Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/984316.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes, Minor_Sherlock/John
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Mummy_(Sherlock), Father_(Sherlock), Mycroft_Holmes,
      John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Non-Graphic_Rape/Non-Con, Underage_-
      Freeform, Mentions_of_self-harm, Flashbacks, Memories, Angst, Sibling
      Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-29 Words: 3522
****** Nothing Without ******
by HonestCannibal
Summary
     "Mycroft was a bad brother, Sherlock had always thought as a child.
     Always, because Mycroft would never look him in the eye."
     Happy ending!
Notes
     Two new stories in one night!? Holy shit! This writer's block is
     killing me.
See the end of the work for more notes
Mycroft was a bad brother, Sherlock had always thought as a child. Always,
because Mycroft would never look him in the eye.
It sounded rather stupid now that he thought about it, but as a child it seemed
to make sense; it was as if Mycroft didn't care for Sherlock, as if he didn't
care enough to notice his younger sibling standing there with grazed knees and
a split lip. All Sherlock would get was a glance from over the newspaper – but
only over his body – and a muttered, “learn to defend yourself, you're a
disgrace to the family name.”
Sherlock would turn away, refusing to cry because it was 'unnatural' for a nine
year old to cry, and get Susan (the nanny) to tend to his injuries, even if it
would just happen again. Mummy was never at home to help and Father would just
tut and mumble about how children could be so nasty.
So really, Sherlock was always alone; even if Mycroft was there, he never
really was.
After years of bullying, Sherlock became accustomed to the abuse at school and
the silence at home. When Mummy would return home, she always looked thinner
than before but continued to ask him how he was, and that's what Sherlock loved
the most, sitting down in the evenings before Mummy would disappear again and
talk about everything. Mummy would nod and smile sympathetically, running a
boney hand through Sherlock's curls and saying how proud she was of him.
“Please don't let anyone get you down, Sherlock.”She would whisper as they
hugged, “I love you so much.”
That was the last time he saw her.
Of course, at that age, Sherlock was so ignorant to actually believe father
when he said 'Mummy's gone away on a trip.' and as Sherlock grew older, he knew
she had died, he knew she had been suffering with cancer. Father said 'fighting
cancer' when Sherlock asked him about it, but Sherlock knew the ones who lived
are the ones who fight, and the ones who died were the ones who suffered.
It hurt to know that his mother had suffered. Hurt in a sort of undeniable way,
like he couldn't shut it out, it was always there. He never cried about it,
just sat back when he felt sad and remembered the times when Mummy was well,
when she would take him in her arms and fall asleep next to him on the sofa;
when they cuddled for hours on end and just spoke about mythical things that
Sherlock used to be so interested in.
Unlike Father, Mummy was always there – until she turned sick – and always
acknowledged the things Sherlock would do and say.
“You're my clever little boy,”She would smile, “I'm so proud of you.”
After mummy's death, Sherlock assumed it was when he had just started secondary
school at age eleven, Mycroft had become more interested in Sherlock. Not a
noticeable amount, but he would glance at him more, sometimes he would even
begin a conversation about some of Sherlock's studies. Being that age and not
having much attention had made Sherlock prone to lean towards any care that was
thrown his way, and having Mycroft nod in approval at his grades caused a deep
warmth to emerge in Sherlock's chest.
Father stopped coming home a short while after Sherlock's thirteenth birthday,
claiming that it was 'business' that got him so caught up, even if Sherlock
knew it was a harsh drug addiction and a long visit to rehab, he never asked
any further questions about it. It didn't bother him as much as it should have,
although he hardly knew his father, so why should he care? Did caring save his
mother?
No, Sherlock refused to open his heart to anybody. He was friendless but he had
intelligence, he saw no need to for friends or his brother and father; he
didn't need anyone, only himself.
Mycroft had began to take an interest in Sherlock by the second week father had
been shipped off to a top-class rehabilitation center in Germany – Sherlock had
overheard the conversation on the phone – and had started sitting with him in
the evenings, 'helping' him with his homework and revision for his SATS. There
was one specific evening when Mycroft's hand had rested on Sherlock's thigh
just a bit longer than it should have, causing the two of them to make eye
contact for about six seconds, then Mycroft stood up and left the room.
The silence after that day had dragged on for weeks and Sherlock had no idea
what he had done to cause such a heavy awkwardness around the household. He had
spoken to Susan about it, letting her know that he certainly didn't mean to
offend Mycroft in any way, even if he didn't actually do anything.
