My first Sherlock fanfic, so do be kind. Just a bit of a drabble, really. R&R, please!
Mycroft had always been there to calm him down.
Ever since they were children and he came home from his first day of school at the tender age of six, not able to stop—
"Susan'sfatherisadrunkandhermother'sgotasthmaandMis sJayisreallyadiabeticbutshe'sembarrassedandLukedid n'tdohisworksheetbecausehereallycan'treadandJessic arecentlyadoptedablackcatand—"
Mycroft had put a hand on his shoulder, his eyes searching Sherlock's face worriedly until he had regained his control, waiting until his breathing was regular before teaching him how to reign in the details that screamed at him from all directions.
Sherlock never quite figured out how his brother saw the world—did he see what Sherlock saw? Did they scream at him too, the details? Or had he perfected the art of blocking them?—but he couldn't help but be grateful at least one person understood.
Or was it two, now, with John?
Sherlock, for all his words, couldn't for the life of him describe what made Doctor John Watson so damn special. Somehow this short little hobbit of a man had wiggled his way into Sherlock's life—and then made himself comfortable. And the younger Holmes didn't mind.
That was the part that scared him the most. Sherlock Holmes had made a friend, his first friend, his only friend, and he was terrified of loosing him.
He had put up an effort to keep him, truly. He confined himself to one kitchen experiment at a time... mostly. He tried to keep the target practice to a minimum, but sometimes he just got so bored. He even wore clothes around the flat! At least, whenever he remembered.
But he was getting off track.
The point still stood: he needed them. Both of them. To help him when the details screamed too loudly.
After all, what would he be without his archenemy and his blogger?