Fic for monkiainen: Beautiful Surfaces - Part 1
Title: Beautiful Surfaces
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: rivertempest
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, John Watson/Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Mild violence, implied child abuse, sexual content, temporary character death
Summary: Mycroft Holmes considered himself to be the only person in Sherlock's life that knew him completely. He was spectacularly wrong.
Notes: Based in the Ritchie!verse, this fic also has a smattering of ACD and BBC Sherlock flavouring the story, with definite manipulations (or perversions, your choice) of the movie timeline and The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter. monkiainen, I hope you enjoy this - it took a wildly different turn than I expected. Many thanks to S and D for their fantastic beta skills!
There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Ever since his younger brother Sherlock was born, Mycroft Holmes knew there was something exceedingly different about his younger brother-something that needed to be protected, nourished and, eventually, exploited. No, exploited was such an ugly word. Perhaps ‘encouraged to contribute to the greater welfare of the Kingdom’ was more apt. Regardless, Mycroft’s sibling required the sort of attention and grooming that was demanding and time-consuming, even as a babe.
Unfortunately-or fortuitously, from a certain perspective-when Sherlock turned four, that responsibility fell upon Mycroft’s shoulders. By Mycroft’s eleventh year, he had become highly skilled at diverting their father’s abusive attempts towards Sherlock, whom their father seemed to regard as a circus attraction and thus unworthy of care. Sherlock’s intense, dark stare, apparent from infancy, unnerved their father, and when sober he took great pains to avoid the child altogether. However, when their father was deep in his cups-a habit that increased in frequency as he grew older-paranoia would overcome him, and Sherlock would often be the target of his aggression, resentment and hate. Of course, their mother tried to interfere, but just as Mycroft was about to enter his first year of secondary education, the cracks in their dysfunctional family widened into fissures, which in turn exploded to reveal expansive canyons that could not be crossed.
Mycroft was packing, Sherlock sitting on the bed, legs pulled tight to his chest as he observed Mycroft’s every movement in minute detail.
“I want to go with you.”
Mycroft snorted. “You know you cannot.” He gave Sherlock a side glance. “You haven’t even completed your Maths tables that I set for you.”
The petulant boy kicked out one of his legs. “Dull.”
“I won’t have an ignoramus gallivanting about the house when I return,” Mycroft admonished. “Finish your Maths tables, or I shan’t smuggle back a copy of Charles Darwin’s book for an ungrateful wretch.”
Sherlock’s eyes were incandescent. “Truly?” The boy was literally bouncing on his knees. “I have a… a…”
“Theory?” Mycroft offered with a smirk.
“Yes! I have a theory that birds are-”
A crash from below silenced Sherlock and both brothers fell into a pose of anxious waiting.
The longer the silence reigned, the more tense the atmosphere became, until Sherlock whispered, “Please, Mycroft… take me with you.”
Fierce bitterness and rage filled Mycroft on Sherlock’s behalf. His brother wasn’t completely defenceless-when he’d discerned that Sherlock could comprehend complex concepts at a startlingly young age, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to teach his brother how to survive, how to see what most people overlooked. Still, exposing a person’s weaknesses and faults via logical deductions didn’t necessarily equate with being able to defend oneself against blows from a fist.
He frowned, studying Sherlock’s pensive face. “Come here,” he finally said quietly, glancing between his brother and the door to his bedroom.
Sherlock quickly obeyed and followed him into the antechamber of Mycroft’s rooms. Mycroft closed and locked the door, then crouched down so as to be eye-level with Sherlock.
“Never be alone with father, for any reason.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I promise.”
“If you should find yourself unable to escape, what should you do?”
“Lie, deduce or bargain… in that order,” Sherlock said with pride.
Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Good. However, there will come times when none of the three will be effective. I’m going to show you how to overcome your opponent in those situations long enough to flee.”
“I’ll make them walk the plank!” Sherlock said with far too much enthusiasm.
“This is no time for play, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, gripping the small shoulders and squeezing tight. The light of levity left Sherlock’s eyes, but Mycroft had no time to mourn its passing. “First: everything can be used as a weapon.”
“Everything?” There was such awe in Sherlock’s voice.
Mycroft nodded and searched their surroundings for the most innocuous of items. He spied an umbrella and snagged it. “Second: vulnerable areas of the human body, specifically male. I suspect you might receive a rather stinging slap from a female on occasion, but I suggest you avoid them altogether in the future.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mother rarely comes near me. Why should any other female?”
A sharp pang of pity swept through Mycroft before it was ruthlessly quashed. Soft emotions and sentiment would do his brother no favours. Using the wickedly sharp tip of the umbrella, he pointed to areas on Sherlock’s body. “The neck, the solar plexus, the stomach, the abdomen, the groin, the inner thigh. Strike swiftly and with as much precision as possible. Hard objects should be smashed against bone, whilst pointed or sharp objects should be stabbed into soft tissue.”
“But what if I cannot find anything to use as a weapon?”
