AN: A journal entry from Mycroft Holmes explaining the reasons for his brother's lack of emotions. Got the idea from "The Young Sherlock Holmes" as well as my own experinces. Can go with any version of Sherlock Holmes. Sherringford Holmes is the eldest Holmes brother, and I felt the urge to include him. I own none of the characters, but I do own what I added into the idea.
Reason
Unemotional; the word describes a tremendous portion of his personality. Most have no idea, and could not even begin to be able to Imagine why his behavior and attitude seems to be heartless. He only allows himself to care for few, and even when he allows those emotions to be stirred inside of him, he does not let them show. Emotion is nothing more than a weakness in his mind, which seems unnatural, inhuman, for most to wrap their minds around. Some let it go, not wanting to make a deal out of a man's personal life. The few, however, who make an issue out of the fact never have and never will get an answer. He refuses to talk about it, even with me. After all of these years, he seems unable to forgive himself for allowing a slip of the tongue to occur. If it had not, things would have been very different growing up. Even though we were almost young men when his talents erupted out of his young mind, which, at this point, was many years prior, he cannot move on from that day. That single moment of fate. It still amazes me that he continued in the line of a detective after it. Thinking harder into the subject, I have always thought that it was inevitable, even if the event did leave him unable to have a more human way of life. His ability to allow emotion to natural come across his body ceased. His longing for love and approval ended, his only care was to please himself. After all, his mind had made the connection that if he kept to himself, he would not repeat the only mistake he regretted with all of his heart. And with that, I have decided to write down the story of my brother's heart, even if no one else ever gets a read from this leather book.
He was almost fourteen years of age, well advanced, intelligent, and beginning to show a natural talent with deduction. He, however, didn't think much of it. I was almost eighteen at the time, and readying myself for the departure from home that I would embark on once the day of my coming of age arrived. Mother and father had been on edge with each other for quite some time, yet neither Sherlock, Sherringford, nor I could figure out the true nature of the problem. Until the fateful day arrived, the three of us were covered in a cape of darkness, unaware of the situation that would soon unfold around our basic, simple lives. The fateful day that scarred Sherlock permanently. Looking back, I sometimes cannot help but to wish that he would have remained unaware of the predicament. Yet, I know that wishing will do nothing, as the past cannot be changed. Somehow, however, faith gets a better hold of me than self control, and I cannot help but to wonder what things would have been like if he hadn't been the one to find the truth out. And even if he had deducted it in the end, I wonder what things would have been like if Sherringford or I had dug into the situation first. Reminding myself of the purpose of the entry, I will now return to the tale, rather than my thoughts and hopes that will never be fact. In the long run, there is only wishing and longing for a matter that will never change in our history, and trying to waste precious time wishing an inevitable fact would turn into a more favorable manner.
Sherlock never told either of us how he found out the truth. He had gone inside the manor to get a better rugby ball, not returning for over an hour. Sherringford and I ended up overlooking the situation, deciding that he had abandoned our game for his studies. It wouldn't have been the first time he had done such to us. When we did decide to reenter our home from the beautiful ground outside, we found Sherlock sitting on the bottom stair, his elbow resting on his knee, with his chin resting in his hand. He appeared to be in a great deal of shock, yet there was something in his eyes that we were both unable to identify in our younger brother. Fear, perhaps? Uncertainty? I only wish we had been able to figure out his initial reaction to the matter. We may have been able to change the course he would be sent on for the remainder of his life span. All things happen for a reason, I remind myself whenever I think of the blank expression in his dark midnight eyes. Though guilt does begin to swell up, if only in a small fraction, whenever I ponder the subject for more than a few, worthless moments.
What followed, however, changed all of us. Father had been caught in an affair by his youngest son. It was a shame to him that his child had found out what he had been doing, yet he managed to keep his strong, powerful structure and instead of keeping the shame on himself, he passed it onto Sherlock. Several times during the day, and into the night, he would lecture my youngest brother on how much grief he had brought onto our mother. After a while, Sherringford and I both began to notice that he had allowed himself to take the blame for the depression that would one day take our mother's life. He was never truly the same after everything was finished. Father ended up leaving us, and mother's brother moved into the manor. We never saw our father again after he slammed the magnificent door to the manor behind him as he walked out to the carriage. Sherlock knew he was never going to return, and somewhere in Sherringford and I, we both knew it from the moment we saw father packing his things. It was very rare for a father to walk out on his family, which brought a greater deal of shame on our family. Having to take the majority of his life to change it, Sherringford took over as the head of the family. Sherlock left as soon as he had enough saved away to afford a decent school. Life grew back to a slight normality for Sherringford and myself, but Sherlock had been changed forever. The only words he had ever discussed to me on the matter were shortly before he passed from the world. He wrote to me in a short, simple letter how he spent his years as a sleuth and scientist trying to remove the shame he still saw upon himself. The only emotion I had ever seen him display were ones of guilt for something I wish he would have removed from himself. Perhaps in death he has allowed those feelings to pass. In closing to this entry, all I can say is that while most people think it is pride that made my brother emotionless, I know the true reason behind everything that he became.
~Mycroft Holmes
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~Rena Anne