Title: A Study of Relations
Author: charlie1902
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: AU, Friendship, Humour, Hurt/Comfort,
Rating: T
Warning: Evil deeds are discussed, rude words are said but nothing is explicit
Spoilers: Just the basics
Summery: AU. Sherlock is a teen in need of guidance. Doctor Watson is an army vet in need of a future. Not Slash.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters you recognise but do own the ones you don't. This is my way of loving them.
Chapter One
Sherlock & Mycroft
Lord and Lady Holmes were rich, powerful and the devoted parents of two boys. They gave their sons everything they needed and a lot of what they wanted. The elder, Mycroft, was the perfect son: studios, respectful, responsible and reserved. He was reliable in a way his younger brother would never be. Somehow Sherlock managed to be almost the complete opposite; inquisitive, irrational and arrogant and he had a need for praise and attention (which his parents put down to being younger by seven years) and yet they were so similar: intelligent, logical, decisive and observant.
While Lord Holmes regularly wished Sherlock was more norm … dependable like Mycroft, Lady Holmes often regretted how fast her older son had grown up.
When it came to educating their sons Lord and Lady Holmes spared no expense. Mycroft was top of every class in the very best school and destined for every success. He easily passed every exam but instead of rousing jealousy from his classmates he invoked admiration. Even from a young age he was gracious and unassuming, slow to anger and preferred to remain in the background. He had his critiques of course; a teacher who thought he was manipulative and an ex-girlfriend who accused him of being nonchalant. Sherlock complained repeatedly that his older brother was over-bearing.
The youngest Holmes moved from one school to another, never settling. By the age of eight his parents had given up on formal education for him choosing instead to hire a personal tutor the lack of other children suiting their less-than sociable son. The difficulty was trying to keep them: most barely lasted a semester. Sherlock had a fascination with the morbid that many found nauseating (much to his delight). His intelligence often meant he could run rings around them and he was always compelled to point out their flaws and mistakes. Most of them thought he was showing off but his family knew he was genuinely surprised at how oblivious they were. His irrepressible quest for knowledge (and poor impulse control) led to him questioning them at any hour. He would text them throughout the night as his mind flittered from one subject to another. He once told his mother he was unable to sleep because his brain refused to stop thinking.
As he turned thirteen he tried to persuade his parents he could teach himself. A notion even his devoted mother found scary. She worried for his health: mental and physical. He spent all his time alone or with adults, he rarely ate or slept and shared none of the interests boys his age should.
In the following two years Lady Holmes aged dramatically with the worry and stress of his antics. That concerned her husband and eldest son and created tension between them and the youngest. Lord Holmes firstly tried talking to him, then shouting at him and had even threatened to cut him off financially. Mycroft had taken the more extreme measure of hiring men to spy on him and instructed them to intersect him as he tried to buy drugs or perform other reckless acts. Lady Holmes had gently asked him to take better care of himself but even all of that only curbed his careless behaviour for a short time. At just fifteen he seemed to be on the road to calamity.
Then he met a man who had an unlikely influence on him.
It was the beginning of summer 2010; Sherlock was supposed to start work on his GCSE's. The teenager had a new tutor he was fiendishly trying to scare off; bored with a syllabus he found irrelevant. Mycroft at twenty-two was expected to receive near-perfect results from a Politics and Business Masters at Cambridge University. He was readying himself to start work in London in a most prestigious position (for his age) in the British Government. Lady Holmes had allowed herself to be talked into taking a holiday at a world-renowned health spa in the states and Lord Holmes was out in India as a representative for his country.
The two men Mycroft employed to follow Sherlock lost him and mere hours later each of the family received a phone call from the police; Sherlock had been the innocent bystander to a drug gang feud and was lying in the hospital with serious injuries. Mycroft quickly made his way to the hospital while their parents organised flights home.
Sitting by his bedside Mycroft noted the traces of white powder on Sherlock's fingers. He wiped them away quickly and got up to pace the room a few times. He picked up the doctors chart on his brother to read; but it merely confirmed what he had already be told: dislocated left shoulder, bullet through where his appendix had been removed just a year ago, bullet through the muscle of his right arm, concussion, a fractured knee and a lumbar disc hernation.
He couldn't help but picture how each injury probably occurred and was exasperated at his brother. Everything would heal quickly except for the injury to his back, which could keep him confined to his bed for a number of weeks. Mycroft realised this would drive his brother to complete insanity unless action was taken. Sitting down again Mycroft strived to come up with a plan of action to keep him safe from himself.
A few hours later Sherlock stirred, shifting in his bed as he became aware of the pain from his injuries. Mycroft stayed silent for a moment to give his sibling a chance to analyst and process each pain sensation.
