fic: your father's greatest wish
Title: your father's greatest wish
Rating: PG-13
Genre(s): angst, gen, h/c
Word Count: ~660
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Mycroft, Sherlock
Warnings / Spoilers: minor character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock hates the violin, he hates carrots, and he hates Mycroft. But most of all, he hates his father. Written for Cycle 1, Round 1 of thegameison_sh , prompt was 'first times'. Can be considered as a prequel to Beethoven's Two Romances.
“Your father’s greatest wish is for you to play the violin like your brother, Sherlock.”
Sherlock scowls darkly and kicks his legs under the dining table.
“Then I shan’t ever play it.”
“Sherlock!”
“Ow!” Sherlock clutches his shin and glares at Mycroft, sitting opposite him. Mycroft glowers back, his dinner plate clean.
“Mycroft! Both of you, behave and let me finish my dinner in peace! What would your father think, if he heard that his two boys were always fighting?”
“Father’s never here anyway,” Sherlock mutters bitterly, staring at his uneaten carrots. His father claims the vegetable helps one’s eyesight. Sherlock really hates carrots.
“Hush now, Sherlock,” his mother chides, exasperated, and her expression pained. “Your father is a busy man. Who do you think puts food on this table? Eat the carrots your father provides us and be a good boy.”
Mycroft glares at Sherlock. Sherlock glares right back.
The carrots are thrown in the bin.
*
One month later, two policemen ring the doorbell.
Sherlock answers the door because Mycroft is playing the cello - too many boys play the violin, I need to be special, he’d said to Sherlock with a sneer - and his mother is preparing dinner.
“Hello,” the policeman on the right says pleasantly, but Sherlock can hear his forced smile. He’s always had a way with reading people, noticing the most obscure of things - like the identical droop of the men’s mouths, and the weapons they think are hidden from view against their belts. “Is your mummy home?”
Sherlock nods and runs to the kitchen. As she washes the garlic out of her fingernails, Sherlock returns to the front door.
“Are you policemen?” he asks.
“Yes, we are.”
“I thought policemen only visited people to give them bad news?”
Before Sherlock is given an answer, his mother appears behind him.
“Gentlemen? How can I help you?”
When his mother collapses in the entrance hall, tears smudging her mascara, Sherlock runs to Mycroft’s room. The sound of the cello is silenced, and the front door bangs shut.
They hold each other tight as the weeping carries into the night.
*
One year later, Sherlock picks up his father’s violin.
At first, he hates it, as he knew he would. Mycroft rolls his eyes while Sherlock creates screeches from the strings, but eventually, after hours of resenting his bossy, demanding older brother, he plays a passable tune.
From then onwards, whenever Sherlock picks up the violin, his mother will linger by the doorway, looking like she may cry.
Sherlock always pretends he doesn’t see her. He closes his eyes, and plays.
*
Mycroft is in his late teens, about to go to university, and Sherlock is struggling through early adolescence. The glaring between the brothers is still palpable, but the feeling of animosity has long since diminished to a low hum.
Sometimes, rarely, they play together. Mycroft will smile, genuine, as his bow slides across the strings, and Sherlock will push down a grin of his own, eyes always half closed.
The day before Mycroft leaves for Oxford, Sherlock picks up his father’s violin, and he plays until his fingers feel like they will bleed. Then, he slumps onto his bed, and listens to the murmurs of his mother and Mycroft next door, discussing what to take, what not to take.
When finally the house is filled with only his mother’s footsteps and Sherlock’s silence, he looks into Mycroft’s empty room.
The cello is the only object left.
*
It’s Sherlock’s turn to leave home, and the violin is his only travelling companion on the train to Cambridge.
*
Years later, always on the same day, they still gather at their mother’s house: Mycroft with a bottle of the best red wine, Sherlock with his violin. Without fail, they tune the dusty cello waiting in its usual place in Mycroft’s room, and then play together - one song only, for old times’ sake.
