A Birthday Gift (Mycroft)

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock watched as his mother left for work, father was away on a business trip. He was alone at the house and would be expected to be in school in half an hour. Of course, the young boy wasn’t going to attend. He’d been planning this for months, ever since he had found out that they would not be going to visit Mycroft for his birthday, just like he hadn’t had the chance to see Mycroft last Christmas. It wasn’t that Sherlock enjoyed birthdays or Christmases, the eleven year old was beginning to realise that he missed his brother.

Sherlock knew that he was growing apart from Mycroft, and he could also sense that he was beginning to blame his brother for never visiting. It wasn’t too nice a feeling, Sherlock could remember playing pirates with Mycroft and learning how to deduce things about people from his older brother. This could be his last chance to rectify things, to make sure that Mycroft didn’t leave forever. That he didn’t end up blaming Mycroft for everything. Walking over to the phone, Sherlock called school, imitating his mother’s voice, telling them that he was ill and unable to attend. Then he wrote a letter for mother, to explain where he would be.

Going upstairs to his bedroom, Sherlock delved under the frame of his bed and brought out a box, wrapped in dark blue wrapping paper. It was neatly wrapped; Sherlock had figured everything out mathematically. He could have just wrapped the present, without hiding it in a box, but he thought that would be dull, besides he wanted to surprise Mycroft. An umbrella was such an easy shape to guess. So Sherlock had found a box to disguise the shape. On the wrapped present, was a card, home made during a class.

The umbrella had been brought out of Sherlock’s own money, he had been saving up his lunch money, simply ignoring his own hunger to get enough to buy the umbrella. Mycroft had commented ages ago that the weather was too often rainy when he was travelling around college. And only half a year ago, Sherlock had seen a beautiful umbrella that seemed to be perfect for Mycroft. So he had saved, ignoring his mother’s comments on how thin he was becoming. That wasn’t really important when you looked at the bigger picture. The body was just transport.

The umbrella had taken up most of the money that he had saved, and it would be impossible to hire a taxi to take him all the way the Mycroft’s University. However, he could afford to either take the bus or the train. Sherlock opted for the train as it was quicker and only slightly more expensive. Picking up the present, the box was quite a bit larger than the umbrella and it did look awkward with Sherlock holding it. It was nearly as big as the eleven year old, who had jet to go through his growth spurt.

Picking up his keys, Sherlock locked the door behind him, before setting out for the train station. There was some problem with buying a ticket. They wanted to see him with a parent, but Sherlock had managed to persuade them that his family had gone through earlier, but had forgotten the present, so he had to go back and get it. Once through, Sherlock looked for the correct train, before getting on. People did seem to be concerned about a boy travelling by himself, but Sherlock ignored them. They were all simple minded people. Bank managers, accountants, the occasional student. All of them with their life stories open for him to read.

It had taken a few stops and a few changing of trains before Sherlock arrived to the closest train station to Mycroft’s University. Getting off the train, Sherlock walked through the area, his eyes noticing the rain clouds that were brewing on the horizon. He didn’t want to get the present damaged, so he picked up his pace. The University hadn’t wanted to let him in either. They appeared to be stricter than the ticket officer, so even when he told them that he was delivering a present to Mycroft, they turned him down.

So Sherlock had taken the only other option available to him and he had snuck in, finding an open door. Once inside, no one seemed to bother him, and Sherlock had to hunt around before he found anything similar. When Mycroft had first joined, they had all come to see where the older brother would be living. Following his memory, Sherlock paused at Mycroft’s door, carefully putting the present on the floor, so it towered up, nearly as high as the exhausted Sherlock. Holding the present up in one hand, Sherlock confidently knocked at the door and waited for his brother to open it.

