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It would be easy to assume that Sherrinford Holmes wore his heart on his sleeve. He'd always been generous with both his wit and his smile, never slow to open his arm to a friend in need; a siren song of genuineness crackling the air around him whenever he entered a room. It helped that he was handsome but then, all the Holmes boys were shaping up to be, Ford just had the advantage of growing into himself the most. He looked older than he was at seventeen, though to be fair some of that was just his height and some his clothes.
He loved three-piece suits, since they made him feel grown up: expensive, starch-collared shirts and trousers always perfectly fitted (he had a dear friend who was a tailor. Ford was the kind of guy, even this early, who had a "dear friend" for everything). He paid for his luxuries half with friendship and half with the cash he made from the nightly bartending job he'd charmed his way into the day after he turned sixteen. Somehow it never seemed to interfere with his studies, which is why he was allowed to keep it. (The opal earrings and excellent scotch he'd bought his parents had probably helped, too.)
But all his usual demeanor shifted when he was angry. He only played at anger much of the time, only skimmed its surface. He seemed to know instinctively how not to get sucked down into it, even at the very height of teenage drama: that rare gift of being at once totally open and totally aloof. But real anger. Real anger turned him quiet. Spun the volume halfway down him as his rage turned and turned like a ballerina spinning in his gut.
He was quiet now, his eyes boring into his little brother's with such intensity that even Mycroft, by far the most stubborn of the three, turned his gaze aside. "It was a miscalculation," he tried, managing a sidelong glare back at Ford, his chin jutting out. "I never meant for him to actually--"
"Horseshit. You knew exactly what you were doing." His tone was even, the fingers of his right hand tapping a light rhythm on his brother's bulky shoulder.
Mycroft jerked away, stumbling back a few graceless steps. "He chose to drag his bike up there, I told him it was too steep."
"You told him that because you knew it'd make him do it." Ford ran a hand through his hair, a habit nearly always resisted, considering how long it took him to style it. "Christ, Mycroft." He sighed softly. "He's seven. He adores you and you always throw it back in his face like salt."
Only fourteen, and Mycroft had already perfected his sneer. "Well maybe if he weren't so--" Suddenly the front of his shirt was in his elder brother's fist, and all his breath had fled.
For just an instant, the ballerina faltered, Ford's voice lowering in pitch but rising in volume. "I swear on my life Mycroft Holmes, if I ever hear you call him stupid again--"
"Boys."
Ford's fist unclenched automatically and he pulled himself to attention, not even looking at Mycroft. "Sorry, Mum."
Ford didn't suppress his grimace as his mother leveled him with a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would be, but then turned her attention to her middle child. "Myke, it's past your bedtime. Don't give me that look young man. Everyone will feel significantly better in the morning. Off you trot."
There was only a slight stoop to Mycroft's shoulder as he stomped up the stairs, Ford knew he might as well have been crawling up them, with that level of defeat in his frame. He turned to his mother. "Can I?"
"Only because he's still awake. And then bed."
"Promise. Thanks, Mum."
"Be nice to your brother."
Ford smiled. "I'm always nice to Sherlock."
*
He'd scuttled back into bed by the time Ford turned the doorknob, but the eldest Holmes knew by the rumpling of the sheets that Sherlock had been listening at the door. He made no comment as he sidled over to sit at the edge of the bed. "All right, Sherlock?" His voice was light, though his eyes still burned with the last vestiges of anger, embers in a dying fire, as he scanned his little brother's injuries.
There were only a few seconds of silence during which Ford could tell Sherlock was deciding how to play this: stoic and distant (as, he was sure, he'd been to their parents) or with a touch of pathos, and perhaps some high drama. Ford was glad when, a second later, Sherlock had thrown himself into Ford's arms despite his bruises. "Mycroft hates me," he declared, muffledly, into Ford's shirt. "This is all his fault."
Drama, then. Ford was grateful for it, as he rubbed his hand gently up and down Sherlock's back. It was more honest. "I know it feels that way," Ford said sympathetically. "That was a rotten trick he played on you. But he doesn't hate you. He'd rescue you in a minute, if you were in trouble. Just like I would."
"You'd do it faster," Sherlock said fiercely, clinging a little tighter. Then, bobbing his head back to look critically at his brother, added, "You cancelled your date with that awful bucktooth girl?"