Mycroft tapped Sherlock’s forehead. “Remember: everything can be a weapon. One blow of your head into an attacker’s nose deals more damage than repeated blows of your fist to the same area. The human skull is a powerful tool, beyond the brain matter it encases.” He pointed to Sherlock’s feet. “Kick only when necessary-kicking is effective only at the right distance-and target the body part nearest to you.” He placed the outer side of his palm at the base of where Sherlock’s Adam’s apple would form. “A stiff, hard jab to the throat is both a shock to the foe, robbing them of their breath, as well as a useful tool to temporarily silence someone. Done hard enough, it can even kill.”
Sherlock nodded solemnly. “May I bite?”
Mycroft shouldn’t have been surprised that his brother wished to draw blood. “Only if-”
The sound of the bedroom door slamming open quieted them, followed by a bellow that demanded the presence of Sherlock. Mycroft pressed his index finger to his lips, indicating Sherlock was to remain silent. He grabbed the tiny hand that trembled slightly and dashed to the antique wardrobe. After opening it as soundlessly as he could, he pushed Sherlock inside and handed him the umbrella.
Sherlock shook his head violently and tried to give the parasol back to Mycroft, tears welling his eyes. “He’ll hurt you!” Sherlock whispered frantically.
“Shh!” Mycroft hissed. “Stay here and remember what I told you!” He quickly shut the door before Sherlock could argue further, locked it and deposited the key in his waistcoat pocket, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t throw one of his famous tantrums.
With a deep breath, Mycroft unlocked and opened the door that led to his bedroom and found his father looking underneath his four-poster bed. He immediately stood, and Mycroft could see that his eyes were rheumy, from the near-constant alcohol use, but also held a mad glint about them that didn’t bode well.
“Where is that unholy jackdaw?” It was the name their father had saddled Sherlock with, a constant reminder of his son’s hair colour, which was black as crow feathers. “I know he’s up here; I can smell him!”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything past your own malodorous contributions,” Mycroft retorted. “When was the last time you bathed?”
Taunting their father was a tricky thing; Mycroft had to gauge and time his insults perfectly or suffer the consequences… such as the ones he would now. He saw his father move with more speed than was right for an inebriate, and felt the crack of his nasal bones like lightning bolts into his skull. Warmth flowed down his face for a brief moment before his vision tunnelled and everything went black.
It must have been the sound of guttural screams that awoke him, for when he next opened his eyes, he beheld Sherlock, holding the umbrella as if brandishing a deadly pike, poised to land what looked like another blow to their father’s groin. Their father was already bent double, and the menace Mycroft had previously witnessed in his sire’s gaze had now matured into a deep-seated rage. If Mycroft didn’t intervene, Sherlock would be seriously injured, possibly irreparably so.
Mycroft stood and heard several sets of footsteps upon the staircase, the noise inciting their father to lunge at Sherlock. “No!” Mycroft yelled, knowing he would never reach his brother in time.
It did not matter. With a strength belying his small stature, Sherlock struck their father in the abdomen with the sharp tip of the umbrella, the man’s weight adding to the impact. Their father’s eyes widened in disbelief before he collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain, just as several policemen arrived in the doorway. Their mother was at the front of the group, her lips pursed in disgust.
Sherlock was panting, his diminutive frame shaking. Mycroft slowly wrapped his arms around his brother, pulled him back against his chest and held him tightly. Until this moment, he had only seen Sherlock from the back. Now, he took inventory of the boy who was going into shock, and deduced the events that must have taken place whilst he was incapacitated.
Locked wardrobe door-multiple puncture wounds on fingertips: Sherlock had found garment pins, or possibly hair or hat pins to pick the lock. He had been able to pick locks since capable of fine motor function at age of three.
Scuff marks on shoes: door jammed and had to be kicked open. Took three attempts.
High flush on neck and face: adrenalin flooded his system, providing increased strength and single-minded focus.
Purple swelling around left eye and temple: two blows to the head from attacker-first one to stun, second to inflict pain. Both ignored due to abundance of adrenalin.
Scratches on both palms: tear in the fabric of the umbrella exposed two tines on left and five tines on right. Palms were gouged during first and second blow to attacker.
Vacant expression and shaking body: release of adrenalin ceased, threat vanquished, hormone dissipating.
Time until total collapse: six seconds.
Even as Mycroft finished his deduction, Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell into Mycroft’s arms. Hmm, a slight error in his timing. Holding Sherlock close, he rose from his crouched position and moved towards the bed.
“Mycroft, give him to me,” their mother ordered.
He clung tighter, unwilling to relinquish his burden. “He’s had a traumatic experience, Mother. He will panic and lash out if he awakens and I’m not there.”
“Nonsense! He needs me right now and-”
“Where were you when this disgraceful lout was putting bruises on Sherlock’s skin, Mother?” Mycroft snapped, looking directly at their father, who was being dragged up from the floor by a policeman named Lestrade, as indicated by the man’s credentials he glimpsed when they entered the room. “Where were you?” Mycroft shouted, when she did not answer.
She swallowed, her hand fluttering about her throat. “You will give me Sherlock now, Mycroft. You need to see to yourself.”
He suddenly recalled the damage to his nose, having been decidedly focused on earlier events. But now pain blossomed in his face, making his eyes water-or at least that was what he vehemently told himself as he handed Sherlock over to their mother. She tucked her youngest son close and turned, stopping only to instruct the police to remove the reprobate in their custody from her sight.
