Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter ten
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
"Adversity is the first path to truth." ~Lord Byron
10 days ago early morning
At three in the morning, Mycroft stood at the door watching as John soothed Sherlock; this was the second night in a row that he had a nightmare.
Mycroft had awakened to find that John had beaten him to Sherlock's room. Sherlock was screaming and thrashing around in bed, fighting off an imaginary evil.
Mycroft felt like an intruder watching from the doorway. He longed to go to Sherlock; everything inside of him leaned toward Sherlock. In the end, he thought Sherlock would be mortified.
It was Sherlock he was thinking of, was it not?
Emotions
He was glad Sherlock had John. He was a good friend, no closer; more like a brother. The thought made him what… sad, jealous? Ridiculous, Mycroft mused; he did not give in to such weaknesses. Emotions make one weak.
Mycroft realized that it was not the fact the Sherlock thought of John as a brother that troubled him, but that Sherlock thought of him as a stranger now.
Sentiments
It disconcerted Mycroft that Sherlock was not just crying, but releasing broken sobs that seem to emanate from a broken soul.
Sherlock never cried.
Not when beaten, not when shot, not with a gun pointed at his head.
Well, once, when father died, after an hour Mycroft had found Sherlock in the riding stable. Silent tears were running down Sherlock's face as he brushed down his horse.
Mycroft walked up behind him and silently put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Without turning around Sherlock had put a hand on top of Mycroft's, both accepting and giving comfort.
The brothers never spoke of that day. There was no other time as far as he knew that Sherlock reached out or showed emotions of any kind to anyone, not since he was seven.
Father was a very stoic man and did not tolerate emotions. Sherlock was the opposite, highly intelligent, curious, and full of smiles, warmth and joy; just like mum. Father soon demonstrated in the most severe ways, that Sherlock's passion and free spirit would not be tolerated.
Sherlock went from a giggling, smiling child, to one where tears were rare and emotions rarer.
Sarcasm, stubbornness and defiance became his way.
And, he was stubborn.
"I do not see why it was wrong to inform Mr. McMullen that Mrs. McMullen was having an affair Mummy, it's obvious if he'd bother to notice. Beside he's having one too." Sherlock had said.
The childhood memory brought a smile to Mycroft's face.
Even though Mycroft was seven years older, he remembers being impressed by his younger brother's abilities. When younger, Mycroft had tried to hide his smile at his brother's antics.
Well, there had been no point in the both of them being punished.
Bloody Sentiments
Finally, Sherlock had calmed down and fallen back to sleep. Sherlock was never fully awake during these episodes, but was somewhere in-between. John pulled the covers over him and quietly exited the room.
"It's all sorted, Sherlock should be okay for a little while at least." John held a hand to his mouth as he spoke.
Mycroft studied John briefly. His brother was far more gifted in deduction; but tonight deduction was not necessary to see that John was running on fumes.
He barely slept since Sherlock was injured. He held his left shoulder stiffly. His white under shirt was wet from Sherlock's tears, and his striped pajama pants were more wrinkled than it should have been.
John had dozed off while sitting in a chair, afraid to sleep, Mycroft deduced. John knew Sherlock would need him, and was afraid that if he had lain in bed, he would have been too deeply asleep to hear him.
John was watching over him. Always the loyal soldier; always the faithful friend.
Mycroft knew the first time he met John face-to-face in the warehouse that long ago he liked him. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but John spoke first.
"Are you alright?" John's eyebrow creased.
"I'm fine," Mycroft replied while rocking on his heels.
John chuckled sadly then said, "Well, you two are brothers aren't you."
Mycroft frowned, "Your point being…"
John looked him in the eyes searching, "That's what Sherlock always says."
John turned to leave.
Mycroft shifted on his feet and exhale noisily.
"John you're exhausted, get some sleep," holding up his hand to stop John's protest, he added, "I promise to get you if he wakes." he smiled sadly, "We both know you would be better at … comforting him than I."
John hesitated, concerned but knew Mycroft was right, "Straight away?"
"Of course," Mycroft insisted.
John nodded with a strained smile, and walked off toward his bedroom.
Mycroft's face held a grim expression as he walked to the end of the foyer.
Mycroft sat in the chair closes to the hallway leading to his brother's room, impeccably dressed in his blue strip pajama and dark blue dressing robe.
Only the finest he thought forlornly.
He would not sleep tonight. He would not fail his brother, not again.
Mycroft sighed, repositioned then listened, and remembered… and regretted.