Fic: Exit Music (for a film)
Title: Exit Music (for a film)
Genre: Angst. Only angst.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG 13
Words: 945
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock's feud, here's my version of what happened. Their father was a madman trying to cultivate them into perfect leaders. They try to run away. A bit of the typical abusive father trope.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song Exit Music (for a film) by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. As requested by livia_carica . Part of my Radiohead songfic project. Details after fic. BTW these fics are all one-shots/drabbles and you can read any of them in any order.
Songs done: 15 Step, Black Star, All I Need, Fitter Happier, Karma Police, The Amazing Sounds of Orgy, No Surprises, Subterranean Homesick Alien, Faust Arp, There There
Songs queued: You and Whose Army, True Love Waits/Jigsaw Falling into Place
“Mycroft, wake up.”
He opened his eyes and rolled out of bed, fully dressed. Beside his bed stood Sherlock, clad in his heaviest jacket, a small bag on his back stuffed with a change of clothes, biscuits and what little allowance he had. Mycroft picked up his own slightly bigger bag and checked his watch. Yes, it was time.
“How long do we have?” Sherlock whispered.
“Enough.” He looked down at Sherlock's pallid small face and took his mittened hand, Sherlock squeezed back. Brave little fool, trusting his big brother without reserve. In truth Mycroft had no idea. In truth his heart was jackhammering because at any moment now, Father might commence his night prowling and find them missing from their beds. But Sherlock didn't need to know that. He was the big brother, he's promised to take care of Sherlock, and he'll keep his promise.
Tonight, they escape.
So they set off, hand in hand, two little boys of thirteen and seven, their minds resolute, their bodies shrouded in heavy layers. Yet still they trembled from both cold and fear.
--
When Mother was pregnant Mycroft had wished for a girl, a little sister that he can adore and protect. A girl might be exempt from Father's grand plans. She might get ballet lessons instead of tutoring in political theory. She might get dolls instead of textbooks. She might be allowed to play with other kids, and who knows, maybe Mycroft will be allowed to go along too. Instead he got a baby brother, a weepy little mess with so much hair he was named Sherlock.
Not long after, Mother fell ill, and made him swear by her deathbed he'll look after Sherlock. So he hoped against hope that Sherlock was normal, dumb, even. That way he can escape the worst of it. Idiocy was a lesser curse than intelligence in this household. But when Sherlock's first words were more of a first sentence, his worst fears were confirmed. Just like him, Sherlock was a genius.
Nobody knew. The estates up the hills, they thought it was just a recluse aristocrat and his home-schooled sons. No one suspected the truth, that it housed a madman holding two boys captive. No one could even imagine the extent of his insanity. No one guessed that the gates were padlocked to keep in more than to lock out. No one understood homeschooling meant isolation, imprisonment, a work camp regimen.
The methods of their father left scars, more invisible than visible, although there was no dearth of the latter either. Every day their brilliant minds were accelerated to breaking point. Every fumbling caused a meal, every miscalculation earned a caning. They were the reflection of their father's failures, the victims of his delusions of grandeur. They were in training to be the perfect heirs of a nonexistent kingdom.
--
Dawn was breaking. Their feet hurt and their legs were sore, but it was so close now. The sounds of playground, the squeak of the turning wheel, the whoosh of fabric against plastic slides, the sneakers shuffling in sand and wood chips. Mycroft could almost hear it. He could tell Sherlock did too judging by the hint of the smile on the corner of his lips. This was it, the first morning of their freedom.
Their running turned into skipping. There they were, two stupid boys practically frolicking down the grassy slope, so drunk on hope they forgot to be careful, forgot to look behind. By the time they noticed the extra shadow touching theirs, it was too late.
Sherlock's hand slipped through his. He had but a moment to react, to elude the other grasping claw meant for him. He ran.
“MYCROFT!” He heard Sherlock's scream, panicked and hoarse, and his heart was breaking into a thousand pieces. Father. Father has come. Father caught Sherlock. His lungs were bursting, and his knees were giving out, but he daren't stop. A few more steps, frantic scrambles, and he was over the fence.
He stole a glance over his shoulder for just a second, and what he saw haunts him still. Tears ran down Sherlock's cheeks, mixing with snot and saliva until his chin was a dribbling mess. His mouth opened and closed, soundlessly mouthing 'no' over and over again. He rocked with sobs, his narrow shoulders shaking so hard even Father had trouble holding him still. Yet even clutched in those talons, his skinny arms stretched towards Mycroft, his brother, his only friend, his savior.
His apostate.
Mycroft turned and kept running, wiping away the wetness on his own face. He was sorry, so, so sorry. He can't, daren't look anymore. One more glance and he would go back and take those trembling little hands in his and he would never let go again. No, this was best for both of them. This was Mycroft, being sensible. Sherlock must understand.
He didn't know it then, but that was the last time he'd ever see Sherlock cry.
--
He made a promise, and he would keep it. It would take him a year and all his charms, but he would find a sympathetic and wealthy woman to take them both in. When he eventually comes back for Sherlock, the boy would be quieter, his eyes hollower.
He can guess, but he'll never know what Sherlock had to endure in that year alone. It will always hang between them, the year unsaid, haunting and poisoning, until they could naught but look at each other with blame and guilt, until Sherlock's every glance is an accusation, and Mycroft's every word an apology.
--
AN:So this is part of the Radiohead songfic request project/thing I'm doing, because I just love them so much. As its been a while, and it seems I've lost momentum, I'm closing the requests. Unless you really want it, in which case I'll oblige.
AN2: Long time no see. You think I gave up, that I'm a quitter? Never! You ask and I deliver. No matter how RL piles up, I'll still find time for LJ. Also if there are any grammar mistakes, please point them out, as I worked on it over a long span of time, and read over it so many times in the end I couldn't focus anymore.
