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It was gospel to anyone who knew him for more than ten minutes: Sherlock and boredom got on about as well as cats and water.
Now, one might presume that all boys his age might struggle with ennui, and fear it above all other experiences in their short time on Earth. Children have an unending impatience with the world--they do not tolerate being cramped up in front of Latin books in classrooms, nor in front of hymnals in churches. The kicking of heels, the slouching of shoulders, the sighs, and the blank, glassy stares at the ceiling, as if looking to God to save them from their troubles, are all hardly strange to see in children who are kept from their rightful place at the fishing-hole.
Yet it was undoubtedly peculiar in Sherlock, as anyone who had any familiarity with the Holmeses would know. Mycroft, who had more than a passing knowledge of that family line, might go so far as to wonder whether his little brother was some foundling.
True, Sherlock already had all the markings of their little clan stamped upon his face. Should anyone doubt his parentage, they need only look at Erasmus's nose, and a portrait of Mother, to convince themselves of his origins. But the little scoundrel hardly acted the part, did he? Every other drop of their blood seemed to welcome, or at least tolerate, what Sherlock despised. The Holmeses were home-folk. Each had their part, and played it to the exclusion of all else. Erasmus, being a businessman, had no toleration for any other role that might be foisted on his shoulders; he was neither friend, husband, nor father, so far as Mycroft could discern. Mother had been a proper lady of her breeding, and kept a fine house in order, when she'd still lived; outside of her husband, her sons and her servants, Mycroft did not believe she even spoke to anyone else.
After she passed on, he had stumbled through his distant grief by thumbing through the few books she'd owned. By the time the clouds of his mourning began to lift, he was spending every shilling he could get on more (for his father's library was abysmal, populated with nothing but the history of war and of shipping, as Erasmus was only interested in salt-water and blood). As his room began to fill with every book he could lay hands on, he'd felt a swell of satisfaction burgeon in his soul, as if he were watching the entire reason he was formed begin to take shape. All men should have a purpose, and his was as a learner, and he consumed each tome as he consumed his meals--slowly, absorbing every subtle nuance, neither missing nor forgetting even the most indistinct facts and flavors.
Then, there was Sherlock, and did ever an odder bird come to roost at their family nest? He might well look like a Holmes, but he had none of the quiet resignation--what Erasmus, no doubt, would simply term "patience"--that marked the rest of his bloodline. He ran when others walked, because he could not bear to go for long without knowing what lay at the end of his path. He asked questions when others politely held their silence. He broke every single toy which had ever come into his possession, excepting those that were so simplistic that they could not be taken apart. And he was always sneaking about; more than once, Mycroft had caught his little brother in his own chambers, seated upon the bed, his nose (and that was already quite prodigious, especially for a nine-year-old) stuck in one of his chemistry or biology texts.
In times such as that, Mycroft would stand in the doorway to his chambers, a half-smile touching his round face, and watch as Sherlock silently mouthed any words in the book he didn't yet understand. A normal brother might have been infuriated at such a breach of privacy, but it was difficult to be angry at someone who adored what Mycroft loved. And aside from that, when Sherlock was reading, he was not bored. This had the happy effect of keeping him out of trouble.
In a fashion, Mycroft held it as one of his responsibilities to keep his little brother entertained. He was in his sixteenth year, and was only aware of the social requirements of striplings his age the way that astronomers were aware of Neptune's existence twenty-two years before it was first seen: by distant observation, and by mathematical calculation. He knew that he should be seeking the company of his fellow-men--and that he should, as the heir, seek a woman who would one day have him. At the least, he should learn how such a seeking might evolve, but he did not, and never had, hold an interest in mere social graces. He was a learner, and scholars were not by their nature charming and graceful. He therefore had no friends to distract him; nothing consumed his time but his books, his cooking, and making sure that his brother was not getting himself into some awful scrape.
Thus it happened that, on one bright and cheery afternoon (or so he gathered by looking out the window), Mycroft was drifting down the hall, making his not-so-stealthy way to the kitchen. Erasmus loathed that his eldest son was just as fond of food as he was of books, and taxed him with his unengaging appearance at every meal. This did little but inspire Mycroft to return for a third serving, and to sneak to the kitchen when his father was absent and cook a bit for himself. The lord of the house was momentarily away, and he was willing to take advantage of this absence--until he was distracted by Sherlock, in a singular way.
As Mycroft padded past his brother's shut bedroom door, he heard the thin, high voice cry out, sharply, as if in pain. Though a sedentary fellow by nature, the elder Holmes did not hesitate to sprint across the hall, and fling open the door to Sherlock's chamber; his first thoughts were that the little scientist had cut or burnt himself in one of his experiments.
