Charlie

Sherlock has a twin, and Mycroft has a baby sister that he adores-Charlie. When Charlie comes home from boarding school sleepless and withdrawn, the hyper analytic minds of the brothers are wracked with concern. Hurt/comfort. TW self-harm, trauma, dissociative disorder.

Author's note: Hey! I've never posted a piece of fanfiction before, and I'm very excited about it :) I'm aware that Sherlock and Mycroft may appear OOC. However, I'm interested in exploring how the boys would interact with someone that that openly showed affection for. Thank you for reading! Please review or send me a PM :)

Chapter One

Charlie looped her arms laughingly around her twin, Sherlock's, and her friend, John's, shoulders, as they made their way down the sidewalk. She talked as she always did, quickly and with a laugh bubbling below the surface.

Charlie and Sherlock could not be more different. He was hard and analytical, while she was whimsical, often found spouting bits of poetry. Sherlock was a consulting detective, and Charlie was a well known novelist, currently working on her 3rd book. They were both above average when it came to observations, but Charlie was more apt to remember the exact smile line around a passerby's eyes, while Sherlock would notice her rings, shoes, hair, etc.

While they were vastly different, they were each other's best friends and sole confidants. Since they were young, they would spend all of their time together. She was the only one to whom Sherlock would openly show affection. They would often, as children, sit cross legged on the floor, looking at one another, having long thoughtful conversations simply by watching each other's eyes, while Mycroft looked on questioningly.

They finally split, at age 11, to go to different boarding schools. They wrote fervently, until one day Charlie stopped writing back. Sherlock was shocked, they usually sent each other about a letter every few days. Months went by with only a few letters from her, and when they came home for break, Sherlock and Mycroft were shocked at her appearance. Charlie had always been thin, looking much like her twin with high cheekbones, dark gray eyes, and dark curly hair which she wore half way down her back. When she arrived home, she had easily lost 15 pounds, and her brothers could see her vertebrae through the back of her blue jumper.

Mycroft and Charlie had always been close, a slight bone of contention with Sherlock. Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship was more tumultuous, and always had been. But one area that they agreed upon was their absolute love and affection for Charlie.

So when the hyper observant brothers first lay eyes on their sister, Sherlock, quite out of character, reached out and squeezed his brother's hand. Mycroft hesitated, just for a moment, before he squeezed back, hoping to be reassuring. Mycroft knew that Sherlock had trouble getting close to people, and his relationship with his sister was very redeeming. The brothers took in her shadowed eyes, looking almost bruised with sleeplessness. They noticed her slumped posture, and the way she seemed to protect her arms. She dropped her bag to the ground with a sigh, as though the load was unbearable for her.

When Charlie finally turned to greet her brothers, they clenched as they noticed her smile coming slowly and falsely. "Hullo" She greeted in a voice they had never heard before, making no move to come closer. Her common greeting was a shout and an eager hug, even if they'd only been apart 24 hours. The brothers looked to each other.

"What has happened to you, Char?" Mycroft asked in his already low and cultured voice.

"What are you talking about" She replied without feeling. Her eyes purposefully avoided her older brother's.

"You've lost weight, you're favoring your left arm, you haven't slept well in months, you're obviously exhausted, and you have yet to hug me hello!" Sherlock nearly yelled.

Charlie looked as though she was about to speak, but she shook her head. "Please" She whispered, desperate as a prayer, "Please don't do this." The boys stood silently.

"Who." Came Mycroft's voice, low and dangerous.

Charlie looked at him with wide, terrified eyes. He leveled her stare, and she saw poorly suppressed rage. "Don't." She said finally, in a would be brave voice. "For once keep your hyper analytical ridiculously observant "deductions" to yourself, alright? Both of you!" With this she turned on her heel and headed to her room, exhausted, and scared of what her brothers would see in her.

The brother's stood in silence for a few moment. Charlie was so even tempered, and hardly ever rose her voice unless in joy. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

"What do you mean by "who", brother?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"It is simple to deduce, brother mine. She is clearly been through a trauma. This level of radical weight loss, change in personality, sudden lack of communication, difficulty sleeping... It cannot be contributed merely to the transition from home to boarding school. Not to someone as reasonably well adjusted as Charlie. There are several types of trauma, as you well know. And if she had been attacked in say, a mugging, she would have told us, and went to the police. That she hasn't indicates a trauma that has more shame involved. Now, what kind of shameful trauma is likely to affect a pretty young girl away at boarding school?"

