Archive of Our Own

It's September 23, and the world tilts on its axis. Evenings are cooling, lengthening, three minutes per day and the temperature's tripping up and down the colour scale, azure to cobalt to midnight to black, shade bleeding into shade, so fine, so infinite in number no poet can define them all.

Mummy draws her shawl tighter against a chill that circumvents Sherlock. He's active, counting, drawing, painting the evening across the strings, murky and grey and washed-together like dish water spilt upon the page. He adds splashes of colour, of pitch and timbre that rise, up and up in perfect order, swelling to a crescendo that prescribes the annoyance, the impatience that he feels.

Any moment now, he thinks, and his mental metronome disagrees with the time he keeps.

The last chord resounds a second before the minute hand touches its zenith and the clock in the hall takes over the performance with heavy, sonorous chimes.

"That was charming, dear." Mummy applauds until her shawl slips off her shoulders.

His father, still damp from the obligatory shower he needs to wash away his latest business trip, finds fault in his timing. Sherlock is not interested in a lecture on technique versus effect, or anything his father has to say for that matter, he only has ears for wet gravel crunching in the yard.

Finally.

Mummy argues the piece would have been ruined if he hadn't sped it up, the chimes are so loud here and would have drowned out his play. And then, what would keeping time have mattered?

As they turn their attention from Sherlock, Sherlock turns his back to the windows and the door, and wipes down his bow and violin with Zen-like attention. They don’t ignore him, not intentionally; they’re absorbed in their own tedious argument that becomes the centre of their universe, no room for anything else. Sherlock on the other hand can’t focus on anything but these openings to the outside – indeed, he feels them like heat on skin, so obvious in infrared, and his senses pick up every creaking, every airflow, every particle that lies as yet undisturbed.

Any second now, he thinks, and loosens the bow hair.

But any second stretches into two-hundred-and-thirty-eight after six o'clock – how long does it take to get out of a car? It’s not raining, no need to put up an umbrella; he will leave it with his coat and luggage at the door and order tea – before the door (finally) opens (again). An anticipatory sound, despite its many repetitions on this day, and the room stops breathing, as if suspended in time, under water, zero-gravity, motion slowed until it freezes and even the fire hushes.

The long-awaited visitor has arrived.

Sherlock doesn't turn around. Doesn’t. Doesn’t want – or need to. He knows it’s him, knows it like each movement of Bach’s violin sonatas. And Mummy's joyful exclamation is evidence enough, had he needed any.

There are four sharp steps, leather on hardwood, then another two muffled by carpeting, before his parents are individually addressed, quite pleasantly, and life returns to the scene, like pressing play on a VCR: a kiss on the cheek here, a nod and a handshake there. All nice and polite. Like a typical family reunion on the telly.

Typical, if Sherlock’s presence had been acknowledged by hugging him or ruffling his hair or something equally saccharine.

"Happy birthday, Mummy," he hears Mycroft say and impulse wins over forced indifference: Sherlock looks up, eyes drawn to the origin of a voice so affectionate it almost caresses his spine. His own mouth twists, and so do his fingers on the violin case. Click, the clasp says. A reminder: shut it.

"Thank you, dear," Mummy says, and her hands envelop Mycroft's. "I'm so glad to see you." They lock eyes, and it’s chilling to behold. Sherlock thinks of frozen lightning, snakes and rabbits, and that time passes differently depending on your frame of reference. "It's a pity you missed your brother's performance, though. And by a hair at that, he finished exactly on the stroke of six, can you imagine?" Her smile is like the sun in winter, thawing the ice in her voice, but Sherlock cannot decipher whether she reprimands Mycroft for his lateness or for ignoring his brother. “Aunt Margaret and Uncle Charles have also just left.”

Lateness, then. He has earned that reproof for making her wait.

