The Holmes boys sat cross legged, facing each other on Mycroft's bed.
"I'm sorry Coft" Sherlock whispered, breaking the silence that had lasted over twenty minutes. The nine year old's brain had been buzzing, saving him from the monotony of being silent.
"You shouldn't have upset him" Mycroft said quietly.
"I know. It was stupid" Sherlock looked down, away from his big brother's bruised face.
"Yeah, it was" Mycroft muttered. He'd never held anything against the boy, he knew Sherlock got everything worse than him. After all, Mycroft was always away at school, Sherlock wasn't old enough to go. "It's okay, Lock"
"I'm really sorry"
"I know you didn't mean to let him see the frog" Mycroft realised suddenly how bizarre the whole thing was and began to laugh. The poor kid had been dissecting frogs at the kitchen table when their father had come in. Mycroft always tried to take the slack during the holidays, and he'd managed to get there in time to stop their father hitting Sherlock. He had three bruises and a cut above his eye to prove it.
"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock was confused, Mycroft never laughed. They had both learnt early in life not to show their emotions. Sherlock had never been very good at that. His mind made so much noise it couldn't help bubbling over sometimes. Their father hated that. Mycroft harboured the suspicion it was because his brother was very, very clever, and their father resented having two children whose combined intelligence could take down the government.
"Lock, how often do you upset Father when I'm at school?" the teenager asked quietly, stopping his laughter.
"Almost every day"
"Does he hurt you?"
"Yes" Sherlock admitted sullenly. He hated showing weakness, even in front of Mycroft. Especially in front of Mycroft.
"How bad does it get?" Mycroft asked warily. Little Sherlock suddenly looked very vulnerable in his too big clothes and his mop of dark curly hair dangling into his face.
"I can handle it" he insisted
"You didn't answer me, Sherlock"
"I- I- really bad" he said, dropping his head in shame.
"How bad, Sherlock?" Mycroft was trying so hard to be comforting, sympathetic, but he was filled with murderous anger at the man who would do anything to his baby brother.
"Before you came home, a couple of weeks ago, he- I couldn't stop him. I tried, Mycroft! I tried! But I'm not as strong as him" Mycroft sighed, pulling the boy into a one armed hug. He could feel how thin and tiny his brother was. His long limbs had no fat or muscle on them. "Mycroft, please can you move your hand up a little?"
"Why?"
"You're poking a bruise"
"Sorry. Can I take a look?" Sherlock grimaced. He hated Mycroft looking at him. But he pulled his shirt up over his head, allowing his brother a look at his chest and back. Mycroft had to struggle to hide the intense anger that threatened to overwhelm him as he saw the chessboard of bruises and scars on the boy's skin. Sherlock pulled his shirt back down, going red.
"It's fine"
"No it isn't"
"I'm fine, Mycroft, don't come butting in just because you're home for a week" Sherlock snapped. Mycroft knew he was right and turned guiltily away from the boy. He'd never really suffered at their father's hand. He'd let Sherlock take the brunt of it, finding it easier to hide himself. Sherlock was over exuberant, and had no ability to understand social queues or cause and effect when not applied to a frog.
"Lock, you don't understand-"
"I just want him to like me"
"No. Listen to me" Mycroft turned his brother around to face him, holding his shoulders "You don't need him to like you. You don't need anyone to like you. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock, do you understand me?"
"Yes Mycroft" the boy said obediently. He knew that his brother could hit too.
"I'll talk to mother. I'll say your educational needs extend beyond your prep school. I'll get you sent away to boarding school. Hopefully the same one as me. Then I can look after you" Mycroft was almost pleading, trying to make up for Sherlock's pain before he realised how badly he had failed. Sherlock looked on the verge of tears. His big brother was ending him away.
"I don't always need you to fix everything"
"I know that. But I can help with this! You can't stay here all the time anymore!"
"Okay. Fine. But it won't help." Sherlock snarled. Mycroft left, going to find their mother.
She was a regal woman, applying powder in front of her mirror, wearing a silk robe, smelling of copious amounts of perfume and gently brandishing a wine glass.
