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Mycroft sighed and turned the page, finally conceding defeat. He would be looking through the rest of the album, a small, rare victory for distracting emotions. He felt his throat tighten uncomfortably as he stared at the next photo. Mycroft, eleven, sitting in a tiny closet, his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock, three, who was sitting in Mycroft's lap wrapped up in a small, blue blanket. His eyes were squeezed shut and his cheek was resting on Mycroft's shoulder. The older brother's eyes were also closed, and his face was obscured by his brother's dark, wild curls. He would never admit it to anyone, but Mycroft knew he was hiding tears. It was the last time he cried.
The fits began a few months before Sherlock's third birthday. No, Mycroft amended, that is when everyone started noticing the fits. Sherlock had always been a fussy baby, but that had not seemed remarkable, merely an unfortunate and sometimes vexing reality that Sherlock would eventually outgrow. The only one who seemed to really mind was Father, who glowered at Sherlock whenever he felt the baby was too disruptive, which was nearly every time they were in the same room. Mummy, the Nanny, and those of Mummy's friends with whom she discussed such matters only became worried as Sherlock approached his third birthday, by which time, Mummy's friends tittered, with the faintest hint of disapproval, he really should be growing out of these silly tantrums.
If anything, Sherlock's tantrums only worsened as his birthday drew nearer. They would often come out of nowhere; Sherlock would be examining an insect or looking at books in the library or driving cars off the second floor banister when suddenly he would drop whatever he was doing and curl up in a ball, his hands clutching his head as if trying to cover both his ears and his eyes at once. Sometimes he would lie there in silence, unnaturally still for fifteen minutes at a time. More often he would scream for five, ten, twenty minutes, rolling on the ground and fighting off anyone who approached him.
The fits threw the household into chaos. The Nanny, and occasionally Mummy, would try to quiet Sherlock. At first they tried to soothe the screaming child, but as the fits became longer and more frequent they would increasingly turn to various forms of scolding and punishment…to no avail. Father would leave immediately often not returning until hours later.
Mycroft usually observed the spectacle in silence, positioning himself close enough to Sherlock to see what was happening, but not close enough that Mummy or the Nanny would think he was actually interested. Sherlock would scream and thrash and roll around, violently rejecting any attempts to calm him, and Mycroft would watch, a small, puzzled frown playing his lips. The strange swelling sensation that arose only when he was interacting with Sherlock, a mixture of love, pride, and, more and more, concern, pushed him to try and discover the cause these fits and devise a practical solution. He consulted numerous books on psychology, child behavior and development, and mental disorders, all to no avail. While he was able to ascribe some of Sherlock's behaviors and symptoms to one condition or another, nothing was right. There was always something that convinced Mycroft that particular disorder was not his brother's problem. He would slam his fist on the hard, oak table whenever this occurred, furious both that he had finally discovered a problem that his mind could not unravel, and that he was failing to take care of Sherlock.
Mummy planned an enormous party for Sherlock's third birthday, complete with caterers, a bouncy castle, and an enormous stack of presents. The guest list was staggering; anyone who had remotely made the younger Holmes' acquaintance had been invited. As he watched the event planner dash around, coordinating last minute preparations, Mycroft knew that none of this was actually for Sherlock who, despite being a source of near-constant chatter, did not interact well with other children. Instead, Sherlock preferred to play by himself; his latest obsession was digging up and observing insects. Recently, Mycroft noted with pride, he had even taken to drawing his specimens on as accurately as possible with a pencil ("cra-ans too thick!") he snapped when the Nanny had offered him some. No, the elaborate festivities were intended for for the Wilson family, a very well respected and wealthy family (even by the Holmes' standards) that had just moved into the neighborhood and had a daughter roughly Sherlock's age. Mycroft scowled at the extravagant scene. Mummy was obviously trying to make a favorable impression, at her son's expense, but he quickly replaced the scowl with a gracious smile as guests began to trickle in.
It was not until nearly everyone had taken their seats that Mummy noticed that Sherlock was not there. "That silly boy," she chirped as the other parents smiled appreciatively and the children rolled their eyes in boredom, eager for the cake and games "Always so forgetful...Mycroft dear," she fixed him with her nervous smile, "go find him please...we will go ahead and start, we do not want to keep everyone waiting," she concluded with a quick glance at the Wilsons. Mycroft nodded and got up from the table, happy to leave the babbling, inane party behind, even if it was to chase after his brother.
It did not take long. Sherlock was kneeling in one of the flowerbeds, prodding what Mycroft suspected to be a rather large worm. "Sherlock!" he called.
Sherlock looked up and smiled, "Look My!" he called, "Worm!" he held it up for Mycroft to see.
