Chapter Text
Mycroft sighed the biggest and most long-suffering sigh his 10-year-old body could muster. Just why his nanny had decided that the playground was an excellent place to bring Mycroft for their first outing in her employment was a mystery to even him. Beginners’ error he concluded. Wandering at the edge of the park, closer to the cluster of trees encircling the eastern side, he surveyed the playground with the air of someone who saw himself far above the kids and even grown ups milling about within the enclosed area. He made idle little observations here and there as he strolled along.
Keeps looking to her daughter, daughters automatic placement of arm says recently healed break. Clean one, from falling off of one of the inane contraptions built for the children. Still worried.
New knot tied over old creases of the tie, wife usually ties it he’s had to tie it himself for the first time in a long while, no ring, back stiff, sofa? No hospital visitors’ room. She’s died, not divorced him. Son is sitting on swing, nose and the particular joint in the wrist affirms the genetic inheritance.
Recently fired, turned to drink. Hasn’t told the wife yet, keeps twisting his hands and sideways glancing at her, alcohol stains on the shoes confirm it. Briefcase-
A rustling noise halts his thoughts suddenly. He stops and looks to the source of the interruption, but apparently they’ve either gone or decided to stay hidden. There was too much disturbance among the leaves to be an animal, so person, a child judging by the size of the hiding place.
“I know you’re in there, better to just come out now.” Mycroft says with all the authority he has inherited from his Father, which is enough to make even his teachers obey. Who emerges from the bush has the unusual ability to surprise him. A young boy no older than 4 by the looks of it, exits the hiding place. He’s thin and looks frail, and beneath the grime and dirt there is pale skin. He looks to be made of china, his lips not even showing any sign of the pinkish tinge that stains healthy kids. Alert steely grey eyes assesses him from beneath a tangle of black hair, no doubt curly but too knotted to tell for sure. Mycroft scans the boy and notes that it almost looks like he lacks any colour at all, like he has sprung from a clack and white photography. He discards the nonsensical thought at once. A dirty oversized t-shirt hangs from the boys bony shoulders, and a pair of shorts that are far too large have been tied securely around his waist by a shoelace, yet the boy lacks any footwear whatsoever.
Homeless, can’t be only four if this is his situation. Looks younger must be closer to the age of six. Too pale to be healthy, malnourished. Clutching something hard in his right hand. Can’t tell what.
His curiosity won out.
“What’ve you got there?” he looks pointedly at the small fist. The boy glances at it, as if he hadn’t noticed it for a while, perhaps he hadn’t. As he brings it up to chest height he fixes his eyes on Mycroft once more, not having blinked even once. His palm opens and he stretches it out for Mycroft to see, but not so close that he couldn’t whip it away before Mycroft even tried to reach for it. He looks at the muddy outstretched palm (fingers covered in cracked mud, he’s been digging), and caged between small fingers he sees a metallic glinting stone, uneven edges and a few dents. He looks at the way the light catches on it and sees the ridges carved into the stone. It’s not a language he recognises, even with his encompassing knowledge.
“What does it say?” is the next question. The boy, still not blinking, cocks his head at him.
“Shrrrrl’ck” The r trills in his throat and ends in a clicking noise behind his teeth. It sounds like he might be singing. Mycroft cannot recognise the language, his mind running trough the possibilities but not finding a match.
So he understands English, but doesn’t speak it. Foreigner perhaps? His looks could be European, east maybe. Skin colour suggests further north.
“Interesting.” He mutters, and the boys fingers twitch.
“Intrr’sting.” The boy sings back to him, before clearing his throat lightly. Something seems to shift inside him, as though his vocal chords re-adjust themselves.
“Interesting.” The boy says again, perfectly pronounced as Mycroft self had said it. The singing lilt to his voice is gone. Mycroft cannot help but stare befuddled at the boy, but he is intrigued. The boy closes his fist once more and it falls back to rest at his side.
“Who are you?” escapes him without his consent, and in the future he will deny it, but it is true. The boy stares, yet to blink and that should start to worry him.
“Word… is… S-Sherlock.” He said, and it sounded like borrowed words, like he had recorded these words and was now playing them back. They had slightly different pitch and pronunciation, except his word (didn’t know the word ‘name’?), the name on the stone that still had the slightly melodic sound to it. It must be his name if that was what he chose to recognise as his identification. Sherlock seemed to smile slightly, as if he was proud of himself to have produced a sentence of his own, unaware of the slight mistake Mycroft noted.
