A/N: So, this is something that I couldn't shake, so I decided to post. The beginning of this chapter takes place in the present times, but the rest of the chapter and the story will be a prequel of sorts that will catch up to the plot. Thanks for reading and please tell me what you think!
He stared at the man in front of him, letting his eyes gaze over the way his broad shoulders haunched, the palates of blues and pinks that played under his hard but inquisitive mismatched eyes, clearly showcasing that he wasn't sleeping again, the way his fingers danced over his thighs in impatience and how his leg bounced with unsettled energy. They may not have been close, but there was no one that could read his little brother quite like him.
And presently, he could tell without a doubt that he wasn't doing well.
He was sobering again – which, was never an easy feat and only seemed to get harder each time he attempted it. He looked like shit, if Mycroft was being honest – which he was, almost all the time. But he wouldn't say it to Sherlock's face, not right now.
Mycroft knew the only real reason Sherlock was even seated across him was because of the friend – John. If the man hadn't forcibly procured Sherlock, there would be absolutely no way his brother would've come, even at the express command of their mother.
He huffed and settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair he was presently seated in, letting his eyes once again linger on his brother. This time he let himself casually look him over, not with critical, scrutinizing eyes, but with the barest of glances.
He looked older all of a sudden, as though Mycroft hadn't thought of the possibility of them aging as fact instead of something that could be controlled. He looked oddly like their father these days, with the facial features of their mother. He'd always been the prettier of the two of them, which had caused his face to go red more often than not as children. But, for the life of him, Mycroft couldn't fathom how it was possible that they had grown so much physically, while staying so much of the same otherwise.
Sometimes when Mycroft looked at him, he saw Sherlock as the little boy he once was – small with unruly curls and sad blue-green eyes. It wasn't often, only in certain moments. Only when he let his stony demeanor slip and let himself for the briefest of moments feel.
Sometimes he saw her like that too – as a child, instead of the woman she was now. Like Sherlock, she too had changed. She wasn't a child any longer, and neither was he. No matter how much Mycroft treated him like one.
But, for as long as Mycroft could remember, they had held a disdain for one another – his brother and the girl – but, that had never stopped Sherlock from wandering into her bed at night.
He let his eyes trickle over to his brother once more, conjuring up the image of the little boy he once was and adding in a tall girl with wild hair. It seemed right to picture them together. Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock would be in this predicament if things had gone differently, if his brother wasn't so stubborn, if she hadn't been so accommodating. Maybe he would've been happy.
But, Mycroft knew that not to be true. Some people were meant to be happy and others were meant to be great – no matter how much he tried to deny it, his brother was not meant to be happy.
He pushed the thoughts away from his mind, clearing it and settling into the hard chair. He didn't look at Sherlock again, and he certainly ignored the way the brunette to his right pointedly looked at him from where she sat beside her best friend.
He couldn't remember the first time he encountered her – mostly because their mothers had been pregnant at the time – and then after their birth he was an infant, in-cognitive thinking and all that. He had simply been unaware. He wasn't sure what his first actual memory of her was – it probably had something to do with how utterly annoying he found her. Or, how she lingered in his garden, and the fields behind his home. He couldn't be certain, he'd known her for what he could very well assume was his whole life, there were lots of memories his six year old brain couldn't remember – something Mycroft liked to tease him about.
He was sitting on the window seat, Redbeard beside him with his head in his lap, watching. She was sitting on the floor by the fire, Mycroft was attempting to teach her chess. He scoffed, like she'd be able to learn how in only a brief sitting.
He wasn't calling her stupid – well, alright, maybe he was – but she certainly wasn't smart. She was normal, average, ordinary. She was just like every other six year old in the world, she wanted to run about the field and draw pictures. She wasn't like them, she wasn't...above it all. A small part of him envied her.
It was one of those periods where she'd be staying with them. It happened often enough, so much that her time spent in his home was almost as much as his. Her father was away on business all the time, going from country to country, her mother was the same, coming and going. His mother had always been fond of the little girl, telling Mrs. Addams that Evie was more than welcome any time. Her mother seemed to take his mother up on that quite frequently.
So, here she was. Spending time with them. For who knew how long this time around.