"I apologise for my tardiness," Mycroft says, and his half-bow includes Sherlock without turning to him. Sherlock sneers. The nerve. He’s mocking him with this muted showmanship he picked up at uni and knows Sherlock hates; it’s a reminder of the rift between them, a rift the outside world has created once Mycroft made friends in school he brought up over and over in his letters to their parents. (Didn’t he tell Sherlock they all bored him to tears?) It must be father’s influence, it’s always father’s influence, and school then did the rest, erasing personalities to substitute them with a mind-numbingly uniform image of good breeding. And Mycroft allowed it to happen, allowed his differences to be smoothed over: there are rules you have to follow to get anywhere in life, it’s what he always says, but what about their own rules, the ones they used to create themselves, the two of them, until Mycroft left on his own trajectory and— “I had certain matters to attend to.”

Sherlock sinks into the corner armchair.

Ah, and isn’t that always his excuse? Really, Mycroft, he yearns to say, is that all you’ve got on offer? Shoddy work, then. What are those certain matters, pray tell? Could you be a bit more specific, perhaps? Can't you be open with Mummy or do you want to surprise her? Is there something she shouldn't know – yet? That you came from a business meeting and have an important announcement to make, but are waiting for the right moment? Your careful composure is telling. A prestigious job offer most likely, it's what our parents would want to hear. Oh, don't be like that, it's obvious, your choice of dress gives it away. The new suit is expensive, even for you. Charcoal may be a fine choice, if a bit dark for your complexion, although the brocade silk tie – oxblood, very luscious – enlivens your face again. You favour lighter tones of grey and blue silk ties, so important meeting it is. What else? High thread count, finely woven wool, Merino perhaps, with Bemberg lining, though I’d have to touch to know for certain.

And Sherlock does so want to touch. Every time he got his measurements done, he'd sample the fabrics, comb his fingers over the worsted wool, tracing the weave and committing it to memory.

Well done, Sherlock. I notice some slight improvement. Perhaps you aren’t hopeless, after all. Shut up, Mycroft. I am perfectly capable of reasoning out facts for myself, so you can sweeten your condescension with cake and cream, and stuff it. Capable of reasoning, is that so? Are you certain there is nothing you have missed?

Sherlock curls tighter into his armchair. He is bored and not even his internal argument with Mycroft poses enough of a challenge to keep his mind engaged for long.

However, his love for picking apart his brother nags him, and he continues (which has nothing to do with his brother’s imagined barb; curiosity always wins, after all): Mycroft’s countenance has ameliorated since last time, weeks and weeks ago, when worry gnawed its way out of his eyes, pinched and haunted, where it drained his face and tinged it with ashes. (Sherlock’s tongue flicks against the edge of his lips, smooth again, nothing to probe at, and he glowers – it wasn’t his fault.) Mycroft’s cheeks are more fleshed out and rosy, too, though the latter might be from the cold. The rest? Indication of healthier food intake, regular, less sugar. A new diet, a favourite restaurant, perhaps?

Sherlock would find out, and be right about it, too. Hypotheses non fingo. It’s something to unravel at least, if not very thrilling or mysterious.

Like the carmine envelope Mycroft delivers into Mummy's accepting hands that weigh and trace before she thinks to ask, "What is it?" Inside are two tokens. Mummy fingers them, hesitating. Her voice drops. “The theatre? Oh, that's so thoughtful of you."

Mycroft inclines his head and smiles, saying, “The impresario sends his regards,” but his eyes are hard. He noticed the slight. Of course he would, though does he know the reason? And if he did, why doesn’t he say anything? It’s an itch on Sherlock’s tongue, something he wants to impress his brother with, but the heavy atmosphere that weighs on Mycroft is entirely too delicious to disturb. Sherlock can bide his time.

“Darlton?” Mummy carries on the conversation, her way of granting absolution, grudging though that might be. “Why, we haven’t spoken in ages. So sweet of him to remember an old patron, don’t you think?”

“He also mentioned Les Misérables opening in Edinburgh today and thought that might interest you.”

Tea arrives to warm Mycroft and clear the chill in the air. The aroma puts Mummy into lighter spirits, and she begins to prattle on about all the inane relatives that have come to see her today and that Sherlock had the displeasure of meeting. At least he got out of performing until now, fearing those dull creatures would fawn over him to play piece after piece like a trained monkey, without taking the time to appreciate his play.