He watched as Susan raised an eyebrow and stopped chopping the vegetables,
knife frozen in mid air. Her concern was too obvious that Sherlock thought he
had offended her too and was about to apologise, but then she had placed the
knife on the chopping board and breathed out slowly, “If anything else like
that happens where you feel uncomfortable, you come straight to me, do you
understand?”
Sherlock had nodded, unsure of how to proceed with the conversation. He worried
that perhaps he had got Mycroft in trouble, but then he asked himself 'why do I
care?'
Why did he care? Mycroft certainly didn't.
He looked back up at Susan and her smile was so vibrant and loving that he felt
the need to smile back; Susan was very gentle and kind, almost like a mother to
Sherlock, seeing as he didn't have one now. Liking Susan was never an option as
a child, but as a teen and realizing just how different he was from the other
teenagers, he needed to like someone, even if that someone was paid to like him
back.
It wasn't justliking her, Sherlock enjoyed her company far more than anyone
else. Susan would never – could never – replace Mummy, but needing to cling to
a mother figure in his life caused him distress when trying not to.
“Susie,” He had said quietly and received her full attention,
“Yes?”
He had wanted to get it out and refuse to show weakness, this wasn't supposed
to a sensitive subject for him – nothing was supposed to be sensitive for him,
Mycroft said weakness would cause death in a worst case scenario, and at the
time, Sherlock thought it meant Mummy was weak and caught cancer because of it,
so Sherlock didn't want to catch cancer.
“Will you be my mummy?”
Susan had gone silent but didn't stop staring at Sherlock, her eyes holding
something Sherlock had never seen before. “No. I won't be your mummy. I'll be
your friend, I'll be your sister, but I can't be your mummy.”
That was good enough for Sherlock, so he smiled without any further questions,
at least he would have some sort of female figure in his life, finally he could
feel like a normal teenager, even if he was far from normal.
From then on, Susan and him had become extraordinarily close. Sherlock would
come home from school with new bruises or scrapes, Susan would clean them and
then Sherlock would help her with the chores around the household.
It wasn't long before Mycroft walked into the kitchen one day and frowned at
the sight of his younger brother cleaning the pots and pans, babbling away to
Susan. The elder had cleared his throat, catching both of their attention.
“Sherlock, I want you to go to your bedroom.”Mycroft had said. Sherlock dropped
his gaze to the floor,
“Why?”
“Don't question me, just do it.”
So Sherlock did with little hesitation, and the next morning, Susan didn't
utter a word to Sherlock. From then on, Sherlock's world became a dark, lonely
place. He had nobody to help him from the slow, clawing depression that
overcame him by the time he was fourteen.
He had asked Mycroft what happened to Susan and why they weren't allowed to
speak to each other, but he received a deadly glare in response and never spoke
of it again. Although, he did always wonder what Mycroft had said to Susan.
During his year of being fourteen, Sherlock began to think that Mycroft was the
reason he was alone, the the years of neglect and false brotherly affections
were what caused Sherlock to turn out the way he was: lonely and a freak. A
dark, deepening hatred for his brother ran through him, breaking him into a
resenting, angry teenager who lashed out at the bullies when they didn't 'piss
off'.
There was one time when Sherlock had tried cutting out a bully's liver because
he threw paper balls across the classroom at Sherlock for the entire lesson. Of
course, Sherlock was excluded from school for the rest of the year and Mycroft
was called in.
Mycroft had been utterly furious with Sherlock, screaming the house down as
soon as they arrived home. Sherlock had refused to listen, staring down at the
ground and holding back all the swear words he so badly wanted to shout back,
all the sick and disgusting names he'd thought to call his brother over the
months of realization.
Suddenly, his arm had been yanked and he stumbled forwards, knocking into
Mycroft. Then a hand was brought across his face, striking him hard. It took a
moment for the shock and pain to wear off, but a throbbing soreness ghosted on
the skin.
Sherlock didn't cry, instead he pushed Mycroft backwards with as much force as
he could muster and screamed at him, asking him how he could dareto hit
Sherlock when all he was trying to do was defend himself, why he was constantly
victimized all the time, why everything managed to topple down on him and why
it was always Mycroft's fault.
He had never seen Mycroft so angry and hurt, and he refused to acknowledge the
guilt gnawing away at him. It wasn't him that should have been feeling guilty,
it was Mycroft.
Suddenly, he was snatched from his position and thrown over Mycroft's shoulder.
Sherlock panicked for a moment until he saw that he was being carried to his
bedroom, of course, he had thought, where else would he abandon me?
But when he was dropped onto the bed, Mycroft didn't leave. The silence was
thick and Sherlock could see the rage vibrating from Mycroft, especially when
he had stormed forward and pinned Sherlock to the mattress.
