The Ties That Bind
At the age of four Sherlock Holmes gave the impression of a sullen sickly quiet child to the world. He did not speak much or involve himself in activities with other children, though it was not always for lack of words or will. Even at this tender age he already had a vocabulary that by far exceeded not only the abilities of his peers but also of most far older than him. No, the root of the problem lay completely elsewhere. For no matter how hard he tried it seemed that every time he opened his mouth things seemed to go completely wrong. Eventually he learned to keep mostly to himself and to avoid confrontation with others. The brilliance of his mind was enough to keep him entertained anyway and that world, the world inside his mind that it offered to him seemed to be much more tempting than the boring world of the people around him. It was also a world that seemed much easier to comprehend than the real world. For people did not understand Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes did not understand people. It could be said that he was confused by them as much as they were confused by him. Their actions, motives and thoughts puzzled him as much as his puzzled them. He did not understand why his honesty seemed to upset them so much and he was lost in the never-ending tangles of their lies. But above all he was confused by all these emotions that they all seemed to be so set on expressing all the time. That's not to say that he himself wasn´t capable of feeling. No matter what anyone might have thought he was as likely to feel as the next person. But he did not understand all these feelings inside him, much less the feelings of those around him. And once confronted with them he panicked.
But for a long time none of this mattered for at the end of the day he always had the peace that his brilliant mind gave him and above all he had home. Home meant his older brother Mycroft, who at age ten seemed to have surpassed even all adults in his intelligence. There were many similarities between the two brothers, but at the same time they were utterly different. For one thing Mycroft seemed to understand people with ease. But at the same time he also understood Sherlock and often he served as sort of a mediator between Sherlock and the rest of the world. Mummy and Daddy did not share Mycroft´s skill of being able to understand Sherlock, but they could not be accused of the lack of trying. They tried to be understanding and to be patient and to give him the space and freedom he needed so much. But even they had their limits and eventually the day that the struggle of life with Sherlock brought them to the edge came. Mycroft had known for a long time that this day would come, the question was just when and which of their parents would be the one to give in first. Therefore he was not surprised to hear the sound of upset voices when he returned home from school one late Monday afternoon.
"He's just a kid, he´ll grow out of it..."
"No! It´s time we faced the truth, Violet. Sherlock´s not okay and he won´t grow out of it. He needs help. Professional help."
"There's nothing wrong with him. He's a special brilliant child. He's just different."
"Nothing…nothing wrong with him? How can you possibly say that after he went all berserk on Jimmy Singer for destroying his science experiment? Look, he's a brilliant kid, I know. And I love him as much as you do. But we tried, we really did, but this is not just a phase or something that he will grow out of. I just want to help him."
"Help him!? Then let him be who he is..."
"I can't. I can't see him or others get hurt."
Mycroft ignored the rest of the argument between his parents and went up the stairs leading to the floor that hosted his and Sherlock's rooms. He just wished they would keep it less noisy. Sherlock hated loud noises and he hated when those close to him were arguing. He had never said it in words but Mycroft understood that noise pierced his ears and that the arguments set him off to unexplainable fits of rage. The fact that Sherlock himself was the topic of the argument this time around was not much help.
„Sherlock," he called out as he softly pushed the door of his younger brother´s room, but it was revealed to be empty. Suddenly he heard banging coming from the area of his room. When he walked in he found his little brother standing in the middle of the room, shivering with rage and throwing Mycroft's possessions around the room.
„Sherlock," he whispered, but there was no reaction. Mycroft sighed and picked up Machiavelli's „Prince", which had nearly hit him in the head. He approached Sherlock and hugged his tiny frame tightly. At first the little boy fought the embrace, but soon all power seemed to have left him. Now he was sobbing uncontrollably in the hug and Mycroft did not loosen the hug until the sobs had ceased and Sherlock became completely still. He picked the tiny boy up and carried him into the bed never completely breaking the hug. Sherlock was as if a doll and most people had they seen him now would think him completely unresponsive. But Mycroft knew better. He lied down so that Sherlock´s right ear was pressed into his chest at the same spot where his heart was. He knew that the sound of his beating heart had a calming power on his baby brother.
"Breathe, Sherlock," he whispered. Normally Mycroft avoided such close contact with others for he personally did not find any use in it. But he knew that his brother needed it even if he had never said it or more appropriately was not capable of saying that it was what he needed and he would do anything for Sherlock. Slowly the young boy´s breathing slowed down and he became completely still. But Mycroft knew that he had not fallen asleep, but merely calmed down.
"I know that you genuinely don´t understand people. It's not your fault. Don't worry, little brother. I will teach you to understand."
Sherlock relaxed ever so slightly in Mycroft´s embrace. At the end of the day all that mattered was that Mycroft understood exactly what he needed.