"Mother, may I come in?" Mycroft asked politely
"Of course, Mycroft, darling!" she cried dramatically.
"I want to talk to you about Lo- about Sherlock"
"What's he done now?" she asked, an edge of conspiracy and gossip lining her voice. Mycroft hid his disgust at her well.
"I think he would do well in a boarding environment. I worry that he is too clever for that school you have him at. Also, I think he'd make friends more easily at a boarding school."
"Well then, we will send him" she flounced
"Where?"
"His teachers say he's very advanced. Perhaps your school would have him early?"
"You should ring them" Mycroft suggested as though talking to a child
"I will! What a fantastic idea, my darling!" she said, flamboyantly flinging her powder puff down on the vanity and picking up the phone. Mycroft sat down on his parent's bed, watching and listening to the conversation. Buy the time his mother put down the phone she had flirted, cried, shouted, begged and finally threatened various administrators, teachers and the headmaster. Sherlock was at Mycroft's school within a month, two years younger than everyone else.
Mycroft felt guilty for staying with friends over the Christmas holidays, leaving Sherlock at home, but he couldn't stand another silent holiday in their empty, draughty house.
"I'll be back on the 30th" Mycroft said to Sherlock before he got on the train. "Take care of yourself"
"Not that you care" Sherlock muttered before turning and running all the way back to their house. Mycroft sighed and shut the window as the train rolled away from the station.
"Sherlock!" the boy stopped in his tracks, shutting his eyes at the gruff voice. "You're late"
"I-I w-was saying g-goodbye to Mycroft, Father" he stammered
"Don't stutter, boy"
"S-sorry Father" he tired to push the words from his mouth, but they wouldn't come. He tensed. Sure enough, the heavy blow came instantly on Sherlock's shoulder, sending him thudding to the floor.
"I thought you were supposed to be intelligent" his father mocked
"I- I'm sorry" Sherlock was struggling not to cry. But showing emotion in front of their father was always a bad idea. Always. The boy felt his father's foot smash hard into his ribs and avoided looking at him. He could deduce exactly when and where the next strike would come from, but he was too little to fight back, so it was better if he didn't watch. The foot hit him eight more times, with varying force, mostly localised to his ribs and skull. Sherlock aptly disassociated himself from the hurt and counted the seconds until it would stop.
When Mycroft returned to their large, nearly empty house, he searched in every room for his little brother.
"Sherlock!" he shouted down corridors. He'd made sure to come back while their father was at work so he could spend some time with the boy. "Answer me, Lock"
"Up here" came the far away reply. Mycroft guessed the attic and climbed the three flights of winding stairs to get there.
"What are you doing up here?" Mycroft's eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline in disgust at the stench emanating from Sherlock's attic. He had begun to call it Sherlock's because the boy spent so much time up there.
"Experimenting"
"I can see"
"Then why did you ask?" Sherlock said coldly.
"How was your Christmas, Lock?" Mycroft asked gently, hoping it hadn't been too bad. He'd had a fantastic week with his friends in London, and felt guilty for leaving his brother. Sherlock still hadn't turned away from his microscope. Mycroft felt his stomach drop as he realised he might be hiding his face. "Sherlock? Look at me"
"I'm busy Mycroft"
"How was Christmas?" Mycroft asked warily.
"I hate Christmas"
"How bad?" Sherlock turned around suddenly on his chair and looked Mycroft directly in the eye.
"You left me" he accused "again"
"Oh god, Sherlock. I'm so sorry" Mycroft had looked away from his brother almost as soon as he saw the younger boy's face. Sherlock's left eye was swollen shut, covered in an ugly purple bruise. His lip had burst like a sausage, a perfect tooth chipped. He had bruises like hand marks around his neck. His nose had obviously been bleeding. His hands shook.
"Go away, Mycroft"
"I need to check you out. Do the injuries extend beyond your... Beyond your face?"
"Obviously"
"Take your top off?" it wasn't really a question, Sherlock knew, but he still shook his head.
"Why should I do what you say, big brother?" Sherlock mocked.
