a drabble for Mycroft Holmes
Yet another Holmesian drabble for holmes100, because the weekly prompts are fun. This week's was 'It is Watson's fault', and I think I may be doing these for a while.
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Mycroft remembers a time before his mother had died, when intellect and deduction were a grand game and the greatest prize of all was her smile, her delight and pride in her sons’ keen eyes and clever minds. Neither he nor Sherlock knew then that mortals resented and mocked what they could not aspire to, or that it was safer and simpler to be aloof and unreachable and dismissive of the cares of day-to-day living.
Mycroft knows who has made his brother this way again, and isn’t sure whether he disapproves or wishes desperately for a doctor of his own.
~~
Mycroft remembers a time before his mother had died, when intellect and deduction were a grand game and the greatest prize of all was her smile, her delight and pride in her sons’ keen eyes and clever minds. Neither he nor Sherlock knew then that mortals resented and mocked what they could not aspire to, or that it was safer and simpler to be aloof and unreachable and dismissive of the cares of day-to-day living.
Mycroft knows who has made his brother this way again, and isn’t sure whether he disapproves or wishes desperately for a doctor of his own.