So, this is my first fic in this particular fandom, I hope you like it! The idea is one that I've expanded from one of my Les Mis fics, which I've now discontinued, as I think it fits here better. Thank for reading xx
Mycroft
Holmes sat on his bed, surrounded by textbooks, when he is called to the dining
room. The suspicious request, It's not
even six yet..., becomes clear when he sees his mother's tearstained
cheeks, his father's hands trembling, ignoring his little brother as he tips
acid over the dining table for the second time that week. Mycroft Holmes was
nine and doted on his little brother, Sherlock, spending the majority of the
time he wasn't reading or studying playing deductions to keep his "funny
little mind" out of trouble.
However, during this time he had not been ignorant to the hushed
conversations that took place when his parents thought he couldn't hear. The
names of various doctors being mentioned, the hastily answered phone calls and
the strangers walking through school in the direction of his brother's
classroom. He knew something was going on, and was hardly surprised when five
year old Sherlock was diagnosed as having Asperger's Syndrome. He'd been
harbouring the idea himself for some time, after coming across the condition
during a casual flick-through of the DSM. It didn't come as a surprise to him,
although his parents took it particularly hard. Mummy wept into her hands,
trying to hide her tears from her oldest son, despite the fact they all knew it
was a pointless exercise. Father handled it slightly better, although his
shaking hands and wobbly smile betrayed him. After being told the news, he had
no words to express how he felt - "I told you so" didn't appear to be
quite appropriate. So Mycroft collected Sherlock and dragged him away from his
chemicals, kicking and screaming, in order to give his parents some peace, and
who ever bothered to a chance to clean up the mess.
He had always known he was different from the other children in his school; the
work that took them hours of pondering he could do in his sleep. It didn't
particularly endear him to his classmates, who took it upon themselves to
torture him incessantly; he was a prime target, considering the fact that his
little brother, who had just started school, was already kicking up such a
fuss. Less than twenty minutes into Sherlock's first day at the school, he
caused a commotion in the corridor and was dragged into his older brother's
classroom by the scruff of his neck, his face red with anger as he kicked and
swore furiously at the teachers who restrained him. Mycroft was called out, in
front of the entire class, to deal with the writhing ball of dark curls and
directed to "SORT IT OUT" as his parents had instructed the school he
would.
"Sherlock, brother, calm down..." Mycroft soothed, sitting on the
floor in the headmaster's office, forcibly holding the little boy, who was
spitting with rage, on his lap and rocking him, humming soothingly like he had
so often been required to do at home.
"Shhh... Please Sherlock..."
"They told me I was stupid Mycroft!" Sherlock wailed, his reedy voice
shrill as he gave in and buried himself face first into Mycroft's chest, using
his blazer to hide from the outside world that abused him.
"The teachers... They told me I was arrogant and malicious and spoilt, and
that I was just trying to cover up the fact that I am immensely stupid and will
never be like you!" This was just the first time that Mycroft felt the ice
cold rage course through his veins, turning his blood to ice and pale blue eyes
to flint. He shouted at the teachers, spat every obscene criticism under the
sun at them. He was suspended that day for swearing so violently at the
teachers. Mummy and Father destroyed him when he got home, laying into him in a
way that only they could, making him feel shame in the way that only they
could. Never mind the fact that he had held his baby brother in his arms,
cradling him and protecting him in a way that they never had. It was just what was expected of their oldest
son. It was the last time that Mycroft ever gave any external sign of the anger
and pain that slowly began to engulf him.