Rated T for later content showing drug use, sexuality, and self-harming behaviors.
Young Sherlock and Mycroft go to their new counselor's office for the first time. Six months have passed since their sister was taken away.
"William?" the doe-eyed counselor prompted the boy sitting in front of her.
The boy lowered his eyes and dark tresses swung down, blocking his sight even further. Hearing that name directed toward him caused irrational anger, yet he knew it was irrational. William was his name was it not? He has been called that name for years, so why did it bother him now? He was unsure. In fact, it seemed a general state of uncertainty was enveloping him as of late.
"Your mother mentioned that you might prefer another name, is that right?" The counselor used a gentle voice to coax him from his thoughts. His mother had also told her that starting conversations has been difficult since his sister left the home.
The boy's heart raced as the questioned finished. Loud, pulsing blood made speaking aloud impossible right now. His face grew hot as he felt ashamed, but he buried his emotions too far for his face to reflect them. Through years of interacting with strangers, he had learned that not presenting any emotion often produces better social response than presenting an irrational one.
Nodding subtly, the boy glanced up quickly to meet the counselor's dark eyes and then reflexively settled back into his previous position. He knew others often requested eye contact, but sometimes he found simply looking at other to be practically painful. He once read that grey colored eyes like his were more sensitive, but he was 90% sure that sensitivity only applies to light, not people.
"So, what do you prefer?"
The silence that followed provided an in-depth answer to the counselor's query, for the boy wished to be left alone, but she pursued the matter further.
"Your mother said you have become very particular about names. She says you must select a name in order for it to be acceptable." She paused carefully in case of a response. "What have you chosen for yourself?"
"Sherlock," he blurted out just as she finished speaking. His voice quality revealed no sign of anxious inner thoughts, but his posture remained very rigid.
"One of your middle names; unique for a very unique boy."
Sherlock's face grew hotter. He hated when people 'complimented' him. They only seemed to appreciate the qualities that he resented.
"Well…" the counselor stretched her voice as if to prolong the inevitable, "and you have also had a lot of unique experiences."
Sherlock could contain himself no longer; he broke into frantic sobs that sounded like he was drowning. He was drowning. He was drowning.
In the hall outside of the counselor's office, Mycroft sat with his parents. Mycroft was an early teen with ruddy cheeks and auburn hair cut much shorter than his little brother's. He was a bit overweight but had lost several stones since the family had moved back to their previous home. His mother cited the availability of produce in the city, but both Mycroft, Sherlock, and their last three counselors had other ideas.
A loud sound pierced the air. The three Holmes instinctively knew the source and looked toward the counselor's closed door. Two arms reached around Mycroft, one from each parent. He winced at first but smiled after the comfort began to set in. There was something about being held that made him feel safe. Mycroft never felt truly connected to his parents, or to others for that matter. Feelings of detachment often caused him to daydream about being far away from others. Yet, the simple act of a hug from his parents allowed him to forget these fantasies.
Mycroft clenched his spiral notebook filled with speculation about his brother's state. He brought it so that he could write anything new that occurred to him and also to show the counselor when they were alone. No need to worry our parents, Mycroft thought, but a professional should surely be able to provide the cool-headedness and insight needed.
Sherlock's cries became more urgent and his brother held tightly to his notebook. Mycroft petted the cardboard cover gently like he would for his brother's hand if it was within reach. The door to the office opened and Mycroft quickly looked while holding breath.
