Written for the LJ kink meme prompt of Mycroft dealing with his father leaving. His mother has to explain that "Caring isn't an advantage."
Hannah Patricia Holmes was surprised to find her younger son sitting outside his fathers study. He had his knees pulled up to his chest and didn't look sad, so much as he looked confused.
"Sherlock?"
He raised his head slowly.
"Mycroft wont open the door..." was all he would say.
Mycroft. Mycroft was in the study, locked in apparently. She reached for the handle and confirmed it. Muffled sounds could be heard, but not distinguished, from inside.
"Sherlock? I want you to be a big boy and go to your room, please."
The young boy nodded and left.
Hannah took a deep breath before grabbing the doors handles and slowly wiggling them both; an old quirk of the house that managed to unlock them.
Inside the study was ravaged. Papers were scattered, a bookshelf had been completely pulled down, books were ripped apart. Mycroft stood in the middle of the carnage, ripping page after page out of a large novel.
Hannah was compelled to reach out and stop him. But she just looked on, somewhat in understanding.
"Mycroft?"
The young man froze; in his emotion, he had missed the signs that he wasn't alone. Neither spoke for a while.
"It shouldn't have been this way."
Hannah could already feel the uncomfortable knot rising in her throat again at her sons words.
"I know."
"He should have told me how ill he was... I should have known!"
He hurled the book at the large window to the deck. It flew through it and glass danced everywhere, shining in the evening glow.
Hanna gasped and Mycroft moved over to the window, smashing it with his hands. She moved quickly, pulling him back and away from the destruction. They landed on the floor, her arms still holding him around the chest as he thrashed, blood running down his hands.
She held him from behind, holding tight as if she were his only tether to the earth, until his thrashing slowed.
Finally the tears began. In the week since his fathers death, he hadn't cried; being strong, being the man of the family. It was to much for a 14 year old.
He sobbed and gripped his mothers arms around his chest. She held him, ignoring the blood soaking from his arms through her sleeves.
"You said last time you spoke with him on the phone... I could talk to him the next time he called. There was never a next time. I didn't get to tell him anyth-..."
He was practically hyperventilating. Hannah smoothed down his hair and rubbed her cheek against his.
"I know... I know... And that was my fault. I should have let you...
but have to remember...
No one ever stays in our lives forever, so it's better not to get to attached...
Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft."
His breathing slowed and his tears were quiet, but still flowed.
"Is it possible to not care, Mummy?"
She still held him, blood and tears staining them, drawing them closer.
"I'm not sure... I really don't know."
Through the forgotten, open doors, Sherlock watched his mother and Mycroft, listening.
Written for Hannah Patricia, for she will be dearly missed.