superstructure
do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us, sherlock would ask, meek and shy, his eyes trembling the fright of a five-year-old child confronted with a broken antique vase. do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us, do you ever—
and mycroft would keep mum and look away because caring was not a sentiment he could bear the consequence of, because loving was not an advantage on his battlefield, because sherlock was twenty-one already and would never need his overbearing older brother again. it would be dangerous to stay attached to the boy in their past who ran to mycroft's bedroom and hid in mycroft's arms at the first roar of summer thunder. it would be impractical to coddle sherlock any more than he demanded for.
do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us, sherlock would enquire, curiosity twinkling in a sea of resignation and anguish. what do you think is wrong with us, mycroft would retort brusquely every time without fail, and sherlock would cease his questioning almost immediately.
his ears rang. everything was wrong.
/
the christmas dinner is new. the implications buried deep beneath it, however, is just the run-of-the-mill. he's used to it.
there's the gifted son. there's the dead daughter. and then, at the far corner, with potatoes on his laptop, precariously balancing a nation and two hours of sleep on shaky over-caffeinated hands, there's mycroft. the mannequin. the unpaid nanny. the full-time juggler.
it honestly doesn't help that he is on the verge of passing out from whatever is in the bloody punch. anthea will be disappointed.
mycroft huffs out a laugh, dry. that's all he is capable of, isn't it? disappointing people? hurting people? devastating people?
mummy is right, in the end. mummy is never wrong.
he spins around. the kitchen tilts on its axis, if it even has one. sherlock's young stray—wiggins?—is smirking rather ominously from his place near the door. there is not a necessity to be doubtful about his involvement in this little incident. mycroft should probably upgrade his surveillance status too. not now, though, because his head is killing him. eurus's tunes ring in his ears, loud and obnoxious. sherlock's deduction repeats itself over and over again, lonely lonely lonely—
he is so lonely.
he can't remember being their parents' top priority. he can't remember not having to share a toy with sherlock. he can't remember feeling loved. he can't remember playing in the fields. he can't remember keeping an old shirt or a beloved stuffed animal. he can't remember painting in peace. he can't remember an evening without eurus fussing for bedtime stories. he can't remember—
he can't remember living as himself.
he is a son. he is a brother. he is a governor, the government itself. he is authority. he is fear. he is a murderer. he is a saint.
when will he get to be mycroft?
across the room, mummy slumps unceremoniously into her armchair. father might have fallen somewhere in the house, but mycroft cannot care less. the man can crack his skull open all he wants. sherlock is obviously in on the drugging. knowing his brother, there's no need to worry about the watsons. mycroft smiles resignedly.
wiggins winks. darkness claims him.
/
the decanter is full. the cake is untampered. the portrait of her majesty the queen is still in place. the setting is vaguely familiar, but mycroft sees the changes clear as day. the usual black swivel chair has been replaced by something very plush, very scarlet. the files are scattered in mayhem. the man on his desk is, per contra, eerily calm. which is concerning, because his brother twitches and shivers all the time in manners not conforming to tranquil parameters. sherlock doesn't bother to perk up at his entrance.
the silence stretches on for several minutes. he feels like a fish out of water.
"you're here to disturb me," he says at last. anthea is already on her way to set up a makeshift office, and an agent will start moving paperwork along soon. his brother remains quiet. "enjoy my room. i'm afraid you will find it rather monochrome, brother dear."
sherlock doesn't move a muscle. the panic in him skyrockets.
"sherlock," he calls, wretched beyond recognition. pride and composure are of no use when your talkative, hyperactive baby suddenly becomes motionless. "i know why you are here. i know what you want for being here. disturb me." a beat. dread fills his lungs like lead in a balloon. "william sherlock scott holmes, answer me!"
a flap of ebony trench coat. a flourish of long, crooked fingers. a rattle. sherlock's glasz eyes find his, impeccably unruffled. spilling out of the boy's lap comes an almost endless stream of old toys and children's clothes. mycroft thinks he is going to lose his marbles. everything the boy carries is his.
was his, actually. the whole collection was passed down to sherlock when he was eight.
