A/N: The title for this story is borrowed from the poem Maud by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Please take the time to tell me what you think!
Mine by a Right
Sherlock has always had problems with touch, especially when he's upset.
When they are children Mycroft witnesses Sherlock throw screaming tantrums anytime he is hugged. When he is upset, the tantrums expand to include kicking and hitting. There's not much damage his small fists can do, but Mycroft can see the hurt and frustration in Mummy's eyes when Sherlock lashes out. Once, after his favorite teddy bear is ripped apart by a neighborhood bully (Mycroft will find him later that same evening. He doesn't so much as touch a hair on the younger boy's head, but Sherlock never has problems with him again) Sherlock actually manages to bite Father hard enough to break skin.
The entire situation is made more difficult by Sherlock's inability to speak. Oh, he can speak. In normal situations at least. In fact, when Sherlock is interested in something, they have a hard time getting him to be quiet again. When he's upset however, Sherlock seems to lose all of his words. If the tortured wails tearing their way out of his throat are any indication Sherlock is desperate to explain himself but simply finds he can't. Mycroft is sure that rather than refusing to speak Sherlock is actually incapable of it during these times. Eventually he convinces Mummy and Father of that as well.
After a few months Mummy and Father decide the best thing to do is to leave Sherlock to his own devices when he's scared or angry. They say it will teach him to self-comfort but Mycroft knows the truth. They find Sherlock disturbing and they are tired of trying to fix him.
: : :
In the end, it's Mycroft who comes up with a solution.
Mycroft is twelve and hates hearing his baby brother scream himself hoarse. Like Mummy his instinct is to cuddle and soothe and hold. But he knows that only makes it worse and he doesn't want to add to Sherlock's suffering.
Instead, he finds the perfect compromise.
It's not perfect at first, but so little is that Mycroft finds can forgive himself.
The next time Sherlock has a tantrum Mycroft goes into the playroom and sits down next to Sherlock. He is careful to keep a few inches of space between them ensuring his brother won't feel penned in. Sherlock takes no notice of him. The first time, at least.
The second time Sherlock rolls towards Mycroft as soon as the older boy sits down. His eyes lock desperately with his older brother's and Mycroft is careful not to look away, not to condemn Sherlock to his suffering alone. He thinks that this tantrum is shorter than the others, but he's not sure because he's too busy watching Sherlock to mind the clock.
The time after that, Sherlock begins to address Mycroft. What was once just screaming and the occasional garbled word become full sentences. "It's not fair!" Five-year-old Sherlock wails. "It doesn't make sense and how am I supposed to understand things that don't make sense?" To say Mycroft is surprised by his brother's new found ability to verbalize is an understatement.
"It's okay," he assures Sherlock. "I'm right here, it's okay." Mycroft's not even sure Sherlock can hear him, he's still screaming, but he says the words over and over again just in case.
One day Mycroft begins to notice that Sherlock, turned on his side towards his brother as is now typical during his tantrums, is making frustrated, aborted grabbing movements. His small hands reach out towards Mycroft's hand, or the hem of his shirt, or his trouser leg, and then stop, curling in on themselves angrily. Mycroft quickly comes up with a solution.
"Sherlock," he says, loudly and clearly, "I'm going to touch your finger with mine. If you don't like it, you can pull away." Sherlock, still crying, his little brow furrowed, watches him. Mycroft carefully links his right pinky finger with Sherlock's left. He expects Sherlock to pull away immediately but instead his brother curls their fingers together even tighter and carries on crying.
From that point on Mycroft is sure to lock their pinky fingers whenever Sherlock is upset.
It doesn't stop the tantrums – honestly he's not sure anything but time can – but it does remind Sherlock that he isn't alone. That no matter what, Mycroft is right beside him, willing to wait however long it takes until Sherlock is ready to come back to them.
: : :
Nearly three decades later Mycroft stands in his soundproofed office with his little brother and wishes they were still boys.
Sherlock has just faked his own death and they both know he may not come back from the next part of his journey though Mycroft will be damned before that happens. Mycroft looks at Sherlock, bruised from his fall but so miraculously alive, and the look of absolute misery on his face makes him wish the worst they were facing was still Sherlock's inability to verbalize his emotions.
Mycroft wants to grabs his little brother and never let go. He wants to put Sherlock safe in a room somewhere and make him wait while he goes out and destroys anyone who dares to threaten his baby brother. But this is not about him. This is about John Watson, and Gregory Lestrade, and Martha Hudson. This is about Sherlock.
So he does not hug Sherlock, or kiss him on the forehead as he so wants to. Instead, he offers his pinky finger and says, gently, "Get it out now, Sherlock. You need to be completely focused when you leave this office. Lives depends on it."
Sherlock links their fingers and cries and they sit on the floor together as Mycroft gives his brother the only gift he can; one last tantrum.