His room empty, Mycroft backed up until he was pressed against the wall, then slid down to rest on the floor, letting the tears fall heedlessly. He didn’t dare sniff; he might pass out again from the agony. But the organ inside his chest refused to stop aching with pride, fear, and not a little love for the child who had defended him whilst he was unconscious.
Mycroft recalled sitting on the floor for forty-seven minutes-the time it took for his world to irreparably change. Their father was forced from the house and eventually admitted to an asylum, diagnosed with dementia praecox, or precocious madness. His addiction to alcohol, and possibly other substances, exacerbated the symptoms. He died a scant year later, frozen to death atop the roof of the asylum. Mycroft had no sentiment regarding his demise, save an overwhelming feeling of relief.
But even with their father gone, life was not peaceful.
Their mother’s judgement was suspect at the best of times. In others, it was practically non-existent. It was obvious to Mycroft that she was unstable herself, but with a shadow already cast upon their family for their father’s unsolicitious behaviour, it would be unwise to add further speculation about the Holmes progeny with rumours of rampant madness. So, in the interest of his and Sherlock’s future, Mycroft took upon himself the role of both father and mother, hopefully ensuring Sherlock would never become a victim to those of lesser intellect.
Even now, nearly three decades later, Mycroft didn’t know if had been for the betterment of their lives or not.
He often wondered about the heredity nature of insanity, for he had on several occasions seen evidence that Sherlock was edging further and further into that ‘precocious madness’ state the older he became. Mycroft was aware early on that Sherlock would need to be provided with near-constant stimuli, to prevent following their father’s paradigm. Providing such incentive, however, was a daily uphill battle with Sherlock. The oddest things caught his attention and, once fixated, he would spend hours, days, weeks-in the case of tobacco ash, a continuing obsession, years-engrossed in study and experiments. His manic states were rivalled only by his black moods. During those times, Mycroft at first naively believed that if he only observed closely, he would be able to prevent any disaster that might befall his brilliant brother. He was disabused of this notion the first time he found Sherlock in his lodgings on the seedier side of London.
“Get up.”
Sherlock gave him a lazy grin as he stretched his body along the bare floorboards. “Why, my dear brother, how gracious of you to call at two o’clock in the morning,” he purred. “I’d offer you fruitcake, but I fear the maggots have cannibalised it.”
“Oh, don’t acquire manners on my behalf,” Mycroft said with a sneer.
Sherlock gave him a feigned pout. “It’s a pity we’re not distant relatives, for they are the best kind-the further, the better.”
Mycroft snorted in disgust. “Any further than London and you would currently be serving a ten year sentence to hard labour due to Labouchere’s amendment. Had I been out of the country, you would not have benefited from my involvement in the debacle with Victor Trevor.”
“Tedious,” Sherlock drawled with a indolent wave of his hand. “Your concern is messy, clinging and of an annoying and repetitive pattern, like hideous wallpaper. Go away before I sic the rats on you.”
Bile roiled in Mycroft’s stomach as he took in Sherlock’s state.
General unkempt appearance: lack of hygiene apparent-estimated no bathing for one week; excess perspiration contributing to maceration of the epidermis and allowing for the acrid odour.
Obvious medication use: sensitivity to light, revealing dilated pupils; two injection sites on left arm, one on right; is right-handed and missed vein on right arm because of awkward angle-will not try again. Used own belt as makeshift tourniquet.
Malnutrition: overwhelming smell of vomit in the room, though none visible; has been sick before, as indicated by near-emaciated state of body.
No razor in flat: two week-old beard growth-At this, Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief, though said relief didn’t last long.
Conclusion: Sherlock had an obsessive-compulsive, addictive personality, reminiscent of their father’s. He would be dead with next injection due to inability of comprehending the correct dosage.
Mycroft placed the tip of his walking cane on the outstretched palm of Sherlock’s right hand and pressed until his brother’s face contorted in pain.
“Stop it!” Sherlock snarled and tried to bat the stick away with his free hand.
“I’m surprised you still have sensation in your limbs,” Mycroft said drily. He lifted the cane. “Now, get up.”
Sherlock massaged his hand, frowning. “Why should I?”
Instead of answering, Mycroft snorted and scanned the room. Sherlock wanted to be petulant and test his resolve, did he? Fine. One of the advantages of knowing a person’s strengths was also knowing their weaknesses. On his second pass studying the area, Mycroft noted a human skull half-buried beneath sheaves of newspapers. He gave Sherlock an indolent smirk. “You’re getting sloppy and predictable.”
With the latest fix still coursing through his veins, Sherlock was evidently in no shape or form to prevent his brother’s actions. Mycroft strode to the teak escritoire, pushed aside the multitude of papers and lifted the skull. He pried open the hinged jaw and withdrew a Moroccan leather case. He opened it and found a glass and metal syringe, already filled with its next dose.
“No! I need that!” Sherlock moaned. He rolled over and crawled to Mycroft’s feet.
“No,” Mycroft said shortly, glaring down at the feeble mess clinging to his legs, “you don’t.”
