Disclaimer: It's not mine, property of Sir ACD and BBC.
A/N: I re-read this recently and decided that although I truly liked the concept and was quite pleased with how I managed to obey the strict rules regarding 'one' and 'you/me', it sounded a bit strange and, I think, detracted from the content. I have changed it slightly now, it is still mostly the same but there are a few differences and it is hopefully far easier to read now. It would be nice to get a few more reviews on this because I worked insanely hard on it and I really am quite proud of it but I only got one review – I know more people read it and I also know that it could probably be improved on so anything any one has to say would be great.
I hope it will be clear but this is present tense, and this is flashbacks/memories (they are supposed to be a bit disjointed).
Warning: There are two very slight references to murder.
They do say that there are moments that remain forever ingrained upon one's mind - that there are images that once seen, cannot be erased. And of course, elements of those memories are forever intertwined, an elaborate tapestry that spans decades and that can - quite against one's will - alter the very heart of a relationship.
That first touch, recalled through the hazy lenses of childhood, miniscule fingers reaching out to touch, new eyes drifting shut after setting upon their match for the first time. The unexpected sound of my own name being spoken for the first time in a new voice, the memory of it secreted away and hidden that absent others might believe they have shared in it later. A screaming shadow falling past the library window, having decided to 'walk the plank' from second storey scaffolding and the resultant month of his appearing more bandage than child. A return to Bordeaux, Grandpère in a box; the distinct feeling that my own lack of feeling is abnormal. My return from boarding school and the discovery of an almost equal in Sherlock. The many, many failed attempts to teach him basic decorum. Irrational but ever-present feelings of it being my own failure that leads to his name being bellowed from our father's study; disappointingly coming to understand that others see it as that too.
It is these simple, pre-teen memories that form the initial attachment. This attachment will continue to be an ever-present plague upon an otherwise brilliant mind. Query: can a relationship formed instantaneously at the other's birth, and based solely upon the drive to protect one's genes ever really be called 'love'? Should it be?
Life, and its events, becomes more complicated – the threads that once wove a vibrant and colourful childhood become tangled and muddied.
Adolescently magnified injustice at being punished more severely than my younger brother for the same insignificant transgression but the following decision that were it to happen again, he would not be subjected to our Father's discipline at all. Deliberately 'catching a cold' that the return to university might coincide with his first journey to boarding school and for the first time being grateful that he is a near-equal in both intellectual brilliance and emotional abnormality.
The ties that bind are stretched to breaking and adulthood eventually comes – though whether it is a blessing or curse is unclear.
Skulking home after a petty argument to discover our mother dead and father, a murderer. A moment of indecision about whether and how to cover it up – whether Father's guilt would overcome his vanity. Fascination at how a man so full of pride could have the indignity to plead for mercy. A perverse satisfaction – after all, he never listened to ours either. Cold steel in my hands, heated by gunpowder.
The sudden, chilling awareness that my brother never really did grow out of eavesdropping on 'grown-ups' arguments.
And so a relationship based upon blood to begin with, becomes a different kind entirely. Soon, the endless secrets shared in childhood are driven out, replaced by just a few far darker ones. And so the tapestry unravels, torn to shreds with a cold cruelty that you have never exposed him to before. Abnormality, now untempered by familial duty becomes the norm. Life goes on – for some of us at least – for the most part mundanely. New attachments begin and end; we must all live our own lives. The tapestry lies untouched for a long while, faded, only looked upon with the same cold eye given to all that exists outside of it.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder; perhaps they are right, for proximity rarely seems to. And so after almost a decade of neglect, the threads are taken up once more.
Forgoing a chauffeur for the first time in years because he will not get there fast enough. Sitting in a waiting room and realising that however abnormal I may be, there is nothing so normal as the outrage and grief that one's brother can have so little regard for his own life. The relief at hearing my name spoken – sounding almost as alien on his lips as the first time he ever said it – and crushing despair as his next words order me from the room. Realisation that the one thing in my life that was once normal is lost – the bond, broken. A visitor, so obviously a plain-clothes officer – so obviously there against her will – taking note of everything he says even though he is clearly too exhausted to be speaking. For the first time, seeing my little brother through another's eyes – as an asset, a tool that can be cast aside when not in use. The familiar fury that people are so infuriated by his intellect that they refuse to see the boy – man, now – behind it. A decision that I have been remiss in not meeting with this woman and her superior sooner.
Being genuinely amused by the Inspector and his endearing if misguided perception of his and Sherlock's relationship – wondering whether to tell him my brother does not have 'friends'. Shock and a selfish grief when, taking advantage of his state of withdrawal, it becomes apparent that the attachment is reciprocated if only a little.
The years pass once more, and the rip is slowly knitted back together; the scar still shows – one cannot change the past and there are perhaps some things that ought not to be changed even if they could – but for the most part, a distant and, as always, irregular relationship can be resumed.
Meeting 'Jim' and feeling every part of the fraternal relationship being chipped away at as the secrets are revealed. Meeting John Watson, and recognising even from their first case that despite his bearing me ill will, he will always be an ally in protecting my brother from himself. A year spent worrying whether he will be able to protect him from myself when the time comes, as it must.
Recognising in Miss Adler, the potential to destroy one's brother before anybody else has the chance to. A chance to remove him from the Game – a mind capable of something so mundane as love? Moriarty would lose interest in him in a second – as Moriarty has done with me. The knowledge that to do so would mean showing my hand, and destroying the relationship once more and knowing that whatever I may be, there are some things of which even I cannot stomach the thought.
That final meeting with Moriarty before it happens, before the Game is ended – for now, at least. Realising that death is not the only way to end a life – that making someone disappear really is a lot easier when one actually cares about the outcome. Wondering at how peculiar I must be to feel grief for the first time at a funeral, when I am the only person in attendance aware that the so-called deceased is not.
Seeking solace in my upbringing as the comprehension dawns that I have looked upon the face of the Devil – and sold my brother to it.
So now, three and a half decades after it was begun, the tapestry is stopped again. As the months stretch on, a stitch will be added – a phone call, a glimpse caught on camera – and left to wait again. And, when this happens, every stitch will be felt, every moment of fury and pride and frustration and guilt and grief and adoration and any number of feelings that this Ice Man cannot feel, will be felt and perhaps, when the Devil is brought down, he will know – not every genius is alone.
The media is a liar, the British Government full of traitors, and Scotland Yard owes him a favour, so somewhere, a dead man is about to claw his way back to his life. And when he returns, as I have faith that he will, the tapestry will resume; for it is not abandoned, merely waiting for the day when it will be safe to begin the weaving once more.