“Sherlock. Where do you live?”
“Don’t know.” The words were coming easier now, still a bit odd sounding, like they did not belong on his tongue. Mycroft thought this was suspicious. He seemed attentive enough to understand and repeat language, he would know where he lived, if even not how to say so in understandable terms.
“Yes you do.” He said calmly. Eyeing the boy who in turn didn’t even give a change of expression, however he did blink once as if having picked up it was the normal thing to do.
“You wouldn’t believe.” His words were smoothing out now, taking on Sherlocks own voice, yet he seemed to bypass pronouns to refer to himself. Remarkable.
Someone’s asked him before, they didn’t believe him when he said, what could be so unbelievable?
“How do you know that I won’t?” Mycroft challenges him, and Sherlock seems to consider this. He looks to the side of Mycrofts head for a second, blinking for the third time since he exited the bush, before looking back at Mycroft again.
“There.” He simply stated as his arm shoots up to point at a seemingly random point in the sky. Then he looks up, changes the direction slightly before looking back expectantly. Mycrofts response is to simply raise an eyebrow at this impossible boy. A thought strikes him.
“And where are your parents, or general family?”
Sherlock looks up at the point in the sky, following the line of his arm. Then he lowers it again, instead bringing the metal stone back up into his line of vision.
“Am alone.”
Internally Mycroft sighs. Of course it was the interesting homeless child that found him. Of course it was this remarkable boy who imitates speech, displaying signs of incredible intelligence.
Out loud he simply says,
“You’re in need of a bath, and some proper clothes. Come on.” He holds out a hand, and Sherlock stares at it, blinks once, and takes it with the less muddy hand not holding onto the stone. Nametag, reminder, what?
Sherlock never mentions this day to Mycroft, never thanks him, and never explains anything more than what this brief exchange tells him, but it’s all right. From that day on Mycroft has a little brother. Sherlock turns out to be the only person, lack of humanity notwithstanding, Mycroft ever holds dear.
***
Even at 10 Mycroft has his ways, he’s resourceful and this skill will follow him throughout life. The ability to spot a valuable contact when it pops up, keep it in his mind, bide his time until it eventually has a good use.
The first thing he does is bring Sherlock home with him, tells him to follow him and his nanny and wait outside until he comes and gets him. He tells him to be stealthy, and Sherlock nods. The whole walk home Mycroft knows Sherlock is there, can almost feel the unblinking grey eyes trained on his back. He suspects his nanny can as well by the way she keeps turning, but every time Sherlock is always out of sight. Mycroft has to admit he’s impressed.
The nanny deposits him in his room and goes out back for a smoke, and this is when Mycroft sneaks back out. He stands at the bottom of the small stairs leading up to the door looking across the driveway. His eyes scan the bushes and the road for the small boy, and then he sees him peeking inside by the gate. He waves at him to come in, and Sherlock complies, carefully making his way over the gravel driveway. Mycroft ushers him inside, and then up to the second floor where he leads Sherlock to the bathroom closest to his own bedroom. He helps Sherlock pull the too large t-shirt over his head and does not cringe at the visibility of his ribs and spine. Sherlock climbs over the edge of the bath, and sits with his still shorts clad legs crossed. He gets a cloth and turns the showerhead on, lathers the cloth in soap and starts scrubbing away the dirt. Sherlock sits passively, obeying simple instructions such as lift your arms and unfold your legs. After a good rinse of water Mycroft finds the shampoo and starts working on the tangle of black curls.
At first he thinks there’s something stuck in Sherlocks hair, wouldn’t surprise him, but when he brushes against it a second time more deliberately Sherlock lets out what can only be called a giggle in what Mycroft has come to dub his native tongue. The song like hitching fades as quick as it arose. Mycroft removes is hands and looks at Sherlock expectantly.
“What’s that on your head then?” and instead of an answer Sherlock decides to show him. Two thin antennae uncurl from their hiding position in Sherlocks thick hair, straightening out into their full length. They’re as pale as the rest of Sherlocks skin, no thicker than one of his frail fingers, with small pod like tips.
Aids hearing most likely, any other abilities or purposes? Small cluster of nerves in the ends, as evident from the thicker structure. Telekinetic abilities? Physical or simply mentally? Mind reading perhaps-
“Both.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?” He’d been too caught up in analysing, he still had a bit to go before he could do it effortlessly while still appearing present.
