demolished

superstructure

do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us, sherlock would ask, meek and shy, his eyes trembling the fright of a five-year-old child confronted with a broken antique vase. do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us, do you ever—

and mycroft would keep mum and look away because caring was not a sentiment he could bear the consequence of, because loving was not an advantage on his battlefield, because sherlock was twenty-one already and would never need his overbearing older brother again. it would be dangerous to stay attached to the boy in their past who ran to mycroft's bedroom and hid in mycroft's arms at the first roar of summer thunder. it would be impractical to coddle sherlock any more than he demanded for.

do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us, sherlock would enquire, curiosity twinkling in a sea of resignation and anguish. what do you think is wrong with us, mycroft would retort brusquely every time without fail, and sherlock would cease his questioning almost immediately.

his ears rang. everything was wrong.

/

the christmas dinner is new. the implications buried deep beneath it, however, is just the run-of-the-mill. he's used to it.

there's the gifted son. there's the dead daughter. and then, at the far corner, with potatoes on his laptop, precariously balancing a nation and two hours of sleep on shaky over-caffeinated hands, there's mycroft. the mannequin. the unpaid nanny. the full-time juggler.

it honestly doesn't help that he is on the verge of passing out from whatever is in the bloody punch. anthea will be disappointed.

mycroft huffs out a laugh, dry. that's all he is capable of, isn't it? disappointing people? hurting people? devastating people?

mummy is right, in the end. mummy is never wrong.

he spins around. the kitchen tilts on its axis, if it even has one. sherlock's young stray—wiggins?—is smirking rather ominously from his place near the door. there is not a necessity to be doubtful about his involvement in this little incident. mycroft should probably upgrade his surveillance status too. not now, though, because his head is killing him. eurus's tunes ring in his ears, loud and obnoxious. sherlock's deduction repeats itself over and over again, lonely lonely lonely—

he is so lonely.

he can't remember being their parents' top priority. he can't remember not having to share a toy with sherlock. he can't remember feeling loved. he can't remember playing in the fields. he can't remember keeping an old shirt or a beloved stuffed animal. he can't remember painting in peace. he can't remember an evening without eurus fussing for bedtime stories. he can't remember—

he can't remember living as himself.

he is a son. he is a brother. he is a governor, the government itself. he is authority. he is fear. he is a murderer. he is a saint.

when will he get to be mycroft?

across the room, mummy slumps unceremoniously into her armchair. father might have fallen somewhere in the house, but mycroft cannot care less. the man can crack his skull open all he wants. sherlock is obviously in on the drugging. knowing his brother, there's no need to worry about the watsons. mycroft smiles resignedly.

wiggins winks. darkness claims him.

/

the decanter is full. the cake is untampered. the portrait of her majesty the queen is still in place. the setting is vaguely familiar, but mycroft sees the changes clear as day. the usual black swivel chair has been replaced by something very plush, very scarlet. the files are scattered in mayhem. the man on his desk is, per contra, eerily calm. which is concerning, because his brother twitches and shivers all the time in manners not conforming to tranquil parameters. sherlock doesn't bother to perk up at his entrance.