From the day he was born, Mycroft had known there was things people didn't like to talk about. That didn't make those things any less true, though.
He had dreams about things crawling down people's throats and clenching their hearts to make them do nasty evil things. He knew the black in people's blood that made them want to hurt and to kill. He knew that the devil existed and he knew there were places where people burned without dying; places where people could watch their own insides fall out of their torsos and they could poke and prod at their organs without feeling pain. Mycroft had watched people experience fear and he had felt satisfaction.
:::
When Mycroft was six, a girl in his class had cut her finger. They had been playing in the sandbox together, and her index tip had slipped against a piece of plastic. Mycroft took the weeping girl's hand, peering at the singular orb of blood sprouting from the tip with a look of interest. He stuck out his tongue and tasted. It made him writhe and scream in agony. He shoved the girl down and shrieked in pain. With fingers he tried to pry his lips and tongue out from his mouth to get the burning out of his mouth.
He later told the teacher that a bee had stung him, because he had seen a boy screech in pain from it a few weeks before.
For several weeks, Mycroft had avoided eating red meat. He was afraid of the blood. But then he had gotten a paper cut and, after a moment's hesitation, licked the drop of blood from his thumb. He found that his own blood had a nice taste. He thought it was supposed to have only a copper taste, but his blood tasted like cinnamon, but hotter somehow. It almost had the tingly sensation of those spicy cinnamon bears, only much more pleasant.
:::
Mycroft dreamed of fire and screaming, but he never felt fear from it. He instead felt fear from the fact that he was alone. Other children dreamed of family and heart-warming activities. Mycroft dreamed of clouds raining blood onto dying families. He was alone, and that scared him more than anything.
:::
A priest came to visit Mycroft when he was six and a half, because Mycroft informed his father that the devil came and planted a seed in mother. "That is how I came to this world," Mycroft said simply, and looked up at his father with a curious look. "What does it mean to plant a seed in mummy? Does that make me a plant?"
Mycroft had faked his innocence with the priest, but the man wasn't completely fooled. "The boy has ancient eyes," He heard the priest whisper to his parents later. He spoke of possible scenarios where they would be forced to tie Mycroft down and force the devil out of his throat. Mycroft hid in the library and cried at the possibility. For he knew the evil inside of him wasn't just crouching in his stomach like a beast in wait. It existed as a part of him; it ran through the blood in his veins. It made him special and it made him different. He predicted that others wouldn't like the things he could do, and so he tried to hide it.
Father had tried to include Mycroft in activities that other young boys would be interested in, and Mycroft eagerly participated. He played sports and he did arts and crafts. He played games. The children didn't like playing games with Mycroft; he was too good, especially at hide-and-seek. Mycroft knew how to mold his body with the shadows. He didn't become invisible (because no one can do that) but he knew how to make himself invisible to people who didn't bother looking. Rarely did people look.
:::
The staff began to fear Mycroft on his seventh birthday. They were all gathered to give good tidings to Mycroft during breakfast. Mycroft, who was still groggy from sleep, had sleepily rubbed his eyes and declared, "The demon bitch is going to burn today. Can I go watch?"
Later, he truly doesn't remember asking the question. He doesn't know whether it's that instinct that lies beneath his sternum, clenching tightly to warn him of what not to do and what not to say. The other boys don't say things like 'demon' or 'bitch' so Mycroft knows he shouldn't say it either. He decides to have even more control of the way he acts. He can't have that dark side of him coming out to play.
As it turns out, a woman in a town an hour away was tortured and burned alive by religious fanatics. Mycroft steals Father's paper and reads the article about it.
"She could see things others can't!" The group had proclaimed. "She could look at you and know where you've been, what you've been doing! It wasn't natural!"
So, she had burned for seeing. Mycroft could see. Once more, he felt the cold rush of fear. He didn't want to burn. He didn't want to hear the screaming in hell or to watch the sinners vomit lava. The idea of that is even worse than being alone. Mycroft reaffirms that he has to act very normal, even if it is boring; but his behavior only begins to unsettle people.
His Father shies away from Mycroft, claiming that the child "Gives him the creeps." Mummy often looks fearfully at her son. She often looks guilty as well, but Mycroft pretends he doesn't see. It's survival; if he doesn't want to burn, then he shouldn't see.
