We Interrupt This Broadcast

...

The first two times Martin had failed his CPU, it had been, he would freely admit, because of ability. He had gotten questions wrong, or made mistakes, and promised himself to study even harder the next time, and he always did. And, because of that, he would always do better. It was only his luck that he would simply do better in different areas, messing up in places he'd been perfectly fine at before.

The third time he failed, it was because of stress. The examiners couldn't change the date, and he was pretty sure it wouldn't have changed anything if they had. Sherlock had, just the other week, let out a few choice words which had torn the family apart. His brother hadn't even realised what effect he'd have, and had probably thought that it was all obvious. Well, it hadn't been, and ever since then their parents had turned their home into their own private battleground. It was a miracle they were still married, but with all the noise and the tense atmosphere, and Mycroft shouting at Sherlock for not knowing when to keep his mouth shut, and Sherlock screaming back that he didn't understand how no one had noticed before, and wanting everyone to just leave him alone, Martin hadn't been able to sleep properly, or study for that matter, either. The test had been a disaster.

The fourth time went better, if by better he meant more to the standard of the first three. And when the letter arrived saying that he'd failed, and by how much, at least, he thought, at least the events of the previous year hadn't shaken him up so badly that all of the knowledge had fallen out of his head.

He often wished that he had Sherlock's ability to put facts together, or Mycroft's ability to just plain remember and utilise facts, but that would be knowing, and not, really, understanding. Besides, it would also feel like he was cheating somehow, and he wanted to get in on his own power, his and his alone.

The fifth went badly for an entirely different reason.

Sherlock was now seventeen, and living away from home to study closer to college. He didn't often take the time away to visit, either, which Martin wished he'd do more. He missed his baby brother who had somehow grown up when he wasn't looking. Mycroft was preparing to start his new job as a junior assistant in the government, and the idea of him running the country was a step further towards being the truth, rather than something to tease him with. Martin, of course, was still trying, and failing, to pass his tests to just get his license.

Their father was starting to get irritated. He could see the signs, just as he remembered the man's eyes going steely and hard that day when he'd been told, all those years ago, that he could never be an aeroplane. Sooner or later, he was going to stop humouring him, Martin knew. He knew. So all he had to do was put himself into it even more, and prove everyone wrong. That he could do it.

It was the day of the test. He hadn't told anyone, because if he passed, then it would be a good thing to surprise them with – or at least, anyone other than Sherlock and Mycroft, and he was sure they'd be pleased anyway – and if he didn't, then it would be no different from usual.

Nerves made him jittery, yet again. He was sure that this would be the one, in a way that he hadn't felt since his first go. He tried to calm himself down. Tell himself that it was all going to be fine, that he knew it all, that nothing would go wrong. Nothing.

He was called in, along with the other students retaking their own exams, and sat at the table with his name on it. At the sign he wrote his name and turned the first page over.

He was doing well, considering. He knew the answers. He was also getting through the questions considerably quicker than the rest of those sitting the exam in the same room, possibly due to the fact that he'd taken it so many times before. All that had changed had been the few regulations that had been brought up-to-date. Scenarios with different names, or that were basically the same even though they used different numbers or such.

All in all, he was confident.

Then, the worst happened.

Someone came in through the door, found the closest invigilator, and had a quiet word in their ear. They looked into the room of students, found Martin's distinctive ginger head, and had a few words with the other staff member, who shrugged. With a sigh, the man went up to Martin, and asked him to follow him out of the room.

Martin would have protested, but there was nothing he could really do other than hope that it wasn't something that would really disrupt him for too long. That, and the fact that there was a worried sort of look in the man's eyes that he didn't like.

So he gathered up his things, and left. The moment they were outside, the first professor took him aside, and quietly told him that his brother had been taken in to hospital, and that since he was listed as next of kin, he had been the only one they'd been able to contact. They were really very sorry about the exam, but this was a medical emergency, after all...

To Martin, it felt like the world had fallen out from underneath him, and it took everything he had to stop his head from spinning. Sherlock? In hospital? But why? What for? He might sometimes forget to eat, but overall he knew how to look after himself.

He took a taxi to the hospital, only to find that Sherlock had been admitted due to a drug overdose. Cocaine.

Martin sat by Sherlock's bed at every opportunity until he started looking better, more like his old self, even if it did mean missing out on the rest of the CPU exam.

And, when he was well enough to be let out of the hospital (not when he was well enough to start insulting everyone, no, that was something completely different) Martin took to going daily over to Sherlock's rented apartment, just to make sure he was all right, to make sure he was safe, and eating, and not bored, and not alone. And remind him that Mycroft wasn't his only big brother.

The next year, Sherlock somehow managed to break a leg while chasing down some criminal. They caught the man he'd been after, but Martin, again, had been to see him at hospital. Right up until Sherlock woke up once more or less ordering Martin to go back to the flight school and finish sitting the damn test. Even then, he'd not been able to concentrate properly, images of Sherlock not surviving the next time filling his mind.

But Martin would unwaveringly choose Sherlock over the exam any time. An exam could be taken again, and would be, since he wasn't about to give up, but he only had two brothers. Only one Mycroft, and only one Sherlock.

Next time, he told himself, next time. He'd pass. He knew he would.

So long as Sherlock didn't do something stupid again, he would.

But if he did-

If he did, then he'd be there for him. Again. And always.

...

AN: I don't- I just had to do some sort of Cabinlock version of how Martin managed to fail so many damn times, while he's still a Holmes and fully capable of passing. And this is what happened.

Ages: In case you're wondering, when Sherlock was seventeen, Mycroft was twenty-four and Martin twenty-nine. Although seriously that's just as much for my benefit as anyone's...

Which means that when Sherlock moves in to 221b at the age of twenty one, Martin is flying with MJN.