He could see the tension in her shoulders as he watched her struggle, she was getting frustrated and didn't want to tell his brother. She probably didn't understand what he was trying to teach her, Mycroft did have a certain knack for making people feel inferior.
But, Mycroft was slower with Evie than his older brother ever was with him, he took just a second more of his time, and managed to hold back outwardly scolding her a good portion of the time too. He liked her, in his own Mycroft-y way.
Maybe that was why he didn't like her.
She heaved a sigh, her brows furrowed tight as she studied the board. She wanted to impress them, she always did. She was ordinary and they were just, better.
Mycroft had of course beaten her, but she didn't do as horrid as they had thought she would, she was picking up quicker than expected. His brother congratulated her on a good game and cleaned up the board, picking up his tea and sweeping out of the living room, leaving them alone. She stood, turning to face him where he sat by the window.
Her hair was messy – like her – and very blonde from spending time outside. It laid around her shoulders in waves, the sunlight from the window behind him made the honey color shine brighter. Her light eyes looked like the ocean, vast, depthless, with swirls of blue and green. She was tall and lanky, she looked like a little boy – and she certainly acted like a boy.
There were too many things to comment on when it came to her, usually he was good at reading people – not as well as Mycroft could, his brother called it the art of deduction – but he was able to figure a person out by looking at the little things. There were too many for him to read her properly. Too many things popped up in his line of sight. And all he was left with was her ocean eyes, the small natural upturn of her lips, and how much she annoyed him.
He eyed her as she moved closer to him, coming to sit beside him on the window seat, Redbeard in between them. Redbeard liked Evie, turning to give her a quick lick before snuggling in the little spot he made in the gap between their bodies. He had never questioned his dog's competence before now, but it made Sherlock wonder and frown at the dog. She gave Redbeard a good rub behind the ears, the dog sighing heavily at the action. Traitor.
She turned her head to look at him, leaning into the window a little more. "Want to play?"
"Play what."
His tone was aggressive, his attitude flippant. He barely even made eye contact with her, instead rolling his eyes and staring out the window.
She shrugged a shoulder, knowing full well that he was watching her even if he was adamantly pretending he wasn't. "Whatever you want." She heaved a dramatic sigh, "I'll even let you try and deduce me like, Mycroft. Let's just do something."
He thought it over for a moment, thinking about what else he'd be doing – which was nothing – before also over-dramatically sighing and rolling his light eyes. "Alright, fine." He stood from the window seat, Redbeard's head shooting up, disgruntled from being awoken. "Let's go, boy."
The dog jumped down from the seat, standing near it's owner, tail wagging. Evie stood too, following him out the back door and outside. They made their way out into the backyard, through the field that she loved to lay in and to the line of trees that circled his property. He jumped up and grabbed onto one of the sturdy branches, climbing up to sit on top of it. He looked down at her, she was looking up at him with that look that often swept over her eyes.
Wordlessly she did as he did, jumping up and grabbing onto a branch that was next to his, hauling herself up with a little more effort than he had. Redbeard was barking beneath them, jumping on his hind legs, trying to get their attention. She turned to him then, pulling her eyes away from the beautiful expanse of land that was the Holmes estate.
"You know, your Mum will be mad we dirtied our clothes."
Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, leaning back against the tree's thick trunk. "I'll tell her it was your doing."
He watched Evie out of the corner of his eye, a small smile made its way onto her lips, her eyes narrowed at him. He hated it. "So, what are we playing?"
"You said I could deduce you."
"If you want to." She said coyly.
She knew he wasn't great at deducing her, he told her once that it was because she was too cluttered for him to possibly read. Whatever that meant. She was still looking at him, she liked looking at him. Mainly because she knew it annoyed him, but, also because she thought he was cute.
She'd never tell him that though, he was rude, cold, and often mean. He would make fun of her for it, so she'd keep it to herself.
But, he was sitting there, on the branch, leaning back against the trunk of the tree, looking out over the field. The bright sun was shining down on him through the tree's leaves, making his harshly pale skin seem softer in a way. His curls looked soft as they swayed a bit in the small breeze, shiny and chestnut. His freckles made her stomach flip flop and his sharp eyes made her heart titter nervously in her chest. She had always liked Sherlock, put up with his rude attitude because she thought they were friends. To some extent, they were. He chose to sit with her at lunch during school, scoffed at the other children that tried to monopolize her time, and partnered with her for group time.