"Because I'm the only person in the world who actually cares about you, Lock. And I worry about you. Constantly"
"But you never DO anything!" Sherlock yelled, surprising his brother. Sherlock hated shouting, it made him feel sick.
"Take off your shirt" this time, Sherlock obeyed, nervous of his brother's steely grey eyes. Mycroft shook his head when he realised how badly Sherlock had been hurt. No wonder he was hiding in the attic. No wonder he was angry. Boys felt that, Mycroft reminded himself. Sherlock's rib was broken, a lump just below the surface said that. His stomach was like a cave he ate so little.
"It's nothing"
"Stand up"
"I... I can't"
"Can't?"
"Can't"
"Why not?"
"My foot hurts" and sure enough, when Mycroft looked down at his brother's foot he saw a black and blue limp thing hanging onto his leg. "I had to crawl up here from the basement" six flights of stairs. Mycroft sighed. He hadn't been there. Maybe they could have shared.
"I'll help you down. I need to take you to the hospital, Lock"
"I don't want to" he was acting like a child
"I'll take you to another hospital, out of town if you like. False name. No medical history. Just a kid I found on the street"
"I'd prefer that" and Sherlock fainted into his brother's arms.
Three seconds after Sherlock woke up, he had pulled out every tube the imbeciles at the hospital had shoved into him. He had casts and bandages cocooning his body but he got up quickly. Ten seconds, he was falling behind. Mycroft wasn't sitting at his bedside like a loving brother, waiting for him to come back to the living world. He never was. Sherlock glanced at the date on his way out of the hospital twenty three seconds after he had woken up. He was almost dressed in his own clothes again. Mycroft had at least made sure that they were kept at the end of his bed. 6th January. He'd been asleep. 6th January. The date pulled something to the surface of his memory. It was his tenth birthday. Sherlock limped to the road and took a taxi home. Mycroft had put money in his trouser pocket.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft greeted him. "I had expected you home earlier. A few days ago, in fact. Was it that bad?" Mycroft's cheery exuberance had changed to worry.
"I'll be fine" Sherlock grunted, limping upstairs "Twenty three seconds" he shouted down the stairs. Mycroft smiled.
"Happy Birthday, Lock" he whispered, too quietly for the boy to hear him above his noisy limping.
5 years later, Mycroft hadn't attended a single family Christmas. He could step in to defend his brother on any other day, but he took the 25th off for himself. He always felt disgustingly selfish as he tucked into Turkey with friends from London while he imagined his brother cowering away from drunken, oversized fists in the attic.
Sherlock had woken early that Christmas morning. At almost fifteen, he was far too old to be excited by the worst day of the year. No, he had a bad feeling. His head buzzed with deductions about his room. His skull had been moved. Okay, only a few centimetres but it meant someone had been in. Mycroft was in London. Mother was in 'heaven'. Which left only father. Sherlock shivered as he thought of the man touching his things. His experiments littered the room, his books in piles on the floor, his clothes strewn on his bookcase. He'd suffered for his untidy habits, but he always got distracted before he packed anything away. He sat up slowly in bed, conscious of his heavy head. He'd had a little to much cocaine the night before, trying to get his mind to shut up long enough for him to sleep. The drugs had succeed in blocking his thoughts, but it had given him nightmares when he managed to doze off. He heard footsteps outside his door and steeled himself for the chuckle that meant his father was angry at him for ruining Christmas again. Sure enough, when the door opened, his father cast a formidable shadow on Sherlock's carpet.
"Merry bloody Christmas, Sherlock Holmes" he chuckled. Sherlock rolled into a ball under his duvet, hoping to soften the blows, but it was ripped away from him and he felt himself being shoved out of the bed. He lay on the floor, his too long legs sprawled out beside him.
"Why aren't you here, Croft?" Sherlock whispered almost silently. Although his father was not dressed, he carried a thick, heavy looking leather belt. It was one he almost never wore, dedicating it to making sure one or both of his sons 'turned out normal'. Sherlock saw a mixture of his and his brother's blood on the tan side, and sweaty handprint marks on the shiny leather. He shut his eyes. He didn't want to see anymore. The blows thudded on his back, his thin body shaking violently with the pain and the effort of staying silent and not crying out to a big brother who didn't care enough to save him.