"Very nice, Sherlock," Mycroft said, forcing himself to smile, "But we have to go to the party now...you forgot!"
His grin vanishing, Sherlock returned his attention to the dirt, "Didn't fo-get," he said.
"Then why aren't you there?" Mycroft asked, drawing up next to the smaller boy.
Sherlock prodded the worm moodily, "S'not for me."
Mycroft's heart sank, he knows, somehow he knows the party's not for him. "Sherlock," he said, a little softer. The boy looked up at him, his blue-gray eyes stubborn, sad, and...perceptive. Quickly abandoning any hope of lying to the boy, Mycroft said, "I know, but it will make Mummy very happy if you go."
Sherlock stuck out his lips, "It's my birday," he said petulantly, "Mummy suppose to make me happy."
Mycroft sighed, "I know, Sherlock." He cast his mind about, trying to think of some other way to convince his incredibly stubborn brother to willingly attend the festivities, "It will make me happy," he said desperately.
To his surprise, Sherlock hesitated, considering this. Using the delay to his advantage, Mycroft quickly continued, "And if you are very good the whole time, I will show you a big book with pictures of all sorts of different kinds of worms."
Sherlock's face brightened, "Prah-mis," he said.
"I promise," Mycroft affirmed, "But only if you behave the whole time. Do you promise?"
"I prah-mis," Sherlock said happily.
Mycroft smiled, "Good." He held out his hand, and Sherlock took it, his pale fingers clinging to Mycroft's thumb. The Elder Holmes brushed the dirt of Sherlock's suit the best he could and led Sherlock to the party.
To Mycroft's mild indignation, the festivities were well under way when the two brothers arrived. He looked down at Sherlock. The young boy's eyes were very, very wide. Sherlock looked from the big tables, where the adults were talking and laughing quietly as waiter's filled cups and replaced empty platters, to the smaller tables where the children were babbling excitedly to each other. More and more of them were abandoning the pretense of eating altogether, leaving the table and running out to play on the wide grassy lawn or in the bouncy castle. Sherlock then looked over at the heaping pile of presents with a dozen different types of wrapping paper before looking back at the adults table, the children's table, the field, the presents; his grip on Mycroft's thumb was painfully tight.
Then Sherlock screamed, a loud, piercing cry that grated against Mycroft's ears and instantly silenced the entire party. Releasing Mycroft's hand, Sherlock fell to the ground, covering his eyes and rolling back and forth, his screams growing higher in volume and pitch.
"What did you do?" Mummy demanded, rushing up to them, her face ashen with fear-not for Sherlock, Mycroft knew, but for herself, the embarrassing episode that was unfolding before the entire party and would undoubtedly instigate months of gossip.
Mycroft fixed his mother was a cold glare, "Nothing," he said, "As you know."
Mummy blinked, properly abashed, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Wilson approached, surveying the screaming Sherlock with a single, critical, raised eyebrow, "Are these tantrums common?" she asked haughtily. Instantly distracted, Mummy turned and tried to explain Sherlock's fits in the way that would rouse the least social criticism. The other mothers were approaching now, forming a rough circle around Mycroft and Sherlock, their faces wearing expressions ranging from pity to disgust.
"Does he need a doctor?" one woman tittered.
"No," another replied, "He's just trying to draw attention to himself."
"Is he autistic?" another whispered loudly.
They continued to cluck and gossip among themselves until Mycroft felt he was drowning in the inane debate. Sherlock's shrieks were becoming, if possible, louder, as if he were trying to overpower the pointless chatter with his screams.
Then, all at once, Mycroft understood. How had he not realized it before? Without another thought, he undid his tie and knelt down next to Sherlock. Then, with considerable difficulty, Mycroft tied the tie around Sherlock's eyes, ignoring the outraged cries of the women, Mummy included. Sherlock, however, did not seem to mind. If anything, his cries became slightly less piercing as he clapped his tiny hands over his ears instead of trying to cover both his eyes and ears at once. Mycroft stood and picked the still-fighting Sherlock up, pressing him tightly against his chest to keep the toddler from wriggling out of his grasp. He marched up to the house, barely noticing the hordes of eyes that followed him. They were irrelevant. All that mattered now was making Sherlock better, and Mycroft finally knew what to do. A maid opened the door him as he approached, "Everything alright, sir?" she asked faintly.
"Fine," Mycroft snapped.
For a moment it looked like the maid might object, but something in the Elder Holmes' expression seemed to make her think better of it. Instead, she nodded and stepped back. Sherlock's screams had regained their desperate edge, so Mycroft quickened his pace and headed toward the staircase, not even bothering to respond when his father shouted from the den, "What's that brat done now!"
