Wednesday, 31 October 2012
08:55:06 PM (GMT)
"TURN THAT DAMN RACKET DOWN, SHERLY, I'M TRYING TO WORK."
Mycroft's voice barely cut through the screaming and distortion that was emitting
from the speakers, let alone the violin at the boy's shoulder. He'd found that the
two things- his violin and heavy metal music- went surprisingly well together, and
anyone who didn't like it could go stuff themselves.
"SHERLOCK YOU FREAK, TURN IT OFF."
The violing dropped from his collarbone in frustration and he barged his door open,
"MAKE ME, MYCROFT."
Across the landing, another door slammed back against the wall as a dark haired man
opened it too hard, "Both of you, shut the hell up. It's three in the morning and I
have to work in two bloody hours." His voice was low and threatening, far more
terrifying than Mycroft's idle threats. Sherlock darted back inside his bedroom,
turning the music down several notches. It was quieter, but still loud enough to
make the statement.
His father was angry now. The unspoken threat was still hanging in the air, and as
stubborn as he was, Sherlock had never known his father to joke. He placed his
violin rapidly on his desk and pulled the plug on his music, having decided that
waiting for the iPod to turn off took time that he didn't have. He leapt into bed
fully clothed, flinching as he heard the horrifically familiar crack that he had been
waiting for. A hand on a cheek. Mycroft's cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut,
counting multiples of seven. Please don't come in, please don't come in...
He let out a long breath as the door inevitably opened, letting out a small whimper
as a fist struck the back of his left shoulder. The fist was released, and the man's
hand snaked up, constricting around Sherlock's throat. The boy's eyes widened in
surprise. He had never done this before! Sherlock clawed at the hand, choking as he
tried to fight back. Light streamed into the room from the corner of his (quickly
fading) vision, and there was a thud and the sound of splintering wood, and the hand
relinquished its grip, the whole body falling to the floor.
Mycroft dropped the remainder of his cricket bat and hurried to his younger brother,
rolling him over and examining his neck. After deciding that Sherlock was clearly
alive and suitable for work, he tugged at his hand,
"Sherlock, help me drag him back to Mummy's room."
"She still out?" Came the small and rather strained reply. Mycroft nodded, and his
brother shakily pushed himself up, taking one arm of the hulkish man.
Together they dragged him across the landing and into his own room, hastily bundling
him onto the bed. Sherlock leant forwards, taking his pulse with an unsteady hand,
"Sherly? What is it?"
"You... YOU FUCKING IDIOT, MYCROFT!"
Although Sherlock was six years younger than his brother, he certainly had never been
shy to voice his opinions, and now he emphasized them with a punch to Mycroft's
shoulder, "You've killed him..."
"What?! Don't be stupid... I didn't... It was only a cricket bat..." Though his
words were convincing, Mycroft believed his brother. They both staggered back a few
small steps before the elder Holmes pushed the younger through the door towards his
room. He had a double bed, after all, and this probably was the equivalent to a
nightmare. Sherlock merely pulled his t-shirt over his head, kicked off his black
jeans, and crawled under the covers, Mycroft following suite.
"Y-you just killed my Dad..."
"He wasn't mine."
"So that makes it alright?"
"Sherlock, he tried to kill you-"
"You just killed the only person who would give me what I wanted. I hate you." The
mass of curls nestled against Mycroft's chest, and he draped his arm carefully about
the boy's bony figure.
Of course Mycroft knew precisely what he meant. It was no secret to him that he was
taunted at school. Called a freak and a psychopath. For a while, he had even joined
in, until he got home one day and had to pry a knife from his brother's unconscious
form. He nodded, closing his eyes to prepare himself for sleep.
"I'll never let anyone else surprise me. Not after that. I wouldn't have cared... I
just want to know how I'll go." Sherlock stated. His voice was still hoarse, but it
was firm now. His mind was decided. "Nothing will ever surprise me again.
Especially not death. Especially not you."
"Too much history between us, John. Old scores. Resentments"