Sherlock is sixteen, and his body is betraying him.
The estrogen his ovaries are producing is causing what little body fat he has to settle in all the wrong places.
~~~
Just a little less. He can do without until he gets home from school.
Just a little less food, and he'll get rid of those ghastly hips.
He needs to banish his curves. He invites in hipbones and collarbones, cheekbones and long, thin fingers.
A little less, and his breasts will shrink.
During lunch, Sherlock fills his stomach with water. He hasn't eaten since last night's dinner, the unavoidable meals that Mummy forces on them all.
Mycroft never has to worry about his weight. He can eat all he likes and his figure stays perfectly masculine.
Sherlock hates Mycroft.
He stays out late tonight, having told his mother that some girl has asked for his help in class.
He takes a long walk through the countryside, ignoring his hunger to the best of his ability and avoiding his family.
When he gets home, it's dark. His mother and father have gone to bed.
Only Mycroft is awake, reading a newspaper with a single lamp in the darkness. The drama queen.
He sighs. ''Andrea. You must eat something eventually.''
''I'm not hungry, Mycroft.'' Sherlock would sound much more intimidating if his voice was deeper.
''I know.'' Mycroft sets down his newspaper. ''I know.''
''Leave me alone, Mycroft.'' Sherlock shoots a glare in his direction, walking past him to his bedroom.
Mycroft catches his wrist, which wouldn't have stopped him normally. But Sherlock pauses this time.
''Let go of my wrist.''
Mycroft doesn't. ''Mummy worries about you. Don't make her cry, Sherlock.''
Sherlock doesn't want to process what he's just heard until he's alone.
Despite his aching hunger, Sherlock doesn't reach for the painkillers tonight.
Sherlock loves Mycroft.