When Mycroft was twelve, he became acutely and uncomfortably aware of his own body. He also became acutely and uncomfortably aware of other people's bodies. Specifically boys. Specifically the way boys' bodies were much smaller than his own (amongst other things). Mycroft had never been very self-conscious as a child, despite his size and childhood bullies, but puberty and the sneers from his classmates were taking a definite toll on his self esteem.
Mycroft had always been a rather emotional child; as a toddler he cried for hours when his mother would leave the house to shop. He had gained some self control when he began school, but to his horror, all that self-control melted the first time a classmate in year eight called him a derogatory name. Perhaps it wouldn't have hurt so much if that boy hadn't been Billy, if his mother hadn't eyed his breakfast plate so disapprovingly that morning, if Sherlock didn't attract so many coos and pets for being so damn pretty. Well, those things didn't matter, because it did hurt. It hurt very much, and Mycroft found himself crying in the boy's room that day during lunch.
One day, when their mother was feeling particularly cruel and hungover, she called Mycroft over and proceeded to inform him that he was fat. Sherlock had been reading from the Encyclopaedia Britannica in the same room, and unfortunately got to hear everything that was said. Unfortunately for Mycroft, that is. Sherlock was fascinated at the array of emotions that played across his older brother's face and body and took great delight in repeating their mother's statements whenever he could, just to see those emotions again and again.
So Mycroft's only safe haven was taken away from him. His brother still looked gleeful upon seeing Mycroft, but it was no longer because the older boy would read to him and play pirates with him. Now it was because Mycroft was one of his toys.
(Eventually Mycroft learned to school his appearance so as not to give away the pain Sherlock was causing. This, coupled with the fact that Mycroft would no longer read to play pirates, sent Sherlock into the most violent tantrum the Holmes home had ever seen. Hating himself for it, Mycroft sat down with Sherlock and, once the tears and screams had ended, explained exactly why he would no longer play with his little brother. Sherlock immediately promised never to call Mycroft a nasty name again, and then proceeded to beg his older brother to read from his biology textbook.)
It seemed that, whenever the Holmes family would go out on their obligatory Saturday outing to the park/museum/library, people would gather to ooh and aah at the spectacularly beautiful family. Father Holmes was tall, with a mop of mahogany hair, a well-groomed beard, and stern brown eyes. Mummy Holmes was also tall, her hair a brown tangle of curls, her eyes a similar, colder brown.
(Grandfather Holmes had the blue-green-grey eyes that both Holmes boys shared.)
Then people would look at Sherlock, in his pram as a baby and toddler, walking next to Mycroft as a small child. The smaller-than-average child was usually seen with a blank look on his face, but this did not deter people from strolling up to him and trying to ruffle his auburn curls or pinch his freckled cheeks. Whenever anyone tried to do so, Sherlock would yell and hide behind Mycroft, prompting people to look at the older boy.
Given that Mycroft was chubby and sour looking, his hair a much brighter red than his father and brother's, people tended to assume things. Namely,
"Oh, it was so kind of you to adopt!"
Mycroft found these moments humiliating. Father Holmes found them amusing, and Sherlock and his mother ignored them.
Mycroft maintained the thought that it would get better as he got older. Grandmother Holmes assured him that he would lose weight as he got taller, but Mycroft insisted this was ridiculous. He would not lose weight; it would be shifted elsewhere. Grandmother Holmes did not like this response and quietly asked her son if this could be the last visit until Christmas please and thank you.
No, Mycroft held onto the belief that as his classmates matured, they would become less cruel. That their decreasing cruelty would make a difference in how he viewed himself. What Mycroft didn't know- or perhaps he did, and he was just trying desperately to convince himself otherwise. What he didn't know is that people will always be cruel; they just don't need words to be it.
(AN: This chapter... bleh. I'm not completely satisfied with it and it's a little longer than I expected. Argh it just went everywhere and now I feel like I should apologize, well. Shan't. Ahem, so there was a slightly bigger skip in age here, next chapter Mycroft will be in his mid-to-late teens. Also according to Sir Doyle, Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock. So there. Sherlock's autism isn't going to be shown in a lot of depth in this fic, partially because this is Mycroft's fic, but also because I'm only running on Wikipedia articles and faint memories of autistic classmates. Mycroft's own autism will be hinted at, but I have him put down as a high-functioning autistic, so it'll be a little different than what some may be expecting. What am I talking about, 'some'. I think I have one reader. I love you very very much for reading this by the way. I had a point somewhere... Forgot. Ah, dull. Well my lovely(s?)! I may not get the next chapter out for a few days, irritating eClass assignments and all. Also if you ever notice any plot holes in my fics, something that I haven't explained, please let me know and I shall do my best to remedy that. Or ignore it completely, you never know. 'Til next chapter!)