Sherlock Fic: Lesson Learned
Title: Lesson Learned
Characters: Mycroft and Sherlock (gen)
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1300
Notes: Written for Fandom Stocking 2013 for alley_skywalker
Summary: Mycroft's careful plans are derailed by Sherlock's abhorrent behaviour. The reason for the distraction, however, is not what he expected.
Mycroft swatted away a hanging branch on his way down to the lake. He would be unacceptably sweaty and mussed by the time he made it back up to the house. It might be better to skip the beginning of dinner with the Ambassador (who he’d been begging Mummy to invite for weeks before he’d come home for half-term) and try to make an entrance before the fish course.
That depended, however, on quickly dispatching his duty of retrieving Sherlock, who had bolted out of the house in his evening wear as soon as the Ambassador arrived, stomping on the footman’s toes and ducking out the door. The undignified exit had prompted a too quiet, “Your brother,” from Mummy, sending Mycroft storming after Sherlock with grim determination.
He’d already checked four of Sherlock’s usual haunts, and was now putting his little-used woodcraft skills to the test by following what might have been muddy footprints through a forest floor damp with the recent spring rain.
When he crested the steep bank that loomed over the stream, he found that what was usually a babbling stream had turned into a roaring rush, swollen with snowmelt. Sherlock sat kicking his legs into midair while perched on a fallen trunk wedged between the two banks. He looked up at Mycroft, raised his hand for a cheeky wave, then pushed off his perch into the water.
Mycroft’s mind calculated several things at once: the speed of the current, the magnitude of Mummy’s rage at Sherlock’s completely ruining his new clothes, the distance between him and the water, the estimated strength of Sherlock’s swimming ability, the average time a seven-year-old could hold his breath.
He dashed down the slope of the bank to the edge of the water and drew breath into his lungs to scream at Sherlock to come out immediately as soon as his head broke the surface.
Sherlock did not appear within Mycroft’s estimated timeframe. Mycroft’s hot rage turned cold as he saw Sherlock’s arm reach out of the water, grasping, only to sink again immediately.
Mycroft was in the water before any more calculations were made. Ignoring the cold shock of the stream, he swam hard with the current. He kept his eyes on the place where he’d seen Sherlock’s hand. A plunge beneath the surface yielded only a handful of reeds. Mycroft tread water for a moment, kicking hard against the pull of his heavy clothes as he took in the eddy and swirl of the water around him, and his eyes followed its pull to where sticks and other debris swirled in a circle.
Once more Mycroft dove into the muddy waters, and this time his hand caught on cloth. He held on tight and struggled to stay submerged until he could clamp his arm around his goal and yank, hard.
Sherlock’s head flopped back across Mycroft’s shoulder as he pulled them to the muddy bank and out of the water. He sputtered and coughed when Mycroft turned him onto his side, spewing dark water onto the wet grass.
The boathouse was closest, and that’s where Mycroft carried Sherlock, ignoring his demands to be put down, his protestations that he wasn’t even hurt, and his half-hearted struggling. The little outbuilding was blessedly warm, thanks to Mycroft’s own retreat out here that afternoon to study his notes on Vietnam in preparation for dinner. He flipped on the electric heater and dumped Sherlock on the rug in front of the tiny fireplace before fetching blankets for both of them.
Sherlock sat, sullen and shivering, muttering curses at Mycroft until he dropped down next to him, then exploded with, “You should have left me alone. You’re hateful.”
“I’m-?” Mycroft drew his blanket around him and did not let his teeth chatter. “You wretched little beast. Were you going to let yourself drown out of spite?”
Instead of answering, Sherlock tugged at his sodden dinner jacket, turning it inside out in his effort to escape from it.
“Look at our clothes.” Mycroft’s anger grew as he took in the state of his outfit, muddied and soaking, scraped and torn from rocks and branches. “Mummy will have my hide.” A worse thought bubbled up from one of his many streams of thought. “I can’t face the Ambassador looking like this. You’ve spoiled everything.” He glared at Sherlock, huddled under his blanket. “What were you thinking?”
Sherlock pulled the blanket over his head, scowled at the heater, and announced, “I can’t swim.”
“Of course you can. Father took you every day I was home over the summer hols. You can’t have forgot,” Mycroft snapped. Father had been dead six months, and though it seemed much longer to Mycroft, for whom every day represented a barrier between his ambitions and the age at which he could be taken seriously, he knew one didn’t forget so basic a skill as swimming in that span of time.
“No he didn’t,” Sherlock insisted mulishly from inside his blanket.
“Sherlock, what have I told you about lying?”
“Only do it when you know you won’t be caught. It’s not a lie. He never taught me.”