[Mycroft]

Mycroft laughed raucously along with his group of "friends". To Mycroft they were expendable, something to use while useful and then toss out when done. Mycroft didn't have real friends, never had. Either way, University was immensely better than home, if his house could even be called home. But they didn't need to know that.
He clapped one of the guys he was with on the back, all of them laughing way louder than decent as they made their way to Mycroft's room to celebrate with the six-pack someone had hidden under their coat (not that Mycroft would actually be drinking. He would pretend for the sake of keeping up the charade of friendship but drinking slowed his mind, made him slow and not fully in control of himself and there was nothing he hated more.)
Today had been a good day. He woke up, opened a rather suggestive but nice card that had been slipped under his door and contained 20 quid and a "free kiss" coupon from the girl down the hall (as much as she wanted Mycroft, he automatically knew she was seeing several other men), went down to the cafeteria where he was greeted with smiles and more cards (he may not have liked the people but he knew how to make them like him, if only so he could use them later) as he treated himself to a large breakfast with an omelet, several slices of French toast, and a hefty serving of bacon. Not to mention the cupcakes and candy other people brought him. Then off to his favorite class, Cognitive Reasoning (he loved the idea of using people's subconscious) where he met up with his current group of cronies afterwards. They all went to some concert, hit the pubs, and were now heading up to Mycroft's room, laughing obscenely.
Another burst of laughter erupted from the group as they turned the corner. But the second Mycroft's door came into view, the laughter died (Not a slow gradual death but as if it had been shot in the head, Mycroft thought later on).
Sitting in his doorway was a small boy, curly black hair untamed and falling into his face, frighteningly skinny, and clutching a long box almost as big as him to his chest.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft almost exclaimed at the sleeping child. The guys around him began to angrily whisper. Did Mycroft know this twerp? What was he doing here? Mycroft immediately tended, knowing but hating what he would have to do to maintain the game.
"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?" Mycroft internally cringed as he just slightly slurred his words and let irritation drip off his voice. "I thought I told you I didn't want to see you anymore and now you show up in the middle of the night, on my birthday, on my doorstep and now what the hell am I supposed to do with you?" This was one of the moments when Mycroft hated himself. He turned to his "friends" clapping one of them apologetically on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry guys." He mumbled, "Looks like were gonna have to call it off. I've gotta take care of this freak " He spat the last word down at his brother, reaching over the child to viciously unlock and throw open the door. "Get in there." He directed. Mycroft didn't know someone could absolutely loathe themselve as much as he did in that moment. With a few more apologies and good byes, the others were down the hall and Mycroft was waiting until they were at a safe distance to hurl himself into his room and pull Sherlock into a hug and rectify this.
Mycroft could only count to ten instead of his preferred thirty before he lunged into his room. Sherlock was standing in the middle, looking like a lost child. "Well of course he looks like a lost child! He practically is! He came all this way to see one of the only people he trusts and they completely reject him" Mycroft's thoughts screamed at him. Mycroft went over to the boy, putting his hands on his shoulders and bending down to be at his eye level. His voice was soft and kind, a tone solely reserved for Sherlock, when he spoke.
"Sherlock, brother, why are you here?"

[Sherlock Holmes]

As the young boy stood, he realised that Mycroft wasn't in, no one answered the door. Sherlock's light blue eyes regarded the door for several seconds before he decided that he would wait. He had come all of this way, Mother would be angry with him when he returned. He might as well wait. Mycroft was probably in lessons and would be back in a few hours. Carefully holding the present in his arms, Sherlock went to sit down in the corner of the door, watching to see if anyone would come past soon. He should be able to get a good idea about when the lessons ended.

As the eleven year old waited, he saw different groups come and go. They were not doing the same lessons as his brother, based on their discussion and the different kinds of wear that their hands showed. Some with chemicals, some perfectly clean, others ladened with ink from pens. But then people who would be in Mycroft's year and classes began to come, moving into their own dorms. No one really questioned Sherlock. He had been let in, so there had to be no problem with him waiting there. No one suspected that he had snuck in.

As the evening came, Sherlock wondered if Mother was trying to ring Mycroft to ask if he had seen Sherlock. It wasn't likely. He had been careful to not show his plans to Mother and he had not spoken of Mycroft for months, even though he had been planning, giving up his lunch money for the present. She was probably calling places such as the library, school, asking people in the local area if they had seen him. Hopefully no one had been at the trainstation. Sherlock didn't want to be dragged back before he'd given Mycroft his present.

