Mycroft Holmes, 19

He watched the others from his window. Children, he knew he was one of them, but something alienated him from that particular sect of society entirely.

The noise was so wild, so chaotic, so pointless. The shouting, the laughter. It was all so unbearably mundane.

"Mycroft, where are they?" came an irritated voice from behind him.

Any regular teenager steals their little sibling's things every now and then. Some steal clothes, or toys, or books. When Mycroft Holmes steals Sherlock's test tubes, he knows he's pushing a button. Or two. Or three, or four, or five, since Sherlock always insisted on wearing button down shirts.

"I need them." Little brothers. Such dear little devils.

"You don't use them for anything halfway sane," Mycroft chided patronizingly, somehow managing to piss off his brother no matter what tone he adopted.

"Give me one reason I have to prove my worth to you, fat arse," his twelve-year-old brother spat. "I'm surprised anyone but the chefs know who you are by name."

Mycroft ground his teeth. Juvenile insults were beneath his dignity to use, but they were definitely effective.

"Crude words never brought anyone any kind of victory," he said through clenched teeth.

"Your face makes it all worthwhile, so I digress."

A beat. An incensed exhale.

"Cupboard, bottom right hand side, beneath the red jacket," Mycroft conceded, rolling his eyes with a great flourish, a finger pressed to his temple as if Sherlock's very presence interfered with his advanced thought processes. He watched Sherlock smirk and stride towards the cupboard, humming as he recovered his precious instruments.

"Mummy says to come down for dinner," Sherlock said as he walked out of the room.

Oh, good lord. More...interactions.

Mycroft's breath drove a patch of fog onto the glass as he leaned against the window, his forehead pressed against it like he wanted to break out of the fishbowl he was trapped in.

~

Sherlock Holmes, 12

Clink.

"Pass the salt, won't you, dear?"

Clink.

"The steak is marvelous, Violet."

Clink.

'Normal' was not a word typically associated with the Holmes family, but for good reason. No normal family would sit through dinner, wallow in awkward tidbits of small talk and accept it as a valid conversation.

Clink.

Sherlock sometimes wondered what it would be like.

Raucous laughter at free jokes, careless, knowing glances between parents, grandparents, siblings. A beautiful cacophony at a small table, commending the chef's work all at once. Not a single discernible compliment, and yet the atmosphere would be jovial, it would buzz with life.

Sherlock sometimes wondered what it would be like.

A daring smirk shared with Eurus as he stole a tart from Mycroft's plate. A sweet kiss by his ear from his mother as she walked around his chair to wash up. An unmistakable glint of good humour in the otherwise cold eyes of his father as he sneaked a peck from his wife, receiving a bashful swat to the arm from a laughing Violet Holmes. Mycroft and Sherlock sharing an unapologetic laugh at a joke that was orchestrated by them both, together.

The sharp clink of china brought young Mr. Holmes back to the present moment, defined in its quiet. Peaceful, perfect for paving the way to deep thoughts and meaningful revelations, but almost unwelcoming to any kind of light-hearted conversation.

Sherlock sometimes wondered what it would be like.

He exhaled, his slender shoulders sloping gently as he deflated, once again accepting that neither he nor his family would ever be what people considered 'normal'.

Though in all fairness, the steak really was quite good.

~

Mycroft Holmes, 23

I've decided I need to start keeping one of these 'diary' things, although whether writing about my emotions is worth the time and effort is...questionable.

Sherlock won't stop, he simply doesn't want to stop. He continues with the substances and the secrets and his "rush", to which I am entirely powerless. By means of this diary, I need to learn how to keep my brother safe. Everything he takes, every weakness he might succumb t

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, gently massaging his tired eye sockets. Mycroft couldn't write a single word more, or else he feared he would curl up and cry next to his little brother, writhing in pain on the floor. Mycroft wanted the years to fall, he wanted the walls to break, he would give up all his superior intellect if it was Sherlock's health in the balance. He stared at the teenaged genius, groaning and panting and trembling with a hand plastered to his ribcage.

Mycroft wanted to fix his broken brother.

But Sherlock wouldn't have it. He just wouldn't.

He hated him too much. Pompous prick were the words he'd used, if Mycroft's memory served.

So when Mycroft extended his quaking hand, it was not for a comforting caress, it was a demand. No matter how inevitable it was, Mycroft always held onto a miniscule strand of hope, hope that Sherlock could just tell him. But he felt his heart sink, every single time, as he watched Sherlock dig a slip of paper out of his pocket.

A list. There was always a list.

Of everything he'd taken.

Even through his drug-induced haze, Sherlock never, ever forgot about the list.

In another life, they could have been like real brothers. In each other's corner, on their side, an impenetrable bond of something deeper than love and much more evident. They could have been so much more than what they were.

But it is what it is.

And yet, Mycroft sometimes wondered what it would be like.

~

Sherlock Holmes, 16

People hated Sherlock's knowledge of their secrets. They hated how transparent they seemed to him.

It wasn't his fault they made their faults obvious.

High school was the most uneventful thing in the history of uneventful things. No one bothered him, but no one really spoke to him, either. They were all too apprehensive that he was going to deduce something they were embarrassed about.

He wished he could reason that it wasn't his fault he could tell who was sleeping with who better than a tabloid magazine. That it wasn't a mistake if he saw the truth behind plastic smiles as plainly as the nose on a face.

Sometimes, when he could actually feel how lonely he was, he'd wish his eyes couldn't tell the truth at all. Ignorance is bliss.

Isn't it?

Is it?

He wouldn't know.

~

Sherlock, A Scandal In Belgravia

"Look at them," Sherlock murmured in his gravelly baritone as he turned to his left. A family mourned a death in silence. There were tears. There was pain. There was love. "They all care so much."

The brothers stared at the loving family from the other end of the corridor, the outlines of their profiles running parallel to each other.

"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" Sherlock asked, almost hesitantly.

He had just seen Irene's corpse, for God's sake, and he wanted to know what he was doing wrong. Why he wasn't crying and broken down like that family across the hall.

Of course Irene had meant something to him. So what was wrong with him?

"All lives end," Mycroft said into the abyss, the silence meant to carry so much more weight than it implied. "All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft slowly turned his head, his nose directed at his brother. "Sherlock."

All lives end.

All hearts are broken.

Caring is not an advantage.

John had been a wreck, a real wreck before he met Sherlock. Caring for someone like that particular detective tends to take up a chunk of your time and a considerable amount of patience, but John seemed to get better anyway.

Caring was an advantage to John.

Sherlock sometimes wondered what it would be like.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

AAAAAA

Yo world

Yes I'm alive hello sorry for not updating recently

Writer's block sucks, I couldn't even dream up a vague storyline I'm sorry *runs away into the darkness*

*pops head back out*

PSYCH

Anywho

Tysm everyone who's reading and commenting and aaaaa you are loved

ok peace

~A.M.