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He have never understood why Father brushes him off when he wants to conduct some experiments or why Mummy never had the time to spend a whole day with them like some of his classmates at school. Their mothers wait for them after class and when Miss Richards dismiss them, some of his classmates would come running to the open arms of their mothers and be smothered with kisses and hugs and asking them of their day. He thought it must be nice.
He asked Mycroft as he studied his lessons why instead of Mummy waiting for the at the school gates, Ford does in his stiff looking suit and cool gaze as he opens the doors of the black town car. Mycroft looked at him for a while after that and he cannot help but look down and pick the tassels of Mycroft's duvet. He did not like it when his big brother looked at him like that.
He was surprised to feel a firm yet gentle grip on his shoulders and he looked up and saw gentle eyes looking at him.
"Sherlock... Father and Mummy...well, they are very busy with work and you know why they cannot leave it immediately."
Father and Mummy is important people to the safety and security of Britain, why exactly he was not told because Mummy said it is not yet time. Mycroft knew but Mummy told him not to tell him much.
"You'll never be like your classmates, little brother but you will never be alone, remember that." Mycroft said firmly as if he was promising something to him.
The matter was never brought up for a long, long time.
xxx----xxx
They are all liars.
People are inherently liars, both to others and to themselves. Lying to make things better or to forget them - He did not know why they bothered, nothing gets better with lies – For a while, maybe but as the lie unravels and so does the false feelings it has woven along with its establishment.
"You will never be alone, remember that."
A promise, broken. A trust, gone with the wind.
When Mycroft prepared to leave for Oxford just months before, he also prepared to leave with him. Mycroft saw him packing in his room moments after he finished his own packing.
"No." It was said in that voice, where there will be argument.
"Mycroft, I - "
"Absolutely not, Sherlock. Mummy will not allow it, Father even more."
"You - " He started, irate now but he was interrupted once more.
"You know you why you cannot accompany me, Sherlock."
Yes, he knew and bitterness swept him in a rush. It was determined by their parents when they were younger that Mycroft will continue their father and mother's work in the government and has been brought along with them and rarely presented in public. He, on the other hand, will continue to uphold the Holmes line's standing to the rest of the society and therefore have to suffer the social galas the aristocracies seem to throw frequently.
It is why it is always assumed that the Holmes' only had one son, Sherlock, who will one day inherit the titles and estates of their family all of which is neither small nor insignificant. Sherlock was trained to move in these circles, they both were, but the importance was impressed more on him. He longed for his Father's approval then so he suffered years of strict training to live up to his Father's titles.
Instead, he was always a disappointment. He was never directly told but he can see in the slight frown and furrow of his father's eyebrows. He did not know when it started, just that one day, he stopped caring whether his Father approves or even if he is embarrassing the family.
He sat on Mycroft's bed, frozen except for the seemingly unconscious fiddling of the tassel of the duvet. This action did not go unnoticed by Mycroft and his stern countenance softened.
"I won't leave you, brother. I will come back during the holidays." It was said in that tone, a promise and Sherlock latched on it with all his might while merely nodding outside.
He watched Mycroft leaving in a black car that dreary afternoon in the gravel path leading out of the Manor, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
By Christmas, Sherlock was very, very glad that Mycroft was coming home.
Mycroft did not come.
He did not come for the next two Christmases.
"You will never be alone, remember that."
Liar.
At the third Christmas of Mycroft's continued absence, not even one letter or note, Sherlock stopped with what affection he has for his brother. He learned that caring was never an advantage, that sentiment only ends in pain.
xx-----xx
He was in London, sitting on a seat by the bay window offering good view of London. It was mind numbingly boring. His violin, was unfortunately, back in the Manor, the television was an utter waste of time and the books in their townhouse did not hold any interest to him, having read them all the last few days.
He fiddled with the object in his pocket and suddenly, the grey eyes lit up in mischief.
Moments later, Sherlock Holmes was found walking down the manicured cobblestone streets, out of his posh buttoned shirt and dress slacks and shoes but in a bland, oversized grey hoodie and tattered baggy pants held up by his belt, head covered in a dark blue Yankees baseball cap and feet clad in scuffed white trainers.
Sherlock have managed to get out of the posh street and have wandered and smoked his fag under some bridge when the security detail following him realised he was missing. Pandemonium erupted at the Holmes townhouse in Pall Mall.
xx-------xx
"Hey."
He was jolted awake with someone jostling his arm. He automatically tensed and shot up, almost hitting the intruder of his sleep in the process. A boy older his age, blond and has clear blue eyes had woke him up.
The boy was neatly dressed but it was clear that his clothes have been repaired again and again so it is either sentimental value or financial problems, most probably the latter. A rugby player, recently a cast was taken off from his right arm fractured from a tackle. Smells a bit of tobacco but does not smoke so either his parents or his sibling...but most probably a sibling.
"Er..sorry to wake you up but I...ah...noticed - not that I was stalking you or anything - that you have been staying under this tree and it's uh...starting to-"
Before he can snap at the other boy for his stuttering, the thunder rumbled ominously, shadowing the suppose brightness with grey and shortly followed by a streak and shriek of a lightning that made both of them flinch a bit then rain began to pour. The boy smiled sheepishly and gestured to the skies.
"Well, that." The boy shot him a smile and Sherlock mentally reared back. He never usually used hyperbole in his speech but the only way to describe the boy's smile was bright and he did not even know Sherlock but he smiled at him like that. Bright and warm.
He was about to continue with his retort when all of a sudden, the boy grasped his arm and all of a sudden, they were running, running under the rain, soaking wet and splashing on puddles.
Sherlock never tried running under the rain much more step on mud puddles and...and it felt liberating.
The other boy was laughing as they ran his grasp on his arm secure but somehow gentle. His blue eyes were alight and his laugh was contagious.
Sherlock Holmes laughed his first pure, delighted laugh.