pipmer1

Chapter 2

Title: Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did, Part 3 of 6
Author: PipMer
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Original Characters, Harry Watson
Genre: Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
WordCount: 1043 this part
Warnings: A spot of violence in one part, minor character death in one part
Disclaimer: I don't own, no money is being made from this.
Summary: What the title says.

A/N: Chapters don't follow any sort of linear timeline.

Chapter Summary : Mycroft bears the brunt of Sherlock's cruelty.

Chapter 3: Mycroft Holmes

He was nineteen years old, and he was suffering from his very first heartbreak.

University had just let out for the summer holidays. The chauffeur dropped Mycroft off at the front door, and he rushed inside, rucksack clutched to his breast as he made every effort to arrive at his room without running into any family members or staff. Much to his surprise, nobody attempted to engage him along the way. He pushed open his door and slipped inside, slumping with relief as he found himself finally in his sanctuary. He threw himself on his bed, burying his face in the soft, down pillow and finally let out all the anguish he had been carrying inside since two nights ago. Ever since his whole world had ended. His body shook with the muffled sobs that tore through his robust frame, sorrow engulfing every fibre of his being.

Clarisse had been the first; he had been a virgin until her. She had caught his eye halfway through first term; she had walked into his Introduction to Political Theory class, and he had been instantly smitten. Long, wavy, jet-black hair, piercing green eyes, legs that went on forever. She had felt his penetrating gaze, and had returned it unflinchingly. From the time that first class had ended, they had been inseparable.

They were together for five months. Mycroft had never been so happy. He found himself able to focus on his studies better when she was around, which really didn’t make sense. Logically she should have been a distraction. But just by her very presence, she was able to quiet his turbulent mind. She was a miracle.

Two days before they were set to part for the summer, Mycroft jauntily set out for Clarisse’s residence, whistling a merry tune. His fingers caressed the little black box he carried in his pocket, faint smile gracing his face. Today was Clarisse’s birthday, and the stone he had had set for her ring was her birthstone, a half-carat emerald. Mycroft was so excited he could scarcely contain himself.

When he walked into her room, he was greeted by the sight of her kissing his best friend.

Mycroft’s heart broke, twice.

=================================

“Mycroft, can you tell me where….what’s going on?”

Unfortunately, Mycroft had forgotten to lock his door. And as luck would have it, his twelve-year old, immature, insensitive brother had just walked in on him crying over a break-up.

Mycroft rubbed his nose on his pillow, furtively wiping the tears off his face. Christ, he must look a mess. This was all he needed, to show weakness to the brother who used to idolise him, but now resented him for things that were beyond his control.

“Sherlock, can’t you knock? Where were you raised, a barn?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Nice to see you, too. Did you pass term with flying colours?”

“What do you want?”

“No need to be so grumpy – are you crying??”

Mycroft huffed as he turned away from his brother, hands fisting into the duvet as he tried to regain control of himself. “Of course not! “

“You are!” Sherlock exclaimed gleefully. “What’s the matter, did Oxford kick you out? Did you get cut from the rowing team? Or did you find out that the cafeteria is going to stop serving those custard creams you love to inhale?”

“Shut up!” Mycroft shouted, turning to face his brother, face reddened and tear-stained, dignity all but forgotten. “Just shut up, you little ponce! Get out of my room right now, can’t you see I’m upset?”

“Oh, yes, I can see that very well,” Sherlock smirked as he made his way further into Mycroft’s room. “Your girlfriend broke up with you, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. Now please, Sherlock, won’t you just leave me in peace? I came here so that I wouldn’t have to talk to anybody, and that includes you. Please, just let me be, yeah?”

“You should have listened to me, Mycroft. Why clutter your mind up with useless emotions? All they do is slow you down in the end, make you as stupid as the rest of the idiots out there. Why must you strive so hard to be so ordinary?”

Mycroft blinked. “What would you know about it? You’re twelve years old, what could you possibly know about relationships?”

“Well, that’s just the point, isn’t it? I’ve made sure that I don’t know. Why would I want to be as miserable as you, sulking in my room, when I could be making use of my new-found freedom to do useful things? Speaking of which, can you tell me where your microscope is? Mine has a crack in the 100x magnification lens, and I need it to…”

“Yes, yes”, Mycroft sighed wearily, waving a hand towards his cupboard, “it’s on the top shelf. Just be careful with it, please?”

“Thanks.” Sherlock flounced over and whipped the door open, stretching on his tiptoes as he reached up to grab the microscope (he wouldn’t arrive at his final, impressive height for another three years). After having what he came for, he turned and started back the way he had come. He stopped as his gaze rested on his brother.

Was that a glimpse of compassion that Mycroft saw glinting in Sherlock’s eyes? But no, as soon as he noticed it, it was gone.

“Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft. Remember that for future reference.”

Mycroft nodded curtly. “Thank you, Sherlock. I’ll remember to throw that back in your face in future.”

Sherlock smiled tightly. “I really don’t think you’ll ever get the opportunity, Mycroft. I guard my heart better than that. Cheers.”

“Yes. Cheers.”

Sherlock left, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft got up and locked the door. Sighing, he collapsed back on his bed. Even though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, he stayed there into the evening and on through morning. When he finally emerged for breakfast, his eyes were dry and his features unreadable. Sherlock took one look at him and nodded approvingly.

Twenty-three years would pass before Mycroft would shed another tear. When he did, it was over the body of his younger brother, a body that wouldn’t have been there if Sherlock had truly taken his own advice to heart.

Chapter 4