Sherlock’s craving a fag right about now, he’d like to trace his thoughts in the curling fumes. Too bad his parents are to remain ignorant about his smoking habit, which is really difficult to maintain because smoking inside the house is a breach of conduct and even his obtuse parents could smell that one. Sherlock is considerate and confines himself to smoking in Mycroft’s room. (And if he’s honest, Mummy chiding Mycroft along the lines of, “Have you been smoking again, young man? You should be ashamed of yourself. Think of what it does to your body,” gets him off every time.)

Though more than a cigarette, more than anything, he’d like for his parents to leave, leave the room, leave him with Mycroft, because their silence stretches on forever and Sherlock yearns to communicate. There are matters he wants to talk over without addressing them at all, but Mycroft doesn’t initiate interaction, he remains aloof and it’s slowly driving Sherlock up a wall.

He needs— something; he isn’t entirely sure what, but knows the answer is there, just beyond his reach, he can figure it out if Mycroft would just talk to him, would just notice him again.

It is torture every time the cicada’s serenade springs up between them and his mind ticks over, and Mycroft doesn’t correspond, doesn’t ask for him on the telephone – because the model son still calls his parents, he has nothing to resent them for (a lie, Sherlock, you know that) – and certainly doesn’t visit. Even now, when sight and sound reassures him of his brother’s presence, Mycroft’s eyes never touch upon Sherlock as though he’s ignorant of his existence, as though Sherlock were transparent, a ghost, or a wall-hanging, something your eye slips by if you were an ordinary person, but Mycroft is not an ordinary person and this is an affront.

He sees his chance to act when they are called to dinner and Mummy gathers their father and her shawl to follow on the servant’s heel, and it’s the one moment he’s been waiting for all day, all week, all of time’s relentless grind, vibrating for it roll around and even suffered through endless anecdotes about ancestors and other uninteresting people he’s never met. Just to be there when the door swings open and Mycroft strides in.

Well, now here he is.

“Mycroft, a word?” he murmurs, rippling particles in the air to connect with his brother.

“Keep walking, Sherlock.”

There’s not a hint of temperature in his voice (unlike last time, when it erupted like volcanic ashes – hot and hard and heavy).

At least now Mycroft does connect with him, if on a haptic level: he grips his arm, steering him with it and on another occasion Sherlock might have allowed himself to sink into the heat Mycroft scatters through the layers of fabric, because in truth, Sherlock misses Mycroft’s fingers in his hair, down his back, even tickling his sides or tugging his ears (something Sherlock strangely enjoyed), but Sherlock is no longer a child and most of all, he’s not a cart to be pushed, so he yanks himself away.

“Don’t touch me,” he spits, instinctively, and there the conversation breaks, the connection fails, and the longed-for moment escapes down the drain, a wasted chance in fifteen seconds.

Wrong words breed wrong sentiments, round and round, until you forget what you wanted to say before you can even come up with it.

Why won’t you— with a million appendices, but it’s too late now.

And worse than this, worse than missed opportunities and a day spent among the dried-up and rusted is the utter lack of reaction from Mycroft. No sigh, no headshake, no condescending eyebrow-tilt he no doubt practices in front of the mirror daily. Nothing. He just keeps walking.

Sherlock’s mouth tastes of bitter almonds, and he wonders what other poisons he’s been administered today.

Or will be. Dinner hasn’t begun yet. Sherlock hopes against hope his will come decorated with devil’s herb, because delirium and convulsions would be preferrable to behaving like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

As usual, trivialities are served instead.

Playing along, Sherlock is quite content to push around his buttered peas (unripe berries) and let the chatter bypass him, except he’s not content at all, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, and why must Mycroft be such a giant dick about it, about bloody everything? Sherlock doesn’t understand it, will never understand how Mycroft can subject himself to pointless, tedious, mind-numbing discussions about Parliament, the Royal family or the impact of some constitutional crisis in Russia, when he could be feeding on the snap-crackle of electricity with Sherlock, amplifying their minds until they hear nothing but white noise and their own ricocheting thoughts.