He pressed the needle attached to the syringe against the scarred top of the writing-desk and watched as it broke. Ignoring Sherlock’s whimpered objections, Mycroft unscrewed the metal cap and poured the clear chemical into a tea cup to be disposed of before he left. He then plucked the remaining three needles from where they nestled in the padded satin lining and rendered them useless as well. After removing the four phials of ready medication from behind the satin divider, he proceeded to smash the glass of the syringe with the silver head of his cane-all whilst Sherlock screamed himself hoarse.
“I hate you!” Sherlock rasped and curled into a foetal position.
Mycroft resolutely ignored the pain at Sherlock’s words. “Good. It’s better than this apathetic morass you’ve fallen into to relieve your boredom.” He grasped Sherlock under one arm and hoisted him until he stood, retaining his grip should his brother collapse. “Now, you will bathe and then I will feed you, and you’ll eat every bloody morsel I put in front of you, is that clear?”
Sherlock sneered and then spat at him. “You’re not my keeper!”
“Unfortunately, it appears you clearly need one!” Mycroft wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. He shook Sherlock. “You are more than this! Why are you hell-bent on this self-destructive path?”
Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled as his fingers threaded through the hair at his temples, tugging on the strands convulsively. “It quiets the cacophony in my head,” he muttered. “Stops the constant barrage of noise, even if for just a moment.”
Mycroft closed his eyes in resignation. Symptoms reminiscent of their father’s illness. It was an inherent possibility that either Holmes son would possess the genetic markers for madness, but it seemed as though Sherlock had received the lion’s share of the disease. This, more than anything, Mycroft reasoned, was a sign that Sherlock needed to be looked after, to be watched on a near-constant basis.
He manoeuvred Sherlock to a threadbare sofa and let him fall onto the cushions. Sherlock said nothing. He simply lay there, silently watching as Mycroft cleared out the grate and set a fire in the hearth. Once the flames caught, he found a tattered quilt and laid it over Sherlock’s shivering body. Sweat glistened on Sherlock’s face, dampening the already limp strands of his normally curly black locks. Mycroft recalled a similar time when Sherlock had looked much the same, just before their father was cast out of the home.
“Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?” Sherlock whispered, staring at the modest fire.
Mycroft flinched. Yes, of course there was something wrong. With both of them. They were both broken, but in different ways.
When an answer was not forthcoming, Sherlock turned his gaze to Mycroft. “How do you cope with your own lunacy?”
Not ‘do you suspect that you’re quite mad’, but an assumption of fact, a surety that there was a hidden psychosis within Mycroft as well. There was no point in avoiding the subject. “With logic and deduction, order and reason. Most living things follow a pattern; it is the aberrations that provide infinite possibilities,” he said.
Sherlock frowned. “What about emotions? Surely there are some instances where-”
“All lives end, Sherlock.” Mycroft gave him a heated stare, his voice hard. “All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is useless, chaotic and unpredictable. Our mother ‘cared’ about our father, yet you know more than anyone how destructive and agonising that emotion can be.”
Sherlock’s gaze shifted back to the fire. “Of course,” he said in an empty tone.
“In order to deal with conflicting values, cognitions and beliefs, you must learn to compartmentalise your mind. Classify material into categories that may be accessed at any given moment, allowing clutter to be swept away like refuse.”
“Is this what you do?”
Mycroft considered it a lapse in educating Sherlock that he hadn’t instructed the younger man how to build a fortress within, to protect himself. “It’s imperative to create a refuge in your mind, to avoid scenarios as the one I found you in.” He gave Sherlock a pointed look. “One can only allow conflicting ideas to co-exist by inhibiting direct or explicit acknowledgement and interaction between separate categories or subjects.”
Sherlock’s gaze became fixed and distant. “Essentially, a library… On a massive scale. Within my mind. With access to thousands upon thousands of bits of information, depending on the volume I choose,” Sherlock said with a fevered gleam in his eye. He sat up and threw off the quilt. “Cognitive dissonance would be greatly reduced, allowing for increased absorption of relative material.”
Whilst Sherlock paced, speaking aloud, Mycroft calculated and planned a course of action that would focus his brother’s abilities and talents so that there would be no threat of boredom, and thus a relapse into this regrettable state.
Once Sherlock was physically stable, Mycroft had contacted Scotland Yard, specifically Inspector Lestrade, and set about arranging for Sherlock to help them with investigations that were… difficult. There were grumblings, of course, but as time went on, Lestrade began to call on Sherlock of his own accord, his brother having more than proved himself beneficial to the police force. Mycroft also contracted with Mrs. Hudson to provide lodgings on Baker Street for Sherlock, as well as keeping a close eye on his behaviour. Had Mycroft been overt in any of these dealings, Sherlock would have rejected them all just to spite him. A modicum of subtlety, on the other hand, gave Sherlock the sense of control he apparently required in order to function in society, albeit in an eccentric manner.
There were a few missteps over the years-one or two of them raising a few eyebrows in the gossip columns-but for the most part, Mycroft considered his parental guidance of Sherlock Holmes from childhood into adulthood to be a success.
He was spectacularly wrong.
Because shortly after moving into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock met Dr. John Watson and Mycroft’s position in his brother’s life was irrevocably altered.
