Sherlock, We Remember Your Childhood Well
Nobody hurt you. Nobody turned off the light and argued
with somebody else all night. The bad man on the moors
was only a movie you saw. Nobody locked the door.
A small pale child sits on the edge of his bed. He's in his pajamas, but he knows there's no chance of sleep, not when they're off on one. "Me? Me! What the hell have I done to this family then, huh! Tell me!"
"Nothing! That's exactly what you've done! Absolutely jack sh-"
Sherlock covers his ears, but he knows it won't go away. He hates it when dad and mummy fight like this. It happens rarely but that's because it can only happen when he's at home. That happens rarely, too.
"You don't do ANYTHING for those boys, Andrew! And you know it! When was the last time you spent time at home to even look after them, huh! Or would you rather leave it to me! They may as well not even be your boys!"
"I work every day to earn them money! To earn you money and what do I get! I come home to YOU bitching at me!" He yells. Boom. Boom. Boom.
"They may as well not be yours!" She repeats.
"And aren't they? Is that what you're trying to tell me-"
"Bullshit! You really are a piece of work!"
"Sherlock" The whisper comes from the doorway. Sherlock hears it open, but doesn't turn to it. He knows it's Mycroft. It always is. Sheridan is probably fast asleep, despite the angry nothings in the next room. His 12-year-old sibling sits beside him. Sherlock, even at such a tender age, would never admit he's scared, but Mycroft knows. Mycroft always knows.
"Get the fuck out my sight!"
A door slams. Something smashes. But dad only goes retires to the spare room. He's not going to leave. And both brothers know that when they go to the living room in the morning, their mother will still be sitting there, staring at the wall.