Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
AN: So this is just something that popped into my head while I was at work; it's too long to be a drabble, too short to be much else...just a little speculation on the whole Sherlock/Mycroft relationship. I don't really like it, it feels like something's missing, but I thought I would give it a go.
Non italics = Mycroft.
Italics= Sherlock.
The whole situation with Sherlock spiralled a very long way out of proportion to what Mycroft believes must have been the original incident years ago, but these things always do tend to snowball don't they? And the more Sherlock pushes him away the more closely his elder brother watches him; the truth is that when Sherlock tells him to go...when Sherlock tells him angrily to mind his own business and leave him alone...Mycroft doesn't see the grown man, the brilliant Detective, the man more than capable of standing up for himself.
He sees an eleven year old boy with a bloody nose and heart wrenching disappointment in his eyes; he remembers the promise he broke, and the vow he made.
Mycroft remembers the morning quite clearly; he remembers their mother making him promise to keep an eye on Sherlock, he remembers he had quite liked the idea; it would be nice, he had decided, to have someone to look after, someone who looked up to him when he was around his friends, someone he could show off to.
Sherlock remembers Mycroft offering to watch out for him on his first day at the school, he remembers he was thrilled. He knew that the other children would probably have older siblings too, some of them even in his own brother's year or older, but they didn't have Mycroft. That was different.
Mycroft can still see the look of excitement on Sherlock's face as they walked to school; a new place was always interesting to Sherlock, because he was always bored very easily. He was only slightly concerned for his brother though; he was quite aware of the fact that Sherlock would probably not fit in, but he didn't think it would cause too much worry. Sherlock was usually happier on his own anyway.
'I'll meet you at the gate after school, okay?' Mycroft had said when they arrived. Sherlock had nodded eagerly, his eleven year old face alight with fascination at this strange new building with all these people he could watch and work out.
Sherlock's eyes had darted around every corner and crevice as he made his way to his classroom with a spring in his step, quickly and easily delving into the lives of his fellow pupils without ever needing to speak to them. They had become quite dull during lessons though; they all seemed so stupid! But he didn't care much for them anyway; he would be meeting Mycroft when he finished, and Mycroft wasn't stupid. He could talk to Mycroft, and ask him what he had got right about the teachers. The thought sustained him throughout the day and enabled him to ignore the occasional snide comment about spending his time separate from the others. They didn't matter.
The rest of the day, to Mycroft, was largely unimportant; nothing particularly special had happened, nothing out of the ordinary except the occasional nod and smile at his brother if they happened to pass in the corridors. He had left at the end of an entirely normal day in a deep discussion with Zachary about he-didn't-know what...it had seemed to very important at the time, but now it's been swallowed up by the long intervening years, and the results of his moment of distraction. They had walked home together without once realising they had forgotten something.
At the end of the school day, Sherlock had dutifully arrived at the school gates to wait for Mycroft; he wasn't there at first, but he would be soon, Sherlock assured himself. He was just running late – he must have had something urgent to do if he was going to risk being late. Sherlock would ask him about it when he saw him.
He remembers, now, waiting there so long that almost everyone else had left, and he had known something must be wrong. He was becoming worried when a group of boys from the year above had spotted him on the way out.
Loner. Idiot. Freak. Friendless.
They had taunted him, Sherlock remembers; they had shouted at him that it was no surprise he was on his own, because no one would ever want to walk home with him; why should anyone want to hang out with such a little freak? He remembers what they said. He remembers that it had hurt.
He remembers that, blinking back tears of fury, he was the one to throw the first punch at a boy twice his size.
It wasn't until Mycroft had arrived home that he had realised he had forgotten to pick up Sherlock, but he hadn't been worried. His brother would surely understand; he would, of course, have gone to look for him, but what was the point? Sherlock knew the way home, and he would make his own way once he came to the conclusion – and he must have by now – that Mycroft wasn't coming.
He was starting to wonder what could have happened to make Sherlock quite so late some time later, assuaging his guilt with what even he knew were pathetic assurances that Sherlock would be fine...he was easily distracted, after all. Probably he had spotted something which had interested him...
The front door slamming had made him jump, and, irrationally nervous, he had run down the stairs to see Sherlock at the bottom of them with a bloody nose.
'Sherlock!' He had gasped, 'I forgot – I was distracted, I'm sorry, what happened? Are you okay?' But Sherlock had brushed angrily past him, his eyes wet and his lip trembling. Something seemed to collapse in Mycroft's chest with the guilt as he watched his little brother climb the stairs dejectedly, sniffing loudly as he tried to hold back tears.
And Mycroft swore he would never let Sherlock out of his sight again.
Sherlock had arrived home very, very late. He had thought that Mycroft must have realised his mistake by now and come to look for him, but he hadn't. Something broke when he saw his brother; he had forgotten him. Mycroft had been careless enough to leave him, he hadn't even thought him important enough to walk home...and there he was, looking at him with a stupid false apology in his eyes, saying he had forgotten as though that would make things better. He fought against the tears of betrayal that threatened to spill over; he wouldn't let Mycroft see him cry now.
As he stomped up the stairs, deliberately keeping his back to his brother, he had sworn to never trust Mycroft again.