Find part two of the fic here
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: rivertempest
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, John Watson/Mary Morstan, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Warnings: Mild violence, implied child abuse, sexual content, temporary character death
Summary: Mycroft Holmes considered himself to be the only person in Sherlock's life that knew him completely. He was spectacularly wrong.
Notes: Based in the Ritchie!verse, this fic also has a smattering of ACD and BBC Sherlock flavouring the story, with definite manipulations (or perversions, your choice) of the movie timeline and The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter. monkiainen, I hope you enjoy this - it took a wildly different turn than I expected. Many thanks to S and D for their fantastic beta skills!
There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Ever since his younger brother Sherlock was born, Mycroft Holmes knew there was something exceedingly different about his younger brother-something that needed to be protected, nourished and, eventually, exploited. No, exploited was such an ugly word. Perhaps ‘encouraged to contribute to the greater welfare of the Kingdom’ was more apt. Regardless, Mycroft’s sibling required the sort of attention and grooming that was demanding and time-consuming, even as a babe.
Unfortunately-or fortuitously, from a certain perspective-when Sherlock turned four, that responsibility fell upon Mycroft’s shoulders. By Mycroft’s eleventh year, he had become highly skilled at diverting their father’s abusive attempts towards Sherlock, whom their father seemed to regard as a circus attraction and thus unworthy of care. Sherlock’s intense, dark stare, apparent from infancy, unnerved their father, and when sober he took great pains to avoid the child altogether. However, when their father was deep in his cups-a habit that increased in frequency as he grew older-paranoia would overcome him, and Sherlock would often be the target of his aggression, resentment and hate. Of course, their mother tried to interfere, but just as Mycroft was about to enter his first year of secondary education, the cracks in their dysfunctional family widened into fissures, which in turn exploded to reveal expansive canyons that could not be crossed.
Mycroft was packing, Sherlock sitting on the bed, legs pulled tight to his chest as he observed Mycroft’s every movement in minute detail.
“I want to go with you.”
Mycroft snorted. “You know you cannot.” He gave Sherlock a side glance. “You haven’t even completed your Maths tables that I set for you.”
The petulant boy kicked out one of his legs. “Dull.”
“I won’t have an ignoramus gallivanting about the house when I return,” Mycroft admonished. “Finish your Maths tables, or I shan’t smuggle back a copy of Charles Darwin’s book for an ungrateful wretch.”
Sherlock’s eyes were incandescent. “Truly?” The boy was literally bouncing on his knees. “I have a… a…”
“Theory?” Mycroft offered with a smirk.
“Yes! I have a theory that birds are-”
A crash from below silenced Sherlock and both brothers fell into a pose of anxious waiting.
The longer the silence reigned, the more tense the atmosphere became, until Sherlock whispered, “Please, Mycroft… take me with you.”
Fierce bitterness and rage filled Mycroft on Sherlock’s behalf. His brother wasn’t completely defenceless-when he’d discerned that Sherlock could comprehend complex concepts at a startlingly young age, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to teach his brother how to survive, how to see what most people overlooked. Still, exposing a person’s weaknesses and faults via logical deductions didn’t necessarily equate with being able to defend oneself against blows from a fist.
He frowned, studying Sherlock’s pensive face. “Come here,” he finally said quietly, glancing between his brother and the door to his bedroom.
Sherlock quickly obeyed and followed him into the antechamber of Mycroft’s rooms. Mycroft closed and locked the door, then crouched down so as to be eye-level with Sherlock.
“Never be alone with father, for any reason.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I promise.”
“If you should find yourself unable to escape, what should you do?”
“Lie, deduce or bargain… in that order,” Sherlock said with pride.
Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Good. However, there will come times when none of the three will be effective. I’m going to show you how to overcome your opponent in those situations long enough to flee.”
“I’ll make them walk the plank!” Sherlock said with far too much enthusiasm.
“This is no time for play, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, gripping the small shoulders and squeezing tight. The light of levity left Sherlock’s eyes, but Mycroft had no time to mourn its passing. “First: everything can be used as a weapon.”
“Everything?” There was such awe in Sherlock’s voice.
Mycroft nodded and searched their surroundings for the most innocuous of items. He spied an umbrella and snagged it. “Second: vulnerable areas of the human body, specifically male. I suspect you might receive a rather stinging slap from a female on occasion, but I suggest you avoid them altogether in the future.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mother rarely comes near me. Why should any other female?”
A sharp pang of pity swept through Mycroft before it was ruthlessly quashed. Soft emotions and sentiment would do his brother no favours. Using the wickedly sharp tip of the umbrella, he pointed to areas on Sherlock’s body. “The neck, the solar plexus, the stomach, the abdomen, the groin, the inner thigh. Strike swiftly and with as much precision as possible. Hard objects should be smashed against bone, whilst pointed or sharp objects should be stabbed into soft tissue.”
“But what if I cannot find anything to use as a weapon?”
