Work Text:
Mycroft walked into the kitchen at a seemingly well-timed moment when, with barely a blink, he caught the book that was on a trajectory to decapitate him between both hands, stopping it’s flight path mere millimetres from his face. He jerked his head back very slightly and blinked, lowering his arms with the book still in both hands, and peered to the breakfast table where his brother was sat, with their mother, struggling his way through an English assignment he clearly had no interest in.
“Sherlock!” Violet cried out, her left hand coming to her mouth as she watched Mycroft’s quick reactions, “You could have hurt him.” She swatted Sherlock’s bicep with the back of her right hand and earned herself a look of venom from her fourteen-year-old son.
Mycroft tossed the book around in his hands and peered at the cover, “Not a Dickens fan then, Sherlock?” He intoned as he approached the table. He dropped the dogeared copy of A Christmas Carol onto the table and gave it a shove, skating it along the tabletop to where his brother and mother were sitting at the other end. He’d only arrived at the family home that afternoon, home himself from University for the winter break, and he’d rather been looking forward to seeing Sherlock once he finished school. The boy, though, had returned home from school in an astonishingly bad mood. He hadn’t slept well the night before, his concentration had been defunct the entire day and his myoclonic seizures increased, leading him to be snappy, uncoordinated and exhausted - an incredibly bad combination for one person such as Sherlock, whose default setting was already rather brooding.
“It’s boring, and it’s useless,” Sherlock moaned, covering his face with both of hands.
Violet rolled her eyes, “But it’s necessary,” She knocked her index finger off the page of Sherlock’s exercise book. “And if we have to sit here all night until you get this done, then we will do that. You have two days left until the Christmas break, Sherlock, and all you have to do is have this handed into your teacher before you finish. If you’d started it a week ago when it was assigned, this would not be a problem.”
Sherlock grunted, “It would,” He raised his eyes, picking up his pen in his right hand, “Because it would still have been boring and useless a week ago.” He threw back his head as his right shoulder contracted downward, the latest in a succession of myoclonic jerks that had barely let up since dinner, and he threw down his pen with a deep growl in his throat. He lashed out, thrashing forwards with his hands, sending all of his school supplies widthways across the table and knocking his glass of milkshake over with it.
Violet sighed deeply and closed her eyes, rolling them behind closed lids, and got to her feet. Her patience was well worn by this point, and her next choice was to give up and allow Sherlock what he wanted - not to turn in the work, not to bother even doing the work, and to curl up in bed and sleep. She busied herself mopping up the spilt milk, which thankfully had managed to stay clear of his work, and gently slid the book, his pen and the novel back across the table toward him. “Mikey…” She looked to her eldest, standing at the end of the table with his hands in his pockets, “...Please?”
Mycroft glanced at his watch, it was almost nine pm. Most of Mycroft’s mind was all for letting Sherlock off the hook - he knew there would be nothing short of disastrous consequences if they denied the boy his need to sleep for much longer, but he also knew that with the right jibing and guidance, Sherlock could easily complete the work he’d been set and be in bed before ten-thirty.
Sherlock glanced up at him, “I’m not going to do it.”
“I can see that,” Mycroft drew up his brows. “Mummy, just let him go to bed. He’s exhausted, and he can’t very well go two days with poor sleep. He’ll seize at school and we all know that isn’t exactly ideal.” He looked imploringly at his mother, “Perhaps we can do it tomorrow evening, and he can hand it in on the final day?” That suggestion seemed to sit well enough with their mother as she nodded her head.
“Fine, but I want that done first thing tomorrow evening after school, Sherlock,” She turned on her youngest, pointing her finger at him. “Understand me, young man?”
Sherlock nodded, his curls bouncing where they stuck out around his ears, “Promise.” He smiled at her.
Violet felt a twinge at how sleepy his eyes became with the sudden relief of not having to keep his brain engaged. She watched as Sherlock got to his feet, unsteady in his gait as his right side contracted again, making look a little like he was attempting to shimmy his way around the dining chair, but made less amusing when he tutted. She captured his shoulders as he walked past her, wrapping her arms around him in a high hug, and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Teeth and bed, then,” She told him, “I’ll be up in ten minutes to say goodnight.”
When she released him, Sherlock walked from the kitchen, reaching out and pinching Mycroft in the back as he walked past him. Even as Mycroft whipped around he could hear both Sherlock and his mother tittering a light laugh. “He’s a brat.” He turned back to his mother, his left hand rubbing his burning skin over the top of his jumper.
“He’s secretly happy you’re home, you know?” Violet said, casting her eyes momentarily on Sherlock’s stuff still littering the table. She ignored it, though, and made her way toward the kitchen sink. She took a glass from the drainer and filled it with water from the cold tap. “He misses you,” She said, looking over her shoulder as she moved from the sink, setting the water down onto the glass chopping board that served as a surface cover beside the kettle. She reached up into the kitchen cabinet and took down the box of Sherlock’s medication and placed the box beside the water. “And I know you miss him, too.”
Mycroft nodded as he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, “I do,” He admitted. “But it is somewhat quieter at night time. My dorm room does not knock, or open spontaneously, nor do I have visitors in to steal my socks at six am,”
Violet smiled, “Yes, but that also means you don’t get that giggle of his, either. Or those God awful jokes about aeroplane crashes…” She rolled her eyes with a concerned but amused frown.
Mycroft laughed breathily, “That’s true.” He conceded. He nodded at the glass and pill box, “I can take those up if you want?”
