"You're asking me to tell you all the details of the horrendous struggles and grievous internal hardships of my little brother, hmm?"
"I'm being serious here, Mycroft." John tapped his fingertips against the arm of the chair, setting his jaw stubbornly.
"As am I."
The living room was too distracting. He kept picturing Sherlock over by the couch, high out of his mind, or slumped against the sofa, half blacked out from blood loss.
John knew he shouldn't have decided to call Mycroft here.
But he was tired of the elder Holmes always summoning people everywhere, and damn it, now it was his turn.
"Okay. So… er… start at the beginning? What was he like as a little kid?"
Mycroft smiled demurely. "Mischievous, quiet, and bookish, alternately."
"Is that all?" John was starting to hope dearly that this wasn't going to be a lost effort.
"Hmm. Well… without an accurate baseline to compare himself to, even the most intelligent man on earth may believe himself stupid. Of course, I never doubted myself, as I had my little brother as a baseline, but Sherlock…" Mycroft crossed his legs again leisurely. "Up until we met other children, we both believed he was slow."
John was aware that his mouth was hanging open, and he quickly closed it. "…What? Sherlock, stupid? That's… You're kidding me. He's a genius. He's never doubted himself in his life. Have you listened to him, ever? That's completely… Are you serious?"
"Of course, once we'd encountered regular children he realized that wasn't quite true."
"Of course…"
"And yet, as you should know by now, being above average to any degree can be more of a curse than a blessing, when it comes to dealing with people."
John licked his lips and tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"Aside from being completely and utterly bored to death with their tiny, unused minds and wide, overused mouths… Ordinary people have an unrelenting tendency to single out those who are different. And depending on how well said difference is controlled, they may respond with open cruelty. Sherlock never did learn to control himself."
"Wait. So you're saying—"
"Pardon, let me make this simpler for you: he was bullied since his first day of primary school, and up to the very last year at uni."
"Oh." John looked down at his hands. "Well… did he ever have any friends there?"
Mycroft looked at him like he was an alien who had suddenly crash-landed in the armchair through a gaping hole in the ceiling. "Are we talking about the same person?"
"Okay… That's a no, then… How about home life? What did he like to do?"
"As a youth, he had a fondness for books on Chemistry. He also conducted experiments, as he does today. But at a certain point in his later teens it wasn't enough. That's when he fell into drugs."
"Why?"
"I assume boredom played a large role. He had the house to himself for days at a time, so he was free to do as he pleased, however reckless and irresponsible that was."
John frowned.
He had a feeling that cutting had been the first addiction.
Drugs came after.
But the real question was, what was Sherlock trying so desperately to remedy with all this?
It was starting to sound like a lot of things.
"What did he do after he left home?"
"Work. He made a name for himself with the Yard, and used his deduction skills in any way he possibly could. And here we find him today, in the unusual position of having a flat mate, and being even the slightest bit open about himself."
"Is that really that unusual…?"
"For him, yes. Almost unheard of."
Just a flat mate.
Just caring.
A friend.
Unheard of.
What a lonely life he must have led before this… Was it really any wonder that he'd let the work become his life, to try to fill in that emptiness with the thrill of The Game?
To do what he was good at, and what got him noticed—at least for a little while.
A life with no one there to care if he didn't eat for days, no one to appreciate his extraordinary intelligence, no one to comfort him with a hug if he needed one and would never admit it. With the only other face being the one in the mirror, and the only voice he consistently heard his own. Eventually the only voice he trusted.
And we are our own worst critics.
A life where the hunger to prove and outmaneuver surmounted the hunger of the physical kind.
A busy life.
But an empty one just the same.
