Date: 1/29/12
Note: I'm quite proud of this, as I haven't actually seen the series except for half of the pilot on youtube.

Affection

Mycroft paces, hands behind his back. His eyes are sharp and they land at intervals on the window, the bookshelves, the door. There is a hard little frown pulling at his lips, drawing his face into a series of acrobatic lines and furrows that tire him, when he realizes they are there, so that he forces them to smooth. His face becomes a blank mask once more, but on the tail end of the less than pleasant expression he allows for a quick hardening of his mouth and flare of his nostrils, "Sherlock, you are late."

The words are rather ugly in the silence, and Mycroft regrets uttering them even before they are gone. He considers topping the entire ungainly display of exasperation off with a heavy sigh. The concept is so melodramatic, so plebian, that it nearly distracts him from the more pressing and ever persistent concern for his brother.

As he exits the study Mycroft's features are schooled into a very perfect picture of placidity. He is a frozen pond in a dead forest on a continent where no one lives.

It is not uncommon to hear strange noises echo through the manor on occasion; pained gasps, choked laughter with no accompaniment, even, at times, the bang of a contained explosion. Mycroft is not surprised, therefore, when he approaches mummy's door and a cry of pain slips through it. The sound is muffled, but undeniably belongs to his younger brother.

Pressing his ear to the wood, the elder Holmes son holds his breath, willing his body to be silent.

"…and he will be better," shuffle of clothing, a sob, "and more loyal," a crack, small heels thudding against heavily carpeted wood, "and he will not—"

Mycroft calmly opens the door. "Mummy, stop it."

Six year old Sherlock, bird boned and underfed, is pinned beneath their mother, curls in disarray and humiliated tears covering his face. The woman in clutching one of his hands in a white knuckled grip, and Mycroft can tell from the door that three of his fingers are broken.

For a moment the woman hunches over Sherlock like a wild animal protecting its young, but then she stands, releasing him in the process, and approaches her firstborn.

"Mycroft, darling," she breathes. There are lights in her eyes, pupils blown wide, and it is all Mycroft can do not to sneer.

She hugs him, and Mycroft receives her like a king receiving his most devoted advisor. "Mummy, you must stop this." Her grip tightens. "Sherlock has done nothing wrong." But oh, he will. Even now Mycroft can see the mischief in the boy, "You mustn't hurt him."

For a fleeting moment Mycroft anticipates that she will bite him, right in the neck, but then she pulls away.

"You're a good son, Mycroft. You were always the good son." She is sadly shaking her head, and even when her eyes rise to meet his, they do not quite see him. Or, rather, they see so much more. They see things that are not there.

Sherlock seizes the opportunity to leave, and as he slips past them, agile even while clutching his hand to his chest, Mycroft meets his eye. It is only for a quarter of a second, but it is sufficient to pass the message along. My room. Wait for me.

Mummy sees it. She may not be brilliant like them, but neither is she stupid. And, after six years of observing her sons together, the language of silence and glances and very small touches belongs to her, as much as it belongs to them.

Mycroft tenses just before her hand hits his face, yet before and after the blow his expression does not waver from calm acceptance.

oOo

Sherlock is waiting on Mycroft's bed, tiny body curled inward. There is a furious scowl on his face, and when Mycroft enters, silently closing the door behind himself, Sherlock's eyes dart up and down his body, landing finally on the livid red mark just below his eye.

Mycroft crosses the threshold to the lavatory connected to his rooms, from which he procures a much used first aid kit and several hand towels soaked in cold water.

He sets them down on the bed next to his brother and methodically gets to work cleaning and setting the broken fingers. There is no blood on them, but Sherlock's hands are habitually filthy. The boy is always into something, and as of late has foregone bathing, despite the best attempts of the help.

The boy is very steadily not meeting Mycroft gaze. He is not even watching his fingers as they are straightened and wrapped, which would normally fascinate him in spite of the pain. A casual observer would assume that embarrassment and pain made Sherlock look away (even now tears are rolling down his face, large and hot, and his body shakes violently as Mycroft delicately but efficiently adjusts each finger), but Mycroft is not a casual observer, and so he asks, "What did you do this time?"

Sherlock merely deepens his little scowl.

Once again Mycroft represses the urge to sigh, despite the fact that, being as melodramatic as it is, Sherlock would no doubt be receptive to it. Instead he finishes wrapping Sherlock's tiny pinky finger and then returns the medical supplies to their case.

Beyond the initially scrutiny he'd been greeted with, Mycroft has yet to catch his brothers eye, so he gently takes the boys chin in hand and turns his face. "Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffs. "What?"

"She had no right to do that to you." He wants to add something about calling out next time, but knows that he himself would never do such a thing, and therefore does not demand it of his brother. Instead he slides his palm up the side of Sherlock's face so that he's cupping it, his thumb idly brushing the moisture from reddened cheeks.