From Mycroft's perspective, nothing could be further from the truth. He adored his brother. Sure, he was hard to like with his strange mannerisms, his experiments, his appalling lack of social skills. But he was also exciting and interesting and... Extraordinary. Mycroft almost felt the blows raining down on his shoulders as he sensed his brother's hurt. He had to excuse himself from the poker match and lock himself in the bathroom until Sherlock's sharp pain subsided enough for Mycroft to stop shaking. There was nothing paranormal or weird about their relationship, but Mycroft always knew when Sherlock need him. It was only on Christmas days that he ignored it.
Sherlock had crawled under his bed when his father had left. He was shaking violently with pain and tears. It had been so much worse than other times. He could feel blood trickling down his back, his spine unprotected. He was missing the layer of fat that most people have to cushion himself from the world. He lay completely still under the bed apart from the uncontrollable shaking, and lost himself inside his mind. After several hours, he heard his father shout a dinner warning. Sherlock inched back out from under his bed and got dressed slowly. He found it hard to move, preferring to pull himself down on the banister.
"Sherlock. You're two minutes late. Two less slices of turkey" he decreed. It wasn't like the boy would eat it anyway. He never ate. Not since his mother killed herself at the kitchen table when he was twelve. Over pancakes.
"I'm sorry father" those seemed to be the only words Sherlock said to the man. Apology, respect, Sherlock thought. Formula for softening the blows. The man pushed Sherlock into a seat and placed a small plate with six slices of carrot, one thin slice of turkey and a boiled potato. Sherlock looked at his plate. He felt sick. No way was he eating the fake Christmas meal.
"Eat, Sherlock" his father snapped. But the boy ignored him. "Eat, or I'll make you"
"Please, try it" Sherlock challenged, overly politely, gritting his teeth. He wasn't going down without a fight this time. He was taller than his father, even if the man was more than twice his weight. His father stood up, Sherlock stayed resolutely in his seat. Then he felt himself being picked up and carried to the kitchen sink. His father dropped him and made sure he didn't escape by grabbing a fistful of his dark curls. He ran the water until the sink was full then yanked Sherlock into a standing position. There was no emotion on the boy's face, and it scared his father.
"You asked for it" he muttered, then shoved his son's face into the water. It was almost twenty seconds before he let the boy up. Sherlock took a deep, rasping breath before he was pushed back under. He found the water strangely calming, as though it would lull him into sleep. He kept his eyes open under the water, appreciating the silence. But then his lungs would begin to burn, desperate for oxygen, and just in time he would be pulled up for a breath before being slammed back down. After five times, Sherlock's father yanked him out of the water and stood him up. Sherlock's hair was plastered to his head, dripping in to his eyes. "Next time you challenge me, I'll do that with boiling water. Now sit down and eat your dinner" Sherlock sat and ate one slice of carrot slowly. "I can wait until you finish, I want every last scrap of that plate"
"Do you enjoy torturing me?" he muttered. His father didn't answer, just sat until the boy had eaten everything.
"Happy Christmas" he said mockingly
"Happy Christmas" Sherlock said, sadness clouding his voice and his eyes, water dripping down his face from his sopping curls.
"Go to your room" he ordered. Sherlock nodded and went to the bathroom. He stood over the toilet for half an hour, retching and coughing up the Christmas dinner.
"Don't you just wish you were here Mycroft?" he whispered accusingly at the wall.
Mycroft loved Oxford. He loved his course, he loved his friends, he loved the web of political influence he had already started to spin around himself. Secretly, he loved being away from Sherlock for a bit.
Sherlock hated Harrow. He detested the people, the boys who beat him up and called him names, the long stone corridors and tall halls where he was made to eat. He hated the teachers who found it amusing to ignore him in lessons, only allowing him to speak a few words before throwing him out of their classes. He hated Mycroft for leaving him there. The hatred simmered constantly below the surface.
