AN: Just a quick little story before I get back into writing the next chapter of Haus of War. It was simply a small idea I had to write out.
.
.
Despite what I or Sherlock might be compelled to say, it is entirely untrue that we are blood related brothers. The story of Sherlock entering our family is a long and grievous tale, filled with misunderstandings, rows and a mutual aversion of one another. However, after all is said and done, we have become, whether we like it or not…
Brothers.
Well, I say that in a most imprecise sense.
Sherlock first came to our family in the summer of 1987. I was seventeen at the time, having finished a lengthy term at boarding school, when my parents sat me down on the gold threaded chesterfield –mummy's favourite- and had a long and very serious talk with me. There was to be a new member of the family.
Being the naïve adolescent of well fortuned upbringing that I was, I initially thought my mother was expecting, as ludicrous as it was for her age. Thankfully, and not so thankfully, that was not so. It was at that point, with a confused expression upon my face, my mother handed me a dossier containing files and papers, both confidential and public, of a boy whose picture wore a hard and sullen face.
I enquired if this boy was to be employed under my father, as we often referred to our maids, stable hands and other servants as 'family'. My mother, with a twinkle in her eye and clear air of excitement, told me that he was not a new employee; rather he was to become a part of our family.
I wasn't sure how to react to this news. Being a single child for the greater part of my childhood, this news brought me a sense of jealousy, confusion, and the resolve to not quite like this child who would soon become my competition for attention. I felt that my parents were trying to replace me, as I was quickly approaching my maturing age. It was the spoiled view of a teen, but still to this day I believe it was a justified one. Despite this development evoking a sense of deep betrayal, I smiled and agreed, trying to convince myself that this was indeed good news.
After a quick read of the dossier, those small hopes were ground into the dirt and left to die.
Sherlock came from an unsettling background. Born prematurely in 1977 to an addict single mother, he was diagnosed with prenatal cocaine exposure. Essentially, in a more crude and modern expression, he was a 'crack baby.' After five years of substantial neglect, he was taken into the care of child social services, where he was entered into a foster care program.
He was a charming young fellow, and quickly won the hearts of more than a few couples who had taken them into his care. It was after the fact that they learned this cherub-child lost his wings and grew little angry horns. It was established that he had some mental problems: attention deficit disorder, bi-polar disorder, and possible Asperger's. But Sherlock was not a stupid child; in fact, the problem was that despite these mood and attention disorders, he was a very clever child. This cleverness soon brought about his ruin with the families he was assigned to. What he did to be sent back to the social agencies so many times is unknown, as it was blacked out in the report, but it was clear by the sheer amount of foster families he had that this was a problem child.
Never the less, his story had stuck a chord with my parents, who insisted that a proper and well natured upbringing would counter the dark and bleary past the now 10 year old had suffered. They encouraged me to help him along in his 'recovery', to curb his behaviour and act as a role model. This is where one of the greater misunderstandings between us came about, as he would never accept such a thing, and to this day remains bitter about it.
One week later a skinny boy, wrapped in ill-fitted clothing which did little to hide his wiry and small figure, was deposited on our doorstep with nothing more than a ratty looking suitcase. The moment I laid eyes on him I disliked him, despite spending the week prior to his arrival conditioning myself to be a good older brother figure. His face was long and pale for a ten year old, a mop of curly dark hair lay upon his head –which my mother instantly set to trimming- and pale, blue eyes shifted nonchalantly across this new environment. While any child of poor fortune would probably have been astounded at our estate, he held a look of despondency and apathy, as if he couldn't care less as to where his good fortune had brought him.
He transitioned into our home with relative ease, if not complete disregard for the rules and responsibilities of such a lifestyle. He ignored the love my parent showered him with, as they dressed him in finer clothes and gave him a room that was open and spacious. Instead he took to wandering the house, picking up and carelessly playing with expensive miniatures and figures that lay on the tables, or picking at the intricate wallpapers. Despite chiding and punishment, he resumed his mischievous behaviour which soon led my parents into distress.
