Hey guys! Just a little bit of information for you...
"This" and this = present.
"This" andthis = Mycroft telling the story.
Ok, enjoy! :)
The storm outside was fierce. The rain battered the large windows; the thunder echoed through the many rooms; and the lighting illuminated the expensive gold embellishments on the ceilings.
Little Sherlock hated storms. He knew it was silly; he was seven, not a baby. He shouldn't be scared. A loud thunder clap drew him out of his thoughts. His brown curls gradually appeared from under the thick duvet until he held the seam tight below his chin.
His brother would know what to do. Mycroft was very intelligent, which little Sherlock envied; but it did have its uses.
He leapt out of his gargantuan bed and ran into Mycroft's room; he did not want to be in the hallway when he heard the next thunder clap. "My! My!" he squeaked.
"Sherlock? You should be in bed…" Mycroft sighed from beneath the mountain of warm blankets on his bed.
"I… I…" the little boy stuttered.
"You were scared by the storm…" Mycroft sat up, analysing his brother.
Little Sherlock wanted to deny it; but his brother knew when he was lying and he was too tired to come up with a good excuse. "Yeah…"
"And what do you want me to do about it?" Mycroft smiled smugly.
"I just wanted some company…" at that moment, a bright light invaded the room, accompanied by a loud rumble. "Ah!" Sherlock dove into Mycroft's bed, under the five blankets.
"It's alright, Sherlock…" Mycroft laid a hand on the quivering lump that was his little brother.
"Too bright… Too loud…" the lump mumbled. Mycroft knew this was why his brother was scared of storms; Sherlock's senses were heighted and this sometimes caused Sherlock pain.
"I know, brother mine. It's gone now, though. I'll draw the curtains and put the lights on…" Mycroft heaved himself out of the warmth of the blankets. "All done. You can come out from there now. I know wool irritates and hurts you…"
"Not as much as the storm…" Sherlock peered out from beneath the blankets and, as soon as he saw it was all clear, he kicked them as far away as he could and scooted up the bed so his back was against the headboard.
"Better?" Mycroft asked, his satin voice attempting to soothe.
"A little…" Sherlock admitted.
"Do you want me to get the silk blanket out of my wardrobe while I'm up?" It wasn't really a blanket, just a piece of silk that was better than nothing if his brother became agitated.
"Yes, please." Sherlock's knees were drawn up to his chest, his small arms hugging them even closer. Mycroft smiled. His brother looked a little adorable when he was scared; which was a guilty thought as Mycroft never wished his brother to be scared or in pain like he was now. He held a corner of the blue silk and allowed it to fall beautifully out of the old oak wardrobe. He carefully draped it around Sherlock's small, already thin, frame.
"Do you feel ok in it?" Mycroft asked. Sometimes, even the silk was too much.
"I'm fine." Sherlock took a shaky breath, "I just hate storms."
"I know, brother mine." An idea came to Mycroft, "Do you want me to tell you a story?"
"My, I've read all the books in this house many times; I'm bored of them all now…" Sherlock hung his head.
"What if I know one you haven't read…?" Mycroft grabbed a large notepad off of his desk.
"Have you tried to write a story for me, My?" Sherlock's eyes filled with intrigue, his brother did, on occasion, have a certain way with words; he often rearranged sentences in the books he read to Sherlock to make them more interesting.
"I have. I'll go and get changed into some silk night clothes and we can have a little read…" Mycroft pulled on the privacy partition so he did not have to leave Sherlock alone while he changed from his flannel pyjamas into something Sherlock would be able to tolerate slightly easier.
Sherlock stared at the Rubik's Cube on his brother's desk. He counted the number of red squares he could see, then blue squares, then white squares, and so on until his brother was finally dressed.
Mycroft emerged from the partition and sat down on the edge of his bed, Sherlock shuffled closer to his brother.
There was once a detective by the name of Sherlock Holmes –
"You used my name?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed at his brother.
