Sherlock and Mycroft stood outside their bedroom doors like soldiers, not looking at each other. They had been there for half an hour, and Sherlock was tapping his hands together, his mind moving at a hundred miles an hour. Finally, Their father stalked up the stairs. Mycroft flinched at the familiar sound.
"Boys. I've told you so many times to be careful in my house. You broke an antique vase. This is unacceptable"
"It wasn't an antique. You brought it from IKEA last month" Sherlock said, a look of abject confusion on his six year old face.
"You insolent little freak! If I say it was an antique, it was an antique! When are you going to learn that no one cares what you have to say? Now, Mycroft, come to Sherlock's bedroom. Both of you in, now!" he yelled. The boys obeyed instantaneously. Sherlock went to his bed, standing beside it in a well practiced movement. Mycroft didn't know where to stand. He'd never been in Sherlock's room for this.
"Father, do I-"
"Shut up Mycroft. Go stand by the book case" their father yelled. The boy obeyed immediately. "You disappoint me, Sherlock. I thought I could expect better of you. I was obviously wrong. Mycroft, it is you job to make sure this brat stays out of trouble. For now, this is revoked. You will not move from that spot unless I say tonight. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes father" Mycroft whispered, going pale. He knew what would happen if he disobeyed a direct order like that. He wouldn't sit or lie down for a week.
"Good" their father pulled a pocket knife from his pocket and grabbed Sherlock roughly by the shoulder. Mycroft's eyes widened, and Sherlock yelped with the force applied on his skin. The father ripped the shirt off the back of his youngest son and shoved him down on the bed.
"Father! What are you going to do?" Mycroft cried out, his face a mask of fear. His father pinned his brother face down on his bed and flicked the knife open, kneeling with one knee on Sherlock's lower back.
"Shut the hell up, Mycroft!" he shouted. Sherlock started kicking, struggling desperately away from his father's too strong arms.
"Father! Stop, please!" the older son tried to get closer to his brother, but the father bashed him over the head and Mycroft crumbled on the floor. Sherlock screamed, pure terror filling his senses as his father lowered his knife into his son's back. Sherlock couldn't stop himself crying as the knife moved around in his skin, carving into his back. He felt the streams of blood racing each other down his back, his writhing making the blood flow more freely.
"Daddy, it hurts so bad, please! I'll be good, I promise. I won't do anything bad ever, ever again! I promise, Daddy, please, stop" he sobbed.
"Shut up!" the father pressed down more firmly on his sons back with his knee. After a while, he was finished, and Sherlock had given up, collapsing in a heap of hopeless agony and blood. Their father wiped his brow of the sweat that had accumulated there. He was still seeing red, his anger making his teeth grind together. On his way out, he kicked an unconscious Mycroft in the stomach. The boy woke up groggily. His father kept walking, ready for his next glass of scotch. They were alone. Mycroft struggled to his feet, his head spinning, and went to his brother. Sherlock was sprawled on the bed, bleeding, a bruise forming in the small of his back, his tears soaking the sheets. Mycroft stared at his back for a long moment, looking in horror at the letters carved into his baby brother's pale skin.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit" Mycroft whispered. He took the first aid kit out from under the boy's bed and started to wipe away the blood. Sherlock screamed again as his brother dabbed at the open cuts. Mycroft was trying to stop himself crying at the horrible thing his father had written. When he was done, the word stood out in angry red, the pale skin slit open so easily.
"Croft, it hurts" whimpered the six year old on the bed, his chocolate curls sticking to his sweaty head.
"I know Lock, I know. It'll be okay" he soothed. But he knew it would never be okay. Because his father had crossed a line from hiding beatings to carving into his child's flesh. It would leave permanent scars. And the little boy would be followed by the word 'FREAK' for the rest of his life.
