"I'm not a child, Mycroft."
Everyone viewed him as a child. He was smarter than all of them, cleverer than all of them, had saved most of their lives half a dozen times over, and they all insisted on monitoring his every move, were certain that he could not function, could not care for himself like an adult, without their watchful eyes looking over his shoulder.
"Do you remember…Redbeard?"
Mycroft would always view him as a child, Sherlock had long ago accepted that. He wasn't smarter than Mycroft and that played a role in his brother's viewpoint. Childhood impressions are hard to change, especially those as deeply imbedded as the Holmes brothers. Their parents had always been present, their mother omnipresent at times, it seemed, but it was Mycroft that Sherlock most closely associated with his childhood.
He would never understand his brother, not really, not like he pretended to. He didn't know why Mycroft would concede when Sherlock asked him to read a pirate story instead of his advanced calculus book before bed, why he bothered to teach Sherlock to ride a bike when he himself rarely left the house, why he insisted on walking him to and from school every day before he left for university.
Sherlock had cried that day. He hoped Mycroft had forgotten that.
He knew he hadn't.
He did not know why Mycroft took such an interest in him when they were children. He also didn't know why Mycroft persisted in watching over him today. He assumed it was a promise to their parents who, thank God, were not close enough to do so themselves, though they'd been calling him at an annoying frequent rate recently. If his own side of their brotherly relationship was anything to judge by, however, Mycroft's obsession with him was psychologically driven – if Sherlock still viewed Mycroft as his big brother, brilliant, forever disappointed in Sherlock's shortcomings, than Mycroft viewed him as the little boy following him around, asking for his approval and his opinion and forever trying to please him.
"Are you bored, dear? I'll come play a game with you."
Mrs. Hudson had a bit of an excuse too, he supposed. She was older than his mother. She had no children of her own. She lived alone and little old ladies like to coddle people. But she'd never fussed over John like she did Sherlock. With John, she'd asked his permission to do things, asked what he wanted for lunch, asked how his girlfriends were. With Sherlock, she just showed up with tea and biscuits, knocking on the door with her sing-song, "You-hoo!" She stopped in on him frequently, never asking about work anymore; rather, asking what he was doing and if he wanted to watch telly and if he wanted to play another game of Cluedo. He didn't understand why she kept playing – she was horrid. He always won.
Actually, he did understand. Because to her, he was a child in need of entertainment. His best friend had left him and what did he do now but sit alone in his flat, wallowing in self-pity and staring at the wall? Poor little Sherlock can't function without constant amusement.
As if beating Mrs. Hudson in Cluedo and listening to her prattle on about Mrs. Turner's married ones was amusement.
But she had no children and she was lonely – lonelier than he was, she'd never admit – so he let her come in every time she yodeled at his door.
"Seriously, you're working too hard. Go rest."
Lestrade had children, though, children much younger than Sherlock, and he wasn't really that much older than Sherlock himself. He was used to being in charge, though; he was the man of the family, the head of the police force – he gave orders and they were followed. He looked out for those under his protection.
But Sherlock wasn't under his protection. Sherlock worked alone, he was not a member of Scotland Yard, thank God. No, Lestrade viewed him as a child just as much as Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft did. To him, he was a child who didn't know his own limits, who would work himself to death without a second thought because he didn't know when he required sleep or nourishment.
Sherlock was perfectly aware of his limitations. He was only human, unfortunately. Of course, he'd met Lestrade when he was at his weakest – just out of University, high, arrested for a fistfight with a stalker he'd been hired to catch (his first paid case.) Lestrade never got past the pale skin, the scarred arms, the baggy cloths on the too thin body, the bruised face (he'd hit the other guy harder, though.) Looking back, Sherlock admitted that he hadn't been in the best state of his life right then, but he'd never gotten worse, he'd gotten better, in fact. John had forced him to eat on a regular basis and now his body was so adapted to food that he had to eat three times a day, much to his displeasure, it was very inconvenient during cases. And he liked to sleep, when he was able to, but he functioned perfectly well on three to four hours – and so did Lestrade, the hypocrite, Sherlock knew he only averaged six hours a night.
