Chapter Text
Sherlock is four and Mycroft is intelligent. More than his parents, his grandparents or the neighbours. More than the sum of them all. More than Sherlock himself. Mycroft is fascinating.
Mycroft is everything Sherlock wants and needs. So Sherlock wants and needs no one else. He will never make friends. Friends are for people who don't have Mycroft.
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Sherlock is eight and Mycroft is the only teacher he listens to. Others are not worth his interest.
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Sherlock is twelve and Mycroft is away. Studies are a waste of time and Sherlock wonders why Mycroft bothers: he already knows all things useful. The world is dull and unbearably idiotic and meaningless when they are apart. The long and colourless weeks between his brother’s visits blend in a living hell of boredom and a new, uncomfortable form of longing.
Sherlock misses him like one misses a lover. The thought occurs to him on a Sunday evening not five minutes after Mycroft's departure and Sherlock thinks of course. We are perfect for each other. The notion is so obvious that Sherlock accepts it the way he would an axiom: Mycroft and Sherlock should be together, always.
Sherlock moves in with Mycroft the following year and the world has colours and sounds again.
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Sherlock is sixteen and Mycroft is attractive. At night, Sherlock closes his eyes and imagines what his brother would look, smell, sound and feel like if they were to share a bed. Different scenarios play out in Sherlock’s mind. Would Mycroft be tender and affectionate? Slow and methodical? Rough and selfish? Possessive? Sherlock comes whispering his brother’s name, always.
He is not ashamed. He sees no reason to be. When Sherlock is old (attractive) enough, he will simply sleep with his brother: no harm will be done.
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Sherlock is eighteen and Mycroft still hasn’t made a move. Sherlock doesn’t understand why: they are both adults now, and Sherlock knows his desire and affection are not unwelcome. He is, after all, very observant.
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Sherlock is nineteen and Mycroft is pushing him away, effectively ending his brother’s attempt at a kiss. Sherlock is desperate and all he can ask is “But don’t you see?”
Mycroft says “No. Little brother”, his voice uncharacteristically wavering and full of shame and sadness and Sherlock might have imagined the longing in his brother’s eyes, but he doesn’t think so.
Sherlock is nineteen and Mycroft is moving out of the flat they share. The freefall starts.
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Sherlock is twenty and Mycroft is a stupid coward full of senseless bigotry. Sherlock is above all of this. He’ll move on.
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Sherlock is lost and Mycroft is what he misses most. It’s so unfair that he has no word to express his anger.
Sherlock wishes he could fall out of love. Meanwhile the drugs help.