Childish Feuds
First 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.
"…'These days, sometimes Sherrinford reflectively mused, that it was almost as if he didn't exist. It was mostly always all about Mycroft and Sherlock.'…"
…
Sherrinford gazed out the window at Mycroft and Claude and felt a trifling sense of lingering irritation.
His cousin was laughing at something his brother had said, and he could see Sherlock plop down dejectedly, eyeing them from across the yard. Sherrinford's seven year-old brother sat petulantly glaring at the two, sitting cross legged on the ground, pulling grass blades out in clumps from the lawn and making a pile in his lap.
Sherrinford looked down at the Merskey and Loeser with a degree of impatience, rereading the same page for the upteenth time fruitlessly, and slammed the text shut.
The Vernets travelled up from France every summer to deposit little Claude at the family estate in Yorkshire.
For some absurd reason, the youngster had attached himself to the ascetic and generally reserved Mycroft. And, to everyone's astonishment, his younger brother had taken to the lad with relative, aplomb acceptance.
The boy contained an utterly radiant disposition, which to no end charmed the entire family.
Yet, with one exception.
Sherlock seethed contempt at young Claude, only a year his junior, and had negated all of the lad's attempts to be amiable.
It was painfully obvious that he was burning with envy. Sherlock was precocious from a very young age, brilliant beyond reckoning and just nearly as tetchy. He seemed to simply radiate with an innate grasp of intellect in the same way Aphrodite had formed from the sea-foam of Zeus. Yet, in spite of his unprecedented mental maturation, he was quite prone to histrionics.
Anything to secure the focus of the impassive Mycroft, he had taken to performing great feats of mischief.
It was… tiring. Father had passed several years prior, and Mummy was quite fond of her Valium. Were it not for Sherrinford's persistent efforts to convince her that he was just a mere infant, and resist Grandfather's assertion that he ought to be shipped off to boarding, she might have done so.
The problem lay in that Sherlock's brand of trouble-making was vastly more devious and cleverly constructed than the typical juvenile tom-foolery. Thus instead, were employed a steady stream of lauded psychiatrists'- yet they too, inevitably proved to be utterly ineffectual.
Despite Sherlock's occasional displays, he was self-contained most of the time, and rather endearing. Between bouts of lethargy, the child was positively bursting with energy. He had an uncanny knack for intuitive observation, and was startling in his ability to conjecture. He'd taken to running about with keen and flagrant curiosity, studying and trying to grasp the world around him. Such an outwardly aware child was a rare and precious specimen.
Sherrinford was sure, that If he could somehow even capture the faintest glimmer of the promise Sherlock possessed, he would be beyond reproach in any field.
Thus, Sherrinford was positively enamoured with the boy, yet- Sherlock had always resisted his attempts to gain precedence over Mycroft.
Thus, he withdrew to the side of the stage to watch the exhaustive displays to garner the attention of the one person Sherlock deemed a fitting source for his misplaced infatuation.
And yes, it was indeed infatuation. The positively energetic lad bounded after his brother with a childish enthusiasm that surpassed all the appropriate barriers of fraternal regard.
Mycroft, with equanimity, entertained the attachment with a sense of indifference; the one person to refrain from acknowledging the rampant idolization.
To the family's everlasting astonishment and amusement, Mycroft held a peculiar, yet evident attractor for garnering the fondness of the simplistic and guileless Claude. And to Sherrinford's distress, Mycroft humoured this with a sincere fondness for the little lad, without the least concern for Sherlock.
With Claude userping Mycroft's attention, Sherlock had grown wretched with misery. It pained Sherrinford to no end, though he was reticent to interfere.
His own relationship with Mycroft was distant, to say the least. The age discrepancy between the two was vast. Sherrinford was 24, and ten years his senior, just completing his Masters thesis, in preparation for beginning work into his PhD.
To his everlasting discouragement, Mycroft was without doubt, his intellectual superior. For at 14, he too was beginning Oxford coursework, whipping through it with incommensurable expedience.
With tempered condescension, his younger brother would consistently (yet subtly), point out his flaws with an objective callousness.
When he even took the time to acknowledge his existence, that is.
These days, sometimes Sherrinford reflectively mused, that it was almost as if he didn't exist. It was mostly always all about Mycroft and Sherlock. He was just some sort of figurative and occasionally interloping non-entity.
Before retiring to Father's study to replace the book, he chanced one more peek out the window. Claude was racing about, chasing after some unchangeable thing or another, while Mycroft stood casually leaning against the old Maple. Curiously, he noted his brother's cautious and indiscernible gaze that he was leveling at Sherlock, whom splayed upon the lawn, had, at this point begun to un- self consciously spread the grass piles upon his chest. He lay there, unnoticing of all, basking in the beaming rays of sunlight.
Maybe it was a bit discernible after all. He almost looked… fond.
Well, Sherrinford sighed, maybe he'd have to re-evaluate the situation. Mycroft had obviously been dissimulating. Funny, he'd only just noticed.