4.
Mycroft Holmes was never what one would call an active child. He lacked the coordination for sports and did not see the point in tiring activities. What he did like was to read and at this task he was quite adept. As a sedentary, somewhat chubby boy, he ought to have spent his youth bullied and alone. Somehow it didn't work out quite like that.
"You're failing maths," he announced to a would-be bully. There was more to read in the world than books, and Mycroft was nothing if not an avid reader.
"What of it?" the boy answered.
"Give me your workbook and I'll take care of it." And that should have been a standard agreement between victim and bully, but Mycroft was the one proposing the deal and he didn't sound defeated.
"Yeah?" the other answered, trying to look menacing but mostly managing confused.
"Of course, I will want something in return."
"How about I don't bloody your nose?" And there was the standard, expected arrangement. Mycroft looked unimpressed.
"Not good enough. The worst you could do to me would heal in a week. The worst I could do to you would set you back a lifetime. In trouble for fighting, cheating…and still failing maths. Your father might be able to bail you out, and he might not. Either way he will not be happy, will he? And if you keep attacking me…well, I can almost guarantee you will be expelled within a month. At most."
"Well…"
"And even if you did stay, you would be watched. Didn't you want to join the swimming team? Failing grades and in trouble for fighting? It's not going to happen. So no, you aren't going to hit me. And I'm not helping your grade without something in return."
The two boys stared at each other. Mycroft looked very sure of himself, though inside he was shaking a bit. It was true, everything he said, but that didn't mean the other boy was smart enough to realize it. He didn't say anything more to convince him, though. He waited and let the boy think.
"What do you want, then?" the bully finally asked.
"Protection," Mycroft answered promptly, "For me and my friends."
"You don't have any friends."
"Not yet," Mycroft agreed. And that was the start. Word got around that Chris wouldn't hit you if you were friends with Mycroft and within a week Mycroft had two others in charge of Chris's grade problem. Two because Mycroft insisted someone tutor him and he thought Chris might get out of it with one person.
So Mycroft was not bullied, not as a child and not as a teen, and even if it sometimes seemed he was the one actually running the school, he mostly used his influence to either stop what he saw as wrong or to let himself out of doing things he did not care for. He probably had the brains and the skill to rule the world someday, or at least part of it, but if circumstances had left him to himself he would far more likely have become something along the lines of a researcher or scientist; someone with a hundred letters to his name and well known within certain circles but not someone who would take a real stance with what went on outside his sphere.
Then came Sherlock.
Sherlock was very like his brother and also very much not like his brother. Both brothers had a very active and quick mind. To Mycroft this meant sitting back and observing. To Sherlock, this meant setting out and exploring. As a toddler, Sherlock managed to get Mycroft to do what no amount of letters home from school could convince him to: run. Sherlock ran practically from the moment he was walking, and if the person minding him wasn't quick, he'd be into anything and everything.
By the time he was four, Sherlock had formed the habit of searching Mycroft out and asking him questions. Mycroft was only eleven himself, but in his little brother's eyes he knew everything about everything. But questions weren't enough for him. Sherlock wanted to do things, to find things out for himself. He seemed wary of information he couldn't touch, as though the books might be lying to him. Perhaps this was because he still didn't quite understand the difference between the fictional stories his mother was fond of and the non-fiction his brother mostly pursued.
"Mummy says there are fairies in the garden, and Father says that's nonsense, and I looked and I saw a butterfly, and two birds, and one chirped and was loud and Mummy says it was beautiful but it hurt my ears, and there was a beetle, and a froggy that I catched, and Mummy said 'Oh, Sherlock' and she said it wanted to go home, so we put it in the pond, and there was another butterfly, and a worm, and the leaves all went flutter and made a hush hush noise, and something went rippling in the pond, and a real live bunny twitched its nose but it ran, it was fast, going home I think, but there was not a fairy, not a single one, so are fairies nonsense?"
"What" Mycroft asked, being quite used to his brother's chatter to the point of tuning it out as needed. At this moment he was attempting to read a book on Arthurian legends.
"Are fairies nonsense?" he repeated, looking expectedly for Mycroft to give him the definitive answer on the subject.
"Most scientifically minded people are of that opinion," Mycroft answered without looking up from the page.
"I'm a scientist," Sherlock declared authoritatively and Mycroft made a hmm noise and his brother let him alone for a few minutes. Just long enough for Mycroft to be getting lost again in the book when Sherlock was suddenly there again, leaning against him.
"Did Mummy lie, then?" he asked, eyes wide and serious.
"What?"
"Did Mummy lie because she said there are fairies and you said fairies are nonsense."
"I did not. Some believe in fairies and some don't. Mummy believes and Father doesn't." As Sherlock continued to lean heavily against him, Mycroft finally gave up and set the book aside.
"Alright, what is it you…what's that?" He went from resigned to concerned at the dark shadow on his brother's arm. He pulled the arm for a closer look but Sherlock squirmed away. Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock," he said firmly, "Where did you get that bruise?"
"Dunno," his brother mumbled towards the ground in stance Mycroft recognized as guilt or embarrassment, "Just happened."
"I don't know, and bruises like this don't just happen. Tell me, Sherlock." His brother shifted slightly from foot to foot, looking small and unhappy. He said nothing. "Tell me, or we will go to see father." This time there was a flash of fear. Then what was probably meant to be a fierce glare but looked entirely too cute on his small face.
"Wanted to see dolphin statue," he mumbled at last, "Climbed desk. Maybe slipped. A little. On some papers." Mycroft frowned.
"You know you aren't supposed to climb!" he cried, more exasperated than upset. If their father had caught him he'd probably have been confined to his room for an hour. Mummy would be more likely to cuddle him for being hurt. Mycroft chose the more rational approach of reasoning with him. "This is why; you get hurt. Is your arm all you hit?" Sherlock didn't answer this time, just shrugged. Mycroft looked hard at him. Then Sherlock was suddenly a bouncing bundle of energy again, a thought obviously coming to him.
"Want to play a game?" he demanded, "Want to? We can be scientist explorers and be the first ever scientists to find a fairy!"
"Hmm," Mycroft answered, and then felt his brother's head for bumps, just to be sure. Sherlock made a noise of annoyance, before grabbing his brother's hand and trying to bodily drag him away from his chair.
"Come on, Mycroft, you read forever and ever at school, now it's time to be a scientist, come on!" And Mycroft sighed, saved his place in his book, and resigned himself to go on a fairy hunt.