The Sociopath Society

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Family fun... far from it

“So, a friend?” Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, who was sitting rather grumpily in the sleek black car with his hands clasped. Brilliant. His brother was trying to make conversation. Why was he even bothering? It was lke they go on. Sherlock had once looked up to Mycroft; adored him. That had all changed.

“Yes, a friend,” Sherlock eventually replied evenly and mostly out of politeness. His many coloured gaze flickered to the window in an attempt to stop Mycroft from speaking to him.

“So you go from having no friends at all to sharing a dorm with another boy who you quickly befriend in half a year. How unlike you, Sherlock, it must raise some suspicions.”

Sherlock arched a dark eyebrow delicately at his brother, taking some time before replying. “I would not know what those suspicions might be.” After those he turned his head to the window, ignoring all further conversation attempts from Mycroft.

A certain sense of almost dread settled on Sherlock as the mansion that was supposedly his home came into sight. He brushed it off, ignoring it. Emotions were a weakness. They wouldn’t help him here. He had learnt that from a young age.

“Welcome home, dear brother,” Mycroft spoke in a rather patronising manner as he got out of the car.

“Such a pleasure,” Sherlock followed, face as cold as ever. “Please tell me you are not staying for Christmas. They had begun to get slightly better without your presence.”

“Ah, I am indeed staying. Father has... plans.” Sherlock made a face at Mycroft’s back as he began to walk towards the grand doors being held open by servants. Sherlock scowled slightly as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and followed Mycroft into the mansion. As he had suspected his parents were lurking in the main hall, at the bottom of the flight of stairs leading up to the next level where Sherlock’s room was situated.

“Mother, Father.” Sherlock kept his tone as respectful as ever, brushing past them to begin walking up the stairs. “I’m going to my room.”

“You will not go to your room.” Sherlock spun around at his father’s commanding voice.

“I will.”

“You will not. We have important things to discuss so you will come to the drawing room with us.” Sherlock did not like the sounds of that. Not one bit.

“I do not wish to.” Sherlock had turned to face his family, expression icy. Looking old beyond his years. Even more so than normal.

“There is no option as to whether you will or not.” Sherlock’s father looked ready to drag him to the drawing room. Mycroft was giving him a look that was telling him to comply. Must be something very important.

“Fine.” Sherlock dumped his suitcase where he was standing in the middle of the stairs before heading back down. He disliked doing as he was told but had no wish for physical contact to be involved. So he was going to listen to what his father wanted to say.

“Good.” His father’s smile was thing as he turned and strode towards the drawing room. The rest of the Holmes family followed him.

The drawing room was as lavish as every other room in the house. The chairs were leather with silk covers, the small table in the centre polished mahogany. Mr Holmes sat in a chair near this table, indicating for the rest of his family to do the same. Mycroft and his mother sat in two chairs right next to him forcing Sherlock to sit opposite. It felt like an interrogation. It might as well be one.

“What is it you want to say?” Sherlock reverted to sullen teenager mode, pulling his knees up to his chest. This caused him to gain glares from the rest of his family which he just ignored.

“We must discuss Christmas arrangements,” his mother began primly, eyes narrowed at her youngest son.

“Bo-ring!” Sherlock groaned, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“This is important, boy! Listen to your mother!” Sherlock’s father practically spat. Oh great he was in a bad mood. Sherlock knew better than to antagonise him. He had learnt from experience.

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled giving his mother half of his attention.

“This year we are hosting a Christmas dinner for many important... contacts,” Sherlock’s mother started again. “Very important contacts. You will be expected to attend the meal, on your best behaviour, and also play your violin as entertainment.” Sherlock could feel the eyes of all of his family on him.

“And I though Christmas couldn’t get any worse,” Sherlock remarked drily, tugging at his black curls.

“Boy, you will do as you mother said or the consequences will be dire!” Yep, his father was definitely in a bad mood. Better leave first.

“As you wish, father,” Sherlock looked at him evenly, hiding any fear he felt at the threat. An emotion. Pointless. “Is that all? May I leave?”

“Yes, you are dismissed,” his father replied tightly. Sherlock didn’t afford a second glance at his family as he jumped up and ran out of the room. Christmas was going to be hell.