"Sherlock, I want you to promise you won't do it again" said Mycroft, holding the teenager's arm.
"Why should I promise?"
"You're being a child. You don't know-"
"What don't I know, Mycroft? That you don't care? That mother was so miserable she drank herself into suicide? That father takes genuine pleasure from hitting me? What don't I know, Mycroft?"
"None of that is true"
"How can you even stand there and say that to me?"
"Because I'm older than you and I understand more about our family than you do. You were too young-"
"Too young for what, exactly? For being drowned, for being beaten and burnt with the iron and having bones broken and everything else that man did to me while you sat in your room eating fairy cakes and writing to the prime minister?" Sherlock spat. His pupils had returned to normal. Mycroft had stumbled across him in London, pumped full of drugs, seizing in an ally way with a needle sticking from his arm. Sherlock's eyes were pricking with tears, his throat burning. Mycroft looked away from his brother, ashamed.
"I'll never... Ever forgive myself for what I let happen, Lock"
"That doesn't change anything"
"No. But I hope it means you won't cut me off. You need me"
"I don't need you! I can look after myself!"
"Obviously not, Sherlock, otherwise I wouldn't find you in the backstreets of London dying from an overdose when your'e supposed to be at Harrow!"
"Maybe if you paid more attention-"
"No! You're not going to blame this on me!"
"Theres no one else to blame it on, big brother" Sherlock looked comically around as though searching for someone else. He was right. The boys were alone in the world. Mycroft sighed. He wasn't enough for the sixteen year old.
"If you want me to leave you alone, I will" he said, defeated.
"Yes please"
"I won't contact you until you call me" Mycroft warned. Sherlock bit his lip. He'd always been in constant contact with his brother.
"Then I suppose I'll see you around" he said stiffly. Mycroft pulled him into a hug, like he had done when the boy was small, and ran his hand surreptitiously through his curls. If the boy wanted independence, he could have it. But Mycroft would never really leave him alone. He cared too much. He paid three people to follow him.
Sherlock disliked his new independence. He hadn't gone back to school, preferring to remain in dark places in Birmingham, watching passers by. He felt himself becoming dependant on the drugs, his hands would shake if he left them too long. He couldn't make his brain shut up. He hardly ever slept. He never ate. He was utterly miserable, and he didn't want to admit it. It was only when he woke up in hospital and didn't have the strength to escape that he called Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't surprised that his brother was beside him within a minute of putting down the phone.
"Oh Lock" Mycroft sighed. He despaired at the skeletal shadow on the bed. "What have you done to yourself?"
"I think the better question is what did you do to me"
"I didn't do anything!"
"Exactly"
"Sherlock, that's not fair. I tried so hard"
"You were never enough"
"How could I be enough! I was a child!" he sounded almost as though he were begging. Mycroft Holmes, begging to his baby brother.
"No, I was a child. You were practically born an adult"
"I was only ten when he started on you"
"For God's sake, Mycroft, I was three!"
"I tried to make him stop"
"You failed" Sherlock spat. Mycroft fell silent. He hated the word fail. It took him back to his childhood, when he couldn't last the week without having the word hurled at him. "You failed me. You stood by and let him beat me. You did nothing"
"I always tried-"
"No, you stood outside and hid until he'd finished then came in to put on a plaster. You never tried to make him stop"
"It's not like I escaped entirely, you know"
"No-" Sherlock said, sarcasm dripping like blood from his shouts "No, you had to suffer through a few bruises and a wounded ego. You never had to go to hospital or set your own broken fingers"
"Sherlock, please forgive me" Mycroft whispered. Sherlock looked at his prematurely balding big brother, and snarled.
"Get out. I will never forgive you"
"I'll keep surveillance on you. I'll get you some help"
"Goodbye, brother" Sherlock said pointedly. Mycroft bowed his head in defeat, turned and picked up his trusty black umbrella. He stumbled dejectedly from the room, putting most of his weight onto the handle of the umbrella to support himself. He had failed. He hadn't just failed, he had failed Sherlock. And he was ashamed.