First Time
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When it happened, he was scared. Mum was gone, lecturing. Father was away, doing lord knows what for his "job," as he called it purely in jest. He knew that working for the government was more than a job, it was a lifestyle, which was what he wanted to do someday too.
But right then, when it happened the First Time, he wasn't thinking about any of that. There was nothing - no great hidden answer that he could deduce to - that would guide him through this. So, he lay down beside his little brother on the floor and curled around him, holding him close, trying to keep back the fear and blink away the tears of anxiety. When his brother began to shake, he held him tighter.
"What have you done, Sherlock?" he whispered desperately. He thought he had been fine; he'd seemed to recover well enough from the ridicule in town last month from those foolish young men. But he never knew with his little brother.
Since things had been getting harder - the ridicule, the mockery - he had wished Sherlock had been an "ordinary" person. Oh yes, he had laughed and taunted in the beginning, believing him to be just as ordinary as Father, but it had been with concealed relief. Now, it was so hard. Sherlock only wanted to be cared for, noticed.
He knew how hard it could be to be taken seriously when you were just a little boy.
He had tried to explain that those sort of emotions did not help when you were "special," but that hadn't seemed to console Sherlock; he had withdrawn more into himself, no longer confiding his interests or talking about his day. He sat for hours just staring off into nothing, thinking. It bothered him, but what could he do?
And now there was this: the frightful shaking, the pale skin, the ringed eyes. The sweating and unsteady hands. And he was only fifteen. How? He wondered, looking up at the ceiling, keeping his brother from injuring himself with his own involuntary tremors. He knew many of the possible answers to his questions, but was loathe to dwell upon them. With an unsteady sigh, he closed his eyes, ignoring the few tears that ran down his cheeks as he pressed his lashes together, willing himself not to think too much about it any longer. He inhaled, Sherlock's dark curls brushing his face softly.
Why couldn't he have stayed boring? Ordinary. He would have given so much for Sherlock to remain the pleasant, mischievous little boy he had been; before.
Second Time
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They had been in town. Sherlock left him, and when he attempted to stop the boy that looked so much like Father did in old pictures, he turned, walking backwards slowly in the crowd, moving away from him.
"You worry too much, brother; I can take care of myself." He had shouted his rebellious decision and then vanished.
He'd gone on his business reluctantly, but had concluded it when he realized he couldn't let his brother disappear like this. He searched for him with mounting anxiety. But it had taken him mere moments to conclude where Sherlock had gone. It was always so astonishingly simple; and it was getting simpler to deduce these days. Sometimes, he wondered how much he would be able to stand before it drove him mad.
.
.
It was filthy, this place. And vulgar; full of vulgar people. The slum of the country, most likely.
And his little brother was here. Here.
Why?
He searched each room diligently. When he came to the top and final one, he stopped short. "Sherlock." he whispered the name, breathed it with a hidden sigh of relief and joy. But yet he was afraid, so afraid. Sherlock was leaning against the cloudy window panes, staring at the traffic below.
"They're all so stupid. They can't see what is before their eyes; day in, day out. How do you cope?" He looked up from the view, his voice raspy and thick. His eyes were watering and his nose was runny, as if he were sick with a cold, he noticed, looking at his brother with great care as he approached gradually. What sort of drug had he self-administered now?
What could he say; how could he make all this go away and ensure that Mum or Father didn't know that their youngest son was struggling to adjust to his higher intelligence? He closed his eyes momentarily, unable to stare into Sherlock's dark eyes. They burned with an intensity he disliked; they were filled with desperation and disgust.
"Sometimes. . ." he finally thought of something, "I resolve myself to the fact I shall always be above them and that caring for their opinion does not matter; I am above them, and they should accept that I know more. Why should I waste my life moping for idiots? Sherlock, what they think of you doesn't matter; don't care about them, because it does not advance you. It hinders." He gave the briefest of smiles, feeling uncertain of the effect his words would bring.
But his little brother nodded slowly, seeming to fold in on himself, slumping against the window again, dark curls splaying against the glass. "You're right, as usual. Get me home, Myc," he whispered.
"Of course, brother mine."
Third Time
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They were at a party one of Mum's colleague's daughters had invited them to; Mum had, of course, forced them to attend. She claimed they did not leave the house often enough to suit her tastes. He had scoffed and stalled, and Sherlock had quietly gone to his room, claiming that he did not want to interact with lesser beings. Things had been fine until he saw the cocaine. In bags and handkerchiefs they seemed to produce it like a magician produces white doves or rabbits from their hats. He knew he should get to his brother, but he was slow in reacting.
When he found Sherlock, he was lying against a wall in one of the guest bedrooms, eyes closed and trembling slightly. He could not understand the obsession with this drug; why this particular one? He must discover the reason, since Sherlock seemed to know and resort to it with alacrity.