Violet waved him off, “No, don’t be silly. I want to make sure he’s taking them, anyway…” Mycroft frowned, getting the sense she was about to go further, elaborate on why it was she was bringing him the Epilim anyway. Sherlock had been self-medicating almost since the start. He was fourteen, for God’s sake - Mycroft knew his parents wrapped Sherlock in cotton wool, but surely the lad was capable of taking his tablets and going to bed without supervision at this age! But she didn’t continue the line, didn’t offer him a single clue, and he let it go. “Besides, you’re here on your end of term break, too, not to babysit King Grumpy up there,” She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Why don’t you put the kettle on, I’ll be back down in a minute or two.”
Mycroft nodded his head, “Okay. Say goodnight to him for me, will you?” He said, as she picked up the glass and box, and walked toward him.
“Of course, my darling,” She smiled softly at him and kissed him lightly on the cheek as she walked by, leaving the kitchen to head up the stairs.
Violet found her son in his pyjamas, just leaving the bathroom, when she reached the top of the stairs. She smiled at him, and held out her hands to the glorious look of annoyance on his face. She followed him into his bedroom and waited until he perched on the edge of his bed before she set the glass down on his nightstand. She handed him the box and watched as he drew out the blister strip and popped the purple tablet into his hand. As he pushed it into his mouth, she handed him the glass and watched with sharp eyes until he had swallowed, the pill down. She didn’t go so far as to search his mouth - Sherlock’s oddly aligned jaw would have given away if he was storing the pill beneath his tongue when he opened his mouth to talk but, when he said ‘it’s gone’ with an air of annoyance, she knew he’d behaved himself.
Sherlock folded the blister strip back into the box and left it, and the water, on the nightstand. He stood, and held his arms out to his Mum, offering her a hug that she returned with a tight squeeze around his lithe body.
“Oh, my sweet boy,” She whispered into his ear, then kissed his cheek. “Come on then,” She patted his bottom with her right hand, “Bed - no reading, no lamp, no going in and out of Mycroft’s room whenever he decides to settle down, either. Sleep, okay? I don’t want worried phone calls tomorrow.” She gave his head an affectionate shove with her hand, scrubbing his mop of curls as she drew her arm back. She watched him for a moment as he pulled the quilt back before she decided he was capable of doing the rest himself. She walked to the door and flicked off the main light. “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”
Sherlock smiled at her out of the corner of his mouth, “Love you too,” He said as she drew the door closed, finally leaving him alone. In her absence, he flung himself into bed, shuffling his head around on the stack of numerous pillows until he found a sweet, comfortable spot somewhere on his tummy, hands tucked beneath the pillows, head tilted across to the right, his cheek smooshed firmly into the pillowcase. It took precious few moments before he was asleep, the light noises in the kitchen below him disappearing beneath his heavy, settled breaths.
Violet joined her son and husband in the lounge, cosy and low-lit by the roaring fireplace that more than served its purpose. The television was on but at a low volume, and she walked in to hear her husband and eldest in the midst of a conversation.
“...I’m not sure, I had considered switching my major.” Mycroft said and took a sip from his cup of tea.
“You’re not satisfied with business?” Siger asked, dunking a digestive into his steaming cup. “Oh, love, that’s yours…” he nodded to the cup on the table, already placed in line with the space on the sofa beside Mycroft for her to take.
“It’s not that,” Mycroft shook his head, holding the cup between both hands, “I just thought that continuing the mathematics route would be more suitable. Or a double.”
“A double?” Violet asked, eyes wide. “You can manage? Don’t take that the wrong way, I think if you have the time then it’s a wonderful idea - you certainly have the intellect to cope.” She smiled softly as she sat beside him.
“I’m sure I’d manage,” Mycroft assured her.
“Then I say go for it,” She gave him a brighter smile as she picked up her tea.
They lulled into quiet for a moment, before Siger broke it with a groan of annoyance as his second biscuit broke off and dropped down into his cup. “Oh, bugger…” Violet chuckled, rolling her eyes.
“I tell you, if your brother isn’t throwing glasses of milk, then it’s your father throwing tea and biscuits around.” She joked, tutting mockingly.
Mycroft smiled politely. “He’s gone straight to bed?” he asked.
Violet nodded, “Yeah, he’s exhausted. Perhaps we’ll have a quieter night tonight, Dad.” She looked to her husband.
Siger raised his eyebrows, “I hope so.”
Mycroft looked between them, frowning, and drew down the corners of his mouth. “What happened last night?”
“They’re called complex partial seizures,” Siger began and Mycroft’s brows rose - a new seizure type? “Apparently, it can happen if is partial seizures take hold in a certain area of the brain, I’m not too sure on the specific nature. But they cause odd behaviour - hallucinations, automatisms, auditory outbursts. He spent twenty-five minutes at one point in the night attempting to remake his already made bed and making an odd laughing noise; he looked a little like he was sleepwalking, didn’t he Mum?”
Violet nodded sadly, “Poor love was so tired this morning; he couldn’t have managed more than three hours of real sleep before school. I wasn’t going to take him but he was insufferable about some chemistry lesson he was absolutely not going to miss.” Mycroft sat back into the sofa cushions with a sigh, wondering what else was going to be piled onto his little brother’s plate.
Mycroft excused himself to bed a short time later. He bid his parents goodnight and made his way quietly up the stairs. He went immediately to Sherlock’s door, turning the glossy black handle in his hand as quietly as he could to avoid a squeak, and pushed the door open in a smooth motion. The landing light streamed through and cast a glow onto Sherlock’s bed. The boy was dead to the world, small snuffling sucks emanating from his mouth was his tongue lapped against his palate, coupled with gentle sighs. Mycroft smiled, just a little, at how small Sherlock always looked when he slept. Big as the teenager liked to think he’d become, fatigue claimed all of his adolescent charm, and replaced it with a toddler-esque feature to the way he slept, all curly hair and chubby cheeks. He pulled the door closed again, catching the latch as quietly as he could. Satisfied that Sherlock was okay, he took himself to bed.