Mycroft tapped Sherlock’s forehead. “Remember: everything can be a weapon. One blow of your head into an attacker’s nose deals more damage than repeated blows of your fist to the same area. The human skull is a powerful tool, beyond the brain matter it encases.” He pointed to Sherlock’s feet. “Kick only when necessary-kicking is effective only at the right distance-and target the body part nearest to you.” He placed the outer side of his palm at the base of where Sherlock’s Adam’s apple would form. “A stiff, hard jab to the throat is both a shock to the foe, robbing them of their breath, as well as a useful tool to temporarily silence someone. Done hard enough, it can even kill.”
Sherlock nodded solemnly. “May I bite?”
Mycroft shouldn’t have been surprised that his brother wished to draw blood. “Only if-”
The sound of the bedroom door slamming open quieted them, followed by a bellow that demanded the presence of Sherlock. Mycroft pressed his index finger to his lips, indicating Sherlock was to remain silent. He grabbed the tiny hand that trembled slightly and dashed to the antique wardrobe. After opening it as soundlessly as he could, he pushed Sherlock inside and handed him the umbrella.
Sherlock shook his head violently and tried to give the parasol back to Mycroft, tears welling his eyes. “He’ll hurt you!” Sherlock whispered frantically.
“Shh!” Mycroft hissed. “Stay here and remember what I told you!” He quickly shut the door before Sherlock could argue further, locked it and deposited the key in his waistcoat pocket, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t throw one of his famous tantrums.
With a deep breath, Mycroft unlocked and opened the door that led to his bedroom and found his father looking underneath his four-poster bed. He immediately stood, and Mycroft could see that his eyes were rheumy, from the near-constant alcohol use, but also held a mad glint about them that didn’t bode well.
“Where is that unholy jackdaw?” It was the name their father had saddled Sherlock with, a constant reminder of his son’s hair colour, which was black as crow feathers. “I know he’s up here; I can smell him!”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything past your own malodorous contributions,” Mycroft retorted. “When was the last time you bathed?”
Taunting their father was a tricky thing; Mycroft had to gauge and time his insults perfectly or suffer the consequences… such as the ones he would now. He saw his father move with more speed than was right for an inebriate, and felt the crack of his nasal bones like lightning bolts into his skull. Warmth flowed down his face for a brief moment before his vision tunnelled and everything went black.
It must have been the sound of guttural screams that awoke him, for when he next opened his eyes, he beheld Sherlock, holding the umbrella as if brandishing a deadly pike, poised to land what looked like another blow to their father’s groin. Their father was already bent double, and the menace Mycroft had previously witnessed in his sire’s gaze had now matured into a deep-seated rage. If Mycroft didn’t intervene, Sherlock would be seriously injured, possibly irreparably so.
Mycroft stood and heard several sets of footsteps upon the staircase, the noise inciting their father to lunge at Sherlock. “No!” Mycroft yelled, knowing he would never reach his brother in time.
It did not matter. With a strength belying his small stature, Sherlock struck their father in the abdomen with the sharp tip of the umbrella, the man’s weight adding to the impact. Their father’s eyes widened in disbelief before he collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain, just as several policemen arrived in the doorway. Their mother was at the front of the group, her lips pursed in disgust.
Sherlock was panting, his diminutive frame shaking. Mycroft slowly wrapped his arms around his brother, pulled him back against his chest and held him tightly. Until this moment, he had only seen Sherlock from the back. Now, he took inventory of the boy who was going into shock, and deduced the events that must have taken place whilst he was incapacitated.
Locked wardrobe door-multiple puncture wounds on fingertips: Sherlock had found garment pins, or possibly hair or hat pins to pick the lock. He had been able to pick locks since capable of fine motor function at age of three.
Scuff marks on shoes: door jammed and had to be kicked open. Took three attempts.
High flush on neck and face: adrenalin flooded his system, providing increased strength and single-minded focus.
Purple swelling around left eye and temple: two blows to the head from attacker-first one to stun, second to inflict pain. Both ignored due to abundance of adrenalin.
Scratches on both palms: tear in the fabric of the umbrella exposed two tines on left and five tines on right. Palms were gouged during first and second blow to attacker.
Vacant expression and shaking body: release of adrenalin ceased, threat vanquished, hormone dissipating.
Time until total collapse: six seconds.
Even as Mycroft finished his deduction, Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell into Mycroft’s arms. Hmm, a slight error in his timing. Holding Sherlock close, he rose from his crouched position and moved towards the bed.
“Mycroft, give him to me,” their mother ordered.
He clung tighter, unwilling to relinquish his burden. “He’s had a traumatic experience, Mother. He will panic and lash out if he awakens and I’m not there.”
“Nonsense! He needs me right now and-”
“Where were you when this disgraceful lout was putting bruises on Sherlock’s skin, Mother?” Mycroft snapped, looking directly at their father, who was being dragged up from the floor by a policeman named Lestrade, as indicated by the man’s credentials he glimpsed when they entered the room. “Where were you?” Mycroft shouted, when she did not answer.
She swallowed, her hand fluttering about her throat. “You will give me Sherlock now, Mycroft. You need to see to yourself.”
He suddenly recalled the damage to his nose, having been decidedly focused on earlier events. But now pain blossomed in his face, making his eyes water-or at least that was what he vehemently told himself as he handed Sherlock over to their mother. She tucked her youngest son close and turned, stopping only to instruct the police to remove the reprobate in their custody from her sight.
