School Holidays.

[errantcomment]

Made for a prompt over at bbcsherlock_fic.
Rating: G
Pairing: None, gen.
Summary: Mycroft has just started living alone. Then one day, Sherlock comes to stay...

Mycroft sighed as he sat down on the couch. It had been a long day at work, and he did wonder how long he could keep up the pretence that what he did didn’t matter too much. He was sure his superiors were becoming suspicious… His apartment over looked the river, it was small and cramped, but after years of school dormitories and university halls, it was worth it for a moment of blessed quiet. He was considering whether a book or music would best occupy his time or whether he should get that small amount of unofficially official paperwork done when the buzzer buzzed. He padded over. If it was another assassin he was going to lay a complaint, he really was.

“Yes?” he said into the little grill by the door.

“It’s me, Sherlock. Let me in.”

“Go away,” not exactly mature, but he had worked hard for every inch of this space and he didn’t want his brother to ruin it. “Little brother, I know it’s half-term and all but shouldn’t you be at home with Mummy? Or using the labs at school?” Anywhere that isn’t here?

“Don’t call me that. Let me in, I’m soaked,”

“Little brother, go home.”

“I don’t have a home. I need to stay with you,” Mycroft, not for the first time and definitely not the last, closed his eyes and wished very briefly that he was an only child.

“You don’t have- all right. All right. Come up.” Mycroft leant his head against the wall and pressed the button.

Sherlock, in a rumpled t-shirt and jeans, dragging his school-chest with him, stood dripping in the living area. Mycroft made tea as the wet t-shirt hit the floor with a flop and Sherlock went diving into his chest for a clean one. He caught a glimpse of what was possibly a bruise before he pulled the new shirt over his head.

“Must you do that there?” he put two steaming mugs on his tiny kitchen table with a hint of pride. His table, his mugs.

“Yes,” Sherlock rubbed his wet hair with the wet shirt, almost absently, and sat down at the table, flinging the old shirt to one side.

“So… Why aren’t you at home?”

“I don’t have a home any more, I told you,” Sherlock sulked into his tea in a way that after sixteen years Mycroft had come to recognise well. He ignored it.

“So let me guess. Either the maid found your current “experiment”, and told Pater, or the school wrote home to say you haven’t been going to class. Again.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, and sullenly looked at his mug. Mycroft resisted several childish urges, and kept his voice mild.

“You had a row with Pater, probably Mummy trying to placate the situation in fact, exacerbated it, and you decided to leave forever. How very dramatic.”

“I don’t want to live with him anymore! He never lets me do anything I want!” snapped Sherlock.

“Don’t whine, it’s unbecoming. Anyway, you can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your legal guardian, and work is increasingly stressful at the moment. And I don’t want you to. You can stay for tonight, because I doubt there are any trains that will take you back to Sussex, but I’ll have to call Mummy, or she’ll worry,”

Sherlock scowled into his tea. Mycroft felt a bit bad bringing Mummy into it, but he felt it was called for, under the circumstances. He went to the nook he called his office and phoned home. Mummy wasn’t too worried, he would either come to you or go to Aunt Lettie’s darling, obvious, really. I’ll send for him tomorrow, when he and your father have cooled down. Honestly, if he would just go to class… Well. You tell him we’re going to have a serious talk when he gets back… Mycroft put down the phone and relayed this to Sherlock, who unsuccessfully hides a wince at the words ‘serious talk’.

“Skipping class is such a pedestrian reason for getting into trouble, little brother. Why not just attend? What do you do instead?”

“Things. Go to the town. Class is boring, all there is the textbook, warmed over and served up like its new. There’s nothing useful- when am I going to have to conjugate any Latin verb in real life? It’s dull, and there’s no point. I’m not failing, so why worry?”

“Because it’s school. Part of your education is social. How are you going to function or deal with anyone if you don’t have the social education? Your genius, however great, will only get you so far. After that, you’re going to need people,”

“But people are stupid,”

Mycroft sighed. He knew Sherlock, and Sherlock did need people to admire him, to hate him, to pay attention to him. How to get him to see that?

“We’ll talk in the morning. I suppose I shall have to take some time off to make sure you really do go home. Really, Sherlock, this is most inconvenient,”

He made up a bed on the couch, and before heading to his room, told Sherlock he hoped that the couch gives him a crick in his neck. Sherlock grunted, and Mycroft sighed and went to bed.

 

The next morning, when the gangling figure sprawled over the couch proved that the previous night had not been a fever-dream, Mycroft knocked his head gently against the tiled wall as he took his customary shower. Then he made coffee, and Sherlock sat up.

“I’ve already called the office, told them I had to take a couple days off. You do know that you’ve thrown all my plans into flux? If a war breaks out today it will be entirely your fault, little brother,”

“Oh, do be quiet. Does government work really turn you into such an old woman? I shall make a point never to do it,” Sherlock draped himself over the couch with a mug of coffee. He’d recently started taking it black with two sugars, an attempt to seem more grown-up, though he’d never admit it. Mycroft feels a little mean for such a childish thought, but Sherlock has always bought out the worst in him.

