Categories > Books > Sherlock Holmes > The Spectrum of Black Umbrellas


by TheChemicallyUsed 0 reviews

You cannot have a black spectrum- once you're in that state of mind, colors and white will not appear, so when Mycroft falls headfirst into depression when his and Sherlock's parents die, what will...

Category: Sherlock Holmes - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama,Romance - Published: 2012-11-30 - Updated: 2012-11-30 - 2188 words

4 years, 6 months, 1 week, 3 days, 4 hours and 39 seconds had passed, and Sherlock was still- well, Sherlock. He had perfected the art of dressing up to make himself older to go to the shops, and, being officially 16, had gotten a job, as a 'consulting detective'; a job that Sherlock himself had made up, but he told no-one that. It sounded fancy enough. He payed for most things with the trust fund his parents had left, anyway. Mycroft was bad. Really bad: sitting in his room all the time, same as last. Sherlock had persuaded him to eat a small amount of food, so every two days, the boys sat either end of the long table, silently eating.

Sherlock edged quietly out of his room, smoothing a crease in his shirt. The boy was self-sufficient to take care of them both now, he had to be. "Mycroft?" he called in an exhausted tone of voice that gave away the drag the last four years had had on him.

"Yes?" Mycroft replied, emotionless, croaky. He was looking for anything to take away his thoughts- he was pretty much over his parent's death, but got caught up in a web of narcotic abuse, and do you know what? He liked it. Punishing himself- he felt like he deserved every mental punch he threw, every insult, every lie.

Equally distant, Sherlock simply came back with; 'Breakfast,' sliding bread into the toaster in full knowledge it would probably go uneaten.

Mycroft stared blankly at the bread, thinking about how he just wouldn't eat it. He was literally skin and bones- Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if his stomach had started eating itself, just for some sort of fat.

Blankly, Sherlock handed the plate to his older brother and habitually tore his food into pieces as he ate. "Please eat." he said quietly.

"I would really rather not." Mycroft said in an equal tone.

"Fine. Starve." It sounded cruel and Sherlock instantly regretted it but frankly, he was tired of trying so hard. Exhausted.

"S-sorry... I'm just not hungry." His stomach growled in contempt.

Sherlock blinked. "Illogical." He pushed aside his food disinterestedly. It had occurred to him to call a doctor before but now as he took in Mycroft's emaciated appearance, the idea was affirmed in his head.

"I will be fine, trust me. I just.. Would like to stay like this. Just for a while. Please, Sherlock?" Mycroft looked down at his plate, pulling apart a small section of toast with the tips of his fingers and placing it in his mouth slowly. "Are you happy now?"

"Fine." he said again evenly. "Happy?" Sherlock was certainly not unhappy. He had a job of sorts, schooling had finished when his ill-gotten doctor's note of long-term sickness proved to work, he had money despite the fund beginning to deplete and he hardly went for wanting. Then again, the burden of his brother, the loneliness and the loss he'd experienced left him decidedly neutral. Empty. After a while, Sherlock simply replied, "Yes."

"I was talking about the food... But good. I'm glad you are." He emphasized the 'you', as he most certainly did not.

Sherlock shook his head. He despised making a mistake. "That's what I meant." He didn't say it but he couldn't fathom why it was so hard for Mycroft to put food to his lips. There were many areas of social convention and finesse that Sherlock couldn't grasp; that was one.

"Someone told me that you were thinking of taking me to the doctors..." Mycroft muttered under his breath, loud enough for Sherlock to hear, but low enough so as to not break the silence. The 'someone' was a couple of voices in his mind, but he did not want to bother Sherlock with such things- not when he had so much on his plate, being the main source of income... The only source of income. Mycroft wobbled over to where Sherlock was sitting, and kneeled down. He held both of his brother's hands as tight as he could- still, only like a feather. "Dearest brother Sherlock... I implore you. Do not take me there. A twenty-three year old man who relies on his dead parents money and his sixteen year old brother- how would that spin out? They would take me away to an asylum. I can not... I will not."

He couldn't meet his brother's eyes, because part of him genuinely believed a long stretch at a priory might do Mycroft a world of good... Sherlock too, give him a break as selfish as it felt to think that.

"Will you promise me?" Mycroft thought that he was doing a good job; trying to act strong, like the sarcastic, narcissist brother he used to be. He saw Sherlock's eyes flicker, thinking that he would let him stay- in fact, Sherlock was thinking the exact opposite.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up for a second, wordless for a moment. "I can't promise." he said slowly as he got up, letting go of Mycroft's hands with a heavy heart.

A croaking, choking noise filled the room. Mycroft wondered what it was for a few seconds, before realizing that he was sobbing. Hard.

Hesitant, Sherlock awkwardly began rubbing Mycroft's back in what was supposed to be a comforting motion. It seemed as if he did not care but that was the opposite of the truth. He cared so much; he had no idea how to solve this.

"Have you... Ever... Left like.. Giving up?" The 'older' brother choked between sobs.

Like a deer caught in headlights, Sherlock froze and then suddenly pulled away harshly. "I have to go." he said coldly, reaching for the coat hanging neatly over the back of the kitchen chair.

Mycroft fell to his side, sobbing, and pulled himself into the fetal position. He lay and planned the day away, planned his demise.

Sherlock made the phrase 'swept away' something almost literal as he quickly exited, donning a scarf to protect against the bitter weather.

John, better known as Watson, was sat where they met every morning, at the coffee shop. "I got you a coffee- you're late. You're never late. And by the looks of it, you need coffee." Watson gestured to the tear tracks on Sherlock's face. They'd been working together for two years, now, John as Sherlock's 'sidekick' figure. John knew nothing of Sherlock's life, or even Mycroft's existence, but it was better off that way.

