Sherlock sighed, closing the door and sitting down on his old bed. It was an old four poster, with curtains around the edge if he wanted privacy. Sometimes he closed the curtains when his brother was being extremely annoying, but that's about it. There wasn't much else except a bed in his room, a large wooden wardrobe where he kept his personal belongings and his closet, which he hung all of his clothes in. Not all of his clothes were inherited from his grandparents, considering they hadn't had many that fit him. Mycroft had bought him some of his other clothes from thrift stores and yard sales, but never in retail shops. He had a thing against public places with happy people on large signs and sales on useless junk. He preferred to do his shopping at old places where he could get good deals without much human interaction, and he never let Sherlock come with him. Mycroft didn't like Sherlock being exposed to the outside world, he said that people would taint his simple way of life, with their pointless conversation, their illegal acts, their money spending and time wasting personalities, Mycroft insisted that it was best to avoid the rest of the world. He claimed it was because he cared, but Sherlock secretly thought it was because he was selfish. He wanted to raise his little brother in an environment where he could control every aspect of his life, his social life, his past times, even his personality were all closely monitored by his older brother. School was the only acceptation, and the only reason Mycroft didn't home school Sherlock was because he believed he needed to get a better education. Sherlock was brilliant, and of course, he knew that and Mycroft knew that and they made sure everyone they met (however few), knew that too. Sherlock was the valedictorian at his school, and if you asked most of his peers they wouldn't even know who he was. Sherlock blended into the shadows a bit too much, engulfed in a book or in his homework and too preoccupied to bother socializing. Even if he wasn't occupied with practical things, he wouldn't want to talk to his classmates anyway. All they seemed to care about was partying, cheating on tests, and pointless sports games on TV. Pathetic, impractical, and an overall waste of a human life. Then again, it wasn't Sherlock's area to complain, that was always Mycroft's job. After he went into town for errands or something he would always come back complaining about the people these days, as if he were some old man who had seen the world at its best. In reality, Mycroft was seven years older than Sherlock, and he really didn't' know much about the world either. He did; of course, he had led a much better life before their parents had died, before Sherlock was born. He lived as a normal kid for those seven years, but after the accident he was left as an orphan, left in the hands of a rather abusive uncle, moving into this house with his baby brother. Their uncle was never mentioned, and Sherlock never really did know what had happened to him. Maybe he ran away, maybe he got himself killed as well, either way, somewhere along the line, their uncle disappeared. If the government had known about that they would've been sent to an orphanage, no family left to take care of them, but somehow it all worked out. Sherlock had never known any care other than his brother's, and Mycroft never spoke about his life before that. They lived a reclusive sort of life, but it was happy for the most part. Sherlock didn't know any other sort of life, so he was in no position to complain. He sighed, staring out the window and watching as the sun set over the vast fields surrounding his house. That was the good thing about living in the middle of nowhere, you literally where in nowhere. There were no neighbors to worry about, no cars driving along the road, the only people Sherlock had ever seen wandering around his house were farmers tending their crops on large tractors, but he never saw their faces or talked to them. The only person Sherlock had ever talked to outside of school and town was, well, John Watson. He was a peculiar boy, to say the least, amusing for his cluelessness but a rather a shame, to have such a potential and to have it wasted with the technology and conveniences of the modern day. If John had been raised in the correct way, to a simple life without any human distractions, he might have found out his true calling, his self-actualization, a long time ago. Sherlock had, with the help of Mycroft, found that he was gifted in academics, and he found on his own that he was very skilled in the arts, whether it be the art of words or the art of pictures, Sherlock could paint a picture that no one else could. He had a little notebook which he kept under his mattress, in which he wrote poetry and drew pictures. It was like unlocking his subconsciousness in a way, channeling his inner feelings through the tip of a pencil, which is why he kept it hidden. In that notebook there were feelings, ones he shouldn't have being who he was. Mycroft would be furious if he had