I watch powerless to stop what was happening. I cannot speak, I cannot protect Sherlock and I cannot truly be there for him. The unfortunate thing was his family isn't there for him much either. Sherlock's home was torn apart by the death of his eldest brother. A tragedy I wasn't around for and that I have only heard about in whispered words behind closed doors. Sherlock's father had since buried himself in work hardly taking notice of his two remaining sons. Sherlock's mother was chained down with guilt. She mourned the loss of her career, and boy. She rarely left her bedroom and I often got the feeling that the death of the eldest may have been her fault, or on some level she thought it was. Mycroft is Sherlock's other brother fiercely loyal, incredibly clever, and slightly pompous. He cares deeply for Sherlock but finds his brother to be simple and immature. Sherlock resents Mycroft's attitude towards him and a rift grew steadily between them. Sherlock shut out John and Mycroft shut out Sherlock. I am stuck in a hallways full of closed doors and I am clueless how I can possibly help Sherlock. My answer comes on the eve of Sherlock's eighth birthday, after a painfully quiet family dinner and awkward exchange of gifts Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed trying to hide his disappointment. He scratches behind my ears and whispers to me, " I really thought we could become a family again Redbeard." As he says this I realize the problem is time can heal cuts on the surface but scar tissue, formed from tragedy often runs much deeper. Sherlock is proceeding to get ready for bed when a hesitant knock sounds against the wood of the door. "Come in," Sherlock calls out gently with confusion in his voice. The door opens and Mycroft stands there his tall stately, silhouette framed against the light of the hallway.
