Chapter Text
The train armchair creaked softly under Mycroft’s weight as he held Sherlock on his lap. The boy looked at his older brother, whose curly hair brushed his chin; the little one held his hand and softly hummed a song their mother had taught them. The elder sighed and gently held his brother by the abdomen.
A lady, their aunt Rosely, sat in the seat in front of them, wearing an extravagant green dress, her brown hair falling in curls over her shoulder. She wiped her eyes with a fancy white cloth and then sobbed:
— Oh, my boys… I offer my condolences to you, what a tragedy! — She leaned forward and held Mycroft’s hand — your parents were such kind people.
— Thank you, Aunt Rosely. — Mycroft said politely, not really knowing what to say. What should one say in a situation like this? Or feel?
— Thank you! — Sherlock repeated, waving his hands in the air and smiling.
Rosely smiled sadly at the boys.
— Soon we’ll be in London, and you will find a new home… I hope.
Mycroft sighed once more and rested his cheek on top of his brother’s head, watching the landscape pass by outside the train window: tall grass and golden flowers swiftly leaving his sight only to return again.
The journey had been long and tiring. Mycroft had not read any books or articles; Sherlock slept most of the time while being carefully held by the older boy. Mycroft wondered what it must be like to be like Sherlock in that moment—without any worries or fear, trusting completely in the only immediate family he now had left.
When they arrived at Waterloo station, Mycroft held his brother’s hand with one hand and carried his suitcase with the other. Rosely walked ahead, leading the way through the crowd of men and women in formal clothes bustling back and forth.
This would be their new life.
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The suitcase that Mycroft held that day was now in the corner of Sherlock’s room, who was now twelve years old; his 13th birthday awaited him in a few days. Not much was said about it — neither by himself nor by his brother Mycroft, who was twenty. Both knew the social importance of the birthday, but to them it was just another day. They would eat a slice of cake, receive congratulations, but they would not celebrate alone.
But Sherlock was excited about the date for one reason: a new microscope. Aunt Rosely and Uncle Robert had asked what he would like for his special day, and he, of course, asked for new scientific equipment. New beakers… and of course, the microscope. His dream was to study chemistry at university when he grew up, but for now, he lived reading, and reading, and reading… limiting himself to studying on his own. Which did not bother him; he had always had the capacity to study alone. Mycroft taught him to read early and insisted Sherlock learn Latin and Greek, which he found difficult because he didn’t see the need for it! But of course, he wanted to make his brother proud.
Mycroft watched from afar the boy bent over his desk, lips pressed in concentration, two open books, a magnifying glass and a pen in hand. The older brother was… worried about Sherlock, who reminded him a lot of himself but was also extremely different. The boy seemed like he didn’t live in the real world; he would spend hours lying in his bed with his hands resting on his belly and eyes staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression, as if he were in his own wonderland, chasing and questioning the white rabbit, daydreaming. But he also had great observational skills that allowed him to tell when people were lying or what their real intentions were, which was also a… negative point, at least at this age. His classmates found him strange and only feigned politeness, but he always knew the truth.
Mycroft took a few steps toward his brother and put a hand on his shoulder.
— Sherlock, it’s time to go to school, are you ready?
— I can’t go today, brother, I’m busy with my experiments… — The younger replied without even taking his eyes off his books.
Mycroft sighed and knelt beside the chair Sherlock sat in.
— Sherlock… you can’t just skip class.
— Why not? They’re idiots!
— Language!
Sherlock grunted softly and lowered the book he was holding, directing his gaze to Mycroft.
— Everything they teach, I already know. They’re… slow.
— Maybe you should stop learning things on your own then.
— But waiting until the next day to learn takes too long! And they don’t have a good pace!
Sherlock… did not get along well at school. He paid attention in class but couldn’t stay still; teacher reports said the boy was always writing, or rocking in his chair, or even drumming his fingers on the desk. The classmates called him weird behind his back, and the only person he got along with was the chemistry teacher, Mr. Howard.
— Sherlock, I know it’s difficult, but school is an important phase for your development — He said softly, standing up with a respectful posture — You can’t spend your life worrying only about yourself.
— You spend your life taking care of mine…
Mycroft brought his hand to his eyes and rubbed them tiredly.
— I didn’t hear that, did I?
Sherlock sighed and rested his arms on the desk, laying his head against them.
— No, Mycroft…
They were silent for some time, and then Mycroft cleared his throat.
— I have a meeting at Parliament in a few minutes. Go to school if you want.
He turned and walked toward the door.
— … be careful, Sherlock.
— Of what?
— Of your mind. Not everyone is as understanding as I am.
He closed the door and left the room.
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Chapter 2: Trouble
Chapter Text
Sherlock didn’t go to school.
He lay face down on his bed and closed his eyes, imagining the scolding he would get when Mycroft returned and realized the boy was still there.
It wasn’t his fault. He had no friends, nor the ability to endure the gas lamp flickering above him or the sound of his classmates scraping their chairs against the floor. Learning was good… but in his own way. A way that wasn’t painful.
In his view, having lessons at home with a tutor, or with Mycroft, would be far better than that. But his brother was always busy with important meetings and government affairs. That frustrated him to some extent, because why did they need him so much? Didn’t the smartest, most intelligent people in London manage to solve their problems on their own? Of course, his brother was a genius, the most intelligent person he’d ever met! But… he wished some of Mycroft would be left for him too.
— Enough of this, Sherlock! — He said aloud to himself, and sat up on the bed — Mycroft is too important to just stay at home!
He wiped his damp eyes and put his feet on the floor. A cup of coffee would be good now, it would definitely make him happier.
The boy walked to the kitchen and took the coffee pot in his hands; it was warm, and he liked the feeling — it was comforting. Carefully, he poured some into a cup. When he stretched out his arms to grab the cup, his elbow bumped into something, and he knocked the pot to the floor, the fragile and precious porcelain shattering into thousands of little pieces.
— Oh, no! — Sherlock exclaimed with a worried look and knelt down, hurriedly grabbing a cloth with his hands and starting to gather the sharp shards on the floor. The dark liquid that had been safely inside the object now flowed between the floorboards. He couldn’t understand. He knew the pot was there, so how had his elbow hit it? Why did it seem like his hands didn’t obey when he commanded them? If he was so good with the violin, how could he have difficulty simply taking a cup of coffee?
His hands trembled slightly as he finished gathering all the pieces of the broken pot and threw the remains into a bowl in the kitchen corner. His head tilted with sudden curiosity when he noticed the cloth stained with faint red spots, and when he put it in the sink, he saw his hand covered with tiny cuts. They were burning, but it didn’t bother him that much. It was just more work to do.
He sighed and went to the bathroom, where he opened the cabinet and took out a first aid kit containing bandages, suturing needles, and other items. He was about to wrap his hands with bandages, but then he felt their rough texture… how terrible! How could any mortal withstand such coarseness? In the end, he just rinsed his wounds with cold water and dried them with a cloth.
What to do now?
He could—
…
What was that?
The door opened. Mycroft was back home. He wouldn’t be happy to know his brother was still there. Sherlock quickly thought: The window! Finally, he smiled, ran silently to his room, opened the window, passed his slender body carefully to the other side, and closed it. He breathed the fresh air outside and then looked at the world around him.
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