In Making a Detective

It was a perfectly dreary January evening when Mycroft pulled his younger brother from his small flat and out into the city for a birthday celebration. Sherlock was less than thrilled. A great many days had been spent cooped up in the tiny one bedroom place his parents paid for as he attended the university.

Of course it had been at his own insistence since the fellows at his dorm were growing increasingly difficult to live with. Their jibes and teasing just furthered to blacken Sherlock’s ever darkening mood. In privacy there was the sweet release of all reason with artificial stimuli without getting caught.

“I don’t want to be here.” Sherlock grumbled, his eyes dully staring at the ale foaming on the table before him.

“Of course you don’t. You’ve grown increasingly solitary since last quarter. What is up with that?” Mycroft asked, taking a sip of his own ale.

Sherlock shrugged silently, placing his finger in the foam and watching the bubbles burst around his fingertip.

“And yet your test scores are high. But your participation grades are low.”

“You’ve been reading my scholastic files again?” Casually the younger man flicked foam from his finger.

“Father and mummy are rather worried about you.”

“No they’re not.” Sherlock responded quietly, sucking his finger. With a sigh he ran his hands through his tangled curls and held them for a moment at the back of his neck as if they were in a ponytail.

“How can you say that?”

“They’re more interested in themselves and their separation than they are with me.” Releasing his hair he rested his cheek on his hand. “And even before that they just didn’t care. They don’t care so I don’t care.”

“They are our parents, Sherlock.”

“Yes. And I’m reminded often how I was a last chance effort on mummy’s part to win back father’s love and keep him from wandering away with his secretary.”

“Hush!” Mycroft hissed, casting his brother a bitter look.

“It’s safe to say I’m a shameful disappointment.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned back a bit. “You aren’t a disappointment to me. Shouldn’t that count for something, Sherlock? You’re a brilliant young man who can do anything you set your mind to. Do you need help? Support? I’ll take care of it, I always have.”

“I just…” Rubbing his face in his hands Sherlock growled. “I just can’t get my mind to stop! It’s whirling around and around and I pick up on the minute details. I think I’m going insane. The only think that stops it are the drugs. I can’t control it. I can’t sleep and… I feel like I’m slipping away into the void.”

“Oh lord, Sherlock. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And those guys in the dorm… they just kept saying ‘drink more’ and ‘get laid.’ They have no idea what it’s like.”

“I’m finding that a healthy sex life does help with our family’s personal brand of insanity.” Mycroft smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I!” Leaning into his brother he spoke quietly. “If that’s what you want for your birthday I’ll get you someone… female… male… both. Just let me know.”

“No!” Sherlock replied, moving further away from his brother.

“Is it that you have no interest or that you’re afraid of something?”

“They just don’t… understand. I don’t think they ever will. I’ll always be an outsider because they can’t relate… and I can’t control myself. It’s just better if I… block all that.” Sherlock bit his lips for a moment and then took a large gulp of his beer.

Mycroft sighed, staring at his brother with sadness. “Someday, Sherlock… someday you’ll find someone who understands you and knows how special you are. You won’t feel like an outsider around them. And you WILL learn to control your gift. I did… and you can too.”

“Are you suggesting that someone is you?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

“I do understand you… but I meant someone outside of our family.” Mycroft raised his glass. “Happy 21st Birthday, Sherlock.”

“It won’t happen.” But Sherlock raised his glass anyway and clinked it against his brother’s.

Fourteen years later…

“Make a wish.” John smiled, holding a fairy cake with a single lit candle atop it.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at the simple friendly gesture. His eyes lingered a moment on John’s face, taking in the twinkle of his eyes. There was a hint of pain there. John’s body was tough but there was still a hint of sadness in his soul left over from his time in the war. His dreams were haunted by dying comrades and yet he still smiled. Sherlock often thought on that. Occasionally he heard John’s night terrors. But his John was a survivor.

Closing his eyes he made a quick wish and blew out the candle.

“I hope it comes true.” John passed the small cake to Sherlock and casually licked the frosting that had caught on his finger.

“It already has.”

“Then why make the same wish?”

“So it will continue to be true.” Sherlock offered half of his cake to his friend.