"Yes, because –"
"Because it makes me identify even more with the character; etcetera, etcetera… Dull." Sherlock whined.
"Not quite. I thought of this detective and I kept thinking of you, Sherlock. Because I think you'd make a spectacular detective…" Mycroft smiled.
"I still want to be a pirate, Mycroft…" Sherlock frowned.
"We'll see, bother. We'll see. Shall I continue?" Sherlock nodded.
This detective lived in a small, dank flat with no company except a skull called Bill –
"I call him Billy, not Bill." Sherlock corrected.
"Well, the detective is grown up. He now calls him Bill." Mycroft smiled at Sherlock's continual interruptions. It would have annoyed anyone else, but Mycroft loved Sherlock; especially his bluntness and, what others would consider to be, rudeness.
"Ok."
Now, Sherlock Holmes was alone. He didn't mind it that way; in fact, he liked it. He never really got along with people and people never got along with him. He was called a freak, a weirdo, a psychopath –
"Thank you for increasing my confidence, Mycroft…" Sherlock mumbled.
"But…" Mycroft continued.
That was only because they did nothing to attempt to understand the genius. The brilliance of this man glowed around him, but was invisible to all the lesser mortals, the goldfish, that referred to themselves as his peers. Sherlock Holmes wondered, in a small part of the back of his mind, if he would always be alone; and if that was actually what he wanted. This was before he met another curious individual, in his own right known as Dr John Watson. Dr Watson was not a genius, he did not see the same things as the detective, but he saw the brilliance of the detective and came the closest to understanding him than anyone else ever had – that even included the detective's brother –
"He has a brother too?" Sherlock's large eyes bulged slightly.
"But of course." Mycroft smiled.
"Tell me about him." Sherlock ordered.
"I was about to…"
The detective's brother, Mycroft, was a cowardly man who spent his time behind a desk. He was actually quite a powerful government man; despite what he would tell anyone who asked. He would dismiss them with lies of it being a 'minor position'; but in truth, this man could have operated as the British government all on his own. Sherlock Holmes knew this, but Mycroft always tried to keep the lie.
"You had to put yourself in it, didn't you My?" Sherlock smirked.
"I could not resist temptation."
"You aren't a coward…"
"Why, I'm afraid I beg to differ, brother mine."
"You aren't! You're braver than I am!" A thunder clap sounded and Sherlock grabbed his brother into a tight squeeze. "It's too loud…" Sherlock thought.
"Well, you're only seven; and you're ten times as brave as I was when I was seven. I don't think I'd be able to cope with those painfully heightened senses of yours. You are a lot braver than me." Sherlock grinned and stared at the floor, shyly blushing. "Shall I continue?"
The two brothers did not get along. The younger brother, Sherlock, had resented the elder for his higher intelligence. Sherlock could not shake the feeling that his brother watched over him to show off; to continually make him feel as if he could not function without his brother looming over his head, always there to point out his mistakes and call him 'stupid' and 'idiot' and 'unintelligent'. But this was simply not true. Mycroft Holmes worried for his brother constantly, it felt almost crippling. The thought that the news of his brother's death could come any time, any day if he followed the wrong criminal down the wrong alley; it made him ill and weak with worry; though he would never show it.
"Surely they could just talk to each other, make things better for both of them."
"This is where their relationship differs from ours, brother mine; and the multiple complications show themselves…"
When I say Mycroft was ill and weak with worry, I did not mean it metaphorically. Mycroft was very physically ill. He could not go outside for very long and when he did; he took his umbrella. The umbrella, unlike what you might think, was not taken in case of rain; it was used as a crutch or cane. There were times when he was so ill that he was bed-ridden; unable to summon the energy to move his legs.
He still managed to complete his official duties. He would often just about manage to attend meetings; he had seated himself before anyone entered and would only stand to greet the various dignitaries if it was on a good day. If not, he said that he had been injured by something-or-other. No one outside of Mycroft's manor house knew of his illness.