“For reading minds and moving things.” Sherlock answered simply. Mycroft hums his understanding before returning to his task of taming the nest atop Sherlocks head, now mindful of the antennae. It takes a bit of work but eventually the water running from the showerhead, over Sherlock, and into the drain turns clear. Mycroft leaves him to get out of the bath and towel himself of with the one laid out. Headed towards his bedroom he tries to think if he has any of the clothes he wore when he was younger. Rifling trough the very back of his closet he finds an old school uniform. Pristine shirt with black shorts and a matching black vest. No shoes or socks however. He heads back to the bathroom, pausing outside to knock on the door, alerting Sherlock of his arrival.
“I’m coming inn.” He calls, before entering the bathroom once more. Sherlock has discarded the pair of shorts he was previously wearing, the overlarge towel hangs over his shoulders and hides his entire body from view like a cloak.
“I’ve brought you some clothes that should fit you.” He puts them down on the edge of the bath as he says this, and then leaves again.
After two minutes Sherlock exits the bathroom fully dressed. The shorts fit him perfectly, as well as the vest, but the shirt is a bit big. It’s hardly noticeable however. Sherlock has curled his antennae back into his rapidly drying and re-curling hair.
Mycrofts head is spinning with ideas and solutions, how to get Sherlock into the Holmes house permanently, he’ll need protection. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so protective of him, but he’s alone and Mycroft thinks that he would be safest here.
He brings Sherlock into his room and has him sit on the bed, grabbing a notebook and a pen he joins him soon after. He sets out to explain his plan to Sherlock.
“I will contact a few people I know, they’ll get you some important papers, not of the quality needed of course but good enough for the place I have in mind. If all goes well, you can come and live here permanently within two weeks.”
Sherlock looks at him in wonder.
“Live here?”
“Yes, it’s the safest place for someone like you. You never know who will get their hands on you, and what they might do if they figure out just what you are.” He states matter-of-factly. Sherlock frowns slightly in worry.
“Why?”
“Because, Sherlock (future: brother dear), people have a tendency to despise what they do not understand, and someone who is from the place you do will scare them immensely.”
“Not dangerous.”
“I know you’re not, but they will not care.”
Sherlock looks scared, curling minutely in on himself. The only tell are his eyes and the small downturn of his lips, otherwise his face is as blank as ever.
“That’s why I’m going to make sure they don’t find you, you’ll live here safe and sound.” Mycroft smiles slightly, and Sherlock unfolds himself.
“Good, now. I’ll ask some questions, and you answer what you can.” Sherlock nods.
“Your name’s Sherlock.” He nods again. “Do you have a surname?” Questioning look. “A second name to identify who your family is?”
“Tho’lii.”
“Torley.” Sherlock frowns.
“I know, but it needs to sound like our language. Now, age?” Sherlock thinks for a bit before holding up seven fingers.
“Earth years?” Nodding.
“You’re male, I’d say you’re about 3’7”. No use in asking nationality, we’ll put European that’ll do. Black hair, grey eyes, I’m guessing you don’t know your blood type? No matter.” Mycrofts voice eventually quiets down as he scribbles on the page. Sherlock watches with rapt attention in silence. Mycroft looks up at him after two minutes.
“Oh, are you hungry?” Sherlock shakes his head, preferring the nonverbal communication to the strange words he has to use to make himself understood.
“You can’t have eaten properly for at least a couple of weeks by the look of you, are you sure?”
“Energy from the sun absorbed by cells in hair, like…” He pauses looking for a word. “Earth! Earth plants.” He smiles satisfied.
“Photosynthesis then, fascinating. Very well, maybe you’d prefer some water then?”
Sherlock nods, and Mycroft places the notebook on the bed before heading out of the room, leaving Sherlock to look around in blatant curiosity.
As he climbs the staircase back onto the second floor, glass of water in hand, he hears a thud from his room. Mycroft never rushes anywhere, never runs. There’s no need to when he is always on time and there are always others to deal with situations. He does not rush for this either, but he does find himself at the top of the stairs a bit quicker tan usual (not that he’ll admit to it). Opening the door to his bedroom he sees Sherlock sitting on the floor, hair a bit tousled and a curious expression on his face.
Fell off the bed, no injuries, he’s not crying either. Doesn’t feel pain like humans?
