Chapter 4: Alone
Sorry, it's been quite a while since I've worked on this story! I hope the new chapter makes up for it, even if it is rather short. As always, please review! It doesn't take more than a moment, and it is immensely appreciated.
All men's misfortunes spring from their hatred of being alone. –Jean De La Bruyere
Sherlock was six when Mycroft disappeared. There were a few words about university, words he didn't quite pay attention to, comforting explanations and rules in a firm tone flying back and forth above his head. It was all boring and he ignored it, instead exploring the anatomy of a dragonfly in his mind before moving on to the geography of deep sea trenches. He looked up a few hours later to ask his brother something about the finer points of the insect nervous system and whether it would be hypothetically possible for a cockroach-like creature to exist on the scale of The Metamorphosis' Gregor and found the house empty.
It had that echoing feel such that he knew right away, but he wandered through the rooms anyway, feeling like a ghost. It was a expansive house, finely built and well-equipped, but utterly empty besides himself and the occasional insect. Mrs. Holmes didn't approve of pets, and her husband had yielded with a sigh like a pillow giving up the ghost. She was a tall woman in black, clicking in high heels, always moving quickly, coming or going—he was a chalky man, spectacles winking, sometimes standing in the doorway before vanishing again. Neither of them were ever here.
But Mycroft was. He stayed in his room studying, learning the year's curriculum before moving on with a groan of impatience to more important matters, sometimes making phonecalls, sometimes writing, hair pushed back and eyes narrowed, pencil flying across the sheets of paper. But he was always at home—until, it seemed, today.
Sherlock had read about loneliness in one of his sentimental phases (he didn't have time to bother with fiction nowadays). There was also the odd psychological study, although they were full of contradictions and uncertainties. But he had to say that as far as personal experience went—experience limited to the past few minutes, admittedly—he didn't like it much.
And so he made his way to Mycroft's room and took each book off the shelf, layering them carefully, building the paper-and-binding walls higher. The blueprint expanded in his mind and he trotted back and forth through the house, fetching things, until at last he crawled into his fortress and lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the blanket stretched above him. Frowning as he concentrated, he began to lay the foundations of a similar fortress in his mind.
When the phone rang at 4:26 in the afternoon, Sherlock carefully removed a few books from his makeshift den to form a door, crawled out, and put them back before breaking into a run and picking up the phone as he slid to a stop on the polished wood floor.
"Yes, what?" he asked.
There was a scratchy sigh on the other end. Mycroft. "I wanted to check in. Mother and Father aren't there?"
"You know they aren't."
"Did you have a nice day?" Mycroft's question was stilted and uncomfortable.
"Where are you?" Sherlock asked, not quite avoiding sounding plaintitive.
"University. I told you."
"I wasn't listening," Sherlock said accusingly. "The house is empty. It's been empty all day."
"You're almost seven, I thought you could handle it."
Sherlock drew himself up, although he knew Mycroft couldn't see it. "Of course I can handle it."
"Then why are you complaining?"
"I'm not complaining." There was a long silence. "You never go anywhere," Sherlock said grudgingly. "It was strange today."
"Do you want me to call a nanny?" There was a hint of an insult in Mycroft's tone, but Sherlock knew his brother would do it if he felt it was necessary.
"No." Sherlock spoke decisively, pushing a curl off his forehead. "I'm sure I'll get used to it."
Years later, he realized it wasn't something one got used to. He learned how to put it aside—the only trouble was when he looked up, a question or comment or clarification on the tip of his tongue, and realized no one was there. It fell over him like a pall, unexpectedly—because Mycroft had left for university again; because he had refused a roommate this year; because it was probably better to rent a flat alone, all things considered. The skull, however illegitimately acquired, was a help. At least his voice didn't trail around the flat meaninglessly when he spoke. And criticizing the police—when he finally convinced them of their inadequacy—was soothing.
It was a weakness, he felt, on a level with the need for sleep and food—unavoidable and tiresome. And so, just as he reluctantly slept and ate, he acquired a flatmate.
The change was unexpected. Not the living situation or companionship—that he had predicted—but the increase in general quality. As if suddenly someone was feeding him nutrient supplements. He found himself squinting at John from different angles, trying to find the component that was changing his life so subtly and so jarringly. He had always found it odd that people chose to surround themselves with other humans—didn't they grate on each other? It was illogical. But it was undeniable that he was quicker, more energetic, more brilliant as the loneliness lifted.
The smug understanding in Mycroft's smile was tiresome, but Sherlock made his customary jabs and ignored it. It wasn't as if he couldn't be alone. Twenty years of solitude had proven that, if nothing else. He simply functioned better with someone else in the house.