They are no perpetuum mobiles, although Sherlock wants to be (and he can play Paganini), forever thinking and observing and understanding, never slowing, never stopping. He used to understand so little, or thought he did – Mycroft always being there to guide him to just the right questions when Sherlock could not solve a puzzle. It’s right there Mycroft, I can see it, but how do I reach it?

Mycroft would tell him to change the angle, use a different approach, and suddenly the chemical bonds would stabilise, the resistance dissipate, the forces cancel each other out, just as they should.

A simple equation.

Everything is simple equations for Mycroft, the wanker, and worst of all, he is right, they really are simple once you’ve learnt to interpret the squiggles. (And afterward, running on forty hours no sleep two litres caffeine and as many dozen cigarettes he would search for partial differential equations among Greek philosophers and jealous lovers whose judgement is impaired by passion.)

Sherlock is tempted to measure the frequency of his own screams, this is getting ridiculous and frustrating and had he not vowed to be on his best behaviour today (sit up straight remove hands from table use right cutlery) he would examine the maximum velocity of flying saucers, as thrown by his hand.

He cuts up his lamb roast for something to do and counts the prime numbers below one thousand in reverse, because calculating the surface integral of the wall patterns (something Mummy taught him, not Mycroft) gets repetitive after a while.

So far he’s been doing fine, Mummy’s even commented on it, “Sherlock was so well-behaved today – weren’t you, dear? – it quite surprised us,” and did you listen, Mycroft? Wouldn’t have expected that, would you? Well, jot it down for posterity.

He reaches seven hundred and thirty-nine (thirty-eight numbers adding up to a total of thirty-two thousand nine hundred and twenty-six), before Mummy leans over to Mycroft and asks, quite innocuously, "And how is George? You know, your old roommate.”

And Sherlock can’t stop listening after that name, he remembers that name from letters not addressed to him but which he read anyway, it was one of the first his brother mentioned, his brother brought home fr—

“—om residential school?”

Mycroft dabs his mouth like a man at leisure and drops his napkin beside the plate. A statement: he’s more interested in waiting for his pudding now than talking about a former associate, but Sherlock could care less about Mycroft’s evening indulgences or ways to spoil them, and so could Mummy.

“Yes,” she continues, barely waiting for Mycroft’s reply. “I remember you two used to talk about economics all the time. I hear he has become quite the successful banker. His wife is a gem, too. Have you met her?”

“Of course,” he lies. “Lovely woman.”

“Isn’t she just? Speaking of which, dear. How is your girlfriend? I was so looking forward to meeting her today."

Sherlock's fork stills, his mind stumbling over a curious sound in that exchange and making a mental double take. Girlfriend, is that right? He knows perfectly well there is nothing wrong with his hearing, although right now, he is inclined to entertain that notion.

Again, girlfriend? Sherlock suppresses a snort of laughter. Mycroft is not interested in women, unless they're Mummy or the Queen. Or maybe useful, though what use Mycroft would have for a woman Sherlock can’t imagine.

Certainly not a trophy. The women he’s seen around Mycroft were sheep flocking to his genius as though it would rub off on them. Mycroft could have read the weather report and these creatures would have lapped up every word like it was a revelation.

And now Mummy suggests he’s picked one from the crowd? Not until Jupiter stops spinning.

"She's no longer my girlfriend," Mycroft says, placing his hand upon Mummy’s.

Sherlock wants to laugh. Oh Mycroft, you sly fox, you almost had me there. How ingenious of you to let Mummy think you got involved with someone so she would stop her nagging.

"But how could you let her go? She sounded lovely. She must be, if you chose her. You didn’t even give me the chance to inspect her myself."

"Oh, there will be plenty of opportunity for that, I assure you,” Mycroft says smugly, and Jupiter must have stopped spinning then. “She’s no longer my girlfriend, because I asked her to marry me."

