ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

Brother Mine

Mycroft Holmes, 19

He watched the others from his window. Children, he knew he was one of them, but something alienated him from that particular sect of society entirely.

The noise was so wild, so chaotic, so pointless. The shouting, the laughter. It was all so unbearably mundane.

"Mycroft, where are they?" came an irritated voice from behind him.

Any regular teenager steals their little sibling's things every now and then. Some steal clothes, or toys, or books. When Mycroft Holmes steals Sherlock's test tubes, he knows he's pushing a button. Or two. Or three, or four, or five, since Sherlock always insisted on wearing button down shirts.

"I need them." Little brothers. Such dear little devils.

"You don't use them for anything halfway sane," Mycroft chided patronizingly, somehow managing to piss off his brother no matter what tone he adopted.

"Give me one reason I have to prove my worth to you, fat arse," his twelve-year-old brother spat. "I'm surprised anyone but the chefs know who you are by name."

Mycroft ground his teeth. Juvenile insults were beneath his dignity to use, but they were definitely effective.

"Crude words never brought anyone any kind of victory," he said through clenched teeth.

"Your face makes it all worthwhile, so I digress."

A beat. An incensed exhale.

"Cupboard, bottom right hand side, beneath the red jacket," Mycroft conceded, rolling his eyes with a great flourish, a finger pressed to his temple as if Sherlock's very presence interfered with his advanced thought processes. He watched Sherlock smirk and stride towards the cupboard, humming as he recovered his precious instruments.

"Mummy says to come down for dinner," Sherlock said as he walked out of the room.

Oh, good lord. More...interactions.

Mycroft's breath drove a patch of fog onto the glass as he leaned against the window, his forehead pressed against it like he wanted to break out of the fishbowl he was trapped in.

~

Sherlock Holmes, 12

Clink.

"Pass the salt, won't you, dear?"

Clink.

"The steak is marvelous, Violet."

Clink.

'Normal' was not a word typically associated with the Holmes family, but for good reason. No normal family would sit through dinner, wallow in awkward tidbits of small talk and accept it as a valid conversation.

Clink.

Sherlock sometimes wondered what it would be like.

Raucous laughter at free jokes, careless, knowing glances between parents, grandparents, siblings. A beautiful cacophony at a small table, commending the chef's work all at once. Not a single discernible compliment, and yet the atmosphere would be jovial, it would buzz with life.

Sherlock sometimes wondered what it would be like.

A daring smirk shared with Eurus as he stole a tart from Mycroft's plate. A sweet kiss by his ear from his mother as she walked around his chair to wash up. An unmistakable glint of good humour in the otherwise cold eyes of his father as he sneaked a peck from his wife, receiving a bashful swat to the arm from a laughing Violet Holmes. Mycroft and Sherlock sharing an unapologetic laugh at a joke that was orchestrated by them both, together.