The household staff avoids Mycroft and he doesn't particularly care because none of them are very kind people. All except for one.
:::
Mrs. Hudson had been a maid, and Mycroft's nanny, at the Holmes estate for nine years. She helped Mummy raise Mycroft, and often acted like more of a motherly figure to Mycroft than Mummy did.
Once, while tucking Mycroft into bed, she had found the newspaper article on the dead woman tucked under his pillow. Her eyes had quickly scanned over it, and Mycroft looked up at her with fearful eyes. He worried that she would tell his parents. But she had only grown a tight-lipped expression, crumpled the article and put it in her pocket. Then she had placed her hand over Mycroft's and said, "You're not going to be killed like she was, dearie. Not on my watch."
Sometimes, Mycroft loved her more than he loved Mummy.
:::
Mycroft is seven years and four months old when Mummy and Father sit him down to inform him that he is to be a big brother. He locks eyes with his mother and gives her a stern look.
"He's going to be like me, isn't he?" Mycroft asks and he can't help but notice how his mother goes white as a ghost. He knows he slipped up, but he also know that normal people will try to rationalize the things he says. Father steps up to the challenge.
"A strapping young Holmes? Of course he will." Father chuckles, clapping his son on the shoulder. Mycroft grins easily back, relaxing that no one but Mummy had noticed the true meaning behind his words. Mummy won't tell.
How nice it will be to have another like him. He won't be so lonely. He can share things with him and teach him how to see things like he can. Mycroft could play games where they will be evenly matched. Mycroft won't have to pretend around him and it will be so wonderful.
:::
When Mummy's belly becomes round, Mycroft places both hands near her navel and he feels a grim premonition.
"If you go in for an ultrasound, they will see and they will kill him." He whispers to his mother. "If you give birth to him at a hospital, they will take him and cut him apart to see how he works and then they will kill him. He will be different. He will be very different."
He doesn't have to explain to her how he knows. Mycroft has never been wrong before. He wasn't wrong about Father's cheating business partner or about the maid stealing Mummy's jewelry. He wasn't wrong about the boy being touched by his older brother or the girl watching her mother take a lashing from her father. He hasn't had to explain himself in almost eight years and he doubts he ever will.
Mummy looks at him for a very long time, and then runs her fingers through his hair, holding him to her bosom and crying for a long while. Mycroft doesn't mind. He loves his Mummy and sometimes he has to be the stronger one. Sometimes he has to be the one to stand and protect his Mummy, because she is weak willed and selfish. Mycroft sees how flawed his Mummy is, but he doesn't mind. This is what you do for family.
:::
Mummy doesn't go to the hospital. She ignores Father's pleas for medical attention and she arranges for a midwife to come to the estate. For now, she trusts Mycroft more than her husband. Because Mycroft can touch her belly and simply know. It is strange and it is scary, but it's the truth and Mummy knows better than to doubt.
:::
One night, Mycroft dreams not of sinners or hellfire. Instead, he dreams that he is in a field.
It was a large green field, the kind of grass that is so soft one needn't wear shoes and was of the brightest emerald shade. The field made a perfect circle and surrounding the circle of green grass were trees. The trees were dead; pure white with leafless branches that stretched out toward the cloudy sky.
There was a tree stump directly across from him, and perched upon it was an owl. It had black and gray feathers and the largest black eyes Mycroft had ever seen. The owl stared at Mycroft. Instead of adjusting it's position or ruffling its wings, it remained perfectly still. So still that Mycroft would have suspected that it was a stuffed bird. But the air rippled around it, like the fumes you could see on well-traveled roads during warm days. The way the air moved around the owl promised something both reassuring yet deadly.
Mycroft sat around two feet away from the owl and stared at it quite intently. There was something extremely familiar about this owl, yet Mycroft was absolutely sure he had never had this dream before. The owl stared back at him with a patient air, as if he were waiting for Mycroft to put the pieces together.
Mycroft hums in thought, and touches his hand to his lips. Then the realization snaps to him like a rubber band on skin. It is so sudden and so obvious that Mycroft wants to hit himself for being so dense. Instead, he smiles at the owl with an almost ferocity in his gaze.
'Hello, brother,' Mycroft says softly.