"She has an overbite, Sherlock," Ford said, amused. And then, because he knew what his brother wanted, he continued, "How'd you know anyway? I could've been at the bar."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your shirt, obviously. You love that shirt; it's your most expensive -- and it's green -- and therefore your favorite. You spent a small fortune just tailoring it properly. You'd never wear it just for work, where it could get grenadine spilled on it. And besides," he wrinkled his nose, "you're wearing that aftershave that smells like balsa wood."
"Sandalwood," Ford laughed. He stroked his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "Well now that you've sufficiently proven your powers of observation remain just as extraordinary, I think it's time for bed," he held up a finger to stay any protest. "But first I'll tell you a story."
"Is it another one about the misfit boy who makes friends?" Sherlock asked grumpily, though he did nestle back under the duvet.
"No. This one's about dragons." Ford grinned at his brother's widening eyes and shifted position slightly on the bed, glancing, for just a moment, at the cracked-open door before he turned back to Sherlock. "Once upon a time, there was a family of great and terrible dragons. They awed the world with their beauty and power and were, occasionally, the terror of the local villages. But mostly, they spent their days hunting for treasure so they could better their hoard. Close your eyes."
Sherlock's glare was too sleepy to have much effect, and he did as he was told, as Ford's hand slipped into his.
"Of all the gems, these dragons loved emeralds the most. They were the shiniest and most difficult gem to get and--"
"Also the greenest."
"Eyes closed, Sherlock. And there was one clever dragon of the lot who was just brilliant at finding emeralds. He knew how to read the signs in the earth, the best flames to use to crack certain types of rocks apart, how far to dig. It was his greatest and most special skill, and of course the other dragons praised him for it. But over time, something began to happen. The more emeralds the clever dragon brought home, the less and less he was praised. People began to expect it of him. Began to notice when whatever he brought wasn't as big or as shiny or as valuable as the ones he'd brought before."
Sherlock made a small, dissatisfied noise.
"That's right, 'poor dragon' indeed."
"I didn't say--"
"Eyes closed. So what was the clever dragon to do, except try to be more clever? He did his very best. He always did. But then. One day, and even smaller dragon began to display a talent for finding emeralds, too. They were never as big or as valuable as the older dragon's, but what did anyone else care? This dragon was much smaller. This dragon was new, and somehow the gems he brought back felt newer, better, than the ones they were used to. So the older dragon took the only path that was left to him. He began to bully the younger dragon. To sabatoge him and try to trick him into bringing back stones that weren't gems at all."
"But the younger dragon didn't do anything! He was just being himself."
"That's right, but the older dragon thought that if he could prove that he was better than the younger one, maybe everyone would love him just as much as they had before."
Sherlock bit his lower lip. "But they didn't."
"Well, that's the rub, isn't it? The truth was, dragons are an ancient clan." He pulled the duvet up a little higher. "They would've loved and protected the older dragon just as much even if he hadn't brought back any emeralds at all."
"But how did he know that?"
"He didn't. That's why it's a tragic story."
Sherlock sat bolt upright, somehow regal, even in his pajamas. "Well what kind of person tells their injured brother a tragic story for their bedtime?" he snapped.
"It doesn't have to be tragic. The middle dragon could stop bringing back emeralds and learn that they'll still like him just as much."
Sherlock raised his chin. "Yes, but will he?"
"Well, that's up to his family, isn't it? Maybe if they told him that he didn't have to spend all his time proving how clever he is, he'd learn to relax."
"You mean how good he is at finding emeralds."
Ford smiled. "That, too."
Sherlock looked up at his brother for a good ten seconds and then finally said, "I'm going to sleep now."
"Oh, good. I thought you'd never keep your eyes closed."
"Mmf."
Ford leaned down and brushed a kiss to the crown of Sherlock's forehead. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Pleasant dreams."
He was almost out the door when Sherlock's sleepy, "G'night, Ford," emanated from somewhere within the blankets.
Ford closed the door behind him and listened as a set of soft footsteps disappeared up the stairs. He waited for the upstairs door to close before he took to the stairs himself, then stood outside Mycroft's door, his mouth level with the keyhole. "It doesn't have to be a tragic story, Mycroft," he said. "I love you, too."
Mycroft said nothing. He slid down the other side of the door, his shoulders trembling a little. He closed his eyes. Somewhere in his Mind Palace, a stone rolled back, a cave hollowed out, and emeralds began to appear.