Sherlock had tried to be good when Mycroft had left, he really had. Mycroft had never looked as sad as when he'd told Sherlock he should be able to take care of himself. He didn't want to see Mycroft like that again; he wasn't supposed to look sad. He was strong, confident, and proud. He was warm and gentle and encouraging. Sometimes he was angry and irritable and gruff, but he was not sad, not Mycroft.
After weeks of attempting to puzzle it out himself, Sherlock gave in and questioned Mummy about it.
"Oh, darling," she had sighed. "Your brother is simply worried about you. He's always been around to fix everything for you. He fears you won't be able to function without him. You threw such a horrible fit before he left, can you blame him for worrying? After all, love, Mycroft won't always be around to do everything for you."
Sherlock had been confused by this. "But Mummy, he promised he would be. Why wouldn't he be? It's his job to look after me. He said so!"
Mummy had laughed, the sound echoing like music down the elegant hall. "My love, you take things far too literally. It was his job to protect you when you couldn't protect yourself. Surely you can't expect him to spend his entire life looking after you? He needs to have his own life, and you need to learn to look after yourself, like big boys do. After all, Mycroft didn't have a big brother to watch over him."
Sherlock devoted a great deal of thought to his mother's words. He didn't understand: Mycroft had promised to be there for him, so why did he need to be able to cope with things on his own? He would always have Mycroft, wouldn't he?
He'd always wanted to be like his brother. Mycroft was the smartest person he knew, yet he seemed to glide through life in a way Sherlock couldn't. No one ever taunted him; he even had relationships resembling friendships. People liked Mycroft, which could not be said for the younger Holmes brother. He had assumed that someday Mycroft would teach him how to be that way, but maybe his mother was right. Mycroft had always taken care himself; he hadn't had anyone to teach him or encourage him. Maybe Sherlock needed to be independent as well, so that he could be like Mycroft. That would please his brother, wouldn't it?
So, Sherlock had done his best to take care of himself. He referred to books for answers instead of his brother. He kept his experiments under control, so as not to upset Mummy. He actually did his schoolwork, just to keep himself busy. Most importantly, though, he did not call Mycroft. His brother had given him set times twice a week when he was permitted to call, unless it was an emergency. He stuck to these times faithfully, determined to show both Mycroft and himself that he could be independent.
After a while, however, he could not deny how much he missed his brother's calming influence. He first gave in and called when, after hours of trying, he could not sleep. Listening to Mycroft's deep voice lulling him to sleep was the most peaceful he'd felt in weeks. After that, he couldn't help but search for reasons to talk to his brother. He knew it went against his quest for independence, but he couldn't help it. As Mycroft had said, they were two of a kind. Without his brother around, Sherlock felt incredibly lonely.
On the morning that Mycroft had called him, he had every intention of honoring his brother's wishes. He could surely stay out of trouble for one day. He rarely actually needed Mycroft anymore, anyway. His experiment in independence was paying off, despite the appearance of the opposite. He hadn't seen Mycroft in months, and had successfully avoided any disaster. Of course, the day Sherlock most wished to avoid it would be the day trouble chose to rear its ugly head.
Since the day Mycroft had defended him in the schoolyard, none of his peers had dared to speak unkindly to him. The unspoken threat in the glare of the elder brother lingered in their minds, even after years had passed. With the assurance of his brother's protection, Sherlock had become increasingly confident. He withheld none of his scathing remarks. The fact that Mycroft wasn't present could not be hidden for long, however. Eventually, the other children discovered that Sherlock's protector was no longer around. When they discovered this, they had years of scores to settle.
It had started with jibes and threats at school. He'd called Mycroft, who, naturally, called the school. A few eloquently worded threats by his older brother to the school faculty ensured his protection while on school grounds. Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of it. Sherlock quickly discovered he couldn't leave his house alone. His classmates seemed to be everywhere, and the little buggers travelled in packs. He had avoided them thus far, but confrontation was inevitable.
Mycroft had called on a Tuesday, the day that Sherlock had violin practice in the afternoon. He had made it home with no trouble, only to discover that, to his horror, Mummy had gone out. She would not be there to walk him to practice, and she had taken their driver. He had no money for a cab, and Mummy had dismissed Nanny when he had begun his independence experiment. He would either have to skip his class, or risk facing his classmates alone.
Without hesitation, Sherlock dug out his mobile and dialed his brother's familiar number. Mycroft would be angry with him at first, no doubt, but he would certainly forgive Sherlock when he realized the gravity of the situation. He paced nervously as the phone rang, trying to decide the quickest and simplest way to avoid his brother's anger. He never got the chance, however. Mycroft didn't answer.
Sherlock gaped in shock when the call went to voicemail. He hadn't even considered the possibility of his brother not answering. Until today, it had never been a possibility. Dropping the offending device on the counter, Sherlock collapsed into a nearby chair, trying to understand. Surely Mycroft had simply been unable to reach the phone. He would call back as soon as he realized his mistake. After all, he had promised. He would never let his little brother down. Never...and yet the minutes ticked by, and the phone remained silent.
Recovering the device, he dialed again. Perhaps he had dialed the wrong number, or Mycroft simply had not heard. There simply must be an explanation for this abnormality. When the phone did not even ring, however, there was no denying it. Mycroft's phone was off. His brother had both heard and ignored his call.
His brain going into overdrive, Sherlock struggled to find an explanation for the seemingly impossible events occurring. Mycroft had sworn to be there for him, to answer when he called. "Always" his brother had said. Always. Now that promise had been broken. Mycroft, suddenly consumed with his politics and his debates and his allies, had forgotten his promise. Mycroft didn't break promises, though, and he certainly didn't forget them. Mycroft never forgot anything he didn't want to forget. Had he wanted to forget? Had his brother deleted the promise? Deleted him?
It seemed preposterous, yet Mycroft had told him, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how unlikely, must be the truth." His brother had forgotten him. He was alone.
Ignoring the stinging feeling behind his eyes, Sherlock grabbed his violin and walked to practice alone.
The next day, at their usual time, Mycroft rang him for their bi-weekly call. Almost immediately, he asked his younger brother if his call yesterday had been anything urgent.
"No, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, pressing ice to his bruised and mangled face, "It was nothing."
A/N: My beta and I tossed ideas back and forth for days for this one. I knew I wanted to make a continuation of the last chapter, but hadn't actually decided what I wanted Sherlock's call to be about. I was torn between something horribly dramatic (influenced by all of my lovely reviewers) and something more subtle. I hope I managed to find a decent middle ground.
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