Sherlock glanced from the coffee to John's face and nodded once. "Thank you." he said and, with no explanation for his tardiness, accepted the coffee, taking a long gulp.

John sipped his latte, trying to be elegant, but failing. He crossed one calf over the other, whilst say on the high, metal chair. "Well?"

"Well what? You'll have to be more specific, Watson." Dryly, he took another sip of coffee.

"Why were you late?"

"I had something to attend to. Minor inconvenience." Sherlock waved one hand in dismissal.

John frowned but didn't peruse. This happened every once in a blue moon, and John knew well enough just to leave Sherlock.

Sherlock took a stirrer and spun it in the cup, thoughtfully silent.

Watson watched quietly- obviously, Sherlock needed a moment. But.... "You can tell me."
"I can tells you lots of things." Sherlock replied cockily, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

He smiled fondly. "I know. But what I would like to know is what is bothering you."

With a few seconds of tentative hesitation, Sherlock coolly said, "My brother," glaring into his coffee cup.

John opened his mouth slightly, then shut it with a click. He cocked his head. "You have a brother?"

Sherlock nodded, pursed lips and said no more. It had not been a necessity to mention Mycroft so it didn't occur to him to do so.

His falter decreasing, Watson replied to Sherlock's action. "Oh... Okay, then. What about him?"

For a moment, he simply contemplated but could not come up with anything to respond with. Wordlessly, he drank off the last of his coffee.

Watson added a little more sugar to his latte, because when he asked the waitress for a sweet latte, he wanted it sweeeet. Can you not just feel the homo? He stared at Sherlock, in and out of thought. "Holmes?"

"Yes?" He looked up like his name was called out of the blue.

"What's wrong with your brother?" He spoke lightly, as if he were stepping through highly personal brambles.

"He's unwell." That seemed to cover the Holmes' situation accurately.

"Oh- flu? Cold?" Something about Sherlock's expression told him otherwise. "...Something worse?"

"Rather significantly worse." The detached tone Sherlock used was almost chilling.

Watson whispered. "Cancer?"

"No, no." Sherlock brushed him off noncommittally.

"Then what?!"

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temple with two fingers. "Watson, don't we have more pressing matters?"

Watson checked his arm, where, conveniently, their rota was. "Nothing until two. Now, spill."

Again, another heavy sigh and remaining calm became an even greater effort. "Acute clinical depression with onset self destructive tendencies." The way he robotically stated it was easily likened to an exhausted GP.

John was silent for a few minutes, figuring out in his mind what Sherlock had just said. "Bad depression and he... Hurts himself?"

"Not physically that I know of as yet but anyone could tell he certainly wants to." A moment's silence passed before Sherlock spoke again. "I think he's given up." his voice cracked a little, quiet and pained.

Gulping back a gasp, or a tear- he didn't know what- John held out a hand across the table. He- nobody- had ever seen Sherlock's emotions like this. And John was either lucky enough or unfortunate enough to be present to them. And that was enough to make him cry. "Can I see him?"

Sherlock glanced at the extended hand and blinked, cleared his throat and brushed imaginary lint from his shirt collar. "Why?" he asked, brows slightly furrowed.

"I want to help you both." He retracted his arm, blushing slightly.

"I'm not sure Mycroft is capable of being helped to be frank." The detached tone edged back into his voice but it was Sherlock's eyes that gave him away, tired and full of burden.

"I would like to try." He was wordless for a few seconds, before asking shakily- "You know my parents are kicking me out? And that I can help... Maybe.. I could stay with you? Just for a little while. You always said you had a big house... And I promise I will try to help!! I'll give you money..."

"You don't need to give me anything, Watson." Sherlock softened his voice and exhaled deeply. "If you need somewhere to stay, you can reside with me for a while." Not a direct yes but the best Sherlock was going to give. Truthfully, he was rather glad for the offer. Watson was the one person Sherlock wholly trusted and could count on.

"Thank you!!" John leapt from his chair and sloppily kissed Sherlock's cheek. "You won't regret this. I cook the best risotto. You and Mycroft both like risotto, right?" He paused to pull up his trousers and red boxers, which had started to fall down. "I'll help around the house, too." He gushed.

Sherlock stiffened. It was a strange dislike toward being touched. He had simply grown to resent touch because letting people in often led to hurt and he was tired of hurting. "Mycroft doesn't eat. Only perhaps a sandwich or some toast every few days."

John leaned away quickly at Sherlock's expression hardening. He tried to make a joke out of the situation, even though he could literally just fall into a pit of pure feelings right then, about a man that he did not even know. "He hasn't tried my risotto then, obviously."

"Obviously." Sherlock replied leniently with a small smile.

His stomach fluttered a little for some reason. He nodded. "When can I move in?"

"As soon as you're able to." Standing up, he pulled his coat on and didn't look at John as he said, "Thank you, Watson."

"No, Sherlock. Thank you, so much. Is tonight to early?"

"Of course not. If you need any help with your things, let me know."

Watson did up his very-fashionable yellow cardigan and smirked. "I don't have a lot. Mum and Dad will be so pleased. Do you need me for the rest of the day? I could go and pack, now?"

"No, you might as well go. I'll tell Mycroft." Sherlock swallowed thickly as he opened the door for John. "Here's my address." He handed a simplistic business card to John and looked quite proud of himself. "Had them made last week."

"Very stylish! Well done. Do I need to knock... Will he answer?" John couldn't really remember what Sherlock's brother was called.

"I'll answer. Mycroft will probably be in his room."

"I'll see you in about an hour?"

"I look forward to it." His smile was genuine.

John squee'd internally because- aww. This day could be turning out to be one of his favorite days ever.
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