I chose not to interact much with him at first. Our seven year age difference made it more than a bit awkward and frankly, very hard to relate to the child. We passed each other in the halls sometimes, him looking at me as if I was another decoration. Sherlock had no social graces, choosing to ignore staff and guests and even family members. When he didn't confine himself to his room, he could be found alone out in the garden poking at ants and other invertebrates with sticks. He never wiped his shoes before coming inside either, dragging half the garden and its inhabitants back through the house and into his room.
By the end of the summer, my mother and father were at their wits end with him, and were glad to send Sherlock and I on the train to boarding school. I was under strict orders to look after his wellbeing during the semester, with hope that his integration with other students would curb some of his behavioural problems.
That hope, like many others before it, was dashed against stone.
He did not integrate, at all, and thus was quickly singled out. Sherlock had many quirky intricacies, and always boldly inquisitive about the most improper of things, which led to his ridicule. He soon discovered the library, and in his free time buried himself in books of various topics. I watched over him at times, hidden behind the shelving or a newspaper. By the end of the term, he had read every fiction book in the young adult section, and surprisingly, many that were focused on privateers. This unhealthy obsession gave the other children another outlet to bully him, and it became well known that he would doodle in his classes of himself as a pirate, firing cannonballs at the countries of England, Spain, and what looked to be Malaysia. Despite his misgivings and the pestering of other students, he did remarkably well in his studies.
I made sure to visit him in his room when he chose to confide himself there, despite his resentment, and made it my duty to drag him down to at least two meals every day. In a way it was the bare minimum I would do to honour my parent's request and it was clear that we both disliked my method, as Sherlock soon began to evade me in the hallways.
The next year during the summer, Sherlock had once again tested my parent's patience to the limits. He had begun to dig holes all around my mother's prized garden, stating that he was looking for something. At the sight of her ruined flowers, my mother turned a pale shade of grey and slunk back to the master bedroom, and did not commute with any of us for two days.
I was then, after seeing my mother in so shocking a state that I decided to take the reins of this wild horse. Dragging the boy by the collar of his jacket, I took him to the study and began to lecture him. Obviously it was not the best way to approach an eleven year old about their behaviour, but it certainly allowed me to let off some steam. I spoke to him about what exactly it meant to be a Holmes, that we were proper and caring folk, who did not dig up mummy's daffodils in search of buried treasure. My speech was completely lost on him, and he became angry.
It was then that I decided on a completely different approach. Sherlock needed an outlet, something good to spend his time and energy on. I myself was a very observant and practiced young lad, and I could see that Sherlock did not need love or care or any sort of wasted energies. It wouldn't matter how long I or others lectured him. What Sherlock needed was a distraction.
I devised a game that would do just that. If Sherlock needed to expend his energy, he might as well gain something from it. Late one night I took one of his favourite pirate figurines and buried it in the backyard. Around the house I placed several clues, the figures hat on the bedside table, a note hidden in the hedges, several clues, some more obvious than not, that would lead him to his beloved toy.
In the morning he awoke, and right away noticed the toy's missing presence. He found the hat, and solved the puzzle in which it pointed in the direction of the next clue. On he went, searching the household, until finally, three hours later he found his toy.
I had never seen the boy look so happy.
I continued to play this game with him, hiding objects, giving him puzzles, or asking him questions which he had to use his observational and deductive skills to answer. Gradually, as his mind become more distracted with these games, he occupied his time being more productive than mischievous. He was good, and I increased the challenges of these puzzles as he improved. However, there was the occasional puzzle he could not solve, or the important clue that he would miss, and he would obsess day and night over these under he finally found the answer or forced me to give it to him. It was a challenge for me as well, as I always had to stay one step ahead of the very clever child.
Through these puzzles, a small kindred spark appeared, though we still loathed being in each other's presence, especially after a row, or when Sherlock, the brat he was, didn't get his way.
When again we attended boarding school, me being in my final year, we continued these little games, but this time they served a greater purpose. I would challenge Sherlock by having him deduce people who walked by, whether it be by their hair and makeup, the dirt on their shoes, and by other such delicate observations. Slowly, in a way, I molded him into my own private eye, and would often send him to watch people, whether it was for my own vendetta or other reasons. I should not freely admit it, but I am much the reason for what Sherlock turned out to be.