Their mother cries, and makes carrots for dinner.
Rating: PG-13
Genre(s): angst, gen, h/c
Word Count: ~660
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Mycroft, Sherlock
Warnings / Spoilers: minor character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock hates the violin, he hates carrots, and he hates Mycroft. But most of all, he hates his father. Written for Cycle 1, Round 1 of thegameison_sh , prompt was 'first times'. Can be considered as a prequel to Beethoven's Two Romances.
“Your father’s greatest wish is for you to play the violin like your brother, Sherlock.”
Sherlock scowls darkly and kicks his legs under the dining table.
“Then I shan’t ever play it.”
“Sherlock!”
“Ow!” Sherlock clutches his shin and glares at Mycroft, sitting opposite him. Mycroft glowers back, his dinner plate clean.
“Mycroft! Both of you, behave and let me finish my dinner in peace! What would your father think, if he heard that his two boys were always fighting?”
“Father’s never here anyway,” Sherlock mutters bitterly, staring at his uneaten carrots. His father claims the vegetable helps one’s eyesight. Sherlock really hates carrots.
“Hush now, Sherlock,” his mother chides, exasperated, and her expression pained. “Your father is a busy man. Who do you think puts food on this table? Eat the carrots your father provides us and be a good boy.”
Mycroft glares at Sherlock. Sherlock glares right back.
The carrots are thrown in the bin.
*
One month later, two policemen ring the doorbell.
Sherlock answers the door because Mycroft is playing the cello - too many boys play the violin, I need to be special, he’d said to Sherlock with a sneer - and his mother is preparing dinner.
“Hello,” the policeman on the right says pleasantly, but Sherlock can hear his forced smile. He’s always had a way with reading people, noticing the most obscure of things - like the identical droop of the men’s mouths, and the weapons they think are hidden from view against their belts. “Is your mummy home?”
Sherlock nods and runs to the kitchen. As she washes the garlic out of her fingernails, Sherlock returns to the front door.
“Are you policemen?” he asks.
“Yes, we are.”
“I thought policemen only visited people to give them bad news?”
Before Sherlock is given an answer, his mother appears behind him.
“Gentlemen? How can I help you?”
When his mother collapses in the entrance hall, tears smudging her mascara, Sherlock runs to Mycroft’s room. The sound of the cello is silenced, and the front door bangs shut.
They hold each other tight as the weeping carries into the night.
*
One year later, Sherlock picks up his father’s violin.
At first, he hates it, as he knew he would. Mycroft rolls his eyes while Sherlock creates screeches from the strings, but eventually, after hours of resenting his bossy, demanding older brother, he plays a passable tune.
From then onwards, whenever Sherlock picks up the violin, his mother will linger by the doorway, looking like she may cry.
Sherlock always pretends he doesn’t see her. He closes his eyes, and plays.
*
Mycroft is in his late teens, about to go to university, and Sherlock is struggling through early adolescence. The glaring between the brothers is still palpable, but the feeling of animosity has long since diminished to a low hum.
Sometimes, rarely, they play together. Mycroft will smile, genuine, as his bow slides across the strings, and Sherlock will push down a grin of his own, eyes always half closed.
The day before Mycroft leaves for Oxford, Sherlock picks up his father’s violin, and he plays until his fingers feel like they will bleed. Then, he slumps onto his bed, and listens to the murmurs of his mother and Mycroft next door, discussing what to take, what not to take.
When finally the house is filled with only his mother’s footsteps and Sherlock’s silence, he looks into Mycroft’s empty room.
The cello is the only object left.
*
It’s Sherlock’s turn to leave home, and the violin is his only travelling companion on the train to Cambridge.
*
Years later, always on the same day, they still gather at their mother’s house: Mycroft with a bottle of the best red wine, Sherlock with his violin. Without fail, they tune the dusty cello waiting in its usual place in Mycroft’s room, and then play together - one song only, for old times’ sake.
Their mother cries, and makes carrots for dinner.