“That’s another reason you have to go to school. You can be as clever as you like, but no one will ever take you seriously if you don’t have the credentials,” Sherlock ignored him, concentrating on drinking his coffee.

“I’m not going home Mycroft. If you send me home I’ll tell Mummy you kicked me out because of all the girls you keep bringing home,”

That made him pause. “You wouldn’t,”

“I would. I’d have proof too,”

Sixteen years of dealing with Sherlock meant that Mycroft knew he was speaking the truth. He briefly considered his options.

“Fine. You can stay. For now. I suppose you’ve got homework?”

“I did it on the train home from school. It was easy,” Sherlock got up off the sofa, smug. He had won. Mycroft narrowed his eyes as his younger brother pulled out clean clothes and went to take his own shower. He remembered a cartoon he had seen when he was younger. Of course, this meant war.
Then he went to work anyway, making a mental note to call Mummy.

 

He was still there that night, reading a textbook from the school library lying on the couch upside down. The contents of his school-chest were scattered across the room. The kitchen was a mess.

“Well?” asked Mycroft. It had been a long day and he was feeling irritable.

“Well what?” Sherlock turned another page delicately.

“What’s all this?”

“All what?”

Mycroft clutched his keys for a moment, resisting the mental image of tipping the couch so he would fall off.

“The mess, Sherlock. Are you going to clean it up?”

“Eventually,” Sherlock didn’t look up. Mycroft put the keys down, carefully. He had to think about this. He couldn’t just try and bribe Mrs. Smyth to come and tidy up for him, like he did at home, and he couldn’t threaten him with a detention, like he had at school. He undid his tie, and threw it on his bed, and breathed in and out a few times. Breathe in and out, and then go and pour a bucket of- leave something slimy- No. What was it about Sherlock that bought out the child in him?  He rubbed his face, and went back out into the living area. He considered his options. Then he went back into the kitchen and did the dishes, without saying a word. Then he went to the phone, picking his way over the piles of stuff from Sherlock’s case.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock peered over his book.

“Calling Mummy,”

“What, why?”

“She’s in London- she says she might pop by to check you’re all settled in.” he picked up the phone and dialled the number. Sherlock tore around picking up underwear and jeans and books. Mycroft hung up.

“When is she coming?” Sherlock looked up from where he was forcing the lid down on his clothes.

“She’s not.”

“What?”

“She had to cancel,” Mycroft was an expert liar, and Sherlock was good at reading people, but he could never outdo Mycroft. Not yet. Sherlock flopped down. Then his eyes narrowed. Mycroft busied himself in the kitchen. He’d worked it out, no doubt, but he had won this particular battle.

The next day, Sherlock didn’t get up with Mycroft. Sulking, no doubt. Mycroft left for work. That evening, he opened the door with some trepidation. He put his keys down on the little side-table by the door and undid his tie with a little sigh. Sherlock had attempted food- the burnt smell and the mess were evidence of that. Then he had left, although his things were still there.  There was no note. Mycroft wondered what the best way to get hold of him was, but decided that he didn’t care enough. He cleaned the kitchen, wrote a few letters, and settled down for the night.

He heard Sherlock come in around two am, and crash around a bit. Then there was quiet, followed by a violin being tuned and played a pizzicato. He wanted Mycroft to come out and shout at him, it was the only explanation. Mycroft determined to ignore it, and Sherlock began to scrape a graceful tune on the instrument. It wasn’t anything, just noodling, and that was how he knew it was purely to annoy. Finally, he got up.

“For goodness’ sake, knock it off!” he growled.

“Oh, Mycroft, you’re up still. I had an excellent day. London is fantastic, I can see why you’d never want to leave,” Sherlock still cradled the violin under his chin, and waved the bow at him. Mycroft tried to hide the stab of horror he felt at ‘never want to leave’, instead settling for:

“It’s two am,”

“Is it really?”

“Yes.” Mycroft considered suppressing his brother. Sitting on him till he cried uncle had been a most effective punishment when they were both younger. “I have to get up in the morning. You have to be quiet.”

“But it helps me think,” Sherlock protested, maliciously. Mycroft strode forward with the intent of snatching the bow but Sherlock danced out of the way. Mycroft breathed in, but…

“Have you been smoking? And… Is that alcohol?”

“No,” Sherlock said, a little too quickly.

“You’ve been smoking and drinking?! Really, little brother, I’d have thought you’d have known better,” Mycroft grinned triumphantly.

“I haven’t been smoking! I was at a club-,”

“And underage, oh dear me, whatever will Mummy say,” Mycroft couldn’t believe this, this was Christmas, he could get rid of his brat brother and he couldn’t do a thing against him. Sherlock gripped his violin tightly.

“You’re going home tomorrow, Sherlock, I will put you on the train myself!”

