Sherlock Holmes sat in his dusty armchair at 221B Baker Street in London. The sky was swirled with thick, melancholy black clouds, weeping into the city streets. Every few minutes shocks of lightning and thunder interrupted the picture that mirrored Sherlock's heart and mind.
He held before him an old photograph of twelve or thirteen years. It pictured three handsome young men, brothers, posed upon a staircase, looking out over the railing side by side. At the tallest step stood the eldest brother, a twenty-something Mycroft Holmes with a thick, dark brown pomp of hair slicked neatly over his head. His serious mouth and scrutinizing eyes were still the same now.
At the bottom stood an annoyed looking Sherlock, barely eighteen and the blush of youth still evident in his rosy cheeks and bountiful black curls.
"Who's the boy in the middle?" John Watson asked quietly. Sherlock shook his head in protest, unwilling or unable to say.
"Sherlock," John said gently, squeezing his friends' shoulder. "You go through this every year. Now, you know I'm here. I'm here for you. It's okay to speak about him."
Sherlock suppressed a shuddering sob and reached for the hand that gripped his shoulder.
"He's my brother. The other one. His name is Sherrinford."
A vacant expression overcame Sherlock's face and his eyes unfocused. He was going back in time. Back to his youth, and back to his brother.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Sherlock, leave that alone," Thirteen-year old Mycroft told his youngest brother. "You don't want to break it, do you?"
"Oh, he's just looking," Sherrinford said. "That's how he learns about things. He needs to examine them."
Sherlock, six, placed the fragile antiquated binoculars from his grandmother's desk back where he got it. He was done looking now, anyways. Sherrinford took Sherlock by the hand.
"Let's go outside and play," he offered. "You can stand on the pegs on my bike and I'll ride you around."
Sherlock whooped excitedly and ran outside, Sherrinford close behind.
A few years later, Sherrinford is teaching Sherlock how to play rugby. Mycroft watches from a safe distance so as to not dirty himself. Sherrinford and Sherlock were always playing outside together. Always in the dirt, playing rough and getting hurt. Mycroft didn't understand the appeal. He could see in Sherlock something of himself. He was curious about everything. Sharp as a tack. But he was also just like Sherrinford, a natural athlete. Mycroft tried to teach Sherlock, make him not just see, but observe. He did well enough on his own, but he needed much guidance. But Sherrinford was always there to distract him with games and childish nonsense.
"Sherlock, don't eat too many sweets. You'll get a tummy ache," Mycroft warned one day.
"No I won't," Sherlock said, popping another taffy into his sticky mouth.
"Why do you always buy him so many sweets?" Mycroft complained to Sherrinford.
"Because it's fun, that's why."
"Well, you're responsible for making certain he cleans his teeth. Mother will have a fit if Sherlock has rotten teeth when we see the dentist next week."
Of course, Sherrinford did nothing of the sort, and young Sherlock was stubborn and refused to brush his teeth before bed.
"Sherlock, open your mouth!" Mycroft growled, trying to force a sudsy toothbrush into his baby brother's mouth.
Sherlock shoved Mycroft away, and losing his patience, Mycroft smacked Sherlock in the face. Tears filled young Sherlock's eyes and Sherrinford came running.
"What'd you do that for?" Sherrinford shouted at his older brother. Mycroft left in a huff, leaving his younger brothers to themselves.
"There, there," Sherrinford said soothingly, wiping away Sherlocks' tears.
"That wasn't very nice of Mycroft, was it?"
It was the most difficult day of Sherlock's young life. The day his faithful, clever Redbeard was put down. Everything Sherlock ever knew, everything he ever trusted in all came crashing down on him that day. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He didn't even hear himself screaming and crying that his dog was gone.
Who was there to hold him? Who was there to tell Sherlock that everything was going to be alright? Who rocked him to sleep that night, even though he was far too old to be rocked to sleep? Big brother Sherrinford. The only human being on heaven and earth that could console Sherlock Holmes.
As the Holmes boys grew older, their differences and similarities were more and more profound.