He looking at his knee, bending it so it ends up closer to his face. As Mycroft walks closer he sees that there is some kind of liquid gathering on his knee.
“What happened?” Mycroft asks despite already knowing the answer. Sherlock looks up at him calmly.
“Fell off.” Mycroft places the glass on the floor beside him as he kneels down next to Sherlock to look at his scraped knee. There are droplets of clear liquid gathering on his skin, but they’re not running like normal blood would have by now, instead they simply seem to be swelling.
Blood thicker than ours, no colour, would explain the lack of colour in his skin and the missing veins in his eyes.
Mycroft sighs and gets up, retrieves something at his desk, before returning to his previous crouched position near Sherlock.
“Pay attention.” He says as he holds a tack up for Sherlock to see. He presses it the tip of his left ring finger, and watches Sherlock as he looks at the swelling droplet of blood. Mycroft shifts the angle of his finger minutely and it runs in a small trail towards his palm. Then he grabs a handkerchief from his pocket to stop the bleeding.
“See? If you want to stay hidden you can’t let anyone know about your blood.”
Sherlock is still looking at his finger, now wrapped in the white cloth with a slowly appearing red stain.
“Can fix it.” Sherlock says simply, and as Mycroft watches Sherlocks knee with the attention Sherlock had given his finger, something truly extraordinary happens. At first it spreads up his neck, a slight pinkish tinge beneath his skin. It reaches his face, lips filling in and darkening slightly, cheeks turning that healthy shade of ‘just been outdoors’ that the young so often have, small veins in his eyes fill with red. It’s crawled its way down his arms as well, blue veins becoming visible on the inside of his forearms. Mycrofts attention returns again to the bent knee, and within the droplets he sees whisks of red appear, like ink mixing with water, until they’re all the same deep red as Mycrofts own blood. And then they start to drip down his leg, very slowly at first but eventually thinning until it looks like an exact replica of what Mycroft had demonstrated.
Remarkable.
“That’s one less concern then.” Is all he says, but he can see it in Sherlocks face that he’s heard what he’s thought, and that he’s proud of being able to amaze him like so. Mycroft removes the handkerchief from his finger and follows the trail of the droplet with a clean corner up Sherlocks leg until it’s pressed against the scrapes. Sherlock reaches out and grabs the glass abandoned on the floor, drinks it all in one eager gulp, and sets it back down.
“Appreciated.” He says, and Mycroft figures it must be his version of ‘thank you’ directly translated.
Sherlocks stone had followed him clutched in his hand trough the bath and had ended up in the front pocket of the shirt he was now wearing, it lay snug against the left side of his chest, and this bothered him. It wasn’t supposed to be on the side, it was supposed to be in the middle, around his neck, it was supposed to indicate his membership of the family he had been born into, it bore his word. It was supposed to hang against his skin like a safe presence, one to shield him from harm and make sure his family could always find him.
After Mycroft had gotten some plasters to patch up his knee, Sherlock decided to do something about his troubles.
“The strap broke, do you have one?” Mycroft turned to look at him from where he was disposing of the empty plaster wrappers.
“A strap for what?” To answer Sherlock pulled the stone from the pocket, fingers still curling protectively around it. Mycroft saw this and decided not to argue about it, it clearly meant something to him, it was important. Whether it was sentimental or not Mycroft didn’t know, but from the way it was treated he guessed it was at least partially so.
“I believe I have a suitable substitute around here somewhere.” He said as he went to the desk again. Opening his desk drawer he fished out a long silver chain with a small cross pendant hanging on it. Gift from a nanny, extremely religious and wishing to pass it onto the next generation. Mycroft slipped the cross off and placed it back into the drawer, he walked back to Sherlock and handed it to him.
“Appreciated.” Sherlock said again, before slipping the chain into a small hole at what Mycroft assumed was the top of the stone. Sherlock the proceeded to try and fasten the clasp behind his neck, but he must have been unused to them for it was apparent he couldn’t quite grasp it at first, eventually however he did manage to do it. Mycroft could tell he did not want help, and so hadn’t offered. Sherlock seemed like a proud creature, accepting of help when it suited him but rather stubborn in some aspects. Wanting to prove himself a bit perhaps.
Having it rest against his chest once more clamed him slightly, it felt right again.