“Of course.” Mycroft swallowed down the bitterness he’d felt at watching Father walk out the door each morning with Sherlock, when he’d always treated Mycroft as some bewildering, and vaguely threatening house guest who was best left to his own devices. “I must have imagined all those outings when-“
“I was learning violin.” Sherlock had pulled down the corner of his blanket to peer at Mycroft with one eye from inside his woolen cave.
“What?”
“Violin,” Sherlock repeated slowly. “A stringed instrument.”
“I know what a violin is,” Mycroft said impatiently. “Why?”
“It was just between us. I knew you and Mummy wouldn’t understand. Mummy only loves maths, and you only love your books. Father kept it secret for me, so no one could take it away from me.” Sherlock shifted, giving Mycroft his back. “But he took it away anyway, because now there's no one to teach me. I hate him.”
Mycroft edged closer, settling against Sherlock so their blankets puddled together. “I hate him sometimes, too,” he confessed. He waited until Sherlock’s quiet crying faded into sniffles before asking, “How long had you been studying?”
“Three years.” Sherlock tugged his blanket down around his shoulders. “I’m not very good. It takes a long time to learn to play anything interesting.”
“Here.” Mycroft reached out and Sherlock warily allowed him to take his left hand. There were, indeed, callouses on his fingertips, showing signs of lengthy and consistent practice. Three years, Sherlock had said, and in all that time, Mycroft had never noticed. His attention had wavered from the important things, it seemed. “Can I hear you play?”
“Why?” Sherlock’s suspicion drew lines across his forehead and scrunched up his nose. “I said it’s not interesting yet.”
“It’s interesting to me,” Mycroft said truthfully. “And since I was inconvenienced by your lack of swimming ability, it’s only fair that I be granted a demonstration of the skill for which you traded that ability.”
Sherlock heaved a deeply put-upon sigh, but he rose, with his blanket tangled around him. “It’s hidden in the conservatory. I didn’t want anyone to find it.” He started towards the door before freezing. “Oh, you didn’t mean now, of course. You have to go back to dinner.” He turned around. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you sneak in, so you can get changed. I’ll tell Mummy it was my fault.”
“No.” Mycroft pushed to his feet. “It will be warm in the conservatory. We can go straight there.”
Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. At last, he says, “Fine. But I get to choose what to play.”
“Acceptable.”
Sherlock wrapped his small, calloused hand around Mycroft’s larger, smooth one, and opened the door to the chilly spring evening. Mycroft followed his brother.
Characters: Mycroft and Sherlock (gen)
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1300
Notes: Written for Fandom Stocking 2013 for alley_skywalker
Summary: Mycroft's careful plans are derailed by Sherlock's abhorrent behaviour. The reason for the distraction, however, is not what he expected.
Mycroft swatted away a hanging branch on his way down to the lake. He would be unacceptably sweaty and mussed by the time he made it back up to the house. It might be better to skip the beginning of dinner with the Ambassador (who he’d been begging Mummy to invite for weeks before he’d come home for half-term) and try to make an entrance before the fish course.
That depended, however, on quickly dispatching his duty of retrieving Sherlock, who had bolted out of the house in his evening wear as soon as the Ambassador arrived, stomping on the footman’s toes and ducking out the door. The undignified exit had prompted a too quiet, “Your brother,” from Mummy, sending Mycroft storming after Sherlock with grim determination.
He’d already checked four of Sherlock’s usual haunts, and was now putting his little-used woodcraft skills to the test by following what might have been muddy footprints through a forest floor damp with the recent spring rain.
When he crested the steep bank that loomed over the stream, he found that what was usually a babbling stream had turned into a roaring rush, swollen with snowmelt. Sherlock sat kicking his legs into midair while perched on a fallen trunk wedged between the two banks. He looked up at Mycroft, raised his hand for a cheeky wave, then pushed off his perch into the water.
Mycroft’s mind calculated several things at once: the speed of the current, the magnitude of Mummy’s rage at Sherlock’s completely ruining his new clothes, the distance between him and the water, the estimated strength of Sherlock’s swimming ability, the average time a seven-year-old could hold his breath.
He dashed down the slope of the bank to the edge of the water and drew breath into his lungs to scream at Sherlock to come out immediately as soon as his head broke the surface.
Sherlock did not appear within Mycroft’s estimated timeframe. Mycroft’s hot rage turned cold as he saw Sherlock’s arm reach out of the water, grasping, only to sink again immediately.
Mycroft was in the water before any more calculations were made. Ignoring the cold shock of the stream, he swam hard with the current. He kept his eyes on the place where he’d seen Sherlock’s hand. A plunge beneath the surface yielded only a handful of reeds. Mycroft tread water for a moment, kicking hard against the pull of his heavy clothes as he took in the eddy and swirl of the water around him, and his eyes followed its pull to where sticks and other debris swirled in a circle.