It might have been better for Sherlock if he had been injured. As the door swung open, Mycroft saw that his young brother was whole, but decidedly unwell. His thin, pale face was the color of clay, and his bright gray eyes were wide with panic. Before him lay a small jumble of wheels, gears, glass, and silver casing. Given the collection of small tools resting aside this mess, and the inscription of their father's name on the lip of the round casing, he presumed that these were the remains of one of Erasmus's watches.
As he watched, Sherlock lifted one hand to his lips, and commenced to gnawing away at his finger-nails. It was a terrible habit, but no amount of slaps, scolds, or dashes of hot pepper on his fingertips could break him of it. He only chewed like that when he was bored or frightened; Mycroft did not have to wonder which it was. All the bits and bobbles of the watch were accounted for, so it was not that a piece was missing; if Sherlock was smart enough to disassemble it, he could reconstruct it, so it was not that he failed to put it back together. There must be some damage to the thing, then, and in such a way that their father would know that it was not accidental.
Mycroft stepped across the threshold. A band of sunlight shot a long arm across the room, and rested on the floor where Sherlock's experiment was scattered. It caught against the casing, and reflected a lovely shade of silvery light--excepting one thin, bright line along the edge of the case that shone more brilliantly than the rest. There was the trouble, and he felt a small prickle of pity for Sherlock.
"Father's going to have you tanned when he sees that scratch," he said.
His little brother sighed. When he spoke, he talked around his fingers. "It was an accident."
"Taking apart his watch was an accident? You'll have to come up with a better excuse than that." Mycroft shut the door firmly, keeping the sight of the eviscerated watch from the prying eyes of any passing servants. "You've made a pretty hash of things, haven't you? He's not going to miss that scratch, not unless he's struck blind in the next few hours."
"I know, " Sherlock said, his thin voice almost a moan. He rocked back on his heels, wrapping his free arm around his skinny legs, and gnawed away. "He wouldn't have had the least idea if that hadn't happened."
"Yet it did, and here we are. You should've known not to fool with his silver pocket-watch; it's close to pure. The stuff's soft as cheese." Slowly (he was not yet near as portly as he would become, but his girth was still heavy enough to warrant care whenever he moved) Mycroft knelt down beside the rubble. "Now, I would say that--no, don't bother, your hands are shaking far too hard--I would say that the next time you get it in your dreamy head to take a clock apart, do use one of mine. Or if you must swipe one of Father's, make it one he won't easily miss."
As he spoke, the elder Holmes picked up a few of Sherlock's purloined instruments, and swept the little shattered pile towards himself. He fell silent for a moment, unconsciously tapping his fingertips against his thigh, his gray eyes surveying and cataloging over each wheel and gear. In his mind, he saw the innards of one of his own watches, and unspooled it: disentangling each spinning, clicking part from all the others, examining them, learning how each might fit into the whole.
In seven minutes, he was slipping the face of the watch back into place.
"That's done with," he muttered, as he sluggishly crawled out of the little world he'd gone into while his hands had done their work. "The scratch is unfortunate, but if we drop it behind Father's washstand, it won't be discovered for some time. With any luck, he might not see it for so long that he'll believe he did it himself."
"Erasmus has done that before," Sherlock said.
Mycroft glared at his younger brother, although he shared the sentiment of spite behind his words. Their patron did not seem to know what to do with the queer set of sons that Providence had seen fit to bestow upon him. He was not suited to understand Mycroft's eating and reading, or Sherlock's questioning and dashing about. Though politeness dictated that they refer to him at all times as Father, neither son felt any filial love for Erasmus Holmes. Still and all, if Sherlock slipped and called his father by his Christian name in front of anyone else, even Mycroft did not know what would befall him.
"Indeed he has. Here, go and take this back to his washstand," Mycroft said. "Be sure that no one sees you when you do it."
Sherlock put out his hand to accept the watch. As he did, Mycroft did not miss the shaking of his bony fingers, or the ragged edges of his finger-nails as they rasped across the silver casing. One nail was rimmed with dark pink flesh that was on the edge of bleeding. The color was not yet returning to his cheeks, either. The poor boy had almost scared himself right into his grave with horrible fantasies of what would happen when Erasmus saw his damaged time-piece. And at that thought, Mycroft felt another needling of pity--it had not been so long ago that he'd felt those same terrors, and in truth, he still felt that same nervous fright when he snuck in the kitchen at night for a bite (would he be caught? What would give him away? How would Father berate him this time?).
If it was his unspoken responsibility to keep Sherlock out of trouble, he supposed that it was a multi-faceted job: not only must he be kept entertained, but he must be kept out of those moors of fear he seemed to be wallowing into. Therefore, as his younger brother stood up and quietly stepped over to the doorway, Mycroft added, "And when you're done with that, meet up with me by the stove."