"you've missed these things," sherlock enunciates slowly, picking up a plastic ship. mycroft drifts back to the summer he turned two. the ship was a gift from rudy. "you've grieved their loss. you've hurt when i played with them. i saw the envy in your body language before i could comprehend it." a nichols's cube is now fondled in sherlock's hand. "you wanted to have them back. you wouldn't voice your desire. you were—"
"i am not envious of you, sherlock," he tries anyway, though the logical part of his brain relentlessly warns him that this is futile. the sight of his childhood toys is inexplicably tempting. "i am simply reminiscing the good days of my youth, brother dear. don't think the world always works how you believe it does."
he watches raptly as sherlock sifts through the myriad of baby products. an obscenely purple onesie goes flying over his head. a crusty play-doh can tumbles onto the floor. a deformed, rainbow-coloured unicorn is set gently down on the smooth desk. one striped napkin drapes elegantly on sherlock's bobbing curls, and another graces the boy's shoulder. this is getting more ridiculous by the minute, but mycroft can't stop labelling each article. all of it—the date, the purchaser, the occasion—is stacked up to the brim inside his labyrinth of memories, and is spilling out with terrifying precision. so much for not being envious. so much for not caring. so much for not being crushingly desolated.
"the problem is not how people view you, but how you view yourself, mycroft," sherlock whispers, eyes still trained on the mess he's made, on mycroft. "you grew up too clever, and then you led yourself to be convinced that all your worth lies in being the firstborn, the perfect son, the exemplary sibling. you're supposedly the rational one among us, a bit eccentric and sometimes rude but still keeping up a proper façade, a poster boy made to uphold the holmes name, a reputation beyond your age."
the boy chances a fleeting gaze at his face as if to make sure he hasn't escaped the room. then, monotonously, the deduction continues, "you've become an adult as soon as i exist in your orbit. to you, there is no room for errors or sentiments. you are a grown-up, and you think you have to be impenetrable. flawless." sherlock throws back his half-drunken whiskey. "you're wrong. something is wrong with you, and something is wrong with us, but you won't concede to the fact because it makes you weak. it doesn't. i know i'm right, brother dear."
the involuntary taps of shiny shoes against clean linoleum hasten their dismaying cadence. he can't let tears fall. he can't crumble. his boy is explicit in his inference, though, every word a nail in the head. a nail in the coffin may be a better term; after all, sherlock is exceptional at dealing with corpses. mycroft thinks he's being flayed open by a particularly vicious butcher who happens to understand him a titch too well. the umbrella is heavy in his trembling hand. he has to grasp it with all his strength just to keep from keeling over in a case of severe jelly legs. it's humiliating to be seen through so easily. sherlock is eyeing him curiously. he wants an explanation mycroft doesn't have. yes, mycroft is childish. yes, mycroft hates growing up. yes, mycroft resents his only brother for taking away his happiness. mycroft doesn't need to speak and sherlock will know all the same.
his calves give out. mycroft sinks to the floor, wordless. the mature kid inside urges him to have this long-overdue heart-to-heart. the puerile governor tapes his mouth shut. sherlock doesn't seem pleased with the new development. the boy crouches soundlessly to his left, barefooted; and it dawns on him that sherlock has grown spectacularly in the decades he spent distancing himself from his family. sherlock is a big boy, a man, and mycroft is just a baby struggling against the waves, fighting to keep his head above salty waters.
"i love you," he grits out through the catch in his throat. "i love you, and eurus, and mummy and father. the only problem is that i shouldn't. sentiment clouds judgment. the power i was given doesn't allow for such human misery, especially when i am dealing with matters of topmost importance, brother dear."
"loving is not a defect, mycroft."
"yet it is," mycroft quips back. "you've said it before, sherlock; it is a chemical defect leading to the undoing of many a great man. incredibly simple, equally destructive. irene adler lost when she fell for you. doctor watson lost when he married mary morstan. i've lost, and i will continue to lose, as long as i still care for you. i can't possibly consider loving you when it will surely be my ruination. i can't— i can't, sherlock."
"you can," the younger rasps, exasperated. "you can. loving us doesn't clash with being clever, or sensible, or pleasing. i was wrong, mycroft. you can be yourself, and you can be loving. the proof of love is hidden in the conflict of the mind, and you've been waging war against yourself for too long. let your heart do its job. let yourself care, mike."
"mycroft."
sherlock just laughs. mycroft sits back, dumbfounded. his boy hasn't laughed like that since he was eight. sherlock's toes nudge his butt. sherlock's hand ruffles whatever's left of his balding head. sherlock's chest is warm on his back, and mycroft thinks—
mycroft thinks he can love again.
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