Brothers

Disclaimer: Own nothing but the DVD's, The BBC owns the rights to another brilliant English program.

A/N: I am ever amazed by the continued amazing television programs from the BBC. Doctor Who, Broadchurch, and now I have discovered Sherlock. Why can't American television be this good? That being said, I have recently discovered this show, though I know it has been around a few years, I finally took the plunge and watched it on Netflixs. I LOVE IT!
Yes Benedict Cumberbach is amazing as Sherlock, but personally I have fallen in love with Martin Freeman as John Watson. That being said my first go into the world of Sherlock is going to be a Mycroft-Sherlock brother fic. A story that will focus on when they were children. As with some of my stories in other fandoms it was an image that flashed in my head that I couldn't shake so this story is built around that image (which won't appear until chapter 3 I believe).
I noticed somewhere that it was said Mycroft was seven years older than Sherlock, so I am going with that. I have no idea their parent's names so I created my own names for them and own characteristics. I have no knowledge of anything Sherlock really beyond the television program (been meaning to read a few of the books, but can never find the time). So if anything is terribly wrong I apologize in advance.
Mentions of labeling children with special needs in used, but please understand I have the upmost respect and love for these unique children. I have personally worked with these brilliant children and have always learned so much more from them then I could ever hope to teach them, they are truly gifts.
Okay, enough said, I hope you will take the time to read this chapter and let me know if I should post additional chapters or just pull it and go back to watching Sherlock. My story is nearly complete, but I thought I'd test the waters with a first chapter, ENJOY!-Montez

Chapter 1

Mycroft knew from an early age he was not like other people, but he learned to hide it behind charm. The neighbors near the family estate would comment on how courteous and well-mannered he was as a teenager, so vastly different from the typical teenagers from wealthy families who believed the wealth their family held allowed for them to do as they pleased without consequence. When in town he could be seen helping elderly widowed women with groceries, or small, inconsequential errands, he was well-liked. His teachers, from his earliest nursery school teachers to his current boarding school teachers noted his exceptional intelligence, but marveled at his ability to not be overt with it. He made a point of not making others feel less intelligent than himself, he would even offer to tutor students who struggled in subjects that he had mastered, that being nearly every subject available. He was active in the school's student government and was seen as a very strategic thinker. One who could defuse a hostile situation with a level head, a calm voice, and from every person involved's point of view. People knew this Holmes boy was going places, would be an important man someday.

Mycroft was seven when his younger brother, Sherlock was born. The elder Holmes boy never understood his parent fondness for unique names, other than perhaps they somehow knew just how 'unique' their children would become. Mycroft had not been impressed with the smallish, smelly, noisy thing his parents introduced him to that fall day, little did he know he would grow to be the one person that would fully understand the inner workings of that small mind. Ever insightful the older boy noticed early on that his baby brother was 'different'. By six months of age Sherlock had all but stopped making any sound what so ever; no crying, no babbling, no cooing, nothing. This development distressed his parents as they began taking their youngest child to every specialist their vast wealth could afford them.

Physically the child was healthy, if on the small side of average for infants his age. His hearing was good, his vision seemed fine, but the small boy remained quiet. As he grew older he could be found staring at what others assumed was nothing, but Mycroft felt something stir inside him as he observed his little brother becoming a toddler. Being only a child himself, he had no idea how to make his parents see, to understand, so he had to wait and observe, being patient was a virtue to which he excelled.

As Sherlock grew his parents concern increased, the child never spoke, barely interacted with those around him, and would sit for hours just staring out the window. Mycroft began to hear the whispers among the staff about his 'poor' brother, the child being 'obviously mentally challenged', it being 'terrible that such a condition could occur in such an upstanding family'. Mycroft would just glare at those individuals, who at first would just offer him 'pitied' looks. They soon learned to be careful what they said around the elder son, for as courteous and well-mannered as Mycroft could be, he had a very vengeful side with regards to those who seemed to view his brother in an unfavorable light.

By the time Sherlock was five-years old, he had been enrolled in nursery school, his parents hoping that being around children his own age would 'spark' something. Many commented on how well behaved the small child was, considering his 'issues'. Mycroft was pleased to see the majority of Sherlock's teachers, early on at least, seemed protective of the smallish boy with near porcelain skin, pale blue-grey eyes, and a halo of dark, unruly-curls. 'Angelic' Mycroft had heard several people say with regards to how his brother looked, and though the elder Holmes boy never really put much thought into 'unrealistic' beings, he could see how others could see the perceived resemblance. It was around this age the young Sherlock started to finally explore the world outside the four walls of the estate. He would wonder the garden, squatting for ages staring at things only he could see. Mycroft would watch from his window as his brother walked at a pace so different from the normal world of a five-year old. He had begun to realize a couple years ago that there was an extremely sharp intelligence behind those pale-eyes, an intelligence that was far beyond that of the toddler he was, an intelligence, if Mycroft was honest with himself, could in fact supersede his own. He had grown to realize his brother wasn't just 'staring off' when he would sit for hours on end without moving, he was observing.

The doctors were still at a loss as to how to label the youngest Holmes child, the words like Autism, and savant were thrown around, especially when the child would eventually cooperate with their testing, which Mycroft found amusing. His five-year old brother could outlast any adult in a battle of wills just by sitting and starting at the person. It unnerved several of the administrators who would finally just leave the room only to return ten- or fifteen minutes later to find Sherlock had completed their test or puzzle in record time. Their parents understood the intelligence was there, but were worried their youngest child would never be able to apply that gift outside his own little world. Mycroft would hear them talking about the care of the youngest Holmes, how he may never be able to function on his own.

One night the eldest son found his younger brother standing outside their parent's room, strained voices could be heard whispering through the door about how the young child was 'broken' and 'unable to care for himself'. That was the first time since Sherlock had been an infant that Mycroft saw tears in the young child's eyes and it nearly broke the older boy. Mycroft knelt next to the small child who had such a look of lost desperation that a flare of anger rushed through the older boy at his parent's inability to really 'see' their son. It was then, looking at his five-year old brother, in his slightly too-big pajamas, his dark-hair as unruly as ever, that Mycroft, being all of twelve-years old himself, knew he would do whatever was necessary to take care of his younger brother. Even if others could not see the intelligence trying so desperately to burst from those blue-gray, tear-filled eyes, he did and he would help his brother find a way to release it for the world to see.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft whispered beside the child, who wordlessly turned, staring into his older brother's darker eyes. The pleading there was heartbreaking and Mycroft felt the unfamiliar sting of tears in his own eyes as the small child launched himself into his brother's arms, clinging as if his life depended on it.

Never a tactile child himself it took Mycroft a moment, but an instinct finally took over. The instinct to protect this small shaking figure clinging to him like a barnacle to a ship. The elder brother closed his arms around his much smaller, younger brother, "I've got you" he whispered into the dark curls as he carried the child back to his own room. It was the first time in his life that Mycroft slept on the floor, his brother curled impossibly small on the edge of his large bed. Soft hiccups could be heard, the child desperately clinging to his older brother's hand. A barely there whisper drew Mycroft's attention to the sleepy eyes looking at him, "promise?" It had been the first word his brother had ever uttered, his lithe voice so soft.

Mycroft reached the hand the child wasn't holding up to the mop of near-black hair, smoothing it, "I promise you little brother, I will always be there for you…always". It was with a first ever hint of a smile that graced the small face that Mycroft realized he was the first person who had ever promised to accept his brother as he was, quiet-brilliance and all. He watched as the smile faded, as those brilliant, tear-filled, exhausted eyes slowly closed, the small child's body finally giving in to sleep.