Mycroft was callous and calculating. His purpose in life was to maintain order and to possess knowledge. He was well on his way to becoming the brains of the British government. Sherrinford, three years younger than Mycroft, was a natural athlete. He cared nothing of science, or reasoning, or theory. He was happiest on a skateboard, or a bike, or swimming in a lake. Sherlock was much the same as Mycroft, however, he struggled emotionally and had a strong love of music and athletics, a wunderkind possessing the most favorable qualities found in his brothers; a perfect mix of them both.
Mrs. Holmes was graying and somewhat wrinkled about the eyes and mouth now. She was getting older, and so were her boys. It was rare nowadays that the three of them happened to be at home all at once. Indeed, the only reason all the Holmes boys were under the same roof now was because it was Christmas and Mycroft was home from wherever he had gone (he wouldn't tell. It was top secret), and Sherrinford was lucky enough to have a break from training for the olympic games. Sherlock would be eighteen in just less than two weeks and after that his high school career was over. He was going to study chemistry.
"Now, you boys line up on the staircase," their mother told them. "Mycroft, darling, you at the top, yes, and then Sherrinford, dear. Good, yes. Where's Sherlock?"
"Sherlock, stop hiding at just take a picture with us, for God's sake!" Mycroft snapped. He earned no response.
"Let me get him," Sherrinford offered.
He found Sherlock skulking in the pantry off the kitchen, eating some pilfered candy canes from the Christmas tree.
"Come on, Sher," Sherrinford said, gently ushering his brother by the small of his back. "Let's go take a picture. Mum would love it."
"Why?" Sherlock asked, "Why must we do this every year?"
"It's tradition. Without it, families would fall."
"It's preposterous."
"Come on," Sherrinford said. "Do it for mum. That's a good man. Lets not forget to smile, shall we?"
Sherlock grudgingly took his place on the lowest step, in front of Sherrinford. He glared at the camera, loathing the flash of light it produced.
Mrs. Holmes was more than pleased , and just a little saddened. Her baby would be leaving soon, all grown up. She kissed Sherlock on the cheek and the only reason he didn't flinch away was because Sherrinford had a firm hold on the back of his neck.
Christmas was always difficult for Sherlock, for many reasons. He loathed social gatherings, for example. He thought religion was for fools, and he thought even worse of those who celebrated religious holidays who were not themselves religious. He hated giving gifts, because somehow his gifts were always inappropriate and more often than not Sherlock found himself in trouble.
Mostly, though, Christmas was difficult for Sherlock because when he was very young, he was gifted a puppy. And now that puppy was dead and the pain was as raw seven years later as it was when he was put down. But Sherrinford was there to hoist Sherlock up, keep him walking. When he was young, Sherlock thought the world of his older brother. Sherrinford was as close to him as he let any human be. They played sports together, Sherrinford was his protecter at school and at home, from bullies, and Mycroft. He was the only one that could manage Sherlock, for his parents had no grip on him, and Mycroft had no patience. But Sherrinford was different.
"Don't listen to Mycroft," Sherrinford once told him. "He thinks that knowing everything is the most important thing in life. What kind of life is it to lead, when your fifty and lonely, with no wife or children, or friends, or perhaps even family? It's good to be clever, Sherlock, but don't let it consume you. There's so much more to life than being right."
"Is there?" Sherlock asked. "I find immense satisfaction in being right. And I feel abhorrence in the presence of love and fellowship. All it serves to do is distract me from my purpose. It's the crack in the lens, Sherrinford. It doesn't do me any good."
"You sound just like Mycroft," Sherrinford laughed. "All I'm saying, Sher, is that sometimes feelings might feel bad, but we need them."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Someday you'll figure it out."
When he was older, Sherlock realized just how different Sherrinford was. He was different because he was ordinary. He was no great genius like Mycroft, or a savant like Sherlock. He had no extraordinary talents save his penchant for sports. He couldn't look at a man and observe where he had been or what he was doing. He couldn't see the result of an action and determine the chain of events that led to the result. He didn't know science, or logic, or rhetoric. He was an ordinary fool, but he was kind, and strangely wise. He knew love and friendship, and the value each possessed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~