It was a very short list. The list of things Sherlock didn't know. And most of them were to do with Mycroft. Which drove Sherlock insane. The machinery of his brain spent a good many hours trying to solve the list. But there were things he would never know. Insufficient data.
Sherlock never knew what had happened to his childhood tormentors. In all honesty he wasn't that interested. Like a case that was beneath him. Boring. One day they had gone. And Sherlock's enquiring mind had decided it wasn't even worth the effort of his curiosity. Although perhaps some small part of him didn't want to know. Didn't care. Because really in the deepest part of his mind he was relieved. Or perhaps that deep part of his mind knew the truth.
At the time, Mycroft had been a junior member of the civil service. Or that was what his official credentials had said. But sixteen year old Sherlock guessed that wasn't quite what his brother did. Paper pushers didn't have calluses on their right hand, or the hairs on their wrist singed by gunpowder. Nor did someone who spent all his time at a desk look remarkably well muscled and tanned. Sherlock was fairly sure Mycroft was a spy. Typical. He'd always been a sneaky git, and now he was getting paid for it. Paid a lot for it if the newly tailored suit, with the faintest of traces of chalk still visible on the shoulder were anything to go by.
Sherlock had sat sullenly in the Housemaster's study. Picking at the buttons on his waistcoat. Another reason to hate Sunday. Stupid Tailcoat and Trousers. He watched his brother's eyes. That was the only way you could ever tell what Mycroft was thinking. They weren't so much a window to the soul. Sherlock was fairly sure Mycroft had traded his soul for something more interesting, but those delicate blue eyes were more like a pressure gauge. And right now, the pressure was entering the red zone.
The Housemaster was blissfully unaware of this. Although there was something g about the tall young man in front of him that was slightly unnerving. There seemed to be no trace of the studious, quiet, reserved boy he remembered. The man in front of him was cold. Calculating. Like Ice.
"We've never had a problem with bullying here, Mycroft."
"Really?" One eyebrow arched slightly.
"And I'm afraid Sherlock makes no effort to get along with the other boys. I don't know what he's been telling you, but I can assure you that..."
There was the slightest flicker of blue as Mycroft considered his younger brother, then looked back into the puffy face of his old housemaster. The mask of benign acceptance in place once more.
"Yes. Quite." Where Sherlock found it impossible to read his brother but to Mycroft, Sherlock was an open book. He had never said he was being bullied. But Mycroft knew. Mycroft knew about the continuous beatings, name calling, stealing and breaking of property. Mycroft even knew about the other humiliations. The bright shame that burnt at the back of his brother's eyes. The things that only Mycroft could see. And he knew who was responsible. And they would pay for it.
Sherlock looked down at the floor. He felt alone. His last hope, and it had been a tiny hope at that, was gone. He knew Mycroft was different now. Mycroft didn't care about anything. Especially not Sherlock.
They left the Study, Sherlock heading back to his room, Mycroft heading back to the Aston Martin parked outside, which was attracting the admiring glances of several people. But not before he paused to watch his brother, walking, head bowed like a condemned man, up the stairs. That made up his mind.
Horatio Blenkinsop was discovered the following day. He was wearing nothing but a pair of soiled boxer shorts, sitting in his own excrement, two snotty lines of tears smeared down his chest. He had been locked in a cupboard and was holding what he told anyone who would listen was an explosive device which was motion sensitive and would blow his head off if it was moved. The device turned out to be an ordinary cigarette case. Horatio refused to tell anyone who had done this to him. After a short period of consultation his parents decided it would be best if he were to go to a less academically challenging school closer to the family home.
Harry Davies had disappeared for a week. He was deposited in his parents' front garden seven days later, with no apparent recollection of where he had been, or who he was. He eventually regained some of his memory. And developed an irrational fear of men with red hair.
Of course the finger would have pointed at Sherlock but for the very public argument he had been seen having with his brother. Which had established his alibi. The younger Holmes boy had been screaming and shouting. Attracting attention like the freak the rest of the school thought he was. All because his big brother wanted to take him out to lunch.
"You don't care about me. I hate you. Why don't you just die and leave me alone." Sherlock had punched Mycroft. Spat in his face. Beat his fists against Mycroft's chest and sobbed obscenities in three languages as Mycroft had forced him into the car. Some of the other boys felt rather sorry for Mycroft. Imagine being saddled with that as a brother?
Mycroft had smiled to himself as he drove away from the school. He wondered if Sherlock would ever work out what happened to his bullies. He hoped not. Caring was not an advantage he wanted to give Sherlock over him.