The sudden halt of rotation jolts through Sherlock and gravity condenses the atmosphere around him. He thinks his lungs might collapse from the pressure, but Mummy breathes for him: a gasp and a high-pitched whine, and when she claps her hands it’s like thunder in a bottle that rattles inside his skull like cannonballs.

“That is wonderful!” she exclaims, disappointment exchanged for delight, but with a dash of disapproval – always adds a bitter taste. “Though why couldn't you bring her with you for the announcement? And you shouldn’t have lied to me, young man. It wasn’t as clever as you may think it was. Consider my health.”

"I suppose congratulations are in order, son," his father interrupts and claps Mycroft on the shoulder, before the tirade can continue. It’s strange to hear Mycroft addressed as such – their father never uses their names and only refers to their relation when he is especially proud, as though reminding himself and others that this praiseworthy individual sprang forth from his loins and that somehow he could take credit for Mycroft's achievements, just because he happened to have fathered him.

Mycroft, like a dutiful son, smiles, but hides it behind his wine glass and Sherlock wants to read malicious glee in it. It's not there, however. Mycroft is not going to tell them she declined, because she didn’t, whoever she is, Sherlock never even caught her name, but his parents already seemed to know everything there is to know about her so there is no more need to broach the subject.

"Have you decided on a date for the wedding yet? Early summer is a lovely time. And the engagement party! You are going to be holding one, aren't you? I absolutely must know when and where it will be. We could even do it here, if you haven’t decided on anything yet. Oh, I can already picture it. It’s going to be so lovely. My own son, marrying! You make me so proud. Do tell me everything."

Mummy's chatter recedes to static hissing, there is no benefit in the words. How can they not see? Mycroft doesn't display any of the signs Sherlock would associate with a freshly baked groom. There’s something off about this, and he wants to know what.

Concentrate.

That smile he saw was not gloating, it was triumphant. As though Mycroft was pleased with an achievement, of fulfilling yet another task on his parents’ long list of Expectations.

And the worst of it is, Sherlock – who knows every guise in Mycroft’s repertoire – cannot spot a lie. His brother doesn’t shrug off his statements when he talks, in fact, his shoulders are more relaxed than they have been in a long while, and no frown or curl of lips disfigures his face, which Sherlock noted earlier looks more healthy and content, as though he has found someplace to settle.

Or someone to settle with.

And as Sherlock zips through every detail he absorbed – because why doesn’t he find anything? – he comes to only one conclusion:

Mycroft is entirely sincere.

It’s in the way he talks with Mummy, like this is actually happening and he has thought about all the little details marriage entails. It’s in the way he gestures, like he’s giving out treat after treat, and is not disinclined to receive suggestions on them from Mummy.

It’s in the way he avoids eye contact with Sherlock, like he’s forgot he had a brother.

Mycroft has replaced him.

Sherlock drifts away, light as helium, floats out of the room and into the hallway, where the steady ticking of the clock draws him in. At least something in this house is functioning as it should. Rhythmic, steady, reassuring. How much else fits that profile if he can’t pin down his brother with precision, and everyone else acts like Mycroft’s choices are the thing to do?

The choices are not Mycroft’s, however, they’re the product of how he perceives society to work. He’s imitating this version, just as he has always done, precise like clockwork, Sherlock’s sure of it.

Slowly, almost reverently, he runs his hand over the gleaming russet casing – Edwardian, heirloom, very antique – tracing all the tiny imperfections, some of them done by his hand, but in truth his concentration slips; he’s distracted. Old conversations resurface and rebound, lifted from this spot.

"People are so inane,” it echoes from the past, from a younger version of himself – has he ever really been that young? “Can't they ever think of anything new to say?" Sherlock pouted, chin raised and lips pursed. They were going to one of those family gatherings Sherlock found hateful, because he was expected to behave and let his relatives gush over him.

He straightened his forelock, but it curled back into place the moment his fingers released it. He used to wonder why his hair was not straight like Mycroft’s, if they were brothers and shared the same DNA. Now he knows it’s more complicated than that, both genetics and the relationship between them.

