The Assistant Headmaster (Mystrade Fanfic)

Twenty Five

A/N- I've been having a Beatles binge this weekend and I don't know about you, but when I do stuff like this I always feel really very devastatingly left behind. I should probably stop but I can't seem to do it. Anyway, I hope you darlings enjoy the chapter! I love and appreciate each and every single one of you!

-CHx

Mycroft

"Shut up, Sherlock," I said as I walked through the front door of our parents house, of course after having to have our father open the door for me since my dearest younger brother locked me out again. "I'm really not in the mood."

"Trouble in paradise, then?" Sherlock asked smugly, following me into the kitchen.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. I don't want to talk about it."

"Don't want to talk about what, Myc?" Mummy asked as she came into the room.

"Mummy, while you're the dearest woman in my life, when I say I don't want to talk about it, I really don't want to talk about it and I don't want to tell you what I don't want to talk about."

"Well, that was quite the mouthful, Mycroft. Luckily you're used to it," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"I'm not, actually. But you're about to get a mouthful of my fist if you don't shut up."

"Mycroft!" Mummy and Father gasped at the same time.

"What has gotten into you?!" Mummy asked. Sherlock smirked behind their backs. I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Nothing," I said, my gaze not leaving Sherlock's. I dared him to say something. Anything. Already I was paying him to keep quiet, and I had no intention of upping the price. "It's just been a rough week."

"Or, more specifically, a rough night and a half. Obviously you lost a lot of sleep last night. I mean, look at the bags under your eyes. Obviously not work related, it's all rather monotonous for you. Not that you'll change that because you don't like the legwork. So obviously it's something personal that's bugging you. Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. Oh, that little shit was working hard to annoy me. And he was definitely achieving that.

"No, I don't, Sherlock," I said through gritted teeth. "Now are we having dinner or shall I just go?"

"Yes, come on," Mummy rushed me through to the dining room. "The chicken is waiting in the cooker."

Father, Sherlock, and I sat at the table. Father sat at one end, the other side was reserved for Mummy, and then Sherlock sat across from me. His eyes glowed with a mischievous glint, and something told me he was getting back at me for the run-in with Victor. He was just lucky I didn't tell our parents.

The dinner was eaten in silence, except for the times when Mummy or Father tried to make small talk. Sherlock and I would only grunt in response. I didn't know why I came to the dinner. Maybe because it was family routine, or maybe because I was trying to get my mind off of a certain student whose warm smile I already missed. Maybe I missed the way I could always feel his heart racing whenever I hugged him, or maybe it was how his hair always smelt of his shampoo.

'Calm down, Mycroft,' I told myself. 'It's only been one day.'

"Mycroft," I heard Father speaking to me. I looked up from the food I was moving around my plate. Father put his napkin down on the table and stood up. "Can I have a word with you?"

I sighed and stood up. "Yeah, alright."

Sherlock snickered as Father and I stood up, before promptly letting out an "Ow!" Obviously Mummy had just kicked him under the table. I followed Father out of the room and outside, where we sat on the doorstep.

"Alright, what's happening?"

"Nothing," I mumbled.

"Mycroft, you sound like a teenage boy. Just tell me why you're moping about. Your mother is worrying herself silly."

"It's just-" I sighed, frustrated, looking out to the street. "I didn't tell someone something which might've mattered to them. And now they're really very mad at me, and I don't know what to do. In fact, I don't even know what I did in the first place."

"And I'm guessing you care about this person very deeply, yes?"

I nodded. "More than I've ever cared about anyone else."

"And now you're sitting here, unsure of what to do, because it's all very new to you, these emotions, this situation. And while you're here, you want to be there, talking to them and sorting things out. Am I right?"

I turned to my father, and gaped at him in wonder. "Precisely! How'd you know?"

Father chuckled and shook his head. "Do you think your mother was easy to get? Not by a long shot! You see how hot she is, I had to work hard to get her and to maintain her love. We're in our mid-forties now, and I still run over obstacles -admittedly that I set myself- in order to keep her happy."

"Thanks for that, Dad. You've really proven yourself to be just as weird as all the other dads out there."

"Well, glad I finally got there. But seriously, Mycroft, just give them space. They'll come around, and maybe you'll realise why they're upset."

"Why don't you tell me that part as well?"

"Because," Father laughed, "I don't know them. I can't tell you what you did or why they're upset. You know them though. And you have a brilliant mind, Myc. You'll work it out eventually."

"Thanks, Dad," I said, sighing.

"Any time at all, Myc. Now let's get back inside before your mother begins to wonder where we've gotten off to." Father patted me on the back before heading off inside. I knew Sherlock had just bolted up the stairs, having had listened in to mine and Father's conversation. It was obvious to me that Sherlock just wanted attention too. I'd found someone I genuinely liked, and he wanted the same. But caring wasn't an advantage. Not if it left me feeling so awfully and glum. How could anyone prosper from such a hopeless feeling, one that leaves you so dejected? I shook my head and thought about what Father had just said. They'll come around, and maybe you'll realise why they're upset. I really truly hoped so.

On Monday I skipped Lisborn's English classes, managing to find cover. I had to interview students who were looking to come into the school. And amongst them was John H. Watson.

He was a nice boy. Modest family, sister named Harry who abused liquor. But John was polite, and a very good rugby player from what his then-current school had said about him. Their star player, actually. He was attractive and intelligent, and I could see he wanted to be a doctor when he left school. My mind traveled back to Sherlock, and I couldn't help but smile as I spoke to John.

"Well, John," I said at the end of the interview, standing up to shake his hand, "I think I have the perfect roommate for you. I can tell you in advance that you're accepted into the school."

"Wow," he breathed, "Thank you so much, Sir. It truly means the world to me."

If I was having a hard time with relationships and most likely doomed to be alone forever, I could at least offer my little brother a chance at love, which I knew would undoubtedly come.