***
At the end of the day Mycroft has left Sherlock in a small orphanage about an hours drive away from where he lives. He used a “calming walk” as a cover to sneak Sherlock out and away from the house beneath his Mothers (returned from work, Father will be home in two hours) watchful eyes. They take the bus and arrive within 15 minutes to where Mycroft says he’ll get Sherlocks very important papers. He leaves Sherlock to wait outside a dodgy looking building, returning shortly with an A4 envelope. They catch the bus to the next stop, and 20 minutes later find themselves outside of The Street Irregulars Orphanage. Mycroft hands him the papers and tell him his instructions in a calm and steady voice.
“Tell the woman at the reception these exact words.” Sherlocks eyes are fixed on him.
“’The highlander sends his regards and will visit in two days’, then you show her your papers and she’ll show you to your room. Keep away from people in general, and stay out of trouble. I’ll be back in two days, and then again in two weeks with my parents, and then you can come home with us if everything works out smoothly.” Sherlock nods, he is not scared to be left here, he can take care of himself if needed be. Mycroft nods at him and sends him in, before leaving himself. Returning home after 30 minutes he heads to his room and starts planning.
He has overheard his parent talk of a second child for two months now. Discussing back and forth the advantages and disadvantages this may bring. The main concern lies with Mother, who does not wish to go pregnant once again, not hire another nanny to look after the new baby. Now all he has to do is to plant the idea in their heads, and it will all work out perfectly.
True to his word Mycroft turns up two days later right after school hours, Mrs Langley takes him up to the single bedroom she’s given Sherlock. He’s sitting on the bed, reading an old and worn looking book, he looks up before the door even moves, knows they’re there by the mental imprint he’s built of them, thus being able to recognise their presence.
“Sherlock dear, Mycroft’s here to see you.” Mrs Langley says as she pokes her head in. Sherlock nods and puts the book down. He’s still more comfortable with being able to nod or shake his head to communicate, but he’s made progress in only two days.
“Hello Sherlock.” Mycroft says as he steps into the room, he looks back at Mrs Langley and she must see something in his face because she soon excuses herself and shuts the door after her, leaving the two in privacy.
“I’ve brought something for you.” Mycroft says as he hands a notebook over to Sherlock. He takes it, flips trough it quickly, and glances back up.
“With the help of these notes you should be able to adapt to human culture quicker, developing appropriate social skills and language. I’ve also included ways of observation that should make things easier.” Sherlock looks like his mind is in a standstill between interested and bored.
“I’ve already picked up most of the language, but your customs are… different.” It’s said with a hint of disdain in his voice. Mycroft for his part feels almost proud over the rapid progress Sherlock has shown speech wise.
It’ll have to be the genetic build up of his species, far more clever than humans, impeccable ability to adapt and to learn over a short period of time simply by absorbing the language in different ways.
“Correct. You’re much more clever than the people here, why?”
“I am simply more intelligent than the average person, that runs in my family you see. High IQ and a streak of… eccentricness.”
Sherlock hums in response. For all that Sherlock has progressed he seems to still be a bit clueless, and he trusts Mycroft almost fully it seems. Perhaps he has understood he means him no harm, whatever the reason Mycroft is glad Sherlock has let him so willingly do as he sees fit in his process of trying to get Sherlock into the Holmes household.
“Well, read and study, Sherlock (future: brother dear), for in a few days we will come for a visit. It’s important you act as if you do not know me. I will see you then.” Mycroft nods to him in departing, and Sherlock nods back.
“Mycroft.” He says as said boy is half way out the door. Mycroft turns to look at him.
“This is appreciated.” Sherlock says, his form of thanks having developed into a phrase that makes more sense in English. Mycroft gives the tiniest of smiles and closes the door behind him.
The next five days he makes sure to enter rooms unnoticed as his parents discuss the prospects of a second child, it only happens twice but it seems to work. The first time they’re discussing the possibility of a surrogate when Mycroft walks in, comments on how quicker it would be to adopt a child and get one that’s old enough not to require diapers at the same time, before leaving again. His parents have gone silent before he reaches the doorway. The second time they’re discussing the possibility of finding a child they’ll actually like, someone clever enough to keep up with the Holmes family, and Mycroft supplies the statistics of bright minds being successful and having gone to waste in orphanages. They confront him about it on the fifth day, and his answer is simple.