found it, the poems were about love, the drawings about humans, friends, fear, emotions that were impossible for a self-proclaimed sociopath. Then again, he wasn't self-proclaimed, Mycroft had diagnosed Sherlock to be a sociopath from an early age, and for the most part he played the part well. But then again, there were times when Sherlock didn't fit the profile, when he broke out of his mold and acted as a normal human. Those times had been quickly exterminated, a mistake in his programming, and ever since then Sherlock had kept himself distant from any type of feelings that might be considered, in his brother's mind, impractical. Sherlock sighed, grabbing a textbook from his backpack and starting on some last minute homework he had neglected to do. Not that he weekend was very action packed; he was just engulfed in other ways of entertaining his mind, nothing as feeble as the pathetic worksheets his math teacher gave him. Sherlock was already completed extremely complex math problems, complicated problems that he wrote out on notebook paper and plastered proudly on his closet door. Of course Mycroft was very proud of the math his brother was able to do, but always made a habit of one upping Sherlock, whatever the younger could do, Mycroft had to prove that wisdom came with age, and he did better. Sherlock lived a life in his brother's shadow, something that might affect him more if there were people to actually judge the Holmes family. When Sherlock finished with his homework he tucked all of his papers away and brought out the little notebook he kept under his bed. It was more like a diary really, leather bound with a strap and his grandfather's initials stamped on the front of it. It had been inherited, like most of the things Sherlock owned, but this notebook had never been used. Sherlock opened it up and flipped through the many drawings, poems, and random words he had scrawled on the pages over the years. There were beautiful pictures of a single teenage boy, his short hair in a curl above his forehead, a smile on his beautiful face, immortalized in graphite in Sherlock's little notebook. Sherlock sighed, running his finger over the many lines of the boy's face, gazing at the drawing as if wishing it could spring to life and comfort him in this lonely time. All of his lonely times. But then again, it was no more than a drawing, it didn't move and nothing happened. So Sherlock shut the notebook quickly, not wanting his mind to wander at the moment, to happy places where emotions ran free. No, he shouldn't think of any of those pointless emotions, regret, longing, love, all irrelevant. Because the boy was nothing more than a drawing now, and nothing Sherlock did would ever change that.
Sherlock walked downstairs the next morning, wearing freshly ironed clothes, his hair newly washed and dried, typical school day attire. Mycroft was at the kitchen table, wearing his usual suit and tie combination, his umbrella leaning against the table even though they were inside.
"Good morning." Mycroft muttered, reading the paper once more and having a cup of tea.
"Morning." Sherlock muttered. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, signaling Sherlock to elaborate. "Sorry, good morning." Sherlock corrected, walking over to the counter to pour himself some cereal.
"It is a rather good morning." Mycroft agreed. Sherlock sighed, pouring a bowl of whatever discount cereal Mycroft had selected, this time it was knock of Cheerios. The Holmes brothers weren't poor by any means, in fact they were very well off, having inherited all of the money and possessions in both their Grandparent's, parents' and uncle's will. Mycroft was having a hard time finding work, considering one of the requirements was that he work completely alone and have no helpers or people mucking around and disturbing him. Of course, he was looking, but it was slim pickings for a sociopath in the workforce. So they bought discount cereal, in a very pathetic attempt to save what money they had for future needs. The carton of milk was already on the table, and Sherlock sat down and poured it into his cereal, adding enough so that the little circles floated.
"Give me that when you are finished." Mycroft insisted. Sherlock sighed, screwing the cap back on and handing his brother the milk carton before he got a good look at it. On the side though, he was able to read the large block letters that read Missing. Those faces on the milk cartons, missing children, presumably dead, in a last chance effort to get the milk drinkers on alert, Sherlock was never allowed to read them. Of course, he didn't need to look to know what face waited for him this morning, the school photo of a beautiful brown haired boy, smiling tragically into the camera. He was just a boy, having done nothing wrong, not knowing the fate that had awaited him. Every time Sherlock saw him, there was a very odd sort of pain in his heart, something he surely shouldn't be feeling. Mycroft got up and put the milk back in the fridge, siting back down and finishing off his tea.