"They just want to strike up a conversation." Mycroft knelt in front of him so they could converse eye-to-eye without Sherlock having to crane his neck. At least that was how he chose to interpret it, because by now he’s become used to Mycroft’s incessant fussing over him. His brother would comb the knots out of his hair, tuck in his dress shirt, straighten his lapels and tie his bowtie unasked, and Sherlock would let it happen, would even allow his face to be scrubbed. "It's hard for them, though,” Mycroft continued, softer, “if they haven't seen you in a while and don’t know what you like. Commenting on the obvious is a good starting point for most people."

"Someone ought to tell them I don't want to talk to them." Sherlock rubbed his cheek and glared.

"Unfortunately, your wish can't be considered in this regard. I'm sorry.” Mycroft stroked Sherlock's other cheek, somewhat wistfully. “I promise you, when I get married no one is going to pinch you anymore."

"Promise me you won't get married," Sherlock blurted.

Mycroft chuckled. "I’m afraid I cannot do that, little brother."

"Why not? I don’t want you to marry; marriages are tedious." What he meant were the ceremonies, because they have never been anything short of disastrous, so endlessly tiring and Sherlock could never understand the point behind them except that people used them as an excuse to dress up.

"Because this may be one thing I won't have control over."

Sherlock's small fists clenched around Mycroft's collar, as though he could force his opinion on his brother with enough willpower. "But it's your life. You should have. No one can tell you whether to marry or not. That doesn’t make sense."

Mycroft’s hands enveloped Sherlock’s; he still remembers their warmth. “You cannot influence every detail of your life, Sherlock. Remember that.”

Even at fourteen, freckle-faced Mycroft knew his own position and what he would have to sacrifice. A certain behaviour was expected of him, a certain lifestyle to some extent – he had standards to meet and social conventions to follow if he wanted to succeed anywhere in this world.

And he’s doing it, world be damned, but Mycroft’s really doing it, following some random conduct, because that’s what is expected of him.

Here Sherlock’s vision breaks; he’s shattering – a sharp crack, and bright light licks up his arm. When he looks to his left, his fist is covering the radial fractures on the glass front of his own favourite clock, and Mycroft was right, Sherlock really does shatter everything he likes and never notices when he does it.

His hand unclenches and reveals a red smudge on the point of impact.

Mummy and Daddy will be cross, it was their favourite clock too, and now look at what you’ve done, Sherlock.

Sherlock wants to retaliate, almost opens his mouth to, but then shuts it. It’s a juvenile thing to argue and anyway, he can quarrel inside his head anytime, so he shelves it for later. Right now, the heavy creaking of a chair over oakwood screams inside his mind like a dying mammoth, screams at him to leave.

So he bolts.

If he stayed, reprimands would be sure to follow and he can’t have that, can’t have all those voices yapping at him for all his misconducts, past and present, because it’s never only the immediate offense that’s at issue, and Sherlock is not a brain-damaged child who needs to be told over and over, his memory works just fine, he simply chooses not to remember, so could they please just leave him alone?

He has one regret though: in choosing to run, he also chooses to go back on his promise, that he’ll stay the weekend, Mummy’s express wish, although Sherlock always keeps his promises (unless they’re inconveniencing him, like they are right now, and what can he do, it’s not like before, not what he expected, it’s all different, and he’s slowly breaking orbit).

No, he can’t stay. He’ll go crazy if he’ll ever hear the word marriage again, and going by Mummy’s enthusiasm, he wouldn’t hear anything but.

He jerks his coat from where it hangs limply on the rack, swings it over his shoulders and flits into the parlour to pick up his violin. It rests next to his armchair, where he left it.

There are steps in the hallway now and his escape through the door is effectively barred. Well then, he thinks, and throws open the windows to leap over the sill, almost losing his coat in the process.

Outside, he’s free; outside, cold air bites into his skin and he notices he’s forgot his scarf, but it’s no matter, he’ll survive without it for one day. He can buy a new one tomorrow. (Except he can’t, he’s got nothing on himself that could pay for it and he doubts the clerk would accept music as currency.) Or procure one, in any case.