"Sherlock do you need more pain relief?"
"I can handle it," was the stubborn reply,
"That wasn't what I asked,"
"No! I'm fine! Everything is fine!"
"You sound irritated brother are you sure . . . "
"I'm FINE!"
"Alright then – you won't mind if I get a doctor to confirm your diagnosis?"
"…" Mycroft couldn't quite hear Sherlock's mumbled response but heard enough to realise he didn't want too. He got up from his chair and said, as he entered the hallway to look for a doctor,
"Do try to keep your vulgar language to yourself Sherlock you have a roommate."
Though the family had extensive private health care the ambulance had driven Sherlock to the nearest hospital which happened to be run by the National Health Service. The doctors had already decided Sherlock wouldn't be able to be moved for a few days. The standard room he was in had two beds that were separated by an all-grey curtain on rails. Beside each bed was a white cabinet and chair. The walls were also white and the only note-worthy object in the room was a TV high up on the opposite wall (this one happened to be out of order). A far cry from the elaborately decorated single rooms found in private facilities.
Mycroft soon returned with a doctor and after a brief examination Sherlock was given more pain relief which made him relax and then scowl. The greying doctor explained each of Sherlock's injuries, what they were doing about them and any future consequences. He spoke clearly and kindly to Sherlock who had already inferred much of what was said.
"Do you have any questions?" the old doctor asked,
"Sherlock remember your manners!" Mycroft prompted as the teen just shook his head,
"No … thank you,"
"Oh you are very welcome," the doctor seemed surprised by Sherlock's gratitude (forced as it was) – an insight into the behaviour of his usual patients Mycroft and Sherlock surmised.
"And when do you expect your parents to arrive?"
"Our father will be here tomorrow morning, our mother a little later,"
"Good a young boy needs his family in these circumstances." The doctor seem to drift off in his own thoughts,
"Quite, thank you for your help," Mycroft's tone was dismissive,
"Yes, yes I must be off now but if you need anything press that button and a nurse will be right along,"
"Thank you again," Mycroft walked him to the door,
"Right well, bye,"
"Ug could you have kissed his arse any more?" Sherlock said as he shifted uncomfortably in his bed. There was a soft giggle from the bed alongside his that both brothers ignored.
"What happened Sherlock? The police told me the deceased bodies of two well-known drug-dealers were found near where you were picked up. They happen to think you were innocently caught in the cross fire between two rival gangs." Mycroft stood over Sherlock and frowned,
"What do you think?" the teen smirked up at his brother,
"I think you went looking for trouble," Mycroft answered calmly,
"I invited them both to meet me there – I wanted to get the best deal," Sherlock closed his eyes and grinned as his brother erupted in anger; Mycroft kept his cool so well Sherlock liked nothing more than to provoke him.
Mycroft ranted about his recklessness, the significance of starting a gang war and the consequences of taking drugs for a full minute before collecting himself and calming down.
"And if you had been killed what then?"
"Then I would have gone out with a bang!" Sherlock said with a straight face,
"And left mother, father and I distraught at your passing,"
"Oh Mycroft I didn't know you cared," Sherlock sneered and moved his uninjured arm to lie across his face. Mycroft recognised this as a sign he wanted to distance himself from the conversation because he was feeling emotions he wasn't sure how to deal with.
"These painkillers are stifling my thinking and crippling my ability to speak to you," Sherlock said suddenly,
"Rather that than crippling you with pain," Mycroft replied softly,
"I should be the judge of that!" Sherlock shouted jerking upwards and then hissing as pain hit.
"Don't move around so much and not until you reach eighteen," Mycroft ordered and helped Sherlock settle gently back into the bedding,
"I noticed, despite my handicap, I'm not in the children's ward?" Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised,
"I declined to inflict you on already poorly children," and those wards were incredibly depressing and noisy.
"So thoughtful," Sherlock snarled,
The siblings both paused to think back on what had been said. Each had cause to regret what they had said but neither was willing to apologise.
"How do you do it?" Sherlock quietly asked,
"What?" Mycroft's query was slow and quiet, worn from his worry.
"Act so normal; I know you think like me, that you observe as I do and make the same logical deductions,"
"I do but I use my observations instead of merely announcing them and exasperating everyone around me."
Sherlock sighed,
"Why should I conform to other peoples limitations?"
"Because otherwise you will be ridiculed and end up alone," Sherlock remained quiet at that, sullen and achy and not sure that would be such a bad thing. He got bored not lonely.
Eventually Mycroft stood,
"I need to step out for lunch, I imagine yours will be arriving soon please try to act cordially to the staff here."
Still Sherlock said nothing and Mycroft left with a sigh.
TBC