"Sherlock, come, let's go home." he went over to him, pulling him to his unsteady feet, urging him to walk out of the room. No more of this for awhile; at least, until they learned to overcome whatever addiction he had.
.
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After that night, he didn't think he could stand this not knowing. He had researched so many drugs and possible symptoms in the medical journals that it was making him feel ill. He needed to change this. Sitting at his desk, he thought about it. Finally, he resolved to be the older brother in the situation; the smarter one. He stood, leaving his room and walking to Sherlock's; by the gods, it had been an age since they once shared rooms, it seemed!
"Sherlock?" he put his hand on the door. Why did he not care for his little brother as he should? Perhaps he was the reason this was happening. Perhaps it was his fault Sherlock had turned to this last resort. The thought felt like a weight on his shoulders. He looked around the untidy room with distaste, momentarily forgetting his mission when faced with this mess.
Sherlock was lying on his bed, writing something. "Yes?" he glanced up quickly and then returned to his work.
"I cannot allow you to continue this secret any longer." He moved into the room, seating himself on the edge of the bed. Sherlock instantly jerked up, a strange light in his eyes. "But, since I know I cannot prohibit you from it without telling Mum and Father, I'll let you." He held up a hand as Sherlock began to speak. "On one condition." He looked at his brother for a long moment, wondering where the years had gone and why he was doing this.
"Mycroft, the condition?" He lifted an eyebrow, most likely impatient for his older brother to be done with his concerns and gone.
"Ah, yes; whenever you are going to do that to yourself, write it down." He stood, knowing this was it; sink or swim, he could no longer watch out for Sherlock. He had to let the memories go and the future carry on. No use living in the past. He turned, and saw Sherlock looking after him.
"Write it down." he repeated, hoping to clarify.
Sherlock nodded slowly.
He gave him the briefest of smiles, and then exited the room as quickly as he could.
Years Later
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He stared out his windows at the garden outside. It was drizzling. But, that seemed appropriate. The earth could feel as he did. He thought about Sherlock's latest altercation. And then peered down at the list in his hand. So much now; it would kill an ordinary person, he knew. But Sherlock wasn't an ordinary person, and the thought made him smile grimly.
They had come a long way from those days, he mused. And yet, in times like these, it felt as if they were back to day one. Turning, he placed the list in the notebook on the table; for reference, he always told himself. It was a lie, of course. They were to remind him of how he had failed. Then, he glanced over at the clock. It was time now, he noticed. Not too early, so he wouldn't be forced to wait at the curb looking as stupid as the rest of the over-anxious lot. But not late, so the chance of catching Watson in the room was slight.
A day or two, they had said. That was all, and then he'd be back in Bakerstreet, playing that ghastly violin and dredging up something to amuse himself with.
Mycroft walked down to the car, and nodded to the driver once the door was closed. "Hospital?" the man asked out of habit.
"Yes."
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He remembered why he disliked hospital. The smell was ghastly; how could Sherlock enjoy the morgue? He decided it was best not to try and deduce answers at this moment; they could reflect badly on him in future. Better not to care.
He walked into the room, glancing at the door. Carefully, he closed it behind himself, hooking the umbrella over his forearm casually. Inhaling quickly, he turned around. The gaze he'd learned long ago to adjust to was there, but now there was something new in it: exhaustion.
"Come to take me home, Myc?" He asked because he had always asked, and it meant nothing; really.
"Not just yet, brother. Not just yet. But I am going to sit here awhile." He moved over to the chair - quite the uncomfortable hospital object, but he could bear it.
Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes closing. "I see." He sounded bored, cold.
He looked at Sherlock, swallowed, and sat, taking the notebook from his pocket and pulling out the lists; to tally them, nothing more. See what had changed and what had remained the same.
"No you don't," he whispered inaudibly. He was not here to keep Sherlock from leaving, or to keep him from exceeding his medicinal intake while John was away. He was here because he was the oldest, and they must be there for the youngest.
Always.
A/N:
This is for Mycroft, because before John's concern there was the oldest brother's; before Moriarty's taunting, there was Mycroft's protection. As the oldest, we're first, but then we're forgotten. It's also a possible reason why Mycroft detests being called Myc; in this fanfic, Sherlock only calls him that when he's high or coming off it.
I wrote this fanfic because I understand in a way, how Mycroft must feel for Sherlock. I don't show emotions easily, especially to my siblings. At times, I sound just a bit rude or snide to them, even, like Mycroft to Sherlock. But inside, you care, and can't bear to see them injured or hurt. You blame yourself for things that happen to them, or wish that the pain they go through was all yours. I think that though Mycroft is cold and sometimes unemotional, he would die if it meant Sherlock might walk away unscathed and alive. Like I would for any of my siblings.
I obviously don't own anything, because I'm not making any profit off this. Also, I can't clearly recall what happened at the end of the special, so I'm flying blind with the end of this. Hope you enjoyed it,
WH