“I quite like the idea of having a little brother or sister, one to talk to instead of those dull nannies you keep insisting on.” They seem to consider this, and they cannot detect his ulterior motives, for he has told them nothing but the truth. All that remains now is that Sherlock acts convincingly enough for them to believe he hasn’t had anything to do with this at all.
That Saturday they set up three meetings in three different orphanages, the last one is The Street Irregulars Orphanage. The first two are dreadfully boring, and they leave quicker than necessary. The children are too ordinary to ever fit into the Holmes family, they’ve almost given up hope for the day. His parents for real, Mycroft pretending. As they arrive Mrs Langley leads the way into the playroom. Here they observe the children as they play different games with each other. There are 23 in total, including Sherlock, who is currently sat in a corner reading a book. The cover claims it to be Dracula, probably nicked from one of the offices for the adults.
The three Holmeses regard the room with blank faces. Surveying the children sceptically as they read them trough their actions. His Fathers eyes finally landing on Sherlock where Mycroft had spotted him the moment they entered.
“Reading Dracula, advanced. Not partaking any of the trivial games.” He remarks to his wife, who quickly find the boy in question.
“Thirst for knowledge by the way he will minutely study the other children, assessing them.” She notes in turn, sounding the tiniest bit pleased. Mycroft thinks it’s too early to call it a success, but it is headed in the right direction.
Father moves first, walking over to the boy and sits on a chair nearby. Sherlock looks up at him as the two other family members join him.
“Hello. What’s your name?” Mr Holmes asks.
“Sherlock Torley.” Sherlock answers as he puts the book down and reaches a hand out. The man smiles a tiny smile at the gesture and reaches for the boys hand.
“I’m Martin Holmes and this is my wife, Celia Holmes.” He says, letting go of Sherlocks hand and gesturing to the woman at his side.
“And this is our son Mycroft.” He finishes, patting Mycroft on the shoulder. Sherlock gives them both a nod in greeting.
“Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself Sherlock?” Mrs Holmes asks. Mycroft suddenly realises he has no idea what Sherlock will answer, he’d focused too much on the technical. He’s still young, still makes a few mistakes. Sherlock is quiet for a few moments, glances at them as if he’s unsure whether to tell them or not, and then beings speaking.
“I prefer observing rather than playing, playing is dull I don’t see the point. But from observing I can tell that Susie over there is still hoping for her parents to return for her, Billy misses his dog, and Andy has eaten yet another worm.” He grimaces.
“Now that’s dull, I know all of these people. You however.” He turns his grey eyes onto them intently, their piercing clarity pinning them all in place.
“You’re obviously looking to adopt a second child, that’s why you’re here, but you’re both fully capable of doing that on your own so why come here? You obviously don’t want a toddler, too much work? Yes just that. Judging by the time of day and your clothes you’ve been to two other orphanages already, no luck, must be looking for something specific then.” He stops, glances at the three of them as if unsure, his eyes almost linger on Mycroft but he doesn’t let them, can’t give himself away now. Mycrofts warning words still linger clearly in his mind, and he thinks to himself that if this goes wrong everything else will fall apart around him. He waits.
Martin smiles knowingly at Celia, and Mycroft feels triumphant.
“Very good, Sherlock.” At this however, Sherlock looks puzzled. He cocks his head and blinks at they trio, like he wasn’t suspecting that answer at all. Mr Holmes smiles and continues.
“You see the special something we were looking for was just that, intelligence. Our family have a high average IQ, so we need someone with the ability to keep up, and I think we just found them.” His smile is gentle, pleased.
“Most people get mad when I do that.”
“Yes of course, most people don’t see the simplicity in the world like that, so they reject it.” Mrs Holmes answers, and Sherlock feels a kinship with them instantly, just like Mycroft. He reaches out with his telekinetic powers and makes impressions of them in his own mind. Mycrofts is familiar already, safety and logic spinning around him. Celia feels like protection and fondness, warm and soft beneath a distance of stone that is her work, time spent away from the family and on business. Martin feels like his wife, warm beneath a layer of stone that reeks of importance, fondness reaching out for him and a feeling of mentoring duty that is echoed in Mycroft as well. Sherlock knows they will both be absent, but they will be fond, and they will care for him as Mycroft has. He smiles at them, a muted smile but they see it for what it is, for he is similar to them even though he is not of their own flesh and blood (not of their own species).