The other hand flicked out and a hard piece of rosin hit Mycroft on the ear.

“Ow, you brat! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mycroft lunged for his brother again.

“You think you’re so worldly and grown-up but there’s a whole world out there you can’t see!” Sherlock yelled.

“At least I’m not a spoilt child who runs away at the first sign of trouble! A petulant squit who’s too good for all those lower mortals! One day you’re going to wake up, little brother, and find out that you’re all alone! No one to show off too, no one to clean your stinking dishes!”

“Who are you to lecture me? You sit there in those silly suits, that, by the way, still make you look fat-,” Sherlock didn’t get any further.

The next moment was a blur, one the brothers never admitted to afterwards, but it ended with Mycroft astride his brother intent on bashing his silly head. Sherlock’s face was scrunched up but he made no effort to save himself and that made Mycroft pause. They had fought since Sherlock had been coordinated enough to grab, but he always gave as good as he got. Why wasn’t he fighting back? Unless… Unless he thought he deserved it… He leant back, and flicked his hair out of his face.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about if I get off you?” he asked.

“What?” Sherlock looked up at him with honest surprise. He was still a little drunk, which is how Mycroft had gained the upper-hand so quickly.

“What’s the real reason you’re here, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, quietly.

“I told you. I don’t want to live at home any more. Pater hates me, and he always will,” Sherlock said in best surly teenager style.

“This isn’t about classes, is it?” Mycroft thought, really thought. He’d been so thrown by his little brother’s appearance he hadn’t really thought about it.  His clothes had been rumpled, which meant he’d packed in a rush, right at the last moment possible, and his homework was completely done. Sherlock never did homework till right before class, if he could help it. He packed late, true, but fastidiously, there should be no wrinkles unless he’d been rushing around looking for belongings that he’d lost, but he didn’t lose things, so maybe hidden? There had been a bruise on his right side, about the size of a fist… For the first time since he’d left university, he thought, really thought about his brother. His brilliant infuriating brother, who loved to poke at something just to see how he would react. Mycroft did okay at school, he had played cricket and been a prefect. Sure, people didn’t think, but he’d come to realise that he could think for them. Sherlock… Well, he didn’t play cricket, stayed in on sunny afternoons to read dusty old books from the library, argued with teachers, never did any work but got top marks…

“Are you being picked on?” Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he didn’t meet his brother’s eyes. Mycroft picked himself up from off the floor and did the thing that all British do in times of trouble: he made a cup of tea. Sherlock took it without a word.

“If you’re being picked on…” Mycroft began.

“Don’t give me all that rot about going to a teacher, it never works like that, they’ll just get sneakier. The leader is son of the head of the board of governers. Sherlock stared into his tea and to Mycroft’s horror two tears dripped into the cup. His first reaction, a sort of British male embarrassment at such a display of emotion, was swept away by a hurricane of rage and fear. He would go to that school, grab the bastard who had done this and sma- no. He could call in a favour, an in depth tax inspection on his father’s asse- no. He would reach out, and hug his little brother. That would be first. Sherlock stiffened and then relaxed, sniffing.

“Tell me, is Brett Minor still in school?” he said, after a moment.

“Yes. Though he’s Brett Major now, his brother came up last year. Why?” Mycroft smiled.

“No reason little brother. Thinking I should get in touch. Does he still play rugby?”

“Yes, made captain last term,” a hint of distaste now, Sherlock never did understand the appeal of sport. Mycroft smiled. Brett owed him a favour from back in the day, he was sure that a little bit of persuasion was all that would be needed in this situation. He vaguely remembered Brett Minor as first-year, already big for his age, big on fair-play… He would be perfect.

“Now, little brother. You need to go home and apologise to Mummy,” he said, stretching.  “You know what, I think I’ll come with you. It’s been ages since I’ve had some time off,”

“Well, Mummy would be pleased to see you,” Sherlock admitted. “Could I not stay? London’s so big, there’s so much to discover…” he looked out the window hungrily.

“Not this time, I've far too much to do without worrying about you as well,” though Mycroft had no particular desire to let his brother loose on the streets of London, it might be beneficial later. He put the mugs in the sink and watched his brother sink onto the couch. Who would ever put up with him voluntarily? He was never going to be an easy person to get on with… Mycroft sighed. That was a problem for another day. He went to bed.

 

Comments

[darthhellokitty.livejournal.com]

Who would ever put up with him voluntarily? He was never going to be an easy person to get on with…

Well, eventually SOMEONE will. XD

This is adorable, Sherlock is the biggest pain in the ass! And Mycroft is just so NOT HAPPY TO SEE HIM. And then he's out RUNNING AROUND UNDERAGE (probably unknowingly being a temptation to all and sundry). And his threat to BLACKMAIL Mycroft is wonderful!

When Mycroft figures out WHY he doesn't want to go back to school, though, he's quite supportive. Good of him to come up with a solution for his problem!