Two days before Sherlock's tenth birthday, Mycroft starts dating a girl. Her name is Annie, but she calls herself Anthea, which Sherlock finds entirely understandable. If he had a boring name like Annie, he'd change it too.
She's snarky and clever and a little bit mad. If she weren't constantly occupying his brother, Sherlock would like her very much.
As it stands, she steals his brother. Mummy gets black moods where she must spend long hours sleeping and Daddy is often away on business, but before Anthea he could count upon his brother's undivided attention. Now, more often than not. Mycroft's got his door shut so he can talk on the telephone for hours. If Sherlock knocks, Mycroft snaps at him to amuse himself.
So he does.
He spends most of his time on the computer, clicking through pages of information. He learns about all sorts of interesting things - about giraffes and tobacco ash and the progress of rigor mortis. By the end of the day, his back aches from being hunched over for so long, and his eyes are burning. Sometimes, he learns about things which give him nightmares, but at least they make his dreams interesting.
When he gets bored of that, he stands next to Mycroft's door and presses his ear against the wood. Usually it's too thick and all he can hear is the buzz of Mycroft's voice, but not and again he catches phrase. It's frightening to hear his brother speak so kindly to someone who is not himself.
Love, he knows, is limited. If Mycroft pours all of himself into Anthea, Sherlock will go thirsty.
Perhaps she recognizes his hostility, because Anthea often brings him a present when she comes over - a candy or a folded paper flower. Once she drops a crane red as fresh blood into his open palms and tells him that it stands for peace.
Deciding that he hates her, Sherlock crushes these when she's not looking.
Even so, he likes the way she cups her chin with a hand and leans forwards to listen to him explain what he'd learned on the computer. He tries not to, but the gratification persists.
"You're getting mixed up," she tells him one day. "Your facts are confused. Here, let me teach you a way to remember."
###
He sits on Doctor Watson's desk, swinging his legs back and forth. He's wearing shiny black shoes and a cream-and-brown striped cardigan - an exact replica of the one the storyteller wore. Beside him is his Spiderman backpack, which holds Yorik the Skull. His feet don't come anywhere near the ground.
"It's called the Method of Loci," he's saying, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. "You make a house inside of your mind, then put all the memories inside like things."
"Mm." The doctor looks up. He's got his stethoscope against Sherlock's back. "That's clever. I need you to be quiet for a minute, though."
"Do you want to hear about the varieties of tobacco ash?"
"Not at the moment, no."
"People think they're the same, but they're not. There are different brands, which is easy, and then the ashes change if you smoke them differently. And people always smoke them differently."
The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but shuts his mouth anyway. If he doesn't, Doctor Watson will just harp on and on without listening.
After a minute, he gets bored and gives up. "Are you done yet?"
The doctor sighs. "Yes, yes. Finished." He packs up his stethoscope and walks around so he can face Sherlock. There's a smile on his face. "You're all done. Perfectly healthy. You're about up to proper weight, too."
Sherlock frowns. He doesn't like to be ordinary. Ordinary things are put to the side and forgotten, like Christmas presents that seemed exciting in their wrappers but turn out top be boring when uncovered.
The doctor laughs. "Don't look at me like that, Sherlock. You're extraordinary in other ways, of course. You're the first ten-year-old I've met who knows the method of Loci."
It's not enough, but it will do. Sherlock jumps down from the table. "You should work on it, too. It might come in handy some day."
The doctor nods, then pauses. He runs his palm over his mouth. "There's just one thing I'd like to ask you about. Those marks on your arms -"
Sherlock draws back his sleeves. There are abrasions on them, small red marks from where he'd bitten himself. When the word becomes too frantic, it's useful for calming him down. These days, Mycroft is too busy to do it for him. "It's just something I do." The doctor opens his mouth as if to say something, so Sherlock changes the subject. When you start telling people facts about themselves, they usually loose their train of thought. "You aren't really a consulting pediatrician."
"I'm sorry?"
"I've looked you up. You aren't official." Sherlock pulls his sleeves down, folds his hands behind his back and stares up at the doctor. He's been told he's got sharp eyes, not so much like a hawk as like a vulture waiting for something to pick apart. "You've just got a website, and people who come see you when they need help. You're a pediatrician who people consult."
"Well -" The doctor scratches the back of his head, then shrugs. "You've got me."
"It means something. You can't just make up that it means something else."
At this, the doctor pauses. He looks down, frowns, then returns Sherlock's gaze. "If you're worried about whether or not I know enough to treat you -"
"Oh, I'm not." Sherlock grins at him, then presses a finger to his lips. He taps them. "It's interesting. No one else has got an illegal consulting pediatrician for a doctor."
###
On the way out, Mrs. Hudson, who isn't a landlady, gives Sherlock one of her cookies to eat. It's fantastic, even if it's chocolate chip, which is not his favorite. He nibbles on it as he follows after Mycroft.
As they reach the end of the pavement, Mycroft suddenly turns to face Sherlock. "Did you tell him you were lonely?"
"What?" Sherlock, who has never mentioned any such thing, stares up at Mycroft. He frowns. His brother is so tall he has to crane his neck in order to see properly. Sherlock's still got a few years to go before his growth spurt. It's like looking up at a mountain. "I didn't. Of course not."
"When I was leaving, he said it seemed as if you were." Mycroft pauses. "That isn't true, is it?"
Sherlock presses the nail of his index finger into his thumb. "No."
"Good. Well then. He's a bit ... interfering, isn't he?"
Sherlock shrugs. Mycroft ruffles his hair, fondly, then pulls out his cellphone and starts tapping away to Anthea.
It's recently rained. Sherlock stomps in all the puddles so that the murky water will splash onto his brother's pants. He does this all the way home. Mycroft doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't look up even once, and when they get inside, he swerves immediately towards his bedroom so that he can call Anthea.
Sherlock watches him go, then heads for the computer. There are more things to learn. Facts never get bored of you.