Mycroft feels something tighten inside him. Pulling up the chair beside the bed, He reaches for Sherlock's hand and bites his lip. "What did you get yourself into this time, brother mine?" He whispers.
After another few minutes, Mycroft is considering leaving, talking to John, making the necessary calls, calming his mother down, but Sherlock opens his eyes.
He's panicked and makes to move, but Mycroft restrains him. "Sherlock?"
"Mary," Sherlock whispers. His voice is hoarse and wild. He clears his throat and chokes out the name again.
"Easy," Mycroft says quietly, calling Sherlock's attention back to him, taping his brother's hand three times, always their signal when Shelock had been little and lost inside his own head, "Sherlock."
Chest heaving, breathing in strangled, rasping gasps, Sherlock focuses on him. "Mycroft?"
"Yes," Mycroft whispers, pressing Sherlock's hand while quickly hitting the call button for the nurse with the other.
"You helped," Sherlock whispers. He's still delirious, and the pain is making his voice hoarse, "you-"
Mycroft keeps him talking, "I helped you?"
"Mind Palace..."
"Did you talk to Redbeard too?"
Sherlock clenches his eyes shut and nods.
"What did you say to him?" Mycroft asks, stepping aside as the nurse comes into the room. John waits anxiously by the door.
Sherlock struggles to open his eyes, but eventually gives up and whispers, "said, 'now they want to put me down too,'"
Mycroft's heart seizes. "Then?"
Sherlock smirks. "Then...I didn't let them."
When Mycroft says, "Your loss would break my heart," he doesn't intend too. It starts out as a thought, and in the reckless moment his lips have spoken it.
His brother chokes against the smoke and looks at him with an emotion bordering on hilarity. 'What the HELL am I supposed to say to that?"
Mycroft shrugs, because he doesn't know. He knows that he's told Sherlock over and over and over, that caring is not an advantage. It isn't Mycroft will give anything and everything up for feeling the way he does, for loving his little brother. Caring about people means that those people get hurt, and Mycroft learned long ago that Sherlock Holmes is prone to hospital visits and rash action.
Mycroft tries so hard not to care.
But it never works, when his little brother is concerned. He worries about him constantly. Because, when he looks at Sherlock, all he can see is that wild, curly-haired boy who showed up in Mycroft's room, and shouted that he wanted to be a pirate.