At Mycroft's words, the owl spread its wings and opened its beak wide. Inside, Mycroft could see several sharp teeth lining the roof of its mouth and continuing down its throat. From the owl's throat, bubbly black liquid like tar rises and flows out in a steady stream. It stains the owl's feathers and falls with heavy sounds onto the tree trunk. Despite the grotesque sight, Mycroft continues to smile.
The owl, still vomiting the black paste, lets out a screech of such volume and pitch that it would have driven any human's ears to bleed. It only sends a small thrill down Mycroft's back and the owl takes off in flight.
:::
When Mycroft wakes, he climbs out of bed and goes downstairs. It is close to three in the morning. He finds Mrs. Hudson doing the laundry, something she does when she cannot sleep. He grips her wrist tight and whispers, "My little brother is going to come today."
Mrs. Hudson feels fear but her affection for Mycroft overpowers that and she kisses his forehead. "Is he now, dearie," She acknowledges quietly, escorting Mycroft back to bed.
"You won't tell Mummy," Mycroft notes. "She has to be surprised. But I thought you might like to know because you're going to be very busy today."
Mrs. Hudson smiles kindly. "Thank you, sweetie."
She tucks the boy back into bed, smoothing the covers and pushing his hair out of his face.
Mycroft whispers, "I love you, Mrs. Hudson." But she had already left to go back to the laundry and Mycroft drifts back into sleep.
It is mid-morning when Mycroft is fetched from his room. Mummy was having contractions! She's going to give birth! Isn't it exciting, Mycroft?
Mycroft already knew, but he acts surprised. He dresses quickly and rushes down to the sitting room, where a large silver tub is being filled with water. Mother's face is creased with pain. She orders a nurse to fetch her ice, and once they are left alone, Mycroft quickly crosses to her and caresses her large belly.
"He rolling around, like he's swimming." Mycroft describes. "I'm really sorry, Mummy, but it's going to hurt a lot."
"It's okay, sweetheart. It hurts whenever a woman does this." She reassures him, patting his head.
"Wow, Mummy," Mycroft whispers as he feels the baby rolling underneath Mummy's skin. "You're really brave."
"Thanks, dear." Mummy answers affectionately. Mycroft leans down, gently resting his cheek on Mummy's large belly.
"Come to the world, brother. Come be with me." He whispers to the being in Mummy's belly. "Come and be with me, I love you so."
:::
Mycroft watches without shame or embarrassment as his mother strips naked and is lowered into the tub. The midwife grips mother's hand and Father grips the other. Mycroft stands near the drapes, carefully watching his mother's expression. He fears for Mummy and for his brother. It is going to hurt.
It takes hours. Mummy is shrieking and screaming obscenities. The nurse asks Mycroft if he wants to leave, but he gives her a scathing look and refuses to leave the room. He watches with interest as the baby crowns. It doesn't disgust him or scare him, though his Father looks as if he's about to faint. When Mummy finally pushes the infant out, and the baby is raised to the surface, several things happen at once.
The first is that the midwife freezes, staring at the child with a horrified expression. The second is that almost all the nurses simultaneously scream and flee the room. The midwife looks conflicted, and Mycroft can see that she wants to drop the baby and run from the room as well, but she is reluctant to drop a baby, even one as different and terrifying as this one.
The third is that Mycroft sees his little brother for the first time. The child has black hair clinging to his skull, and there are odd things protruding from his back. He can see the flaws in the child but loves and accepts him anyway. The baby cries and Mycroft can feel emotion tightening his chest. Hot tears are rolling down his cheeks. He loves the child so much already. He is like him. He is equal. He is wonderful and special.
"T-take him!" The midwife says to Father, and hands the baby hastily into Father's unwilling hands. She looks nauseous and quickly leaves the room. Mycroft slowly awakens from his adoration of his new brother and sees the confused and disgusted expression on Father's face. He realizes that they are left alone, that Father is staring at his brother like a beast, and that Mummy is bleeding.
"Father?" Mycroft asks in growing concern. "Father, you must cut the umbilical cord and wrap him up."
"Not n-n-natural," His Father finally stutters out. "It's not natural!"
"Father!" Mycroft snaps in irritation. He turns, finds the surgical scissors and carefully cuts the umbilical cord. He knots it like he's read in medical journals. How useless his father is acting. What an imbecile.
