Crescendo
Second Part in Series 'A Study in Camouflage' (Mycroft/Sherlock)
Author: Sfumatosoup
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Character study/pre-slash Holmescest
Rating: G
Words: Approx 900
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock and all characters other than my own, are owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BBC and their affiliates- based upon the original stories of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Other characters originally proposed/owned by Baring-Gould. No intention to profit.
Summary: A glimpse into Sherlock's youth. Pre-slash Holmescest.
A/N: Most of you dedicated Sherlockians have at some point read about the proposed possible older brother 'Sherrinford' as well as hinting at possible distant Vernet kin. Thus, I've strategized a bit of a character study/personalized third-person-intro.
…
….
It was when Sherlock was 10, and Mycroft had come back from Uni for holiday, that he first noticed the constant looks.
It was unsettling.
Sure, his brother had followed him about ad-nauseum as a small child, lingering on his every word, devouring every scrap of attention he'd bestow.
This was different. It was as if he were a specimen under the 134-cled microscope Grandfather had given Sherlock for Christmas.
He was uncharacteristically taciturn, barely mumbling a "hullo", and answering monosyllabically when Mycroft had attempted to make conversation.
So, instead, Mycroft focused on Mummy, the estate, and gossiping about MIT with Sherrinford. His elder brother had gone off to the States for research development, and had recently published several rather exhaustive articles, which honestly, Mycroft couldn't have been bothered to read, save for Mummy's prodding him to.
Sherrinford, as always, despite being a bore, was a pleasant sort, and they were amiable enough.
As always, with regard to their youngest brother, Sherrinford urged Mycroft to mind him. It was always subtle. But the elder Holmes often leveled him with a look that certainly read of his concern that Mycroft seemed to avoid Sherlock.
It was not entirely purposeful. It was just that Sherlock was such an absolute chore.
And more recently, indecipherable.
Brilliant as he may be, Mycroft didn't always know quite how to interpret his feelings for the lad these days. Of course, he admired the fact that unlike Sherriford, Sherlock positively glowed with 'interesting'.
Frankly, he always knew too much about everything. Yet for all he knew and observed, he seemed to understand little. He understood concepts in an abstract sort of way, and Intellectually, he grasped what his observations meant, yet this could never be attributed to his own assimilation.
His reactivity or lack thereof, was… atypical.
And that was… uncomfortable.
Especially since their hesitant relationship had evolved into a rather tentative one in which, a calculating level of mutual respect was precariously balanced with mild animosity and keen competition.
He recognized that Sherlock had become almost guarded. No longer did he insert himself upon Mycroft in that coveting, latching-on way of younger siblings to older.
He watched him carefully, cautiously, and consideringly. And Mycroft wondered what conjectures the precocious lad had made in that astute brain of his.
...
The next time Mycroft dropped in for a visit he was already on his fifth degree, ninth language, a lauded actuary, and an acknowledged scholar among the Mensa crowd. Most recently, he'd been recruited for a position within the British Government—nothing he was at liberty to dispel much about, of course.
The point was, Sherlock Holmes should not have intimidated him.
His now adolescent brother was quickly pacing him in honouraries, and had received several ample scholarships. None of which the lad took very seriously, of course.
His hair sprouted out of his head in unkempt black curls, and he'd recently stretched up in height. The lean and lanky youth lacked none of the gracelessness of his peers, however, and carried himself in a rather feline way that was startlingly… well.
Sensual, was not a word that Mycroft felt comfortable allowing his brain to attribute to his 14-year-old brother.
Sherlock seemed aware of his strange, new beauty, and conveyed himself with a sense of self-confident and ambivalent arrogance that bordered on the offensive.
He caught Mycroft's appraising stares with sharp knowing glances of his own.
It was almost mocking.
Mycroft would've construed it as such if it weren't occasionally easy to read the genuine look of invitation just beneath. Yes, Sherlock, despite his cavalier façade, still harboured some sort of an infatuation for him. It was only that, now, it'd evolved into something a bit less innocent in pondering.
That alone, was reason Mycroft desired naught but to flee back to London.
Sherrinford was unable to make it that year, but Claude Vernet, his shy 13-year-old cousin, had come into town to celebrate Christmas with the family.
Sherlock was positively cruel to Claude and on several occasions, already, had made the lad run crying to Mummy or Mycroft for support against his tormentor.
Mycroft wondered idly, if Sherlock recognized why he did so.
…
By the time of Grandfather's funeral, Sherlock was now pressing 16, and days away from heading off to Cambridge. He watched as Sherlock held onto Mummy's hand, though both wore equally impassive as the casket was lowered into the ground.
As they left the burial to head back up to the church, he saw in his periphery a figure darting up behind. Sherrinford fell into pace beside Mycroft as they made their way back up to the row of limousines, that were meant to deliver them to the Wake back at the estate.
Catching up with each other, Mycroft listened patiently as Sherrinford regaled his most current achievements in advancing the artform of neuro-surgical procedures and the subsequent post-op procedures he'd developed.
Mycroft stifled a yawn, as Sherrinford impressed upon him his self-value in the most tedious attempt to maintain objective modesty. His elder brother had always been somewhat insistent to prove himself to Mycroft, for some reason or another.
He inquired into Mycroft's current vocation.
Now being more or less a consultant for m15/m16, he was unwilling to disclose much, and the conversation lulled awkwardly for a moment.
Sherrinford swiftly changed the focus to Sherlock. Apparently the lad was frequently and aimlessly changing majors at Uni, which was quite worrying to Mummy.
…
During the wake, old acquaintances surfaced to extend their condolences. Between shaking hands and trivial gossip, Mycroft felt a shiver of awareness run through him to his fingertips. He could feel the steady piercing gaze behind, and once or twice he'd look up to find a pair of strange glittering gray eyes evaluating him.
After putting in decent time carrying on civilly with the guests at the Wake, Mycroft pecked a kiss onto Mummy's cheek and politely excused himself.
As he trekked up the stairs, he heard muted footsteps padding behind him. He didn't turn around, for he'd assumed the identity of his pursuer.
…