Base summary: Sherlock had fallen in love with a girl from school. Mycroft also liked this girl and asked her out before Sherlock could even say Hello. This caused major rivalry that has yet to be resolved.
"Why don't you like Mycroft, Sherlock?" Dr. John Watson asked of his flatmate, looking up from the paper in his hand.
"I'd rather not talk about it," Sherlock Holmes, renowned Consulting Detective, sniffed. His mouth said nothing, but his eyes spoke in legions as his mind flashed back to the fateful scene.
There she was. The beautiful girl in his English class. Her hair was sleek, straight and dark - it reminded Sherlock of a raven's wing. Her skin was pale and perfect, porcelain stretched over high cheekbones. Her eyes were dark in some lights, golden in others. In natural lighting, like that of the Sun, they were caramel. How Sherlock longed to stare into those beautiful depths, to find all the answers to his lifelong questions within them. Her name was Arianna Bells. Her heritage was Russian, though she spoke many languages besides English and Russian. She spoke Greek. Welsh. Arabic. German. French. Latin. Hungarian. Romanian. She was both beauty and intelligence. The Greek Gods had created one such as this, named her Pandora. The Norse had had a goddess such as this, by the name of Freya. The Slavic Goddess Zaria held no par next to this girl, this heavenly being among mortals.
However, Sherlock's phobia of socialising caused a rift to glide between them, a canyon so wide that a dozen Grand Canyons could have fit inside. He was content to admire her from afar, building the courage to one day woo her with his intelligent words. For now, he would take up music. Maybe he could one day surprise her with a ballad, dedicated to her intelligence and her statuesque beauty.
A month after meeting Arianna, blessed with beauty as she was, Sherlock had finally gathered all the courage he could. He had prepared himself for the humiliation of rejection, though his heart secretly kindled the hope that she would accept his baleful nuances. In his hand was a violin. He planned to serenade her before asking her for the company of a dinner with her. He could already picture the way the candle light would shine against her eyes, highlighting the coral red of her lips.
And then Mycroft was there, barging in front of Sherlock before a word could even be uttered from his lips. Mycroft… Sherlock's older brother who had to have everything that he wanted. It irked him that his brother, his own kin, could be such a selfish and arrogant creature. Sherlock disapproved, but his heart had been torn out… by his brother.
And Sherlock knew he would never forgive Mycroft for this heinous crime.
"It's not fair," he whispered, pulling himself out of the memory. Though he was determined not to cry, even after all these years, a single tear leaked out of his eye. It left a damp and warm trail along his cheek, but it had dried before it left his face.
Sherlock wanted to be loved. He desired it with burning passion. He just wanted a female companion with intelligence that could match his. Alas, he would never find her.