His room empty, Mycroft backed up until he was pressed against the wall, then slid down to rest on the floor, letting the tears fall heedlessly. He didn’t dare sniff; he might pass out again from the agony. But the organ inside his chest refused to stop aching with pride, fear, and not a little love for the child who had defended him whilst he was unconscious.
Mycroft recalled sitting on the floor for forty-seven minutes-the time it took for his world to irreparably change. Their father was forced from the house and eventually admitted to an asylum, diagnosed with dementia praecox, or precocious madness. His addiction to alcohol, and possibly other substances, exacerbated the symptoms. He died a scant year later, frozen to death atop the roof of the asylum. Mycroft had no sentiment regarding his demise, save an overwhelming feeling of relief.
But even with their father gone, life was not peaceful.
Their mother’s judgement was suspect at the best of times. In others, it was practically non-existent. It was obvious to Mycroft that she was unstable herself, but with a shadow already cast upon their family for their father’s unsolicitious behaviour, it would be unwise to add further speculation about the Holmes progeny with rumours of rampant madness. So, in the interest of his and Sherlock’s future, Mycroft took upon himself the role of both father and mother, hopefully ensuring Sherlock would never become a victim to those of lesser intellect.
Even now, nearly three decades later, Mycroft didn’t know if had been for the betterment of their lives or not.
He often wondered about the heredity nature of insanity, for he had on several occasions seen evidence that Sherlock was edging further and further into that ‘precocious madness’ state the older he became. Mycroft was aware early on that Sherlock would need to be provided with near-constant stimuli, to prevent following their father’s paradigm. Providing such incentive, however, was a daily uphill battle with Sherlock. The oddest things caught his attention and, once fixated, he would spend hours, days, weeks-in the case of tobacco ash, a continuing obsession, years-engrossed in study and experiments. His manic states were rivalled only by his black moods. During those times, Mycroft at first naively believed that if he only observed closely, he would be able to prevent any disaster that might befall his brilliant brother. He was disabused of this notion the first time he found Sherlock in his lodgings on the seedier side of London.
“Get up.”
Sherlock gave him a lazy grin as he stretched his body along the bare floorboards. “Why, my dear brother, how gracious of you to call at two o’clock in the morning,” he purred. “I’d offer you fruitcake, but I fear the maggots have cannibalised it.”
“Oh, don’t acquire manners on my behalf,” Mycroft said with a sneer.
Sherlock gave him a feigned pout. “It’s a pity we’re not distant relatives, for they are the best kind-the further, the better.”
Mycroft snorted in disgust. “Any further than London and you would currently be serving a ten year sentence to hard labour due to Labouchere’s amendment. Had I been out of the country, you would not have benefited from my involvement in the debacle with Victor Trevor.”
“Tedious,” Sherlock drawled with a indolent wave of his hand. “Your concern is messy, clinging and of an annoying and repetitive pattern, like hideous wallpaper. Go away before I sic the rats on you.”
Bile roiled in Mycroft’s stomach as he took in Sherlock’s state.
General unkempt appearance: lack of hygiene apparent-estimated no bathing for one week; excess perspiration contributing to maceration of the epidermis and allowing for the acrid odour.
Obvious medication use: sensitivity to light, revealing dilated pupils; two injection sites on left arm, one on right; is right-handed and missed vein on right arm because of awkward angle-will not try again. Used own belt as makeshift tourniquet.
Malnutrition: overwhelming smell of vomit in the room, though none visible; has been sick before, as indicated by near-emaciated state of body.
No razor in flat: two week-old beard growth-At this, Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief, though said relief didn’t last long.
Conclusion: Sherlock had an obsessive-compulsive, addictive personality, reminiscent of their father’s. He would be dead with next injection due to inability of comprehending the correct dosage.
Mycroft placed the tip of his walking cane on the outstretched palm of Sherlock’s right hand and pressed until his brother’s face contorted in pain.
“Stop it!” Sherlock snarled and tried to bat the stick away with his free hand.
“I’m surprised you still have sensation in your limbs,” Mycroft said drily. He lifted the cane. “Now, get up.”
Sherlock massaged his hand, frowning. “Why should I?”
Instead of answering, Mycroft snorted and scanned the room. Sherlock wanted to be petulant and test his resolve, did he? Fine. One of the advantages of knowing a person’s strengths was also knowing their weaknesses. On his second pass studying the area, Mycroft noted a human skull half-buried beneath sheaves of newspapers. He gave Sherlock an indolent smirk. “You’re getting sloppy and predictable.”
With the latest fix still coursing through his veins, Sherlock was evidently in no shape or form to prevent his brother’s actions. Mycroft strode to the teak escritoire, pushed aside the multitude of papers and lifted the skull. He pried open the hinged jaw and withdrew a Moroccan leather case. He opened it and found a glass and metal syringe, already filled with its next dose.
“No! I need that!” Sherlock moaned. He rolled over and crawled to Mycroft’s feet.
“No,” Mycroft said shortly, glaring down at the feeble mess clinging to his legs, “you don’t.”