It was in the year 1989, when Sherlock had just turned 13, and I was studying law and politics at Oxford, when he called me. It was about a boy, named Carl Powers, who had drowned in a swimming pool in London. He mused on about the case, and was persistent on the absence of the boy's shoes. It was at this time when the monster I had made decided to fledge, and Sherlock turned his observational abilities into something far greater than I had expected.
Once again Sherlock immersed himself in books in chemistry, forensics, law and psychology. Mummy would often call me and recount how he would go out for hours on end, and in their worry they would search for him, only to find him in the downtown area, simply watching people. He poured his heart into his eyes, and once again became distant. No longer did the larger picture appeal to him, as he raved over the smallest of details. It was unsettling for both me and my parents.
In 1995, when I was fresh out of Oxford and Sherlock was just entering it, my father was killed in a terrible car accident. While me and my mother were shaken and distraught, Sherlock seemed absent, as if not quite understanding the loss our family had suffered. Confused as to why this was, as Sherlock had admitted he admired my father a small bit, I entered his room while he was unawares to see if he was grieving. It was then that I discovered Sherlock's addiction to cocaine.
In a wave of fury and grief, my mother tossed him out, and he took up residence at the university. From here his drug habits began to spiral out of control. I took to visiting him often, offering help and advice, none which he would take. Instead he would sit with a vacant air, glazed eyes, and the childish despondency he held when I first met him. Occasionally he'd take a stab at my weight gain over the years, just to get me off his back.
Instead I gave him my private number, and sent agents out to watch him when I could not. Despite the childish feuds we had between us, our polar personalities and our general annoyance with each other's methods, I found myself caring for his state of being. One does not spend eight years living with another without feeling some bond, however strange and unlikely it is, between them. As it stood, I felt sincere concern for him.
It was after he was discovered by D.I Lestrade, who recognized his extraordinary talents, that Sherlock once again found purpose in life. The Detective Inspector would often take my brother out on cases, using his deductions as evidence. After Sherlock had helped them win a few high profile cases, the Inspector realised what an asset he was. There was only one problem though.
Sherlock had to become sober.
Scotland Yard was adamant that they would no longer take Sherlock's help after they discovered his weakness, his addiction to drugs. Sherlock, being the stubborn man he was, decided he would take euphoria over a bright future. Once again I found myself intervening.
It took a lot of convincing to get the idea through his thick skull, even daring to pull up the state of his real mother in the conversation, but eventually Sherlock got off the cocaine, in his own way (which was the most violent he could manage) by going cold turkey. I do not remember with any fondness sitting up with my brother as his body rejected whatever he ate, or the long sleepless nights that had him tossing and mumbling, with bloodshot eyes and cold sweat. The weeks upon weeks as his mind attacked itself, insatiable cravings and indecent requests. Yet in the end he overcame his addiction, though I am still wary of triggers or other signs that he might relapse. Even now he has, with some success, tried to quit smoking.
I watch him now in secret, as his life has turned around. I keep tabs on where he goes, and how often he chooses to eat. When necessary, I keep him alive, afloat from drowning in the sea of his own mind. But now there is a new addition to the family, or so I am led to believe.
Against impossible odds, Sherlock has made a friend. He seems to be a good man, this John Watson, who's behaviour reminds me very much of myself. He seems to be able to control Sherlock much better than I, and I am glad his eyes are always on him.
We talked briefly, and I offered him money to give me updates on Sherlock's health. I did not introduce myself, so naturally he was suspicious. He declined my offer, and I believe that to be a good thing. He is honest and loyal, someone I feel I can actually trust to hand Sherlock.
It was not until tonight though, that John Watson gained my true admiration. He had saved Sherlock from making a very stupid decision. He cares for him, which that much is obvious. In a way, I believe he is slowly changing Sherlock as well.
Sherlock introduced me properly to him. He called me his 'brother.'
Initially I was quite shocked, as he had never called me this before. But after we parted ways I thought on it a bit more. Sherlock may be a prat, and may have caused me and my family grief, but deep down inside, now that he has accepted me, I too can finally call him brother.
I am happy for him, because these feelings of care and loyalty between the two are reciprocated. It is good to see Sherlock put his trust in someone else, to even care for someone else.
Sherlock is finally becoming a true Holmes.