He may have done all those things out of necessity, having no one else, but it still meant something to her.
When he turned to look at her with his sharp eyes, she didn't look away. A small smile on her face as she glanced back at him. He sighed and tore his eyes away from her, crossing his arms over his chest.
"No. I'm not in the mood."
She tried to hold back her smirk. "Okay. Want to play questions?"
He rolled his eyes and let out a dramatic sigh – he was very clearly fond of those. She held in a chuckle at his theatrics. "Questions. How stimulating."
"Well, what else do you want to play? You're the one who's so picky."
"Fine. I'll play your stupid game."
She smiled, "Alright...what's your favorite color?"
"I don't have one. Next."
She gave him an astonished look, "You don't have a favorite color?"
"Yes, we've established this. Next."
"How do you of all people not have a favorite color?"
"I don't understand why you're making this such a big – wait, what do you mean, me of all people?"
He turned his harsh eyes over to her, they looked different in the shady afternoon sun, brighter. She shrugged a shoulder, "You're just so particular about stuff, I figured you would."
He gave her a long look before answering, "It's a pointless waste. I have colors I prefer, but the whole point of a favorite doesn't strike me as important."
"So you don't have a favorite anything, then?" She looked at him innocently, questioning. "No favorite snack or shirt?"
"There's a difference between preferring and favorite. I don't have favorites."
She gave him a lasting look before continuing. "You're odd."
He tried not to let her statement resonate in his chest, tried not to hear the same words in Mycroft's voice ring out in his ears. He knew she hadn't meant it that way, not holding the same slightly malicious flare as his brother, it was just striking him regardless.
She watched his eyes darken and narrow at the ground, turning to look at her, angered. "Well, so are you." She watched him jump down from the tree and start off towards the field, Redbeard in tow. She struggled a bit as she tried to get down, not as naturally swift or agile as Sherlock.
She went after him, he hadn't gotten far in his storming off. She ran up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off harshly. "Sherlock, wait. I'm sorry – "
He rounded on her then, getting into her space. He was angry, his eyes sharp and a little watery. "You're annoying and bothersome. You ask too many questions and you're stupid."
He watched her face crumble, her big eyes start to water. She pushed at his shoulders forcefully, not in the playful way she did sometimes when he said something roguish. "I said I was sorry, you goon!" She tugged harshly on his curls for good measure before turning and stalking back towards the tree, her shoulders shaking. He stood there for a moment, not entirely sure what to do. He was still angry, still annoyed, but now he was also not happy with himself. Before he could think on what to do, she whipped around and stalked back over to him, pushing the tears on her cheeks away. She was back in front of him before he even had time to open his mouth. "You're always so mean. You're rude. And, you're annoying."
She pushed at his shoulders again, a few stray tears falling from her eyes. He hadn't meant to make her cry. She had just made him angry. He bowed his head slightly, "You're not stupid. And, you're not annoying."
He looked up at her then, it wasn't exactly the apology she had been looking for, but, she'd take it. "I know that I bother you." She looked down then, stared at her trainers and how much they contrasted with the golden weeds of the field. She couldn't look at him. "And I know that you don't like me."
"I never said I didn't like you."
No, he'd never said that he actually liked her either, but he didn't dislike her. Usually. She just...grated his nerves.
"You sure act like it."
He took her small hand in his and caught her gaze. "I don't like anybody. Don't take it personally." He pulled her down to lay in the golden grass, this is what she liked to do, wasn't it? Lay in the fields? She fell down next to him, their hands still entwined. He stared up at the bright day above them. "The fact that I can stand you should be...enough."
He felt a small squeeze to his hand, just a small bit of pressure to show him she was there. He didn't turn to look at her when she spoke. "It is."
"Good."
They didn't say anything after that, not for a long while. Redbeard laying beside them, rolling around in the grass, making funny noises that had them chuckling a few times. They just laid staring up at the sky, the bright day making their pale skin pinkish, their hands were still entwined.
He knew she was about to speak from the way her breathing changed, it had been slow, rhythmic, almost making him sleepy. Now it sped up a bit, indicating she wanted to say something. Her hand moved in his, not away, just unconsciously moving within his. He knew she was about to speak, that didn't mean he knew what she was about to say.