He doesn’t need an umbrella though, it’s not raining anymore, but he should have stolen Mycroft’s just because. (Hopefully, it’ll blow away during the next deluge. His brother would mourn its loss more than Sherlock’s, he thinks grimly.)

Sherlock, what you you think you are doing? Come back this instant, young man! Don’t expect to get away with this so easily, he hears through the wash of wind. It’s only distorted perception, he knows, no one is calling after him and yet the need to turn around is overwhelming.

He does, and there’s Mycroft outlined in the yellow light of the parlour. Just standing there, studying Sherlock, not calling for him or motioning for him to return – or waving him goodbye, and it reminds him of last time, when Sherlock had (miraculously) made it to the train station before Mycroft could catch up with him (and Sherlock still wonders how he managed it in his state). Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be out on his own, not yet, not if Mycroft had his way, but Sherlock loves defying him and so he found himself peering out of his dusty train window down onto the platform to observe Mycroft scanning the passengers for Sherlock’s familiar figure.

The train jerked into gear and when their gazes touched, Sherlock flicked up two fingers, mechanically pressing the back of his hand against the window. So much for goodbye gestures.

Or that time Mycroft was to leave for school for the first time and Sherlock had cried and cried, because why wasn’t he allowed to go with him? He imagined he would have liked attending school with Mycroft, learning new things together, just as they had always done (or Mycroft learning them and then teaching them to Sherlock). But Mycroft just turned his back and left without him.

It’s become a habit, leaving – deserting the spaces they once shared to carve out new ones for themselves, apart from the other, as though it was a rite of passage, something necessary in the eyes of the public, because who would want to be seen carting around their baby brother? There will come a time when it’s acceptable again, even charming when you two get along, as everyone will no doubt mention. Being thirteen years old and forced to make friends is not that time. (Sherlock could have helped him, Sherlock was adorable they all said, and Sherlock wanted to be good – but Mycroft wouldn’t let him. Instead he left without him, and no amount of letters he sent afterward could ever appease Sherlock again.)

He said he’d come back, don’t be silly, Sherlock, I won’t be that long: I can come visit on the weekends and holidays, and the metronome in Sherlock’s head merrily ticked away until he could no longer tell the days apart, because it got so loud and the days never ended anyway, so when Mycroft finally did come back Sherlock felt a million years older (and readier to follow him to school than ever, but he’s not going to mention that).

That’s the whole starting point, the diverging-converging of paths that turned them into strangers, barely aware of what the other has been up to unless they spoke about it, but even then it could have been a lie.

Familiarity fades with time until there’s nothing left but stardust residues. Sherlock tries to sift through them, but they’re misleading, because Mycroft never gave him the chance to catch up with him, or learn to read all the neat little tricks and disguises he picked up through school.

Sherlock hates not knowing his brother, not being able to figure him out, but still deluded himself into thinking he could, the clues were all there after all, he could not have missed them, except Mycroft deliberately planted these clues to throw Sherlock off his track (and be able to tell him later what a stupid, stupid boy he is).

It shouldn’t be surprising that Mycroft goes that far down the line to blend in with everyone else – his intellect scares them unless he tones it down, hides it from view – because Mycroft has always been the quiet type and doesn’t like drawing unnecessary attention, but why then would he participate in those arbitrary mating rituals?

It isn’t like him, but then again, what is like him? Sherlock cannot answer that question anymore, the one defining his existence, because once upon a time everything he wanted was to observe all the changes in the world as long as he could share his findings with Mycroft, his Mycroft who stayed the same and by his side.

Voices drift down the driveway, he feels the vibrations against his eardrum, but cannot translate the sounds. His parents have entered the parlour. Mycroft would now have to oblige Mummy and run after Sherlock.

Mycroft turns to him one last time and Sherlock takes a step back. He’d be ready. Mycroft closes the windows; Sherlock waits and trains his ears to his surroundings.

The wind rises from the east. An owl hoots in the distance. But no doors open.