I don't know if this will make much sense. I hope it does. It will be a series. I was going to make it one long chapter, but I think it'd be too much. So I'm attempting to break it down. Will try to update weekly. I guess this is a prologue... I hope you will bear with me as I work this out. Reviews are welcome. Minor disclaimer: sherlolly-ish :)
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters mentioned, they belong to ACD & BBC Sherlock. The adaptations are my own.
The revelation came to Mycroft a bit late.
That he had created a monster. Fostered it. Nurtured it.
And he alone was responsible for the repercussions.
It started when Mycroft was nine. The first time Sherlock came to him, crying, too young to remember, even now. Mycroft did the only thing he could do. He distracted Sherlock. Occupying his mind with games, trivia. Not a difficult thing to do. Both boys had a hankering for knowledge. Craved it.
This was his response every time Sherlock approached him, teary eyed and overwhelmed with emotion.
But year after year, game after game, Mycroft realized he was merely conditioning Sherlock to repress his feelings. Always hiding away the aches in his chest, the emptiness deep in his stomach. It became automatic.
Emotions are fickle. Emotions can't be deleted. You can't outrun it. They make experiences rememberable. Chemicals that swirl in the brain. Making reality palpable.
And reality is boring.
When Mycroft went away to university, his absence left Sherlock's brilliance unchecked, unbalanced. There was no one left to distract Sherlock. Sherlock pushing himself to the limits of his mind. It dawned on Mycroft when he found himself looking for Sherlock in alleys and doss houses, that he, Mycroft Holmes was out of his depths. And he was too late.
But no matter how much Sherlock protested, he was still only human.
And human error was Mycroft's saving grace.