His ill health meant that he could hardly talk to Sherlock; which only worsened their terrible relationship… Sherlock thought he just didn't care anymore; which hurt him more than he cared to admit. Now, it wasn't only Sherlock who had been alone. Mycroft Holmes was now the abandoned Holmes…
"Poor Mycroft!" Sherlock gasped, tears in his eyes.
"I didn't think you'd care so much for the fictional Mycroft, Sherlock," Mycroft's heart warmed at the emotions that lay thickly on his brother's face.
"Of course I do! He's you… sort of. Don't ever get that ill, My!"
"I'm afraid I can't promise, Sherlock. No one can promise that. But I'll certainly try."
Content with his brother's almost-promise, Sherlock shuffled closer and leant on his brother's arm as he continued his story.
Mycroft was very ill, as we know. But, one day, he met someone. This someone was his little brother's boss; a man known as DI Greg Lestrade. This meeting had been set up by Mycroft in an attempt to get Sherlock to contact him. Mycroft was getting worse; he was even weaker, pale and awfully thin. He now did not care if his brother knew he was unwell; in fact, he needed Sherlock to know. He had called his brother to ask if he could come to his house; but had been dismissed.
This was in the time that Dr Watson had not come into Sherlock's life yet; so the good DI was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend. Mycroft knew that DI Lestrade would advise Sherlock to see him.
"What happened?" Sherlock gasped.
"All in good time, Sherlock."
DI Lestrade walked into the large room that kept Mycroft his prisoner. The bed was quite large but looked even wider when compared to Mycroft's thin body in the centre.
"Ah, DI Lestrade…" Mycroft acknowledged hoarsely as his nurse helped him to sit up. The pillows were quickly rearranged for Mycroft to sit up unassisted.
"Mr Holmes?" the DI asked innocently. He was muscular with silver and grey hair that combined to appear as salt and pepper; which is more beautiful than it sounds. There was stubble on his chin and crow's feet capped his hazel eyes in a perfect way. This man was beautiful. And Mycroft Holmes thought so.
"Hang on! You were with a boy called Greg Lestrade the other day!"
"Yes…?"
"Is he your –?"
"Moving swiftly on…"
"I am he." Mycroft answered, "I am afraid that I am taken rather ill at the moment. This is actually why I called you here. Please tell my brother to come. I've tried to contact him, but we don't have the greatest relationship. I need to tell him I'm unwell. Though doctors can be wrong they've given me very little time if I keep deteriorating."
"I'm sorry…" DI Lestrade apologised.
"Don't be. I have done this to myself. I worry too much for him; it has even degraded my health –" Mycroft could not continue as a violent coughing fit invaded his lungs and throat.
"You shouldn't be worried, Mycroft Holmes. He is in capable enough hands. No harm will come to him, I promise you." Gregory Lestrade always kept his promises.
"This may seem an odd request…"Mycroft began before more coughing interrupted, "Would you consider staying? Your presence is… quite comforting." Mycroft believed that this man would not stay. He was aware how terrible he looked; so skinny and his face ragged with sleepless nights.
"Of course." The DI answered, which surprised Mycroft. I shall not bore you with details about what they had discussed or what had happened; but a unique love began between the two. Mycroft, nurtured and cared for by Greg, slowly began to recover from his near-death state. Unfortunately, the damage was done to the Holmes brothers' relationship.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." Mycroft smiled.
"That was it? I know that wasn't it! Come on, tell me!" Sherlock demanded.
"You need to go to sleep, Sherlock. It's the end of the introduction anyway. I'll read you the next chapter tomorrow."
"Aw!" Sherlock whined.
"I know, I'm a horrible brother…" Mycroft smiled as he turned off the lights.
"No, My!"
"I was joking Sherlock."
"Oh."
"Go to sleep…"
That's exactly what they did.
Hey, again! Hope your enjoying the story so far! If you can't tell, I actually think Mystrade had some promise...
Please review; I love reviews more than Mycroft loves cake! ;)