Sherlock turned, his gray eyes wide and sparkling, fear losing out to his insatiable curiosity. "What for?"
*~*~*
"Just a moment more," Mycroft cautioned, but it did no good. His brother would not leave the side of the oven; he sat next to the great iron monstrosity, hands on his knobbly knees, his head tilted slightly to one side as he listened to the bubbling hiss coming from its depths. He would no sooner abandon this spot than a normal child would let go of his mother's skirts. He did not yet know what it was that his brother was plotting for him, and the idea of budging before he found out was nonsensical.
Sighing, Mycroft put it out of his head, and went about his own business. This dish normally required more than a glaze of butter and water at this stage, but he had declined to add the rest of the sauce. It might ruin the dregs. It would stand to have a little more butter added on once he drained those out (that was his favorite flavor, anyhow); therefore, he contented himself with fishing the vinegar jug and the sugarpot from the pantry. A thick chunk of ham, an ill-gotten bit of last night's leftover food, already rested upon the countertop.
He left both jug and pot on the counter, and, picking up a set of rags to shield his hands, moved over to the stove. In most mediums, Mycroft Holmes was thick and slow in his movements, each one meant to expend as little energy as was possible--every medium, that was, save the kitchen. When he had to work around servants, which was often, he might be mistaken for an acrobat; when the room was nearly empty, as it was now, he was a perfect dervish. He got on one knee, nearly knocking Sherlock off from his own position, and slid the oven's door open. A heavy fist of heat struck his round face, making his eyes smart and his skin feel tight, but this was easily ignored. After a moment of blinking it away, his guarded hands slipped into its hot guts, and successfully rescued the steaming pan within.
At the sight of that, Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I hate the smell of cabbage."
"This will be worth it," Mycroft promised. He stood up, and holding the pan in one hand, shut the oven's door. Losing all the heat would be counterproductive.
"I don't see what this is about," his brother said. Most mortals reciting such a phrase would be growling in frustration, but with Sherlock, it was intoned in nothing but shining curiosity. He rose up and followed after Mycroft as he returned to the counter--he could not give up any chance at resolving what his brother was doing, anymore than he could have stopped breathing, or thinking.
At last, his patience was rewarded. Mycroft took a cup from one of the cupboards, and dipped up an inch of the pulpy mix of cabbage, butter, water, and runoff. With commoner cabbage, it would appear to be treacly and watery, but this was its red cousin. The heat had baked the diced leaves a dark violet color, and likewise, the juicy stuff he pulled up was a lovely royal purple.
"Now watch," he said, and although he was not looking down at Sherlock's thin face, he felt the weight of that questioning gaze on him. The thought brought a private, small smile to his face. Here was a rarity: a place where his own private love of cooking, and his little brother's fondness for learning, coincided. He reached for the jug of vinegar, pulled free its stopper, and proceeded to pour a thin runnel of crystalline-pink liquid down into the glass.
Two pairs of gray eyes watched, silently, as the swirl of vinegar spun into the juice, creating a sudden spiral of bright magenta in its velvet-purple depths. In less than a moment, the rest of the glass was reduced to that same cheerful, strong color, making Mycroft think of how swiftly the sky changed its colors in the morning, as the sun rose. He looked down at Sherlock, and was not disappointed--a delighted sparkle shone in his eyes, and a little smile (and it was queer, that a nine-year-old should be so reserved in how he expressed his happiness) tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"How's it work?" he asked.
Although he knew, the elder Holmes was already exhausted of explaining himself and what he knew to the world; he was poor at trying to describe his thoughts and knowledge, never able to articulate in a way that his fellow-men could comprehend. Besides, if he did not discourse on acids and bases to Sherlock, the true goal of this experiment would be reached. "Don't know," he said. "But there's plenty more where that juice came from, and we've got a whole pantry full of powders and liquids for you to mix. I daresay you won't find any combination that will explode, and that you'll figure out the pattern before too long."
So it was that, when Erasmus clamped into the kitchen an hour later to see what all the damned racket was about, he found his boys at their idea of play. Mycroft sat by the countertop, nibbling on a rind of ham which he'd dipped in the butter-dish, laughing at Sherlock as he crawled through the mess he'd made on the floor. There were a number of glasses holding splashes of midnight blue liquid near the pantry door, and another cluster of cups holding spare inches of magenta nearer to the oven. Between these two extremes were every box, can, and jar that used to sit in the pantry, many of them opened, and a few more glasses of dark purple stuff for the testing. The kitchen was suffused with the fetor of vinegar, cabbage, and a noxious mix of God only knew what.
He was not nearly as amused as his children by this picture.
~end~