Sherlock fandom.
Incandescent in All His Glory
My brother likes to present himself as aloof, undeterred, haughty, and cold-blooded. To those who has never seen him in pyjamas and dressing gown, the image remains unaltered. Underneath that stoic and well-maintained façade, he is very much human, despite how loathe he is to admit it.Â
Granted, he has a peculiar way of showing his emotions.
Sentiment is never an advantage, is his trademark, so to speak.
Having known him for my entire life, and by being an adept observer, I am aware of the truth.Â
His heart might be heavily protected by a seemingly unbreakable padlock, but when that lock is broken, thereâs no stopping the tidal wave of emotions hidden there.
The unbridled rage is the most common of the forementioned emotions. Let me rephrase: the most common emotion to appear.
This rage mostly recurred in our childhood, and as far as I know, only directed at me. Not that I didnât deserve it. I did almost anything to get his attention back then. I ruined his new suede shoes in the murky pond, put cockroaches in the biscuit tin he hid in his room, and read a love letter heâd received out loud at the dinner table on Christmas Eve.
âDid you ever apologise?â
Of course, John would ask that.
I shake my head. Much to my surprise I feel ashamed. Mycroft hadnât done anything to deserve that, other than leaving home for school, which in my opinion was the same as treason.
What my brother has done is this:
He brought me food I tolerated when my parents didnât understand my stubborn ways, when I refused to eat what they sat before me.
Once, he came home unforeseen. Three of my bullies were after me, again, and I ran as fast as I could, but they were older, had longer legs, and caught up with me quickly. Before the first blow, I closed my eyes, protected my head, but nothing happened. The anticipated pain wasnât forthcoming. I looked up, and there he stood. My big brother, incandescent in all his glory. Fuming with rage. I swear, I saw flames in his eyes. Nobody ever bothered me again.
Three times heâs followed me to rehab. Picked me up in places he normally never sat his feet. Each time I woke, I saw his pain and sorrow. His quiet requests, no, pleas, to make me stop breaking his heart, left my own heart raw and aching.
He interrogated my newfound flatmate to make sure he knew what he was getting himself into, but also to assess what kind of a man John Watson was. I know Mycroftâs heart sung with relief when the ex-army doctor took it all in his stride, not the least bit perturbed by my brotherâs inquisitorial questions, but rather affronted on my behalf.
Without so much as hesitating, he agreed to be my best man at my wedding, and his speech made us all weep. Even John. My husband.
Mycroftâs rage nowadays, is nothing like the one from his adolescence. Now it is cold as a polar wind. He remains calm, which in my opinion is much more terrifying than his uncontrolled fury from the past. I guess one doesnât get employed by the British government if one has trouble managing oneâs anger.
By now, most of his associates call him The Iceman. It fits him, and I know the nickname pleases him immensely.Â
Iâm happy to say, no one uses my hateful nickname, The Virgin, any longer. John wouldnât stand for such an insult, being the one who unburdened me of said virginityâŚ
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