Sherlock doesn't like to recall what happened that afternoon, or what happened
every time he was alone.
*~*~*~*~*
He shuddered momentarily, earning a glance from John. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Sherlock stood from the sofa and rushed to the bathroom, suddenly
feeling dirty. He knew no matter how many times he scrubbed at his skin, he
would never get the feel of Mycroft off of him, even if it had been just over
twenty years ago, there was the sticky, prickly feeling that clung to him.
*~*~*~*~*
Mycroft would wait. Mycroft would leave Sherlock to quiver in his own little
pit of darkness until it suited him, then he would come into the bedroom and
yank Sherlock from the pit. Mycroft called it 'discipline', had said that after
years of not having any sort of 'care', Sherlock couldn't possibly know what it
was.
Every time seemed a little more painful and every time Sherlock felt a little
piece of him disappear. He vowed to himself that when he was fully gone, it
wouldn't be so bad, because he wouldn't be there, he would be somewhere else in
his mind.
His Mind Palace, that's exactly what he called it. He would sit in there for
hours, before and after Mycroft would torment him, because nothing seemed to
matter when he was in his Mind Palace. The loneliness soon became his friend
and he had welcomed it with open arms.
It wasn't until he was sixteen did he finally notice just how awful Mycroft's
discipline methods actually were. He had been in school – one that he had
gotten transferred to due to an incident which involved fire and a cocky
schoolboy – and the moron of a teacher had been speaking about rape. How the
subject was brought up, Sherlock couldn't remember, but it was a rather
delicate thing to speak about to teenagers.
“Rape is sex without consent. Any kind of sex without consent is rape, there is
no in between.”he had been saying.
Sherlock had stopped taking notes immediately and snapped his head up, “What
about discipline?”
The teacher had paused mid-sentence, “What about discipline?”He repeated.
“Can't...forced sex be used a disciplinary method?”
“Of course not, that's completely absurd.”
Sherlock nodded and suddenly noticed he was the center of attention, that every
single person in the classroom was staring at him with something...something
not quite right in their eyes. Sherlock looked down at his notes and ignored
the way the teacher cleared his throat and continued on.
Mycroft had been raping him, repeatedly. It sounded ridiculous, Sherlock
constantly asked himself how he couldn't have known when he was so
'intelligent'. He couldn't say that he didn't have a clue, because he thought
it was strange and he knew it started that day Mycroft's hand had lingered on
his thigh; he knew his theories were correct and that Mycroft was making him
into a disturbed little boy so he wouldn't have the confidence to tell anyone
what was happening.
Oh yes, Sherlock was one step ahead of Mycroft and would certainly tell him
this when he faced him.
Well, that's what Sherlock had thought.
*~*~*~*~*~*
“You've been in there a long time, are you sure you're okay?” John's voice
called from behind the door and Sherlock jumped, feeling the freezing cold
water run over his skin.
“I'm fine.” Sherlock called back. He was fine, the memories weren't worth
fretting over.
Sherlock turned off the shower and shivered, hoping to just slide under the
covers of his bed and lay there until this stage of depression would pass.
John had replied but Sherlock hadn't listened, instead he just stared at
himself in the mirror, wondering.
*~*~*~*~*~*
“You're not going to touch me tonight.”Sherlock had barricaded himself in his
room, sitting on his bed which was pushed right up against the door, among with
all the other furniture.
“What on earth are you talking about?”Mycroft had shouted, “What the hell have
you done, let me in right now!”
“Fuck you.”Sherlock had laughed, and God it had felt amazing to laugh after so
many years of not having the ability nor reason to do so.
“I beg your pardon?”Mycroft sounded absolutely appalled and Sherlock laughed
again, his deep, throaty laugh that had developed over the coming months of
puberty.
“I said fuck you, because I know exactly what you're doing to me and I'm not
letting you get away with it.”
“Sherlock Holmes, you will let me in right this instant!”
“No!”
There were a few curses before he heard Mycroft storm off down the corridor.
Sherlock had felt victorious, proud and larger than ever. But that didn't last
long, because soon the crippling fear of what would happen if he didn't give in
to Mycroft overtook him and he moved all of the furniture blocking his door.
Then he sat and waited, and waited, and waited.
Footsteps were heard and the rattling of the door handle sounded out. Sherlock
sat in front of his bed, legs pulled to his chest.
“Dinner will be ready soon.”Susan's voice had quietly called out.
Sherlock looked up at her, seeing her gentle face reminded him of all the
months they had spent apart, how much he missed her surfaced and he felt tears
threatening to overcome him.