"Father, you have to wrap him up and clean him. He's getting cold." Mycroft tries to be patient with his Father, but he is getting furious. Everyone around him is acting like morons! Is Mycroft, the eight-year-old child, the only capable one around here?
Mycroft reaches for the soft towels behind him and turns back in time to watch a mad expression take hold of his father's face. Mycroft knows what he is going to do before he does it, and he screams out, "NO!" before Father thrusts the child into the bloody water.
Mycroft feels fear unlike anything he's ever experienced before. The water is choking the life out of his brother, and Father is much stronger than Mycroft is. He doesn't know what to do. But more than anything, he is furious at his Father, and he feels a white-hot hatred for the man. His heart steels and Mycroft knows he must do whatever he can, damn the consequences, to save his brother. In a matter of seconds, Mycroft is shrieking and plunging the surgical scissors into his Father's neck and yanking them out again.
Father is screaming and staggering, hands fly to his neck to stop the stream of blood. Mycroft turns his back on his father, hands flying into the water and he grasps his brother, raising him once more. He wraps the blanket 'round the child, and then pulls him up to his chest and gently but firmly slapping the child's back to expel the water from his throat. The child burps it up, and Mycroft cares not that he is a mess, but that the child is crying, so it is alive. The relief makes his knees numb and Mycroft tucks the child into the crook of his elbow, making sure it's head is supported, before backing up into the corner of the room. He holds the surgical scissors out as a warning to anyone else that might think of harming the child.
"It's okay," He assures to the wailing infant. "No one is going to hurt you anymore. I'm here. I'm here."
The baby isn't soothed. He continues to screech, such feeble sounds coming from the tiny thing. Mycroft looks down at him and feels his heart melt once more. The child has black eyes, like pools of ink. Perfect. The child is perfect. Mycroft looks up, sees his father slumped against the doorframe and his mother lying stationary in the tub, quite pale.
"Someone help!" Mycroft shouts. "Someone help Mummy!"
After several minutes, the nurses are reluctantly ushered back into the room, followed by several of the house staff, and Mrs. Hudson taking the rear. She is shouting a storm at the nurses.
"How dare you leave a woman and her newborn baby!" She is shouting. "I don't give a damn if he is a creature of hell or the damn reincarnation of Gandhi! You will go back in there and give them the medical attention they deserve! And you can expect your superiors to get an earful of this! Utterly incompetent, you lot are!"
Mrs. Hudson pauses in the doorway, scanning the room and taking in the situation. The baby is still wailing, and Mycroft's still wielding the surgical scissors and staring with a terrified expression. No one can see the baby's strange figure underneath the towel, so he knows Mrs. Hudson is mystified at why the nurses ran from the room screaming. Then her eyes come to rest on Mummy and a hand flies to her chest in alarm.
"Help her." She points to Mummy and the nurses, seeing that the creature is far away from the woman, converge on her, shouting out orders to each other. A servant walks toward Mycroft.
"Let me see him, son." He says, and he reaches out an arm. He stares at the baby with greedy eyes, and Mycroft feels fire in his chest. Mycroft bares his teeth and hisses like a feral cat, but it only when he lunges and slices the man's forearm with the scissors that the servant backs away.
"I was right about you," Father's voice is raspy. Mycroft looks over to see a nurse attending to the wound on his neck. Father is glaring maliciously at his eldest son. "I knew you were a freak. I don't know what you are. You're probably a fucking demon, but whatever it is, you're not my son!"
He doesn't like to admit it, but the words hurt Mycroft. Here it was, all laid before him. People would see how different he was and they were going to leave him. Mycroft feels tears fill his eyes and he shuts them. It would be fine. They could hate Mycroft as much as they wanted to, but they would not lay a hand on this baby.
Mrs. Hudson draws herself straight, looking at Father with an outraged expression. Her hands clenched into fists and she jabs one finger in Father's direction.
"Your sons may be different," She said in a steely voice. "But they are your children, and your job as a father is to accept and love them no matter how different they may be."
"He is no son of mine." Father says this with a tremble in his voice and Mrs. Hudson stares in shock at the man before turning to face the room.
"Does no one love this child?" She demands. "Does no one care for Mycroft Holmes? Or is it just me?"
