"You promised." Sherlock stood once again at the gates of the school yard, the newly fallen leaves scattering around him.
"Sherlock, you have to understand, I have other things to tend to than the needs of my incapable little brother! You know your way home, can you not just walk yourself." Mycroft Holmes exhaled, a small vapid cloud of fog escaping his chapped lips.
Sherlock just stared, amazed at how little emotion he now felt for his once idolised big brother. His face betrayed nothing, gazing at Mycroft coolly with eyes narrowed.
"None of the other children have to walk home alone."
Mycroft Holmes sighed, "You are not like the other children Sherlock, you are different, and you don't need help."
Mycroft was tired of his impetuous little brother, since mother had passed two years ago he had cared for Sherlock the best he could, providing him with the attention their father failed to give them. But Mycroft was not Sherlock, he had had more practice at burying his emotions, and as such often came across uncaring and cold, almost ice like. He thought his little brother understood that?
Sherlock was not upset by Mycroft's behaviour, he had come to realise that his once caring brother was more like their unfeeling brother than he had first believed. Slowly he summoned the courage to speak again, this time lacking the emotion that once shone through his small yet intelligent features.
"It's quite okay Mycroft, I believe I would be better walking on my own any way."
And so Sherlock left, leaving his elder with a somewhat empty feeling inside, one which would persist throughout his adolescence. Somewhere within Mycroft's wealth of buried emotions was a thought which he reserved for this exact moment: sadness. It was the first time that Mycroft made a mistake regarding his brother's future, but it wouldn't be the last.
As Sherlock walked away he felt his head pounding, he knew that his brother was watching him, much as a hawk would watch it's prey, analyzing, scouring. Sherlock hung his head low to avoid the spurious gazes of passerby's, what was a young child doing out alone at this time of night, where were his parents? Sherlock looked up at the brown leaves which had begun to fall from the trees, wrapping his powder blue scarf around his neck he watched the leaves fall, landing gracefully among the scintillating cracks of the pavement. Slowly he approached a rather curled dead leaf, crushing it with his polished shoe and leaving only tiny fragments behind.
Mycroft observed his little brother, taking note of how the world spun if you concentrated too hard, he saw the leaves fall around the small innocent form, hiding him behind their beauty. It hurt to see his once vibrant brother crushed, much like the leaves under his very feet. But he could not afford this sentimentality in his head, spiralling him down into a pit of despair, where his brother could not even reach him, and so Mycroft Holmes once again put up his barriers of ice, freezing in his already cold heart and allowing him to focus on what was more important. Taking one last long lingering look at his brother he narrowed his eyes, stabbing a leaf on the sharp point of his umbrella; he turned on his heel and headed the opposite direction. Leaving nothing but the scent of overpowering aftershave, arrogant, powerful, broken.
Sherlock opened the door to the large stately house, once filled with warmth and happiness, now only holding the smell of wilting flowers and progressive decay. Completely avoiding the landing and his fathers study Sherlock headed to his room upstairs, marked by signs with elegant font that his mother had produced for them, were the door hangers on two identical doors. One had been soiled by some type of chemical, green and lurid spreading over the S, the other was tidy and non emotive, lacking any sort of character or feeling, Sherlock entered his own door. Completely ignoring the other sign, not even dignifying it with a glance. With a sudden burst of anger Sherlock slammed his own door, causing the sign beside it to fall onto the wooden floor, a definitive crack splicing right through Mycroft's name and destroying the sign for good.
Two hours later and the elder Holmes brother trudged wearily up the staircase, passing his fathers study he took note of the footprints at the door, so no stopping to talk to father tonight then. Mycroft surveyed the passageway only pausing to stoop and pick up his door hanger, lying ruined right outside his door. He like his brother, was no fool and could surmise exactly what happened. Something passed through Mycroft as he stared at the broken sign, an almost apathetic feeling of sadness, and something else, regret, he wasn't sure. It swelled within him, prompting his next uncharacteristic actions, calling for his brother he banged on the door:
"Sherlock, come out of there, we need to speak, I believe you have damaged some of my property!"
Receiving no reply he banged harder on the oak door, causing it to waver unfavourably. The door knob made no show of movement, and blissful silence continued behind its impenetrable walls.
"Well you're going to be very lonely in there all alone now aren't you?" Mycroft sneered, almost certain this sarcastic derogatory comment would inspire some reaction from his small counterpart.
The only reaction was one sentence which made Mycroft's blood run cold. One small line of words, condemning everything they had ever shared together, and seemingly sealing both their unfortunate fates.
"Alone is what protects me." Sherlock's answer was small, but aware, knowing, believing, strong and unwavering.
And with that Mycroft Holmes knew that their brotherly relationship was over, ruined by his own lack of sentimentality. From then on he vowed to never hurt his brother intentionally again. Caring was not an advantage, and certainly not when it came to his own frozen soul.HHH