"Hurry up Sherlock; I need to drive you soon." He insisted. Sherlock ate his cereal as fast as he could, washing his dish haphazardly and rushing upstairs to get his backpack. Mycroft always drove Sherlock to school, and he always picked him up from school as well. Sherlock was able to drive himself of course, but during school hours is when Mycroft went into town to do the shopping or to look for job offerings. He had always driven Sherlock to school, because in Mycroft's mind the school bus was an evil machine, designed to squish Sherlock with all of the bullies and the trouble makers of the school. He didn't want Sherlock to be exposed to such horrible children, especially when he had no escape. So he drove Sherlock to school, it was his little alternative. And then he could make sure Sherlock got into the building alright, no socializing outside or smiling at familiar faces, keeping his head down and rushing inside. When Sherlock got to the garage Mycroft was already in the car, the engine running, looking rather annoyed.
"What is wrong with you this morning?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock scrambled into the passenger seat.
"Nothing's wrong, why do you say that?" Sherlock asked.
"You're taking a while to get ready; you're always ready by this time." Mycroft insisted.
"Well, it's Monday, I'm tired." Sherlock insisted.
"That's not a good excuse, it's Monday every seven days, and this is the first Monday that you've been so, distracted." Mycroft decided, pulling out of the driveway and heading down the road to town.
"Why do you say I'm distracted?" Sherlock wondered.
"I'm hoping you're not, but you don't seem as alert as you usually are." Mycroft decided.
"And what do you think might be distracting me from my morning routine?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft just gazed over at him judgmentally, a small smile flickering on his lips.
"I certainly hope it's not that Watson boy." he decided. Sherlock just laughed, a rather forced laugh, but a laugh all the same.
"John Watson? The boy I drove to his house? Mycroft just because I alienate myself from the rest of the world doesn't mean every boy I have a simple conversation with distracts me. My mind hasn't wandered to that boy and I'm sure it never will. He was a simpleton, a moronic member of society whose head is controlled by sports and video games. No, I am not distracted by John." Sherlock insisted.
"Good." Mycroft decided. "We know what happened last time." Sherlock sighed heavily, staring out the window and watching as the buildings came closer.
"I don't want to think about last time." he decided.
"Neither do I." Mycroft agreed. They pulled into the school parking lot a couple of minutes later, the busses already lined up with the kids waiting to be let off.
"Bye Mycroft." Sherlock muttered.
"Good bye Sherlock, be good." Mycroft muttered, unlocking the car and letting Sherlock scrambled out onto the pavement.
"I'm always good." Sherlock assured, grabbing his backpack and walking up to the doors of the school. He knew Mycroft was watching him as he walked into the front doors, but he didn't say hello to anyone, smile to anyone, or even look at anyone on his trip into the school. So he was sure as soon as he walked inside, Mycroft had driven away, off to do whatever Mycroft did in his free time. Something boring probably. The school still hadn't filled with kids yet, only the ones that had driven to school, since the busses weren't unloading. So he had plenty of time to get to his locker, change out his books and get his binder, all before the wave of kids came rushing into the school like a hoard of barbarians. Sherlock pushed through to get to his first class, English, and found to his disgust that the teacher wasn't there, the door was locked, and he was in the middle of the freshman hallway. Sherlock scowled, retreating into the doorway to avoid any collisions and unnecessary human contact. The kids were so annoying, not just because they were freshman but because they were people, talking about useless garbage, crushes, sports teams, copying homework in the middle of the hallway because they were too busy with their technology to care about their education, it was sickening. Sherlock knew that with his intellectual superiority that he would have a very promising future, go to college, get a house of his own, and succeed in life with a high paying job that didn't involve very many people. He would do better than Mycroft, and finally he would be able to break away from his brother and his care. Of course, Sherlock wouldn't completely leave his lifestyle behind, there was noway Sherlock would ever interact with other people, he saw no wife or husband in his future, certainly no children, he doubted he'd even make a friend on his journey through middle age. But that was his goal really; there was nothing wrong with never saying a word to anyone.