Aged 17 Years old.
"Sherlock, you cannot tell mother," Mycroft hissed.
Sherlock turned to his brother, distracted from his pacing, the photograph still clutched in his hand. His face fell. "Why not? She deserves to know what he has been doing. She deserves to know what kind of scumbag he is." He made a motion to the door. Mycroft stood up quickly and grabbed his brother's elbow, pulling him back into the room. "Alright, Mycroft," he said flatly. "You have my attention,"
Mycroft pushed Sherlock to sit on the bed. He shoved his hands in to his pockets. He kicked his feet and smiled thoughtfully.
"Do you honestly think you are cleverer than me?" He asked calmly. "Are you honestly arrogant enough to think – father is not the brightest bulb in the shop,"
Sherlock stared at Mycroft. "You... You knew?"
"Well of course I knew," Mycroft replied.
"For how long?"
"From the very beginning,"
"Then why didn't you say anything?" Sherlock challenged.
"Because you little prick," Mycroft snapped. "What difference would it make? He beat us up every night of our childhood. He hurt her too and she kept coming back to him. Do you not think that she would have left after he threatened us? She loves him, he can do no bloody wrong in her eyes. Telling her would break her heart."
"So am I just supposed to carry on like nothing has happened?"
"Sounds like a plan." Mycroft said. Sherlock looked away staring at his shoe laces. Mycroft sighed and let his hand hover in the air for a moment before letting it fall tentatively on his brother's shoulder. "The best thing you can do for yourself is to keep your head down and finish your exams. And after that you can move out and they won't be any of your concern."
"But what if he hurts her so badly she can't mend?" Sherlock asked.
"She chose this life with him. It is her own fault if she does not take the advice to get out," Mycroft replied.
Sherlock stared into empty space before leaping to his feet. "No, Mycroft! You can't say that,"
"I can and I will," Mycroft replied. "This is not of our concern."
"She's our mother!"
"Well didn't she do a fine damn job of raising us?" Mycroft bellowed. "Letting us get kicked about and destroying any chance we had to be happy human beings! Oh yeah, we turned out fine. A stupid doped up prick, half crazed and obsessed with the smallest stupid things and I can't keep my marriage afloat. Yeah we turned out fantastic!"
"You can't say that!"
"She destroyed us, Sherlock!" She gave us no chance! And only a fool would fail to recognise that." Mycroft shook his head. "When you're ready, come and join us for dinner." He stared at Sherlock then stood up. "Do not tell her." He said.
"You can't tell me what to d-"
"Oh for the love of almighty heaven and above," Mycroft fumed. "I do not need this from you. Especially not today," He stormed out of the room.
Sherlock sighed and fell back onto his bed. He pressed his pillow against his face and let out a loud groan. Something tapped against the window. Sherlock sprang to his feet and looked out into the white blanket of virgin snow covering his home. Irene's little porcelain face smiled at him. He breathed in relief and opened the window.
"Hey gorgeous," she said leaning up through the glass.
Sherlock grinned and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Where have you been?" He asked.
"Oh, out." She shrugged. "Did I not tell you? Oh well." She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. "Here. Merry Christmas," She handed it over to him. Sherlock smiled at the tiny package.
"Wait here." He said. Irene grinned and watched as Sherlock fumbled about looking for something. He then pulled a tiny film canister from his pillow and handed it to her.
She frowned slightly. "Um... Thanks?"
He grinned. "Open it."
Irene obliged. Out fell a tiny sapphire ring. "Oh... Sherlock."
"It was my grandmothers." Sherlock explained. "Now, I'm not asking you to marry me. That would be insane. What it is, is a promise ring."
"A promise ring?" Irene asked.
"It means that no matter what, I'll always be there for you, support you and love you." He said. "Go on try it on."
Irene slid it over her finger. "Sherlock, I can't take this. This is your grandmothers. Would you save it for someone who actually means something to you?"
"You mean everything to me." Sherlock replied "All I ask is that you keep it safe."
"Of course." Irene said. She leaned up and kissed him. "Makes my gift seem insignificant now," She smiled.
Sherlock picked the gift from his bed and tossed it between his hands. He pulled it open and unwrapped it. "Oh," He said. He pulled it out and held it up. It was a leather pouch. He opened it the many folds, spreading it out on his desk. It was tiny medical tools all bundled together.
"This is why we should consult on presents," She said. "It's okay if you don't like it."
"Irene, it's perfect," Sherlock replied.
"You think?"
"Of course... I..." He swooped down and kissed her again. "Thank you so much."
"If you must know, it's Victorian. Don't worry all been sterilised. But that is what medical men on the brink of science used to investigate patients." Irene said.
"Thank you," Sherlock said.
"Sherlock!"
He turned to see Mycroft standing at the door.
"Yes Mycroft?" He drawled.
"Get through here now," Mycroft hissed. "Hello Irene,"
"Merry Christmas to you too, Mycroft," She replied. "I have to go," She turned back to Sherlock.
"Why don't you stay?" Sherlock suggested. "Have dinner with us."
Irene looked uncomfortable. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"No Sherlock," Mycroft said coolly. "Irene please leave."
"Done," She said brightly. She kissed Sherlock again. "Thank you for the present." Then she took off into the snow, her white coat making her disappear against the whitewash that had overcome the area.
Sherlock closed the window and followed Mycroft into the living room.