Genre: Angst. Only angst.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG 13
Words: 945
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock's feud, here's my version of what happened. Their father was a madman trying to cultivate them into perfect leaders. They try to run away. A bit of the typical abusive father trope.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song Exit Music (for a film) by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. As requested by livia_carica . Part of my Radiohead songfic project. Details after fic. BTW these fics are all one-shots/drabbles and you can read any of them in any order.
Songs done: 15 Step, Black Star, All I Need, Fitter Happier, Karma Police, The Amazing Sounds of Orgy, No Surprises, Subterranean Homesick Alien, Faust Arp, There There
Songs queued: You and Whose Army, True Love Waits/Jigsaw Falling into Place
“Mycroft, wake up.”
He opened his eyes and rolled out of bed, fully dressed. Beside his bed stood Sherlock, clad in his heaviest jacket, a small bag on his back stuffed with a change of clothes, biscuits and what little allowance he had. Mycroft picked up his own slightly bigger bag and checked his watch. Yes, it was time.
“How long do we have?” Sherlock whispered.
“Enough.” He looked down at Sherlock's pallid small face and took his mittened hand, Sherlock squeezed back. Brave little fool, trusting his big brother without reserve. In truth Mycroft had no idea. In truth his heart was jackhammering because at any moment now, Father might commence his night prowling and find them missing from their beds. But Sherlock didn't need to know that. He was the big brother, he's promised to take care of Sherlock, and he'll keep his promise.
Tonight, they escape.
So they set off, hand in hand, two little boys of thirteen and seven, their minds resolute, their bodies shrouded in heavy layers. Yet still they trembled from both cold and fear.
--
When Mother was pregnant Mycroft had wished for a girl, a little sister that he can adore and protect. A girl might be exempt from Father's grand plans. She might get ballet lessons instead of tutoring in political theory. She might get dolls instead of textbooks. She might be allowed to play with other kids, and who knows, maybe Mycroft will be allowed to go along too. Instead he got a baby brother, a weepy little mess with so much hair he was named Sherlock.
Not long after, Mother fell ill, and made him swear by her deathbed he'll look after Sherlock. So he hoped against hope that Sherlock was normal, dumb, even. That way he can escape the worst of it. Idiocy was a lesser curse than intelligence in this household. But when Sherlock's first words were more of a first sentence, his worst fears were confirmed. Just like him, Sherlock was a genius.
Nobody knew. The estates up the hills, they thought it was just a recluse aristocrat and his home-schooled sons. No one suspected the truth, that it housed a madman holding two boys captive. No one could even imagine the extent of his insanity. No one guessed that the gates were padlocked to keep in more than to lock out. No one understood homeschooling meant isolation, imprisonment, a work camp regimen.
The methods of their father left scars, more invisible than visible, although there was no dearth of the latter either. Every day their brilliant minds were accelerated to breaking point. Every fumbling caused a meal, every miscalculation earned a caning. They were the reflection of their father's failures, the victims of his delusions of grandeur. They were in training to be the perfect heirs of a nonexistent kingdom.
--
Dawn was breaking. Their feet hurt and their legs were sore, but it was so close now. The sounds of playground, the squeak of the turning wheel, the whoosh of fabric against plastic slides, the sneakers shuffling in sand and wood chips. Mycroft could almost hear it. He could tell Sherlock did too judging by the hint of the smile on the corner of his lips. This was it, the first morning of their freedom.
Their running turned into skipping. There they were, two stupid boys practically frolicking down the grassy slope, so drunk on hope they forgot to be careful, forgot to look behind. By the time they noticed the extra shadow touching theirs, it was too late.
Sherlock's hand slipped through his. He had but a moment to react, to elude the other grasping claw meant for him. He ran.
“MYCROFT!” He heard Sherlock's scream, panicked and hoarse, and his heart was breaking into a thousand pieces. Father. Father has come. Father caught Sherlock. His lungs were bursting, and his knees were giving out, but he daren't stop. A few more steps, frantic scrambles, and he was over the fence.
He stole a glance over his shoulder for just a second, and what he saw haunts him still. Tears ran down Sherlock's cheeks, mixing with snot and saliva until his chin was a dribbling mess. His mouth opened and closed, soundlessly mouthing 'no' over and over again. He rocked with sobs, his narrow shoulders shaking so hard even Father had trouble holding him still. Yet even clutched in those talons, his skinny arms stretched towards Mycroft, his brother, his only friend, his savior.
His apostate.
Mycroft turned and kept running, wiping away the wetness on his own face. He was sorry, so, so sorry. He can't, daren't look anymore. One more glance and he would go back and take those trembling little hands in his and he would never let go again. No, this was best for both of them. This was Mycroft, being sensible. Sherlock must understand.
He didn't know it then, but that was the last time he'd ever see Sherlock cry.
--
He made a promise, and he would keep it. It would take him a year and all his charms, but he would find a sympathetic and wealthy woman to take them both in. When he eventually comes back for Sherlock, the boy would be quieter, his eyes hollower.
He can guess, but he'll never know what Sherlock had to endure in that year alone. It will always hang between them, the year unsaid, haunting and poisoning, until they could naught but look at each other with blame and guilt, until Sherlock's every glance is an accusation, and Mycroft's every word an apology.
--
AN:So this is part of the Radiohead songfic request project/thing I'm doing, because I just love them so much. As its been a while, and it seems I've lost momentum, I'm closing the requests. Unless you really want it, in which case I'll oblige.
AN2: Long time no see. You think I gave up, that I'm a quitter? Never! You ask and I deliver. No matter how RL piles up, I'll still find time for LJ. Also if there are any grammar mistakes, please point them out, as I worked on it over a long span of time, and read over it so many times in the end I couldn't focus anymore.