But Lestrade thought Sherlock was one of his employees, one of his fixer-uppers that he'd taken from the lowest of the low and raised high, and so he would forever be a child to Lestrade too, a child who didn't know his own boundaries.
"Careful with the pipettes, please. They're very expensive."
Molly was Sherlock's fault. There had been a time when Molly had idolized Sherlock. She'd stumbled over herself just to speak to him and he had, he admitted with some guilt, taken advantage of that from time to time. But the Fall had changed that because he'd needed her, he'd depended on her to save his life, and now she knew he was mortal, that he was as flawed as everyone else in the world.
He'd stayed with her two days after he faked his own death and, although he'd never asked for anything more from her than a dead body that looked like him, she'd taken it upon herself to care for him during his time there. He had not asked her to. He had not encouraged her. She thought he was sad. She would have been sad too, she said, leaving behind what he was leaving behind. But he was so brave, she said, to do what he did.
He'd confessed that he didn't feel brave. He'd asked her to watch over John for him.
That was it. That was as personal as he'd gotten about the Fall with Molly.
And now she knew. She knew he wasn't Superman. He was human. Worse than human. He was a child, a child who didn't know that it was okay to be sad.
It was hardest from Molly. He'd kind of liked being treated like an adult.
"That's a good idea, Sherlock, I completely agree."
Sherlock made a mistake with Mary, too. He'd admitted to her that first day that he didn't understand human nature. For Mary, humans were inherently good, like her. She liked making people feel better about themselves, a task she was well suited for, except when it applied to Sherlock.
Sherlock, she seemed to think, had never had any positive feedback in his life. His deductions were amazing, yes, everyone knew that, but other aspects – how he looked, his pathetic attempts at jokes, his napkin folding abilities – went unappreciated. So she appreciated them. Positive reinforcement was the word his parents had used when he was training his dog as a child. Patronizing was the word he used to describe what Mary was doing to him.
She would be a wonderful mother – someone else's mother. A toddler's mother, the mother of a child who needed their self-esteem built up. Just as Sherlock knew what he was physically capable of, he was also aware of his other talents. Playing the violin, for instance, he was good at – when people applauded him, he knew it was genuine. Dancing, though no one knew it or would believe it, was another one of his strengths. He didn't need Mary to tell him how helpful he was selecting dishes for the wedding – his opinion was secondary, it was John and Mary who mattered. He didn't need her telling him how dashing he looked in his tuxedo – no one would be looking at him anyone. He didn't need Mary coddling him.
But she would. She was going to be a mother soon. She was preparing.
"I'm dropping Archie off. Act like a grown-up, please. Be responsible."
John…well, John had his reasons. The pants incident in Buckingham Palace hadn't been Sherlock's most mature moment.
But responsibility…John should know that Sherlock was responsible. He paid the bills on time. He labeled the food in the fridge so no one grabbed a foot by mistake. He never let either of the get killed.
Sherlock knew he was petulant. He was rude. He was a show-off. That was just who he was.
He also knew he was smart. And if he was smart, it didn't matter what mess he got himself into, because he could always get himself out.
John, though Sherlock still found it hard to believe, thought Sherlock was his best friend. At one point, Sherlock might have assumed that's how all best friends viewed each other - irresponsible, childish, always needing someone to look out for them. But John was Sherlock's best friend and he didn't view him that way at all. No, John's view wasn't an average "best friend" view - it was a "John sees Sherlock as immature" view - best friend or no, it was no different than anyone else.
"I'm not a child, Mycroft."
He wasn't a child. He didn't need constant entertainment. He knew his boundaries. He was confident in his abilities.
He was responsible.
He pushed open the door to the drug den and let himself in.
I own nothing.