Sherlock spent the rest of the day in his room with the door shut and latched. He didn't come out until breakfast the next morning, and when Rob came to tell him dinner was ready, he threw a pillow at the door as it was opening.
In the morning, though, he could smell breakfast all the way from downstairs and hear bacon frying, and that was something he just could not resist. He headed down the stairs and was about to turn into the kitchen when he heard his name mentioned. He didn't make out quite what was being said in the surrounding times, but he sat down on the bottom stair to hear who was talking about him.
Mrs. Hudson was talking on the phone, it sounded like. He could hear almost the whole of what she was saying if he just listened closely...
"They're doing very well. John especially is getting along well with Rob and Charlie, my other two, and Mycroft is settling in pretty well. He seems to have found someone to look up to in Michael... yes, he told me he wants to work in the government, and Michael is interning with the state senator this school year, at least up until the new year. He's only a few years Mycroft's senior. ...Oh, I suppose so. They're both settling in quite nicely. Sherlock is another matter, though. I'm worried about him. He doesn't really interact with the other children at all... refuses to talk to them. He's angry at John now, I don't know why, but... I know. What really worries me is this.
"He has a balcony in his room, thought he might like it, but he jumped off of it the other day. ...Oh, no, nothing like that! And it's just a sprain. He said he was trying to jump to a tree that's near the balcony... I know. We'll give it time. It's only been a few days... I'm just beginning to wonder if he needs another family. He might not be a good fit..."
Sherlock had heard enough. Angry tears were burning his eyes, no matter how much he wanted them gone, and he wanted to stomp and storm and rage... but he just turned around and walked back upstairs. If they wanted to give him away, that was fine. She had said it herself, he had never fit in with this family anyways. See if he cared.
Except, this would mean they would be split up. He and Mycroft and John, they wouldn't be together, they'd be at some stranger's home alone... and he couldn't do anything about it.
Mycroft was 15 now. In less than three years, he'd be an adult, and allowed to adopt them. That had never seemed farther away than it did now.
He clenched his teeth. He wanted to break something, to destroy and smash it into little bits so small they could never be fixed. He was absolutely full of anger.
He stormed down rhe stairs, not caring who heard him and who he woke up, slammed out the door, and around to the back. Behind the house was a wood. It wasn't a large wood, but it was big enough to serve his purpose. He stomped into it as far as he could without killing his ankle, which was screaming with every stomp he stepped, then screwed up his face and screamed. All the frustration he'd felt since his parents had disappeared, all of the anger he had felt while he'd been in the foster system moving from place to place with people who just didn't care, all of the terrified betrayal he'd felt with John, all of it came out with his yell. He yelled as loudly and as long as he wanted, and then, suddenly tired, sat down on the ground.
He just wanted it to be over. He just wanted to be back home with his mom and his dad and his brothers, to go back to his own school where maybe everyone hated him but at least it was familiar and safe, and to go back to where he'd been six months ago. There had been fighting and yelling and frustration then too, but it had been home. It had been with his family. It had been ihome./i
He heard a rustle of leaves and sticks being pushed away behind him and suddenly Mrs. Hudson was there. She didn't say anything, but she picked him up off the ground and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He struggled for a moment, but then he couldn't struggle any more and he relaxed into her hug. He couldn't fight any more.
He took in a shuddering breath, sobbed once, and then he stopped. He couldn't fight any more. ...and maybe it wasn't that bad. He hadn't had a hug from anyone but John in months and months. Maybe it wasn't all bad.
Mrs Hudson carried him all the way back to the house, even though he was all of twelve years old and much too big to be carried, especially that far, but she carried him all the way there and into the house and into the living room, where she set him down on the couch. She didn't let go of him even then, just sat down besides him.
And eventually, eventually, he calmed down.
He calmed down.