Once again, small_hobbit and yalublyutebya did their magic on short notice.
Sherlock never told anyone this, not even when Mummy's arms were unexpectedly warm and secure around him and he lay with his head against her chest, rising and falling with the tides of her unhurried breaths, waiting for her to give him The Talk, but he'd thought that Mycroft was his soulmate.
It was only logical.
His talent and Mycroft's were not so very different; they'd both taken Mummy's analytical gifts and applied them to the infinite variables that make up the human race. It hardly signified that Mycroft went in one direction to the future while he went in the other to the past, not least because the lines were rarely so clean, and they often crossed paths. More importantly, he knew no one (not even Mummy, with books to her name and the devotion of a man whose talent was simply to adore) whose work demonstrated such full use of potential as Mycroft, so clearly Sherlock had aided him as much as he'd been improved in return. They were basically the ideal of peak talent, and that they had had the good luck to be born into the same family meant that they'd capitalised on their connection far earlier than any other recorded pair. They could do amazing things together.
And then there was love.
It meant something that Mycroft was the only person he truly loved. Mummy, as ready to scold as to praise, seemed to think she'd done her part in creating him; it was as if he'd been born a dinosaur hatchling and not a human being, and Mummy was his eggshell, temporary protection that had to be cracked open. It filled him with pride that she trusted him to raise himself, and he shuddered to think of his schoolmates with their mothers' lipstick kisses on their cheeks or remnants of their fathers' cologne on their jackets. Father – well, he hadn't quite worked out what Father might be in his metaphor. Perhaps he was oxygen, providing all of them with the breath they needed to do their work; necessary and invisible sounded right for Father.
It was with Mycroft alone that he achieved the summit of each deduction, Mycroft alone whose very presence showed him where to build the steps that he needed to climb to reach the apex. It was not restful, precisely, but it was so very satisfying to feel that he was doing what he was meant to do, what only he could do because he was him and Mycroft was Mycroft and together they made thoughts buzz sharp and fast and electric in each other's brains. And neither one of them had ever been or done less, at least not in Sherlock's memory, but then Mycroft had seven years on him.
They must have seemed interminable.
He could not imagine Mycroft fumbling for thoughts, or seeing them only vaguely, as if through dirty glass, inaccessible to his questing fingers. He did not want to think of Mycroft ever having been so common. But it must have been so; he'd read unnumbered stories of miraculous transformations. He and Mycroft had saved each other from lifetimes of indignity, and love was the only proper word for the feeling between them.
For years, he'd been so sure, had held that certainty at his core even though Mycroft never spoke of it. It was the ugliest shock of his life when he saw Mycroft's already sharp eyes grow more incisive for having met Lestrade, that ordinary man who plodded through his days, never approaching the heights of brilliance Mycroft had for decades inspired in him. He went hot, then cold, at the sight, and wondered. Not what cases Lestrade might now solve, not whether Mycroft had known, not what he might achieve if he found his own true soulmate, but if he had ever been loved or if he had always been alone. What about me? he wanted to cry out. He did not give the question voice, not wanting the empty silence of years as his answer.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
This same entry also appears on Dreamwidth, at http://innie-darling.dreamwidth.org/442127.html.