Everything darkened, and Sherlock's head began to droop. He was tired, everyone else had returned to their dorms. Mycroft was probably having a party. Eventually, he dropped off to sleep, and Sherlock was only woken up by the sounds of a loud group coming very close. As he woke, Sherlock realised that he might be feeling hungry. He hadn't eaten at all today. He attempted to push this hunger down. It was unimportant. Lifting his head, his icey eyes flickered over the people. Mycroft was among them, hanging out with people that were clearly below his intelect.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't speak at Mycroft's words, he was simply deducing everything he could about Mycroft's friends. Most appeared to be drunk, all of them intoxicated, but Sherlock knew better than to suppose that Mycroft had joined them in the drinking. It was something that his older brother advised against, it slowed down the mind. As the other students began to mutter, Sherlock watched them, they evidentally didn't like him. He doubted that they were even as clever as him. Why did Mycroft even tolerate these people?

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock's eyes widened in shock at the irritation in his brother's voice. And also at the fact that Mycroft had not realised. Was it not obvious? Also, Sherlock could tell that the slurring was just a front. It was confusing. Why was Mycroft pretending to be drunk and angry with him? Sherlock blinked back tears, he wouldn't cry. "I thought I told you I didn't want to see you anymore and now you show up in the middle of the night, on my birthday, on my doorstep and now what the hell am I supposed to do with you?" Sherlock tried to harden his gaze as he looked at his brother.

When had Mycroft specified that Sherlock could not come? Had it been Mycroft not returning for Christmas or Birthdays? Had it been them not visiting Mycroft for the celebrations? Besides, why was Mycroft pretending to act drunk? The situation did not make any sense. Sherlock wanted to ask Mycroft everything out right, but he was scared. There was a group of older children who evidentally didn't like him, and Mycroft seemed to have developed a hatred of him. If this became another of those oh so common fights, Sherlock doubted he would win.

"Looks like were gonna have to call it off. I've gotta take care of this freak " The term 'freak' was nothing new to Sherlock. Everyone seemed to call him that, he didn't need friends. He had thought that he only needed Mycroft. But aparently Mycroft seemed to want to act like the boring and stupid ignorant people who walked around, not seeing the order and chaos, the law and crime around them. Only recently, Sherlock had realised that there was something wrong about a drowned boy, Carl Powers. No one listened. But no one else saw.

Flinching slightly, as Mycroft went to open the door, Sherlock scrambled inside, still holding the present, wrapped in blue paper, with a homemade card. Standing in the middle of the room, his gaze swept around, trying to see anything that would suggest why Mycroft was do different. Was Mycroft going to call home and send him back? Either way, Sherlock was going to be in a lot of trouble and all for nothing. The boy could feel anger welling up inside him, but he didn't want to cry. He couldn't show any sign of weakness. Even if this hurt more than anything else that had happened to him.

It was only ten seconds later that Mycroft appeared, lunging into the room, and Sherlock wondered if he should try make an escape out the window. He didn't really need to go home, did he? But then Sherlock noticed something in Mycroft's eyes, his body language. It had all been an act, just like the being drunk. Sherlock realised that he might want to improve on his own skills of acting.

"Why do you tolerate them? They are clearly below your intelect and if you have to pretend to be drunk to be with them, its worth getting friends you don't have to pretend to be around." Sherlock commented, his voice trembiling slightly, still frightened. What happens if he had read Mycroft wrong. It was not something that Sherlock could forget, that his older brother was incredibly good at deduction and fooling others by simply changing body language. He didn't even need to change costumes at times.

As Mycroft came over and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulders, he tensed, slightly. It had been a while that someone had been so close to him. As Mycroft bent down to Sherlock's eye level, the boy tried to be emotionless, to be still, but he was still trembiling after all day of sitting, not eating, and then being roused and picked on by his older brother, even if it was just to keep some stupid friends. "Sherlock, brother, why are you here?" Wasn't that obvious? Had Mycroft lost some of his intellegence hanging out with stupid people? Or was it one of those polite things to do that Sherlock disregarded?

"Its your birthday. You never visit on Christmas or birthdays and neither do we. I thought that I might change that. I've started Secondary School now, I need to be independant, I'm a big child now." Sherlock mumbled, some defiance in his words. "I brought you a present." He added. Although Sherlock did not meantion his fears that he was growing too far apart from Mycroft. That was unimportant now. He wasn't completely sure if it could go back to the way it was after seeing what had just happened.