Born in the Wrong Body-Sherlock Fanfic

Chapter 2

*Mycrofts POV*

Sherinford Holmes was drunk. These days he always seemed to be drunk. Mycroft hated it. He has always been a violent drunk. It got worse after Sherlock was born. He hated her. He either ignores her for days or beats and insults her. There was no in between. Sherlock has learned to avoid him. Most of the time it works, but sometimes Mycroft is left cleaning up the pieces of his broken sister.  Their mother was no better. She had lost touch from reality a long time ago. She spends most of her time in her bed. She would just lie there for days. Only eating if Mycroft forced it down her throat. His parents did not share a room so the couple rarely were ever in the same room let alone talk to each other. So mycroft was left looking after his younger sister. It was a tough ordeal for the eleven year old boy. It was a struggle having been forced to mature far too soon. He was depressed and struggled to sleep without knowing Sherlock was safe. Most nights they shared a bed. They had their own rooms but they preferred to stay close. Mycroft was very protective of his sister.  Today Mycroft decided that he could not take any more of this abuse. He confronted his father. 

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Mycroft marched into his fathers study. Slamming the doors open and shouting his fathers name. The man was at his desk. A glass of whisky and a choking smell of a recently lit cigar. Books and papers were pilled on and around the solid oak desk. At one point it was beautiful, with intricate patterns and a lovely smooth surface. Now it is covered in stains and has lost all its shine. Sherrinford used to be a lecturer at Cambridge, now he is a drunk old man. He had lost all of his dignity and power. Because of this he now abuses the power he has over his children. He hurts them and until now neither of them have fought back. but today was different. Today Mycroft will stand up to his father. He will no longer stand for the abuse. If needs be Mycroft would run away with Sherlock and start new lives far away from their parents. They would be safer that way. 

Mycroft grabbed the bottle of whisky of his fathers desk and chucked it to the far side of them were it smashed and left a dent in the wall. His father was outraged at the insolence he was receiving from his disrespectful son.  The man rounded the desk to tower over the boy. He screamed at him for his stupidity and slapped him hard enough for him to collide with the floor. Mycroft was scared. Here he was on the floor his lip cut and a bruise forming on his cheek. He glanced up at his father who had not stopped screaming at him. He felt weak and small and like he was easily broken. In a way he was. He was weak for not standing up to him sooner. He was eleven years old for god sakes. He should be better than this. He thought of his poor sister. Who used to be filled with joy and innocence but her eyes were dark and uncaring. She had grown numb. She started to hate herself. She saw herself as a freak. He will save his sister. He had to. That train of thought gave him a boost of energy. He stood up and smiled before punching his father. The man was shocked unsure of what to do. This gave Mycroft an advantage. He pushed his father to the ground. He flung himself onto his chest and punched the elders face. He did that again, and again, and again. His face was bloodied and bruised. He was too drunk to fight back. His breathing was shallow and his skin sickeningly pale. His eyelids fluttered as he desperately gasped for breath. His lips blue and unwilling to move without sharp shooting pain spreading across his face. Soon his eyes closed and his chest stopped moving. But Mycroft continued to beat his father. He was too lost in rage to notice that his father was no longer breathing.

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It took his fathers butler pulling him off the body for him to stop. Mycroft collapsed in the elder mans arms. He was sobbing into the mans shoulder.   The man Alfred was a pleasant fellow who only agreed to work for the Holmes to keep an eye on Mycroft. He cared for the boy like he was his own son.  He was the one that went to all of Mycroft's  Parents evenings. He was there for when he came home from school crying after being bullied. He was there for him when Mycroft wanted someone to play games with. He would make his dinner and tuck him in at night. Mycroft adored Alfred. He was the father he always wanted. And when Sherlock came along, Alfred acted like a father to her. He always loved the adventurous young girl with the most intriguing mind. She was an amazing little girl. 

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*Alfred's POV*

Alfred was in tears when he walked in on Mycroft beating his father beyond death. Not because he ever liked the man. But because he knew that it would always haunt Mycroft till the day he died. He was heartbroken for the young man. It was not like he could even go to his mother for support as she barely remembered that she had children. He was all they had. He swore that day that he would protect them with his life. He was desperate to get them out of this horrible mansion. He wished that they could have had a happy start to life. He was thinking all this as he was carrying the young boy up to his room. He placed him gently on the bed and tucked the sheets around him. He smiled sadly down at him. He was struggling to comprehend the situation. He stood for a few more minutes before going to find Sherlock. She was probably hiding somewhere in her room like usual. She loved exploring but she still loved to hide in a cupboard and just let her mind go wild. He was dreading having to tell her the bad news. He knew that she would be happy that he could not hurt her again but sad because all hope was lost of him ever being a nice father to her. She would also be very sad for her brother as the two were very close and she hates it when her 'Mycie' was sad. It would be very hard for the young girl to understand the situation. Regardless of her intelligence she was still only four years old.

As suspected Sherlock was hiding in her cupboard. She was mumbling to herself and fiddling with a small blanket. It was her favourite. Her mother had given it to her before she started hiding in her room. It is the only good memory she had of her mother. Alfred crouched down beside her and stroked her knee, that managed to get her attention. The young girl started crying. Sometimes he forgot how smart the young girl was. She could tell that he was upset. He hugged her, Sherlock curled inwards and snuggled into his arms. He held her and stroked her hair until she eventually fell asleep. He did not have the guts to tell her. He would keep it a secret for as long as he could. For now his main goal was to get them out of the house. But that would have to wait until tomorrow as it was already very late and he was tired after such a hard and long day.