The house staff ducks their heads. The nurses avert their eyes. Mummy lies with her eyes shut and unmoving. Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, looking at everyone in the room.
"Cowards." She reprimands. "All of you. You ought to be ashamed. Especially you," She says, pointing towards the nurses. "With all that talk of throwing the child in the well. You ought to be ashamed. And you!"
She whirls to look at Father, who glares back at her.
"I am going to outlive you." Mrs. Hudson fumes. "When you die, I am going to spit on your tombstone and dance on your grave. You will burn, Mr. Holmes. I know nothing of hell, but I know that you will burn."
Mrs. Hudson turns to look at Mycroft and her gaze softens. Mycroft feels love for her like he's never known.
"Come on, dearie. We're leaving." She announces. Mycroft's stands, dropping the scissors and holding the child protectively in his arms. He slowly, fearfully, crosses the room to stand at Mrs. Hudson's side. He glances around at the strangers around him. They've turned their backs on Mycroft, and he hates them all for it. But Mrs. Hudson is lovely; she is the star in the dead of night and now she has a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and is walking from the room with her head held high.
"We're better off without them," Mrs. Hudson confesses, and Mycroft glances up at her to see the tears sliding down her cheek. He wants to grasp her hand and embrace her, but his hold on the baby takes both hands. "You especially, dear. You ought to hear the things they've said about you. It would make a nun turn in her grave."
Mycroft looks at her sympathetically. He doesn't tell her that he knows already; he's heard the whispers in the night of the staff. He's heard the staff make lewd jokes and the teachers at school question his mental health. He knows all about what they think of him, and it makes him sad.
But Mrs. Hudson thinks him wonderful and lovely. That is enough for Mycroft. That kind of love from one person, just one, is all anyone needs in this world.
:::
Mycroft is silent as he watches Mrs. Hudson pack clothing. He watches as she takes Mycroft's jumpers and uniforms, gently folding them with experienced hands into the large suitcase. She packs every bit of the newborn's clothing, leaving nothing behind. She whispers that it'll be a waste to leave anything behind. She is confident that Father will want no evidence that he had a new son. So she packs the toys and the clothing and the mobile. She cannot pack the crib, but she says it doesn't matter. She can fashion one out of blankets for now.
She orders a servant to load their baggage into Mrs. Hudson's car, and he seems more than eager to get the three of them out of the house. Mycroft hesitantly hands the baby over to Mrs. Hudson. She peeks under the towel and sees what protrudes from the child's back. Mycroft searches for disgust or fear on her face, but he finds none. Instead, Mrs. Hudson just inhales deeply and nods once. She is like a woman preparing herself for battle, and Mycroft reaches up to touch her arm.
"Come, Mycroft." She directs. She has the same servant load the infant car seat into the back and then very carefully places the newborn into the seat. It takes a few moments to adjust him so he is comfortable, for the protrusions from his back don't fold against him very well. "We really shouldn't be taking him outside so soon."
Mycroft leans over and gently places one finger on the baby's cheek.
"He'll be fine." He murmurs. The baby is like him; he is hard to damage and can endure the summer air until they get inside. Which brings up a new puzzle in Mycroft's mind. "Where are we going, Mrs. Hudson?"
Mrs. Hudson directs him to get into the front passenger seat of the car and Mycroft does as he is told. Once he is buckled up, he turns to Mrs. Hudson and searches for an answer in her expression.
Mrs. Hudson is behind the wheel of the car, gripping the steering wheel with one hand. She appears greatly overwhelmed, but she seems to gather herself. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of folded paper. She opens it, and though Mycroft can't read it from where he sits, he recognizes his Mummy's handwriting.
"I'm not going to lie to you, Mycroft. Your mother and I have been worried about something like this happening for a while." Mrs. Hudson explains as she maneuvers the car down the driveway. "She gave me directions for a safe house, should your safety or her new baby's be in jeopardy."
"Is it? In jeopardy, I mean." Mycroft asks. Mrs. Hudson looks heartbroken.
"I'm afraid so." She falters. "But don't worry. Your mother assured me no one could find us here."
"What makes you say that?" Mycroft asks curiously.
"Because," Mrs. Hudson glanced at the directions on her lap as she drives them onto a dirt path through the forest. "People seem to have the crazy idea that you are a demon. Churches are usually the last places people will look for a demon."