Once more Mycroft dove into the muddy waters, and this time his hand caught on cloth. He held on tight and struggled to stay submerged until he could clamp his arm around his goal and yank, hard.
Sherlock’s head flopped back across Mycroft’s shoulder as he pulled them to the muddy bank and out of the water. He sputtered and coughed when Mycroft turned him onto his side, spewing dark water onto the wet grass.
The boathouse was closest, and that’s where Mycroft carried Sherlock, ignoring his demands to be put down, his protestations that he wasn’t even hurt, and his half-hearted struggling. The little outbuilding was blessedly warm, thanks to Mycroft’s own retreat out here that afternoon to study his notes on Vietnam in preparation for dinner. He flipped on the electric heater and dumped Sherlock on the rug in front of the tiny fireplace before fetching blankets for both of them.
Sherlock sat, sullen and shivering, muttering curses at Mycroft until he dropped down next to him, then exploded with, “You should have left me alone. You’re hateful.”
“I’m-?” Mycroft drew his blanket around him and did not let his teeth chatter. “You wretched little beast. Were you going to let yourself drown out of spite?”
Instead of answering, Sherlock tugged at his sodden dinner jacket, turning it inside out in his effort to escape from it.
“Look at our clothes.” Mycroft’s anger grew as he took in the state of his outfit, muddied and soaking, scraped and torn from rocks and branches. “Mummy will have my hide.” A worse thought bubbled up from one of his many streams of thought. “I can’t face the Ambassador looking like this. You’ve spoiled everything.” He glared at Sherlock, huddled under his blanket. “What were you thinking?”
Sherlock pulled the blanket over his head, scowled at the heater, and announced, “I can’t swim.”
“Of course you can. Father took you every day I was home over the summer hols. You can’t have forgot,” Mycroft snapped. Father had been dead six months, and though it seemed much longer to Mycroft, for whom every day represented a barrier between his ambitions and the age at which he could be taken seriously, he knew one didn’t forget so basic a skill as swimming in that span of time.
“No he didn’t,” Sherlock insisted mulishly from inside his blanket.
“Sherlock, what have I told you about lying?”
“Only do it when you know you won’t be caught. It’s not a lie. He never taught me.”
“Of course.” Mycroft swallowed down the bitterness he’d felt at watching Father walk out the door each morning with Sherlock, when he’d always treated Mycroft as some bewildering, and vaguely threatening house guest who was best left to his own devices. “I must have imagined all those outings when-“
“I was learning violin.” Sherlock had pulled down the corner of his blanket to peer at Mycroft with one eye from inside his woolen cave.
“What?”
“Violin,” Sherlock repeated slowly. “A stringed instrument.”
“I know what a violin is,” Mycroft said impatiently. “Why?”
“It was just between us. I knew you and Mummy wouldn’t understand. Mummy only loves maths, and you only love your books. Father kept it secret for me, so no one could take it away from me.” Sherlock shifted, giving Mycroft his back. “But he took it away anyway, because now there's no one to teach me. I hate him.”
Mycroft edged closer, settling against Sherlock so their blankets puddled together. “I hate him sometimes, too,” he confessed. He waited until Sherlock’s quiet crying faded into sniffles before asking, “How long had you been studying?”
“Three years.” Sherlock tugged his blanket down around his shoulders. “I’m not very good. It takes a long time to learn to play anything interesting.”
“Here.” Mycroft reached out and Sherlock warily allowed him to take his left hand. There were, indeed, callouses on his fingertips, showing signs of lengthy and consistent practice. Three years, Sherlock had said, and in all that time, Mycroft had never noticed. His attention had wavered from the important things, it seemed. “Can I hear you play?”
“Why?” Sherlock’s suspicion drew lines across his forehead and scrunched up his nose. “I said it’s not interesting yet.”
“It’s interesting to me,” Mycroft said truthfully. “And since I was inconvenienced by your lack of swimming ability, it’s only fair that I be granted a demonstration of the skill for which you traded that ability.”
Sherlock heaved a deeply put-upon sigh, but he rose, with his blanket tangled around him. “It’s hidden in the conservatory. I didn’t want anyone to find it.” He started towards the door before freezing. “Oh, you didn’t mean now, of course. You have to go back to dinner.” He turned around. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you sneak in, so you can get changed. I’ll tell Mummy it was my fault.”
“No.” Mycroft pushed to his feet. “It will be warm in the conservatory. We can go straight there.”
Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. At last, he says, “Fine. But I get to choose what to play.”
“Acceptable.”
Sherlock wrapped his small, calloused hand around Mycroft’s larger, smooth one, and opened the door to the chilly spring evening. Mycroft followed his brother.