"Why did it bother you so much?" She turned her head to look at the side of his face. "What I said?"
He wasn't sure if he wanted to answer her, or even if he could answer her. He shrugged his shoulder, still not looking at her. "It just did."
"It's, Mycroft. Isn't it?" He turned to look at her then, taking in how gentle her eyes were. Not hesitant, gentle. "I'll take that as a yes."
"How could you possible know that."
She rolled those eyes of hers, not in a mean way, yet it wasn't playful either. "I don't need to have your brain to figure that out, Sherlock. I do have eyes. And ears."
She could see a small flush rise over his cheekbones, his eyes drifted from hers. "Mycroft and I – "
"Are brothers, who fight." She finished for him, not letting him give her some fake excuse. She stayed with them, she understood what was going on, most of the time. "He's not always the kindest to you, I'm sorry."
She watched his eyes harden a bit, her hand tightened on his, not letting him brush her away that easy. "I don't need your pity, Evie."
"It's not pity, Sherlock. He's not always nice to you, I'm sorry he says mean things. That's comforting you, incase you were wondering."
"I don't need your comfort." He snatched his hand away from hers, but didn't move from the spot on the ground, his eyes still glaring up at the clouds.
She snatched his hand back, fighting him for a moment before he relented and let her take it. "Stop being that way."
"And what way would that be?" He was being sarcastic, it was one of the many defense mechanisms she'd seen in her six years at the Holmes household.
"Stop pushing me away."
"You'd have to be close for me to push you away."
He knew that saying that would sting her, hopefully enough that she'd drop the subject. It wasn't going to work, she knew that's what he was doing, she wasn't about to give up that easy.
"Stop." She tugged on his arm to gather his attention, he reluctantly turned to look at her, his eyes still narrowed. "Stop." She said it gentler the second time.
He let out a sigh and closed his eyes. "I understand that you care, can we move on now?"
He opened his eyes again and looked at her, that gentleness returning back into her pale eyes. She just looked at him for a long while. "Okay."
He wasn't sure how long they just laid there silently after that, how long they stared up at the bright sky, holding hands. It was easy, quiet with none of her mindless chatter filling the air, just silence. The rustling of the trees in the breeze, the small contented sighs from Redbeard, and the sound of her even breathing. He estimated it had only been a half hour, but if he closed his eyes, it could've been the rest of his life. His peaceful time was broken by the sound of his mother's voice, Redbeard perking up immediately, jumping up and running to her. He felt Evie stir from her stupor beside him.
He sat up, breaking his grasp on her hand. It felt clammy without her warm one, but he pushed it out as he stood from the ground, watching her do the same. She brushed grass and dirt from her stretchy-little-girl pants, her eyes still a tad droopy from their lie-in. His mother was still calling out, calling them in for lunch. He huffed as they trotted back to his house, neither saying a word until they were inside and seated at the kitchen table.
She went on and chatted with his mother about one thing or another, he wasn't listening, he had become expertly good at tuning people out when he wanted. He ate his sandwich, drank his milk, picked at her extra crisps and waited for her to be done as he was taught. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes starting to get heavy.
"Looks like Sherlock is ready to go down, how about you, Evie?" Evie nodded her head at Violet, who smiled down at them. "Alright, chickens, lets get you to bed."
He stood from his chair, an annoyed look on his face at his mother's supposed endearment. He followed behind Evie and his mother into her room – his father was at work, so his parents bed was their nap room on the weekends. He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto his mother's side slipping beneath the soft blanket. Evie did the same, coming to rest beside him, her head on the pillow close to his. He watched his mother draw the shade down, making the room dark. He felt his heavy eyes start to shut, already hearing Evie's breathing start to even out. His mother gave them each a kiss to the temple before leaving them and closing the door behind her.
He rolled over to face her, Evie's eyes already shut, her long lashes fanned out against her cheek. He counted the freckles on the bridge of her nose – as he always did before falling asleep – feeling his eyes start to close entirely just as he got to twenty-seven.
They played the rest of the day in a comfortable silence, regarding each other quietly. They played cards by the fireplace, watched a movie, and he even sat beside her as she drew pictures. If anyone else in the house noticed their silent cohabitation, they said nothing. Leaving the two alone to do as they pleased for the rest of the day.
