A Broken Heart is Blind
"You are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."
-The Little Prince
The Holmes Estate
10 Years Ago
Sherlock stood on the balcony of his window, smoking.
Downstairs, he could hear the collective voices and laughter of London socialites, gathered to force strained conversations on subjects they had little understanding of. His brother, like the dainty social butterfly he was, would flutter and make polite small talk, as well as excuses for why Sherlock was not attending the night's festivities.
To be fair, Mycroft had forbidden Sherlock from showing his face. The younger Holmes had failed on multiple occasions to behave himself even in the slightest matter. Pointing out affairs, fake breasts, and hair pieces were apparently social faux pas.
Finally, Mycroft had enough. "If you can't get on with people, Sherlock, you might as well just stay up here!"
Sherlock knew this was code for: This party is too important for me to give you a chance to make a fool of yourself.
The younger Holmes found relief from the isolation, but was annoyed by Mycroft's shallow goals. Mycroft wanted to use his intellect to rule, govern, and be praised. To do this, he had to lower his standards, converse with livestock. Sherlock refused to be herded.
He was pulling out another cigarette, when he heard an angry pair of heels march down the hall, followed by of heavier footsteps.
"...why won't you just talk to me?" Male. Clearly drunk, used to getting his way. Sherlock didn't even need to see the man to know he was being antagonizing, rather than genuinely concerned.
"We're at a party. For god's sakes. Is it worth it?" Female. Sober. Agitated, and somewhat scared.
The man slammed his fist against wall. The girl did not cry out. Instead, she whispered violently, "Don't do this to yourself, Benjamin. Please."
Usually, Sherlock would not get involved. Let people commit their savagery- he could easily figure out the aftermath. But in this circumstance, he was properly bored. Stamping out his cigarette, Holmes left his private sulking, and went out into the hall. The drunk had now cornered the young woman. Her face, however, was one of defiance, not fear, although her shaking hand gave her away.
The man leaned in close. "Why you avoiding me? And give me a proper answer or I'll..."
"Walk away," Sherlock finished for him. "Or I'll have you thrown out."
"Just who're you?" the man sneered, stepping back.
The girl looked at Sherlock, calculatingly.
"Sherlock Holmes. And I believe you're not on the guest list. So unless you want me to inform the host, who happens to be my brother, of your obvious intrusion - really, a non tailored suit when everyone else is in Westwood?- I suggest you go downstairs quietly and leave."
The man stepped toward Sherlock. "I'll finish you off before you can even come near me."
Ten seconds later the man was on the floor, out cold.
Sherlock wiped his hands. "Well, he won't be causing anymore trouble."
The girl had hardly anytime to react. She stared, wide eyed, at the unmoving body on the floor.
"Don't worry," Sherlock informed her. "I didn't kill him. He'll just be out for an hour. Possibly two."
With that, Sherlock spinned on his heel and went back into his room.