Author's Note: I couldn't decide if I wanted to write a prequel or sequel to Three Days...so I wrote both! This story will not necessarily be told in chronological order, and each chapter will potentially be stand alone- though everything will make sense as one story in the end. I recommend reading Three Days before reading this story. That story is not very long, and it gives a little insight into some of the references you will see later on. However, technically this could be read as a stand-alone fic. There just may be a few moments of confusion, but it shouldn't ruin the story. I hope you enjoy the first chapter! Please let me know what you think! Feedback is always appreciated, including requests for what you might like to see in the future. With each chapter being its own individual story, there are endless possibilities.
Warnings: There will be references to abuse all throughout the story, especially in this first chapter.
Sherlock was seventeen years old in February of 1995. So far it hadn't quite been the kind of year that would go down in history books, but it would be the year that would change his life forever.
Night was falling over London as he stood on the stoop in front of his brother's flat. His hand trembled inside his glove as it hovered by the door. The constant battle of do it and run away raged inside his head until it was all too much, and he knocked.
He held his breath. His eyes fell down on his trainers, which were worn from a day of walking the city. The noises of the street behind him sent shivers down his spine. A pounding headache had followed him all day, and every shout from the neighboring flats, every door slam, every bark from a dog, sent waves of electrifying pain through him.
A cold wind suddenly swept down the street, and he was grateful for the scarf wrapped around his neck. His jacket, too light and ill-fitting, hung loosely around his shoulders. He stood in stark contrast to the upper-middle class neighborhood his brother moved to at the beginning of the year.
After five humiliating minutes the door finally opened. There was a long pause; Sherlock knew this to be Mycroft's way of purposefully making him feel uncomfortable.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft finally asked.
"Can I come in?"
Mycroft nodded and let him in without question. Sherlock kept his eyes locked to the floor, unwilling to look up just yet.
"Nice flat," Sherlock muttered, though he hadn't bothered to look around.
He could tell simply by the woodwork in the floors.
"Why are you here?" Mycroft asked. "Does Father know?"
"No!" He swirled towards him, without thinking.
He froze. Mycroft stared at him, his eyes immediately finding the dark purple bruise beneath his eye.
"I mean," he continued quietly, "I've just been out. Walking around. I thought I would drop by."
"You walked from Devon?"
Mycroft took a step closer and reached up- Sherlock flinched. His brain pounded at the sudden movement; he closed his eyes.
"Sherlock, who did this?" Mycroft demanded.
He grabbed his face, angling it so that he could examine the bruise.
"It's fine, it's nothing," Sherlock lied. "Just a stupid fight."
"A stupid fight?" Mycroft shot. "Sherlock, this is bad."
Sherlock let out a nervous laugh.
"Stop overreacting. I never should have come here."
He tried to turn away, but Mycroft grabbed his arm. He immediately tensed, and his brother loosened his grip.
"Stay," Mycroft said, "please. Tell me what happened."
Mycroft turned, leading him through the main hallway. Sherlock's eyes roamed over the walls and ceilings of the entryway. In the distance he could still see a few unpacked boxed stashed in the sitting room. A couple of spare pictures of the country side lined the walls, with no family photos to be seen. The place wasn't exactly homey- which was probably exactly what Mycroft wanted.
He was led into a bathroom, where he took a seat on the edge of the tub. His brother opened a medicine cabinet and fished around in a stash of ointments and bandages.
"I'm going to go get some ice," Mycroft announced.
He disappeared for a few moments. Sherlock sighed, allowing his pounding head to rest in his hand for a few moments. When he looked up he was forced to face himself in the mirror.
Convincing himself that he didn't look that bad failed immediately. It was no wonder Mycroft panicked when he first saw him. The purple bruising beneath his eye stuck out amongst the pale yellow bruises surrounding it. His hair was still disheveled. He reached up to where his scarf was strategically hiding-
His hand shot back down when he heard his brother enter the room again.
"See?" Mycroft said. "You look bloody awful."
Mycroft sat next to him. Sherlock squirmed as the ice was placed against his face.
"What happened?" Mycroft asked again, this time with sympathy.
His brother's eyes softened as he was able to examine him up close. Sherlock looked away, too embarrassed to watch as he tended to the wound.
"I shouldn't have provoked him," Sherlock muttered. Mycroft neither agreed nor argued. His eyes fell to the ground as he admitted: "I don't want to go to university."
Mycroft's hand hovered mid-air as he stared at him.
"Did you tell him that?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock bit his lip.
"It's a stupid waste of time," he continued, rambling on without actually answering his question. "It will be boring and…"
The people there won't like me, and I won't like them.
"Sherlock...do you actually know what you want to do with your life?"
Sherlock just shrugged.
"Research, maybe," he replied, speaking just above a whisper because he was too embarrassed to admit he had actually given this quite a bit of thought. "You know, science stuff."
"Yes," Mycroft sighed; he went back to tending to the wound. "Well, 'science stuff' typically requires some kind of education."
"He thinks it's stupid," Sherlock whispered. "He's says that I'd be throwing my life away solving a puzzle that's not meant to be solved."
His eyes darted towards his brother to steal an observation of his reaction. Mycroft's lips were pursed together; he was clearly struggling with the urge to say something he knew he shouldn't say.
"And what does he think you should study?"
Sherlock shrugged again.
"Medicine. Law. Or something equally as dull."
"Yes, nothing more dull than saving human lives."
"You know what I mean," Sherlock shot.
"Actually, I don't," Mycroft sighed and raised a hand to his own forehead. He messaged his head for a moment before handing the bag of ice to him. "And yet, I do. You're fine, physically, at least."
"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, embarrassed to think Mycroft would realize otherwise.
"Is it just the eye?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock swallowed nervously, and replied:
"Yes."
Somehow, he knew his brother knew he was lying. But Mycroft didn't argue with him.
"I suppose you need somewhere to stay," Mycroft said as he stood up.
Sherlock didn't reply. He regretted ever coming here…he wasn't sure what he had been thinking. Of course Mycroft wouldn't be interested. He had his own problems to deal with.
"You can stay here for the weekend, I have a spare bedroom." Sherlock looked at him in surprise, and Mycroft explained: "I'm not going to force you to go back there."
He nodded, too overwhelmed with relief to say anything.
"The bedroom's down the hall," Mycroft said. "I can make you something to eat, if you'd like."
"I'm okay," Sherlock said.
His stomach was tangled in too many knots to even consider eating. He stood up, wincing as blood rushed to his head at the sudden movement. He knew Mycroft was still watching him, but Sherlock avoided him as he walked down the corridor in silence.
He found the spare bedroom in the back of the flat. When he closed the door and looked around, he was surprised to find the room was already furnished- as though Mycroft had been expecting him.
There was a door to a washroom. Sherlock turned the knob and stepped inside the cramped room. Through the dim light, he stared at himself in mirror.
The bruise looked slightly better thanks to the cream his brother administered to it, but it didn't do much for the tenderness he felt around his eye.
He swallowed, feeling a sick to his stomach as he slowly began to remove the scarf. For the first time he examined the small, but prominent, bruises on his neck. They looked disgusting and raw. He quickly pulled his collar back a bit to hide them as he fled from the washroom.
He leaped onto the bed, where he remained for the rest of the night with his head buried into the pillow. He regretted every moment of the day, from the second he woke up that morning. Now he was interfering with his brother's life, reeling Mycroft back into the life he had so desperately run from.
He never wanted Mycroft to be a part of this.
Yet from that moment on, he would never not be a part of it.