He remembered what Susan had said about Mycroft that day, the way her face had
churned to concern. He wondered if perhaps she would still listen or if she
still hated him for what Mycroft must have said.
“Susie,”He called out before she could shut the door behind her; she turned to
him, eyes downcast just like Mycroft did, refusing to look him in the eye.
“Mycroft's been hurting me.”
Susan didn't react, neither did she say anything. Instead she left the room,
shutting the door behind her and walking off down the corridor.
Sherlock had felt the inside of him crumble into a thousand pieces. Susan was
his only friend, she was the only person he wanted in his life apart from his
mother and Mycroft had taken that away from him.
Instead of crying and burning something, Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through
his hair. There was no one to help him, nothing he could do to prevent the
inevitable. He stood from his spot on the floor, walked down the stairs and
into the dining room with the utter feeling of hopelessness circling him.
The depression came back after more of the sexual abuse – that sounded far
better than rape – and Sherlock soon learned how to cope. He had tried a
suggested method of self harm, but that did nothing but leave more marks on his
body for Mycroft to tut at.
“Absolutely pathetic.”Mycroft would say, “disgraceful, you still can't defend
yourself.”
It was disgusting how much Sherlock had gotten used to the abuse, how he didn't
even bother thinking that somebody would help him.
You would think that if you knew something was wrong, if you knew that it could
be stopped so easily, that you could not have to worry about it ever again,
you'd think that it would be simple to find someone who might just care, and
tell them.
But no. Even with his brilliant mind, even with his sickening hatred that grew
more and more every day for his brother, even with all of that, the words would
not form.
He had given up.
*~*~*~*~*~*
“I'm worried about you.” John had appeared at Sherlock's door sometime during
the deep thoughts and for once, Sherlock didn't want John to leave.
Although that was the case, Sherlock couldn't speak; he couldn't get the words
'please don't leave me on my own, I can't handle this'to leave his mouth, so
instead he swallowed them and shut his eyes.
The dip in the mattress meant that John had sat down and, thankfully, wasn't
going to leave unless Sherlock told him to. Sherlock couldn't help the bubble
of relief that burst through him; he wouldn't be alone.
“You can talk to me, you know, I'm not just...just some blogger that you picked
up off the street.” John says quietly, “in case you don't realise, and God
forbid you don't, I'm your friend and I want to help.”
Sherlock almost laughed. Help,he ran the word through his brain a few times.
Helpwas just a word, just a small word that indicated that somebody cared, and
nobody had cared for Sherlock for years. Even after the abuse ended, when
Sherlock had scurried off to university at nineteen, nobody batted an eye and
him, and that's just the way he had liked it.
But somebody did care now – John cared. John was here, John cared and he wanted
to help.
Through everything Sherlock had been through, he had never thought he would
feel such a weight lift off his shoulders.
There was a hand on his shoulder before the mattress straightened again, but
before the hand could disappear, Sherlock's gripped it with his own, enjoying
the feeling of another person on his skin.
“It's Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered, “Mycroft is a bad brother.”
Sherlock expected John to sigh, expected him to roll his eyes and say 'Sibling
rivalry, how stupid!'Like all those other times, but instead, John didn't say
anything. He sat back down, his hand still in Sherlock's and he waited until
Sherlock spoke again.
When Sherlock did finally speak, everything came out – the neglect, the
isolation, the abuse. John had stayed for the entire time, his hand grasping
Sherlock's securely, not uttering a word until Sherlock was finished.
However, there was a long, heavy silence until John did talk. “Mycroft is never
coming near you again.” His voice was thick with hate, just like Sherlock's was
all those years ago.
Sherlock looked up at John, feeling his Mind Palace lighten, feeling every bad
thought slither away as he stared up at his security, the one who had ever
cared enough to stay with Sherlock until the end.
“Thank you.” Was all Sherlock could manage out, but even that seemed like
enough for John as he stroked a thumb over Sherlock's hand. It would take years
for Sherlock to forget about this, and he wasn't so sure how John was going to
stop Mycroft from doing regular visits, but something about the look in John's
eyes sent him into a spiral of...of freedom.
Sherlock was finally free.
And even today, bad brother Mycroft still wouldn't look him in the eye.
End Notes
     Well that was...a bit dark.
     It's a bit different from my usual stuff (not so different!) but I
     hope it was okay, and I hope I captured it well enough that I don't
     offend anybody who has been through a similar experience.
     My PM is always open to those who have suffered ;A; I don't want
     anybody to feel unhappy or uncomfortable because of my writing!
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