Mycroft sighed in relief as he finally reached Sherlock's room, and then frowned at the mess of clothing, books, toys, and other random objects that covered the floor like a second carpet. This would not do at all. Laying his still-screaming brother on the bed, Mycroft turned his attention to the closet. It was small and square, but perhaps, the Elder Holmes mused, that would be better. Kicking aside the objects blocking the closet door, Mycroft opened it and peered inside. As he suspected, the closet was nearly empty, containing only a few of Sherlock's clothes, shoes, and a small, blue blanket. Even better.
Pausing only to unceremoniously throw the clothing and shoes out into the room at large, Mycroft picked up Sherlock, whose lungs were still operating at full strength, carried him into the closet, and silently closed the door.
"Sherlock," he said in a low, calm voice as he removed his tie from the boy's face, "Sherlock it's alright, just take a deep breathe."
This did nothing to ease his brother's hysterical screams. If anything, they seemed louder.
Talking didn't help before, Mycroft berated himself. Of course it won't now, but Sherlock clearly needed something more than dark and quiet to help calm his mind.
The answer that presented itself was simple, obvious, and somewhat distasteful. Mycroft hesitated, but sat down and seated the still-fighting Sherlock into his lap, holding him close. He could feel the toddler's trembling sobs. Mycroft frowned, why had he not noticed the trembling before? It seemed the blanket would, indeed, become useful. He grabbed the small blue blanket and wrapped it around the younger Holmes. Sherlock gripped the edges of the fabric with his tiny fingers and pulled it tighter around him. Mycroft nodded in satisfaction. "Close your eyes," he murmured.
Sherlock paused mid-shriek, snapped his eyes shut, and continued screaming. However, his cries were a little more muted now. It took ten minutes for the screams to become low, heaving sobs. Still gripping the blanket, Sherlock twisted around until his cheek came to rest on Mycroft's shoulder. Surprised by the gesture, Mycroft hugged his brother a little tighter and buried his face in Sherlock's curls, my poor, poor brother, he thought, we were so stupid…we should have realized... No. There was no we Mycroft remembered wearily. No one else could understand or take care of Sherlock…just him. I should have realized sooner, he thought, hugging his brother a little tighter, I should have known that you had a fit whenever your mind was receiving too much information…to many sights, too many sounds, to many thoughts bouncing around your little brain. Of course they make you scream; you want to drown them out. I was stupid, stupid, stupid.
A new and terrible type of aloneness assaulted Mycroft. He did not mind being the different one, the clever one, anymore…he had Sherlock. But how to care for the screaming toddler…alone? This was not mere loneliness, Mycroft knew…this was fear, fear that, despite being brilliant, he would fail Sherlock. Mycroft buried his face in his brother's dark curls. How will I do this? A few, traitorous tears slid slowly down his cheeks.
Suddenly the space was flooded with garish light. The sudden disturbance threw Sherlock back into hysterics, and Mycroft held him still tighter, glaring fiercely at the disturber. Mummy was standing in the doorway, her blue-grey eyes fraught with uncertainty.
"Go back to the party, Mother," Mycroft ordered. Get out you silly, inept women, he was really saying as his fear suddenly transformed into determination, because I am going to care for Sherlock since you cannot. Even if I have to do it alone.
Of course she did not understand. "But..." she spluttered, "What...is he...?"
"Tell them that Sherlock his feeling unwell," Mycroft commanded in a cold voice that made Mummy step back in alarm, "And return the party...now."
Mummy opened her mouth to speak. Mycroft glared at her, his mouth a grim line that dared her to disobey him. Leave now, he thought, Sherlock is my first priority. I will do whatever it takes to care for him, no matter what it does to anyone else. Even you.
Mummy's blue-grey eyes, the same color as Sherlock's, but lacking his intelligence, widened. She stumbled back a little more, nodding as she did. Just this once, she understood. Still nodding like bobble head, she shut the door, dousing the brothers once again in darkness.
Mycroft buried his face back in Sherlock's curls. The toddler's screams were desperate again; it took another fifteen minutes for the screams to settle into heaving sobs, and another ten for the sobs to ease into deep, steady breaths. Mycroft sighed in relief, satisfied that the younger Holmes was finally asleep. With some difficulty and no small amount of protestation from his stiff legs, Mycroft got to his feet, still holding Sherlock, and exited the closet. He laid Sherlock on his bed, removed his shoes, and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. His brother released a small, soft sigh of contentment. Mycroft smiled, despite himself. He was alone, to be sure, but there was something…remarkable…about this aloneness that made it not so lonely after all. He laid a hand on Sherlock's curls. "You are, and always will be, my first priority," he whispered to the sleeping toddler. Then, with a final glance at his brother, he left the room, closing the door silently behind him.