Author: Deastrumquodvicis PM
Ten-year-old Sherlock is feeling lonely.Rated: Fiction K - English - Family - Sherlock H. - Words: 496 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 13 - Follows: 5 - Published: 12-23-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7665521
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Mycroft was going out with friends again. It was the third time that week. He hardly ever spent time alone with Sherlock anymore, and it really bothered the younger brother. It's like he wasn't good enough for his seventeen-year-old brother. Sherlock couldn't figure out why—even though he was ten, he was still smarter than all of Mycroft's friends, so why shouldn't he be allowed to come on trips?
Sherlock had been unable to make friends at school. Not because he hadn't wanted to, but because none of the other kids were able to understand what he was saying and they thought he was a weirdo. He was constantly teased, and, while Mycroft had been there for him previously, he hadn't been of late. Not just psychological bullying, either, though that was common. He'd had his books forced out of his arms and into the toilets. He'd been pushed down the stairs, several times. The first time he'd been pushed, he'd lain there expecting Mycroft to come over to help as he always had, but no such thing had happened. Mycroft was too busy talking with his girlfriend. Even now, a year and a half later, Thomas Foster's taunt rang in his mind.
"Not even your brother wants you anymore, you little freak." The other children had joined in, closing ranks around him, chanting "Sherly's a freak" in a singsong pattern until a teacher—not Mycroft—had dispersed them.
After that, Sherlock had seen his brother less and less out of school. Between Mycroft's numerous girlfriends and boyfriends, he didn't seem to have time for Sherlock. He didn't seem to care anymore.
Yes, occasionally there were times when he was allowed to tag along, but even then he was largely ignored, even when he intentionally put himself in the middle of the conversation, trying to get attention. It was like he wasn't even there anymore. Like Mycroft felt obligated rather than pleased to share his company.
Their parents had never been particularly good at engaging the boys in activity—they'd much rather be spending time with each other than with their two sons. Sherlock had no one to play with anymore. No one to talk to. (Not counting Matilda. As she was a cat, she hardly paid too much attention to him, anyway.) He'd talk to himself, but that only gets you so far in a conversation, and he'd usually just end up dissolved into quiet lonely tears.
Which was how he was now. The book he'd been reading was put to the side and about to fall off of the bed. Matilda was hogging the pillows. Curled up on his bed in the middle of the afternoon, crying softly, knowing that in half an hour Mycroft would be out of the house and he'd be alone again. Alone, friendless, and unwanted.