CHAPTER 4
"'The Lost Lover' – that is pathetic, John, even by your blogging standards." They were sharing a taxi with John riding shotgun, Sherlock in the backseat, and Octavia next to him.
"And how would you, in your infinite wisdom, have phrased the headline?"
Sherlock spread his hands in frustration. "Why must everything always rhyme, John? Harmonic end syllables are so elementary. Why don't you try a limerick for a change? A tanka? Oulipo? Pantoum? A nice rondeau or a sestina?"
"Alright, alright, we are very impressed with your vast knowledge of literary forms. Now shut up or start your own blog."
"I do have a blog, which you are well aware of."
"And judging by your guest counter, people like my pedestrian poetry way more than your inane lists."
"Alright, boys. There's plenty of space in the world wide web for both of you." Octavia adjusted her skirt. John huffed, and surprisingly, Sherlock kept his mouth shut.
John had been slightly surprised at how easily Sherlock had agreed to take his sister along to a crime scene. Sherlock liked spectators to his circus, but mostly those who could offer him praise instead of getting under his skin.
John had now had ample time to observe this intriguing thing between them – the subtle ways in which Octavia corrected, guided and coaxed Sherlock. The amazing thing was that he responded. Unlike with most people, he didn't fly off the handle when contradicted, didn't lose his marbles when admonished for bad behaviour, and did not lash out when gently teased about his peculiarities. Still, as comfortable as their exchanges were, Sherlock seemed rather cautious of John and Octavia discussing anything pertaining to himself. John had a hunch it might have something to do with what Octavia was not disclosing. Still, John had no business putting his nose all up in Sherlock's past and if that was now it was going to be, then he'd best just stifle his curiosity.
Sherlock got them past the tapeline by simply telling Lestrade that if all three of them were not allowed to enter he would turn on his heels and return to Baker Street. Lestrade had muttered something in the lines of 'we can actually get by without you, you know', but that was moot since they had already called him in, which meant they were completely lost with the case.
Anderson was on holiday but Donovan was in fine form, refusing to tone down her insults even in the presence of new civilians. John caught Octavia biting her lip as though trying hard not to say anything when she overheard an exchange of insults between Sherlock and the sergeant.
As usual, Sherlock breezed through the case after just a cursory look at the evidence. He quickly lost patience with the corpse, and instead focused on how the family photos were or were not organized, and what the deceased's eyelashes had looked like in them. In no time at all, he'd deduced that the homeowner's wife had killed him when she'd walked in on his crossdressing, and tried to make everything look like a burglary gone wrong.
John was frantically making notes for his blog. Sherlock was beaming, sipping a cup of hot tea from a nearby café as they were waiting for a complimentary ride back to Baker Street in a police car. John looked up from his notebook for a moment, and noticed the look on Octavia's face. She looked concerned. No, not concerned, worried. So very worried, and her eyes did not seem to leave Sherlock for a moment.
Balliol College, Holywell Manor Dormitory, Oxford University, 10th October 1998
"It would make your life somewhat more leisurely, if you would cease projecting yourself onto Sherlock. He doesn't know how to handle these things, not like you do."
Octavia shook with rage, digging her nails into her palms to keep from grabbing the nearest heavy object she could find and hurling it towards Mycroft. "You fucking idiot. You think this is about me? What's so different this time that you won't stant up for him like you always do otherwise?!"
Mycroft huffed indignantly. "Well, at least you aknowledge that. I'll have you know I've tried to spare him from such a scene by telling him over and over again that caring is not an advantage and if he wishes to survive in the world he will have to learn to control his urges."
"Look who's projecting now. He's not you. He doesn't have that switch you flick every time feelings and such rubbish inconvenience your plans for world dominance. He feels, Mycroft, and it's way too much for him."
Mycroft clearly was not convinced. He sat down on his desk chair, straightening his tie. "If this is how he needs to learn them I am sorry for the harshness of the lesson, but it was necessary."
Octavia blinked away the moisture that was threatening to turn into tears. "What the hell did they do to him, Mycroft? The clinic has had to put him on suicide watch, and now they tell me he's dropped out and disappeared. You. Were. There. What in God's name did they do?"
Mycroft shrugged. "Can't say I was present for the entire proceedings, but it was nothing more than a regular hazing. Nothing of a sexual nature, if that is what worries you."
Hot tears stinging even worse now, Octavia wrung her hands. "He's in love," she sighed, aware that her words fell on deaf ears. Bloody psychopath, his brother. Mycroft, not Sherlock. Watching on the sidelines as his kid brother was beaten black and blue just because-
"Was in love. I doubt he is now. And I doubt he really was to begin with. A boyish crush, an experiment, what have you."
"You can't just flick a switch and - It was not a bloody experiment, if he dared to confess his feelings to a mate of yours."
"A straight mate, I might add," Mycroft offered somewhat condescendingly.
Octavia shot him a rotten look. "You know well as I that Sebastian Wilkes is the very epitome of a closeted gay with tendencies to overcompensate for the fact."
Mycroft did not reply.
Octavia slumped down onto Mycroft's dorm bunk. "What now? We need to find him! They've no idea where he might've gone." He looked at Mycroft pleadingly. "I think we have to tell Mummy and Daddy."
Mycroft stood up. "Tell them what? That their youngest is a university dropout suicidal queer with a coke habit and mood swings to match a pregnant woman?"
Octavia's reply was the sound of the door banging shut. That had been the last time she'd spoken to Mycroft Holmes on her own initiative.