They talk for an hour, Sherlock excitedly recounting observations and experiments he has conducted in his short time here (both in the orphanage and on earth, but they don’t know the latter). The three of them talking about how life in the Holmes family will be. By the end of the hour it is decided that they will adopt him, and as Mr and Mrs Holmes leave the two boys to get a bit more familiar and the discuss paperwork with Mrs Langley, Mycroft smiles at Sherlock in approval. Sherlock in turn smiles with happiness. He will be safe.
The week goes like this.
The Saturday they came and found him, they discussed paperwork with Mrs Langley, who gave them forms to fill.
Sunday they returned the forms when visiting Sherlock again for tea.
By Monday Mrs Langley had sent the form trough the process.
On Tuesday and inspector came to the Holmes household to see that it was fit to bring a child there. Of course it was.
Nothing happens on Wednesday, but Mrs Langley finds the lack of a medical record for Sherlock concerning and plans a visit for a check up on Friday.
Come Thursday the processing of the forms are cleared and she has the adoption papers ready to be signed.
Sherlock goes to the hospital that Friday, and has his check up, they find nothing wrong with him. Sherlock is terrified the entire time and only breathes normally once they are half way back to the orphanage.
That Saturday papers are signed, goodbyes are said, and Sherlock Holmes returns home. They have a British citizenship set up for him already, and have enrolled him in the school close by. He will start attendance on Wednesday, getting to spend a few days at home to get used to it. Sherlock agrees to go to school only because of two things. Mycroft tells him it is the best course of action to stay undetected, and he is curious about the human culture. He strives to fit in and not be taken away. The fear is already deep rooted in him to an irreversible degree. Mycroft gets the few days off of school as well, helping Sherlock settle in as their parents notice the bond the boys quickly developed. In those days he helps Sherlock with understanding humans, human mannerisms, everything he needs to know to be seen as passingly normal in school. Of course Mycroft attends the same one, and can help him if he really needs it, but they would both prefer that to be a ‘last resort’ option. Sherlock is clever, terribly clever, and he picks everything up in the blink of an eye. Adapting is his strongest feature; it will help him stay alive.
The first day of school passes with relative ease. He’s an outsider, rejects most of the other students, tolerates the rest, and comes home pleased with the days effort. School is boring but necessary, and this is the opinion he sticks to throughout his entire academic life.
***
“You promised.”
It’s not said with accusation, no dramatic air of betrayal, instead it’s a quiet comment from the doorway. Mycroft turns from where he’s packing his suitcase and looks at Sherlock. Their faces are matching masks of calm passiveness, picked up from their parents. Mycroft sighs; he looks older in that moment. His brother always makes him feel the oldest. No amount of work or intelligence makes him feel this old, this wary.
Sherlock is also older. For the first year he almost didn’t change at all, but then he realized that people grew. They got taller and their faces lost some of the chubbiness of childhood. So he’d grown along with them, grown taller, made his face sharper bit by bit, his limbs were lanky and he was well on his way to becoming an awkward teenager made up of all elbows and knees.
“I know, but I have to go. I only get to choose where to.”
Sherlocks expression is stoic, he turns and walks down the hallway to his own bedroom. Mycroft sighs again and gets back to packing. He loves Sherlock, has loved him in the six years that have passed, but he can be difficult. Tomorrow morning he will be leaving for college. It’s far away and he will be living on school grounds, a boarding school. When he was younger he couldn’t wait, he’s still looking forward to it, but with the addition of Sherlock to the family he regrets leaving him behind. They have grown dependant of each other, and if they were normal a lot of tears and hugging would be involved he’s sure, but they’re not. Instead they have this, the resigned understanding that their bonds have to be severed. He knows they will never be the same.
Sherlock knows he’s being irrational, but he can’t help it. Mycroft said he would have to go, but he had always hoped it wouldn’t come so soon, and Mycroft promised he would always watch out for him while he needed it. He’s 13 now, and he shouldn’t feel like he needs him, but he does. He’s still scared. Scared of men in suits and scientists, remote locations where they would slowly take him apart until there was nothing left of him. This world was not meant for him, but there he was anyway.
Mycroft leaves the next morning, and life goes on, but they drift apart. Bu the time he comes back their relationship will never return to the same. Sherlock starts resenting his brothers interference, he needs to be able to get on without him, and so the rivalry starts blossoming. Deep down they are still themselves from those first days, so dependent, a lost little boy and a soon to be older brother who felt so much like he needed to shield him from the world, and teach him.