Even as a child Mycroft dressed to impress.
The Makings of an Ice Man: The Diet and the Ring
So I’ve recently heard Birdy’s cover of “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver, and feelings happened.
It rained the day of the funeral. It rained two days before and three days after, as well. In fact, it rained most days in the country, it seemed to Sherlock, so the fact that it rained on the day of the funeral was nothing special, but it stood out to him because it was the day Mycroft started using their Da’s umbrella.
Sherlock stood close to his big brother and curled his arm around him, mostly to get out of the rain and to feel the heat Mycroft always put out like a furnace, and partly because he felt like he was supposed to, what with Mycroft’s arm around his shoulder. He stared at the headstone and the grass and the dark, wet bark of the tree nearby and up at the black brolly he had stood under countless times before with his Da.
He had once asked his Da why he carried a brolly around with him everywhere and had been told, “A Holmes always thinks ahead, Sherly, and is never caught unprepared.” Sherlock wondered if Da had been prepared for this.
The brolly was trembling under the force of the rain pitter-patter-ing on it and Sherlock put his hand out to feel, but the rain was only a light drizzle now. Mycroft’s arm tightened around him and he felt that the trembling was coming from his brother. He looked up worriedly, but Mycroft’s round face was as stoic as it had been for the last week now—if pale and red-cheeked from the cold—and only a slight curve of his eyebrows showed his distress. Sherlock wished Mummy could’ve been here instead of in bed, where she’d been since they had come back from the hospital.
“Will we be alright?” Sherlock asked finally. His feet hurt from standing stiff in the cold.
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft replied immediately. “Come on, let’s go home.”
The rain had stopped, but Mycroft left the brolly open until they reached the car.
Late that night, Mycroft was called into Mummy’s room and didn’t come out until almost half an hour after Sherlock’s bedtime. When he came to make sure Sherlock had brushed his teeth and ready for bed, his eyes were red and he wore Da’s ring on his right hand. Sherlock asked about it but Mycroft would only say that he was the man in the house now. Mycroft was sixteen, nearly seventeen, which Sherlock hardly thought made him a man, but he was polite and didn’t say so because Mycroft looked like he was about to cry.
Things seemed to go back to normal, even wiithout Da. Mummy eventually came out of her room and Mycroft did his A-levels and was going to university soon and Sherlock had collected nearly 50 bugs in jars by the window before Mummy found them and made him throw them out.
Mycroft didn’t play with Sherlock anymore and stopped smiling, not like he did that much to begin with, and Sherlock started to think Mycroft didn’t like him anymore. Sherlock decided he didn’t much like Mycroft anymore either, especially when he started scolding Sherlock for getting mud on his clothes or not eating his beans or for taking Da’s bug book outside to see if the caterpillar he found matched one of the ones in chapter 9.
It wasn’t until months after Da’s funeral, when Sherlock heard glass breaking in the bath and found Mycroft sitting curled up on the floor with his head on his knees, that he realized that somehow things had gone wrong when he wasn’t looking.
Mycroft didn’t say anything when Sherlock said his name, but he sat up when Sherlock touched his hair and shoulder. His eyes were cast down at the towel over his lap and there were dark circles under his eyes, above the sharp edges of cheekbones Sherlock had never seen before in his life. He realized he could see Mycroft’s ribs. Sherlock touched his shoulder again, feeling chilled skin and the hard edge of bone, none of Mycroft’s characteristic fat or heat, and he felt fear creep into his insides. Mycroft still wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t say anything. Scared, he knelt and wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck.
He saw the blood on Mycroft’s hand from the broken glass, but recognized that something was far more wrong with Mycroft than a cut. He had never been more confused or helpless in his life, not even when Da died. He called for Mummy.
“How’s the diet?” He would say years later while his roommate looked on disapprovingly.
“Fine,” Mycroft would reply firmly, pursing his lips.
And Sherlock would smile.
(“Mycroft, I wanna bee.”
“You want to be what?”
“No! I wanna bee!”
“You can’t have just one bee, Sherlock.”
“They come in colonies.”
“Because they live in hives.”
“I wanna bee colonies.”
“When you get bigger you can have all the beehives you want. But first we have to get you washed before Mummy sees you and I get into trouble.”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz…”)
I imagine Sherlock has always been a tiny disaster.
The Holmes Brothers - requested by captainamericasass
“The basement of Fynn’s Buchter is not a suitable place to be trapped for 5 hours.”
That was all Sherlock had said on the matter after Mycroft had rescued him.
Mycroft, however… had said nothing so far.
That in itself was enough to put up a red-flag in Sherlock’s mind.
It was nearly half-past three in the morning, and the elder Holmes boy was escorting is little brother home in the chauffeured family car.
It was one of the most awkward car rides Sherlock had ever had in his life… but it was certainly not the first. Probably wouldn’t be the last, either.
‘How many times has Mycroft saved me now?’ Sherlock wondered. Though he was quick to push that thought from his mind, having no intention of embracing the sharp pang of guilt that struck him when he thought about it.
The car slowed to a stop, and the Holmes boys slid out of the car together. Mycroft kept his hand firmly planted on Sherlock’s small shoulder, and by the strength of his grip, it didn’t seem like he planned to ease up until they were back inside.
Sherlock stomped up the steps petulantly as they made their way to the front door. He was desperately trying to inject some of their usual ‘routine’ into this whole (oddly tense) scenario… but the only result was his stomach dropping a bit when Mycroft still didn’t comment or chastise him.
He waited quietly while Mycroft unlocked the door, and ushered him inside.
Once there, Mycroft slipped Sherlock’s coat off his shoulders, and hung it up nearby.
“Mother expects you at breakfast. She will share her thoughts on your behaviour tomorrow morning.”
Sherlock nodded slowly, but didn’t speak.
He expected the sigh of his name. A disappointed head shake.
Anything, really… but his brother’s arms wrapping around his shoulders. He almost loomed over Sherlock with their height difference; it made the younger Holmes feel safe and suffocated all at once.
“…How do I keep you safe, Sherlock?” Mycroft whispered. It sounded like a genuine plea…
So the moment Sherlock felt tears stinging his eyes, he shoved his way out of his brother’s arms and walked toward the stairs. Defense - turn guilt to anger.
“You can’t… I don’t want you to.” He hissed quietly as he shuffled up the grand staircase and out of sight.
Mycroft remained on the ground, kneeling at the bottom of the stairs.
|| anotherbohemiansoul asked: Just wanted to say, I’m loving your kid!lock series at moment, it’s sheer brilliance! :D & I was just wondering, would you ever consider doing one of kid!Mycroft helping out or being all protective of his little brother? (Basically, just a bit of brotherly love)
Lyrics || I’ve Seen It All - Bjork (feat. Thom Yorke)