Sherlock's mind reeled, and his whole body tensed. "I'll fucking kill him." Sherlock clenched his fists tightly, and started to pace about in a tight line. Mycroft looked on, and tried to reach a hand out to place upon his brother's shoulders, which Sherlock eagerly shrugged off. Suddenly, Sherlock began to beat the wall with his fist, until Mycroft grabbed his wrist, for once gentle, and coaxed Sherlock into sitting on the coach, while he nursed his bruised knuckles.

"I feel... similar. However, anger, I fear, will only cause Charlie to shut down further. We have to approach this reasonably. She needs space right now, I'm afraid. She won't be too happy with us knowing her secret. I'm sure she has been told to keep it at all costs."

The two boys sat in silence after that, both lost in their thoughts. Sherlock did everything he could to control his rising rage. Finally, Mycroft stood, patted Sherlock once on the shoulder, and went to his room to do some of the reading he needed to get done for university.

A few hours had passed, and Mycroft began to worry. Charlie had not made a sound. He hoped that she was sleeping. Their parents were out of town, as per usual, and he thought Charlie might want to help him prepare dinner. She had always been a great and intuitive cook.

Mycroft climbed the stairs to Charlie's room two at a time. He knocked quietly on the door, and received no reply. He knocked a little louder, and still no answer. He decided to open the door, anyways.

The sight that greeted him was one he would not soon forget. His little sister, the one he had held as a baby, the one who could always make him laugh no matter how stoic he wanted to be, the one who made him finger painted pictures of them holding hands, saying friends forever. His little sister, who was a beacon of light in the shit storm of life. She was sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor, in a pair of gray jeans and a navy blue wife beater. Her shoulder blades were sticking forcefully out of the thin skin that covered her back. She had an industrial razor in her right hand. Her right arm was bandaged heavily, while her left arm was bare. On it, he could see gaping wounds, the drops of blood swirling down and around her bony wrist, and onto the hardwood floor. She raised her hand again, and began to bring it down to her arm.

Mycroft moved with an agility you don't normally see from him, and grasped her wrist tightly but calmly, and carefully grabbed the bloodied razor, and put it on the bedside table behind him, all the while not taking his eyes off of her. She seemed slightly confused, but otherwise did not register his presence. She merely put her hands in her lap, and stared at them in a dazed way.

Confused by her response, Mycroft knelt in front of her, and tried to catch her eye. She did not seem to notice him.

"Char?" He asked softly, trying to catch her eye. No response. "Charlie!" He said a bit louder. He snapped a few times in front of her face, but she still looked down at her hands.

Increasingly worried, Mycroft looked around the room. He saw a cup of water on her bedside table, and without thinking it through too much, dumped it over her head.

With a gasp she opened her eyes wide, and looked around.

"My! What are you doing in here?" She said a bit wildly.

"Charlie, what am I doing? What were you doing?" He holds up the razor, and Charlie again looks down at her hands.

There is a long pause, the silence is heavy with the words Mycroft wants to say, yell, cry.

"Don't tell anyone." She says finally.

Mycroft let out a puff of air, studying her firmly. "I'll be right back." And with that he strode out of the room, only to return a moment later with a first aid kit.

Wordlessly, he knelt in front of her, and began to bandage her arm. Several wounds may have needed stitches, but he figured a butterfly bandage would do. When he was done, he fell back onto his heels, and sighed.

"Please, My. Don't tell anyone. Sherlock-" At her twin's name her voice cracked. "Sherlock will be so angry, and Mom and Dad will just... send me away so I don't embarrass them. Please My, please."

"Alright." Mycroft said finally. "I will not tell anyone. But if you do this again, and I will know if you do, I will have to, at the very least, set up some sort of counseling for you." Charlie shrugged, and Mycroft continued somewhat awkwardly, "How long has this been going on?"

Charlie just shrugged again and looked away from her brother. She tentatively reached out a hand, which Mycroft took gratefully.

"I know someone has hurt you Charlie." Mycroft began, his voice steadily rising. "Tell me who it is and I assure you, he will never hurt you again."

Charlie simply shook her head.

"Talk to me Char," His voice now gentle. "Who did this to you?"

At this moment, Sherlock burst through the door, in a voice too loud for the careful conversation his brother and sister had been having, saying "Croft, Char, how about we get started on that dinner, huh? You've been up here for-" He stopped short, and caught Mycroft's eyes. He then looked at his twin, and his heart sunk.

"Oh. Char." He said desperately. He knelt before her, next to Mycroft, and gently took her hands and raised them to his face, placing them against his cheek. "Oh Char." He repeated.

"I'm so sorry Lock. I'm so sorry." At this, they both began to cry. Mycroft excused himself, glancing back at his siblings, a heaviness in his chest. He took the razor with him.