Sherlock's expression softens then, to one of confusion. His brow furrows not in anger, but in doubt. "She said…"

Mycroft waits. Prompting Sherlock would only drive the boy to irritation.

Moments pass in silence, thoughts wresting and merging and emerging, only to be torn down again in Sherlock's eyes. Mycroft returns his hand to his side.

Sherlock swallows, having found the right words, but Mycroft can still see the concepts warring inside of him. "I don't love her. I don't love anyone."

Surely this is not what mother said to him. No, Mycroft gathers, this is something that has been building inside of his brother for awhile, brought out at last by mummy's latest episode.

"You do not love anyone?"

Sherlock meets his gaze now, in earnest, and says, "I don't love mummy. I don't love father, or any of the tutors, or the help. I don't understand."

Mycroft gazes at his brother and says nothing.

"And, I suspect," Sherlock says, a mean glint entering his eyes, "neither do you."

"What do you think love is, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but where a rapid fire response usually sits on his tongue there is nothing. So he forces words out, and it is obvious that he had never intended to expose them to the outside air. "According to the dictionary it is 'a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person,' and affection is 'a fond attachment, devotion…' but affection is also 'a disease; or the condition of being diseased,' and disease is 'any harmful, depraved, or morbid condition, as of the mind or society,' and—"

"The dictionary can't define everything," Mycroft says, careful to keep his tone level. Fondness, affection, nearly seeps into it, and that would be disastrous.

"Actually, is can," Sherlock says.

"No, it can't," Mycroft responds.

"I looked it up;" Sherlock bites back, angry, "love is in the dictionary. I'll show you if you don't believe me."

"I believe you, Sherlock. What I meant to say is that the dictionary is not always correct. In fact, when it comes to words like 'love,' it is oftentimes completely off the mark."

Sherlock is giving him an incredulous look, halfway between believing and profoundly disappointed. "I know it is your favorite book," Mycroft says, "but you must remember that it is written by men, ordinary men, and what is fact to them is often flimsy and unrelated to you."

"To us," Sherlock corrects, resolute.

Mycroft finally gives in and sighs, the sound is weighted with resignation to his ears, but means triumph to Sherlock. "To us, yes."

Silence again, but now Sherlock is gingerly inspecting his splinted fingers. He moves them slowly, fascinated, and when he winces it is as though he is not aware that he is wincing. His good fingers pluck at the wrappings and prod at the swollen base of each digit.

Reprimanding the boy would be useless, and besides, Mycroft will not observe the subtle change of subject.

"What if I were to die, Sherlock, how would you feel?"

The boy's head snaps up, honing in on Mycroft. "What do you mean?"

"I mean if I were gone, if I died tomorrow, what emotions do you suppose you would feel? And assume that I died a particularly slow and excruciating death."

A little grin flashes across Sherlock's face and Mycroft knows that the exercise is lost completely on him. He entertains the idea of actually disappearing, and perhaps leaving a few darkly suggestive clues in his wake, but dismisses it instantly. "Well?"

The grin slips off and Sherlock is giving him that confused, doubtful look again.

When Mycroft goes as far as to incline his head and raise his eyebrows Sherlock mumbles, "I don't know."

"You don't know? Well, I know how I would feel if you were to die before me. I would feel terribly alone. I think I would spend the rest of my life resenting the fact the there was no one left in the world who had any chance of understanding me, and I think I would spend unhealthy amounts of time picturing your face, and your hands, and your hair, and recalling all of the mean little things you've ever said to me."

Mycroft continues before the scowl can fully reassert itself on Sherlock's face, "And it would hurt me to know that I would never hear them again. The same way it hurts when you cry because you are alone and it is the middle of the night and sad and angry thoughts are chasing each other around your mind like dogs trying to eat each other alive. I think it would never stop feeling like that."

Mycroft remembers being Sherlock's age and flipping through the dictionary, reading the same passages, and being completely alone in the large library. A pond in a forest on a continent where no one lives.

"I don't know what love is, either. But I know how I would feel without you."

Sherlock's eyes are glazing over, again, and his uninjured hand grips Mycroft's sleeve. "She said she will have another son. A new one, who will be better than us."

It takes a moment for Mycroft to process the information, but once he has he takes Sherlock's hand in his own and smiles a genuine smile. "Did she?"

Sherlock nods.

"Well, unluckily for her, I anticipated this continuity and have taken the necessary measures to prevent such an occurrence."

Sherlock's gaze is questioning, but he won't ask. So Mycroft continues, "Certain drugs known to cause infertility have been making their way into her meals regularly since last May," gears shifting into place, and then the 'click!' of understanding in Sherlock's eyes, and the boy is grinning so widely that Mycroft can count sixteen of his teeth.

He can't help the answering grin that spreads along his face. Sherlock goes into hysterics, giggling until he slides off the bed, until he lies on the floor silently howling with mirth.