He pressed the needle attached to the syringe against the scarred top of the writing-desk and watched as it broke. Ignoring Sherlock’s whimpered objections, Mycroft unscrewed the metal cap and poured the clear chemical into a tea cup to be disposed of before he left. He then plucked the remaining three needles from where they nestled in the padded satin lining and rendered them useless as well. After removing the four phials of ready medication from behind the satin divider, he proceeded to smash the glass of the syringe with the silver head of his cane-all whilst Sherlock screamed himself hoarse.
“I hate you!” Sherlock rasped and curled into a foetal position.
Mycroft resolutely ignored the pain at Sherlock’s words. “Good. It’s better than this apathetic morass you’ve fallen into to relieve your boredom.” He grasped Sherlock under one arm and hoisted him until he stood, retaining his grip should his brother collapse. “Now, you will bathe and then I will feed you, and you’ll eat every bloody morsel I put in front of you, is that clear?”
Sherlock sneered and then spat at him. “You’re not my keeper!”
“Unfortunately, it appears you clearly need one!” Mycroft wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. He shook Sherlock. “You are more than this! Why are you hell-bent on this self-destructive path?”
Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled as his fingers threaded through the hair at his temples, tugging on the strands convulsively. “It quiets the cacophony in my head,” he muttered. “Stops the constant barrage of noise, even if for just a moment.”
Mycroft closed his eyes in resignation. Symptoms reminiscent of their father’s illness. It was an inherent possibility that either Holmes son would possess the genetic markers for madness, but it seemed as though Sherlock had received the lion’s share of the disease. This, more than anything, Mycroft reasoned, was a sign that Sherlock needed to be looked after, to be watched on a near-constant basis.
He manoeuvred Sherlock to a threadbare sofa and let him fall onto the cushions. Sherlock said nothing. He simply lay there, silently watching as Mycroft cleared out the grate and set a fire in the hearth. Once the flames caught, he found a tattered quilt and laid it over Sherlock’s shivering body. Sweat glistened on Sherlock’s face, dampening the already limp strands of his normally curly black locks. Mycroft recalled a similar time when Sherlock had looked much the same, just before their father was cast out of the home.
“Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?” Sherlock whispered, staring at the modest fire.
Mycroft flinched. Yes, of course there was something wrong. With both of them. They were both broken, but in different ways.
When an answer was not forthcoming, Sherlock turned his gaze to Mycroft. “How do you cope with your own lunacy?”
Not ‘do you suspect that you’re quite mad’, but an assumption of fact, a surety that there was a hidden psychosis within Mycroft as well. There was no point in avoiding the subject. “With logic and deduction, order and reason. Most living things follow a pattern; it is the aberrations that provide infinite possibilities,” he said.
Sherlock frowned. “What about emotions? Surely there are some instances where-”
“All lives end, Sherlock.” Mycroft gave him a heated stare, his voice hard. “All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is useless, chaotic and unpredictable. Our mother ‘cared’ about our father, yet you know more than anyone how destructive and agonising that emotion can be.”
Sherlock’s gaze shifted back to the fire. “Of course,” he said in an empty tone.
“In order to deal with conflicting values, cognitions and beliefs, you must learn to compartmentalise your mind. Classify material into categories that may be accessed at any given moment, allowing clutter to be swept away like refuse.”
“Is this what you do?”
Mycroft considered it a lapse in educating Sherlock that he hadn’t instructed the younger man how to build a fortress within, to protect himself. “It’s imperative to create a refuge in your mind, to avoid scenarios as the one I found you in.” He gave Sherlock a pointed look. “One can only allow conflicting ideas to co-exist by inhibiting direct or explicit acknowledgement and interaction between separate categories or subjects.”
Sherlock’s gaze became fixed and distant. “Essentially, a library… On a massive scale. Within my mind. With access to thousands upon thousands of bits of information, depending on the volume I choose,” Sherlock said with a fevered gleam in his eye. He sat up and threw off the quilt. “Cognitive dissonance would be greatly reduced, allowing for increased absorption of relative material.”
Whilst Sherlock paced, speaking aloud, Mycroft calculated and planned a course of action that would focus his brother’s abilities and talents so that there would be no threat of boredom, and thus a relapse into this regrettable state.
Once Sherlock was physically stable, Mycroft had contacted Scotland Yard, specifically Inspector Lestrade, and set about arranging for Sherlock to help them with investigations that were… difficult. There were grumblings, of course, but as time went on, Lestrade began to call on Sherlock of his own accord, his brother having more than proved himself beneficial to the police force. Mycroft also contracted with Mrs. Hudson to provide lodgings on Baker Street for Sherlock, as well as keeping a close eye on his behaviour. Had Mycroft been overt in any of these dealings, Sherlock would have rejected them all just to spite him. A modicum of subtlety, on the other hand, gave Sherlock the sense of control he apparently required in order to function in society, albeit in an eccentric manner.
There were a few missteps over the years-one or two of them raising a few eyebrows in the gossip columns-but for the most part, Mycroft considered his parental guidance of Sherlock Holmes from childhood into adulthood to be a success.
He was spectacularly wrong.
Because shortly after moving into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock met Dr. John Watson and Mycroft’s position in his brother’s life was irrevocably altered.
Find part two of the fic here