ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

Not Stupid

"Sherlock. We're not children anymore, now for God's sake, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Oh, brother, don't be boring," said a very bored little brother. "You disappoint me."

"I disappoint you."

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up from the recently procured laptop, his new toy, the next object of interest. "Oh, yes."

"Apologies."

"Where is Gavin when I actually need him around?"

"Have you found yourself a new friend over the last two years?"

Sherlock was blank, confusion and utter reluctance burning in his eyes. "I..." he hesitated, he didn't want to say it, but it was true. "I don't understand. I've been working with him ten years now, he's hardly a new addition."

Realisation, and a little annoyance splashed across Mycroft's face. "His name-" he clenched his jaw. "-is Greg."

Slowly, as if in a dream, Sherlock's eyes found Mycroft's. Disbelief, curiosity, and unrestricted incredulity.

A whole minute ticked by. Mycroft shifted his umbrella uncomfortably under Sherlock's penetrating gaze.

"I know you rarely find more beautiful things than me, brother mine, but you might want to consider actually speaki-"

"I thought it would be Anthea. Always hanging around you, working with you, it was almost perfect. John and I had a bet, which I imagine he'll be winning now."

Mycroft's voice was drenched in impatience. "Start making sense..." He tipped his chin at Sherlock. "...now."

"Why him?" Sherlock shut his laptop. "Why..." He tried to remember the name, but it cruelly evaded him and he gave up. "Why Lestrade?"

Thank God for the umbrella, or Mycroft would have face planted into the carpet.

"I don't-"

"Buh-buh-buh-buhp!" Sherlock held up his index finger in Mycroft's direction, eyes scrunched tight and forehead kneaded in concentration. "I don't require the details. For once in my life."

The younger Holmes popped his eyes open and strode over to the mirror, observing the fireplace with impossible scrutiny. Mycroft lived here, but just sight of the fireplace drove a sharp stab of nostalgia through Sherlock.

"You told me everyone who ever fell in love was a complete idiot," came Sherlock's voice, softly, almost afraid. And he was, truly. His years as a child were haunted by a grey filter of humiliation for his extraordinary capabilities. And so he had avoided everyone - every opportunity for friendship...and anything beyond that.

"Where is this conversation going?" Mycroft was stuck in limbo, a state of suspension, precariously balanced on the end of a cliff, one centimetre from unleashing a torrent of horrible things.

"You dare fall in love after making me spend my entire life deprived of anything close to it?" Sherlock's tone was so soft. Dangerously so, like the shink of one knife against another.

The floor disappeared from beneath Mycroft, and he blinked, uncomprehending. "Sherlock-"

"And like that wasn't enough, you told me I wasn't worth it, I was stupid. And you said normal people - implying that I wasn't normal - weren't worthy of our attention." Sherlock's composure never changed, but something reckless and agonised pulsed behind his swirling irises.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. Goldfish.

"Well, sorry about this, Mycroft, but I've found a completely ordinary person who is apparently the only one worthy of my attention." Sherlock rounded on his brother. "I need to go back."