He felt groggy from his nap, he had rested soundly, the quiet noises she made while sleeping had lulled him. But, he felt as if he had awoke too soon, he was still tired.
Maybe that was why he followed her around for the rest of the day, his energy zapped. He hadn't put up a fight when she picked the movie to watch, or said a word as she began to color. He simply sat on the couch beside her, watching, thinking.
He knew his fight with her had been more about his own emotions rather than her ignorance and irritating ways. He tried to drown them out, the feelings, the emotions. Mycroft said they were useless and that they would get in his way. He believed him, already they were clogging his mind and ruining his sharp skill. He knew Mycroft was at least somewhat right, even if he hated to admit it to his older brother.
He looked over at Evie, who was laying on her stomach, coloring as she simultaneously watched the muted telly. The light honey blonde of her hair was lighter during this time of year, her pants were a tad dirty from having a lie outside earlier, and her mismatched socks spoke volumes about her personality. He realized then that even at six years old, he could grasp things that others couldn't, and some things he understood more than Mycroft.
Evie turned and looked back at him, a smile in her eyes as she gazed at him from the floor. She held up her picture of a field filled with indigo bell flowers, her eyes soft and quiet as she looked at him.
"Blue-bells aren't native here."
He said it with no undertone of malicious or sarcastic intent, just stating facts in a tired voice. He realized then he hoped she didn't take it the wrong way. But, she simply smiled at him, that secret look in her eye that he hadn't been able to figure out yet.
"I know. But one day, when I'm old, I'll have a garden of them. And I'll wear them in my hair and have them in my bouquet."
"You certainly seem to have it all figured out."
She just kept smiling at him with that secret look, it almost irked him. She shrugged a shoulder, "Maybe."
She was so cryptic that it was infuriating, there had always been this secret sort of something that enveloped her, something he couldn't define. He just kept her stare for a while before turning back to the telly he hadn't been watching before. She went back to her picture, ignoring him for the rest of their evening until dinner. They ate when his father arrived home from work, smiling at them all and asking for stories about their day.
Evie was the only one who matched his father's enthusiasm, her exuberance and smile outshining his own – if only slightly. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had noticed how alike he, Mycroft, and his mother were, and just out normal his father was. He noticed it most when William interacted with Evie, both of them chuckling with wide smiles, easy conversation flowing between them. There was no cold, calculating nature, no narrowed glances or sharp words. He envied them, if only in that moment.
Soon dinner was over, his father retired into the sitting room to watch the evening news, his mother was washing up, and Mycroft had left to go do something more "worth his time", as his older brother so gently put it. That left him and Evie to go get changed for bed and to play in their own rooms for the rest of the evening.
He didn't mind the time away from her, as he slipped on his pajamas and sat on his bed with a book. He liked being alone, cherished it even. But, that didn't mean he hated being with her, because that wasn't the case. He was use to her in his life, it only irked him when she was bothersome, otherwise, it was a normalcy he was content with.
He wasn't sure how long he had been in his room for, reading the book he'd taken from Mycroft's room. The sun had completely gone down, the house was quiet. His mother had come in to tuck him in an hour ago, turning out his light and kissing his forehead. He had kept reading after she left, hiding beneath his sheets with his flashlight.
He set the book and the flashlight on his bedside table, laying down into the bed, comforter pulled up around his shoulders. He closed his eyes and attempted to turn off his busy mind. He laid there for a while, listening to the soft noises of the house, the low murmur of the telly in his parents bedroom, the music from Mycoft's room next door. He rolled over and buried his head in his pillow, trying to fall asleep, willing himself to.
He knew the minutes were literally ticking by as he laid there, awake. Finally, he stood with a huff, and left his room. He quietly opened her door, closing it just as quietly behind him and creeping across the carpeted floor to her bed. She was lying on her side, facing the window, breathing slowly. He climbed into her bed, getting himself comfortable on his side and closing his eyes – which had become heavy at the lulling sound of her even breathing.
He shifted, which in turn caused her to shift as well. She rolled over to face him, her eyes barely open as she looked at him. She smiled at him before closing her eyes again completely, "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." He whispered back before gently closing his own eyes and feeling himself relax into her warm bed.