:::
It was not a church, but a complete and abandoned monastery. There is a large building for the dormitories, kitchen, and dining hall. Across from the ancient looking building is a small church.
Mrs. Hudson carries the baby inside, followed closely by Mycroft. Both were paranoid and a bit jittery, for neither had slept. They stand in the large dining hall, where a long wooden table stood with twelve chairs surrounding it resides. Mycroft held the sleeping baby while Mrs. Hudson flipped the breakers, turning on the electricity.
As Mycroft looks around the abandoned property, he worries for a few moments. Religious relics had never affected him, but his brother might be different. Mycroft opens the blankets carefully cocooning the babe, looking to see if sores were breaking out on the skin or perhaps if he were slowly melting. After carefully assessing the baby and seeing that he was still perfectly fine, Mycroft comes to a conclusion: The priests at church, who claimed God would smite a demon should it walk into hallowed ground, were liars.
Mrs. Hudson comes back and takes the child back into her arms gently.
"Come, dear. We should get a bit of sleep." She says.
"But it's nearly dawn." Mycroft objects. Mrs. Hudson simply smiled gently.
"You didn't sleep since we left. You've had a trying day. You need to sleep." She says. Mycroft carefully considered her words before nodding and allowing her to lead him to the dormitories.
Altogether there were 14 rooms. Mycroft, of course, picks the largest room and Mrs. Hudson chooses the room next to his.
:::
After they wake from their brief naps, they bathe the baby very carefully, examining him. They had been a bit rough with him, but he appears fine. They examined what was growing from his back and it is Mrs. Hudson that speaks first.
"Wings." She says simply. Both look upon the child with wonder.
"Wings." Mycroft breathes. How extraordinary this baby is. He is everything perfect in this world. Mycroft wants to wrap this baby up in his arms and breath him in; he is so wonderful.
He is also without a name.
"Did Mummy tell you what she was going to name him?" Mycroft asks as he watches Mrs. Hudson change his cloth diaper.
"No, I'm afraid not, dear." She said. "She didn't know if it was going to be a boy or a girl, so she didn't really linger on the name business."
"Can I name him?" Mycroft asks hopefully, and Mrs. Hudson thinks of everything the boy has lost in life. She sees the way the boy stares at his younger brother with a kind of loving hunger. She wonders for a moment if he would have seriously injured, or possibly killed, anyone back at the Holmes estate for wanting to hurt the baby. Mrs. Hudson feels a sob creeping up her throat and she smothers it down.
"Oh, alright, dear." She allows.
:::
Despite only sleeping for a few hours, Mycroft doesn't feel tired. Instead, he stays near his brother's side, trying to pick out a name. Mrs. Hudson cleans the kitchen, occasionally popping by to feed the baby formula. Mycroft learns how to change its diaper and is comfortable burping the child, so there really isn't much for Mrs. Hudson to do.
"Perseus? How about Perseus?" Mycroft asks the newborn. "Perseus is a very nice name. Very noble. Though you'd be called Percy. But that's not as bad as Mycroft."
The baby tongues at his lips. Mycroft takes this to be a negative.
"What about Mars? He's the god of war. Though it might be kind of silly to name a demon after the god of war." Mycroft babbles, playing with the baby's hands. "I hope you don't want a boring normal name. Like Henry, or Timothy."
Mycroft shudders; as if the thought is so disgusting he can't stand it.
"Bartimaes? But no, you'd be called Bart and that is almost as bad as Henry." Mycroft mutters. "You've already said no to all my great ones! Unless you want to be called something silly, like Sherlock…"
The baby kicks out, squeaking. Mycroft freezes, staring with wide eyes.
"Sherlock?" He says slowly, and the baby raises it's hand, wiggling out his fingers. "You like the name Sherlock?"
The baby squeaks once more, kicking his legs out once more and wiggling his fingers.
"No you can't be called Sherlock!" Mycroft groans in agony. "It means Fair Haired! You have black hair! It wouldn't make sense!"
The baby continues to squeal in delight, and Mycroft relents.
"Fine. Sherlock it is," He grumbles, and he adjusts the sock on the baby's tiny foot. "Like anything about you makes sense, anyway."
Sherlock makes another spit bubble.