mycroftholmesisonline

[mycroftholmesisonline]

'What if I didn't reply?', is what I said. Would it cause havoc? Would it invoke something within him.

I would love to entice the right reaction. I would love for him to seek me, to find me. He knows where I am, I suppose you understand what I'm getting at.

To feel what he feels even just for a moment, Anthea. To understand the very depths of him, without looking within his mind. I must say ... I do not desire to.

Anthea. Desiring the mind is different than- do not cut me off. Silence.

Are we ready to continue our conversation? Yes? Well, I do not desire him. I do not desire his challenges nor his lack of trust. I do not desire our messages. I do not desire the 'way it makes me feel', as you so kindly put it. I do not desire anything outwith or within, I do not desire anything he stands for. That is final. Do me a favour, listen to me from now on.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

Ahh ... in addition to the sweets being stolen from my home ... I was babysitting last week. I forgot to put the lock on the door.

Regardless, I am sorry that your child is now so hyper, even a week later, John. My condolences. A cherishable little thing, she is.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

Quit.

Quit.

Quit.

Quit.

Quit.

Quit.

..........

His writing compels me to act upon it. The hypothetical thoughts are eating away at me. I'm being pulled off the bone so easily I have to trick myself. I have to believe I will not allow an ounce of wild trust as it will not be reciprocated. What if I quit the therapy. Anthea, of course, would not be happy. Neither would any of those I hold closer to me than myself. They would be displeased. Very displeased. For he only began therapy because I was willing to take the leap for him. I was willing and I am greater than. He ensured to take the leap, too. Oh, poor Sherlock. We both know therapy serves nothing to you either. Several years of nothing but loss, in addition to more cons than one could imagine.

If I listen to him it would be costly.

He's tempting, I swear.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

. 🍷 .

Mycroft Holmes

Many of my boxes of sweets 🧁🍬🍦🍰 have been mysteriously consumed. The part that bewilders me is that most boxes have been opened,most but not all sweets are gone. Does anybody want to come forth and admit their ignorance of decent manners? I understand the blissful feeling of quenching a sweet tooth but those were mine. It is honestly pathetic how people treat my property as though it's theirs.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

. 🍷 .

Mycroft Holmes

Anthea gave me this note. I already understood it was the therapist, as the paper is the exact same that she uses to write down her lies. Or, lies that I tell her. She wants to decipher me with her utmost intelligence yet she cannot decipher the colour orange from red.

As if a note with bare literate abilities will comvince me of anything. I understand I am not a dissapointment let alone 'disappointing', how can she be so unable to meet the lines. We are taught this in nursery. She has no accuracy.

Her pen seems to be running out. A telltale sign that her attempts of kindness and welcoming words are uncaring and futile. What a shame. I did rather like her.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

. 🍷 .

Mycroft Holmes

My jotters are far from professional in recent notice. Every margin is adorned with The Ace Of Spades. It is deeply infuriating, how he has come to work his way into my mind, so much so he lays there subconsciously.

Whenever I stress or become enveloped in my depressive thoughts, the only outlet is scribbling the same sign repeatedly. I do it with an empty mind. Staring into Space. I glance down and I've covered words with the drawings that plague my mind.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

\\ a response

People find you too fascinating for that. They’d rather risk dying than allow themselves to live a moment without learning more about you. You should be flattered. There are few people who are seen by the world in the same way.

And yes, released from your mind. From your inhibitions. Let them crumble, Mycroft. If they cannot exist without you then do they truly deserve to exist? I hardly think so. I find that if they’re held up just by you then they hardly seem competent enough. Darwinism. They’re holding you back from who you could be. You gain power from doing things yourself. People respect you more when they know you can hurt them without an order. That you can hurt them all by yourself. It’s very simple. I am excited that I affect you so. But don’t hold back, truly. Just let it go. Be angry. I don’t mind. I don’t think anyone would mind… well that’s not true. Your little brother would, and many of your “friends” would. But I wouldn’t. I’d like to see it. Don’t hold your tongue. Be rude, be mean. I hardly care.

Perhaps you should be. But yes, I understand you’re the best Mycroft. As I said, you are the king. There’s a reason you wear the crown.

It wounds me that you don’t think I’d be interesting to torture. I think I could make it interesting. And I would argue it would only create a power imbalance if I allowed it to. No I don’t think you have time though, I was just simply musing that it would be fun. I don’t feel the need to do anything. I don’t think you’re the kind of man to keep his word though. I feel like you’re so… hm… You’re a liar. I appreciate it. But it’s the truth. But that hurts, again. I don’t find myself mundane or normal or cliche. That’s rude, and I’m sorry I gave you that impression which is so truly upsetting.

I do it for fun. It’s exciting to walk around a place I could get caught. It’s like walking into the police station with the murder weapon on you. It’s fun. I was getting at the fact that the only way I could ever work somewhere legal is with those things. They would prefer me to be perfect. I don’t function well like that. It’s simply a matter of interest. That’s all. I think I’m close to being in your mind. I think I can play pretty big bad if I need to. But I’m more of a wolf in sheep's clothing if anything. It makes it much easier to do my job.

I’m not really so human. And I don’t want to be hurt. Conversation doesn’t work for me. I know what’s “wrong” with me. I know what you’re supposed to do to fix it. I just can’t. Pills don’t work. Coaching doesn’t work. Distraction is what I need. It keeps me moving. Keeps me alive. I’m sorry your therapy hasn’t worked for you. But I didn’t think it would.

I don’t normally complain about my jobs. I’m just complaining now because they’re driving me insane. It’s my fault for taking a job like this. I knew it would be long, I just should’ve done more research… Whatever. It’s my fault. I don’t care. I like the thrill. Isn’t that enough? I could die. I could get caught. I could get hurt. So many things can happen when I leave my home. And there aren’t that many other places I can go.

I’ll look forward to your attempts to make me squirm. If you’re successful I’ll tell you. But you have not yet. Your heart need not mourn for me, Mycroft. I am more than happy not to be pitied. I am not obsessed. I do not obsess. And I am not worried. I don’t need you to say anything about my birth. I have purpose. I don’t need more than that. I didn’t cut my parents off. Daddy’s gone and Mummy’s dead. I don’t think they wanted me to kill, or do what I do now. I think they just wanted to see what I would do. Observe. I suppose in a way I am where they wanted me with you. Perhaps I have made them proud.

I don’t need your congratulations. I don’t care for being human. It makes me weak.

Regardless, did you like my present? I hope so. It’s not much. A bit worthless. But I found it fitting. That way you can remember our game even when you’re busy with your big important office job.

-♠️

Your letter has been collected. (Yes/No)

Mycroft Holmes will respond at his convenience.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

//Not proofread.

3.30pm

Changed.2.0 ... before the appointment .

I cannot speak for the interruptions of the driver.

Every time I open my mouth.

I find it entertaining, how she watches the rear view mirror as though she's a gawking hawk, her lips part with curious expression as she tests the boundaries of this... game. And she shooshes me. Before you wonder, I figured it was a game from the start. Two weeks ago. Her lips twitch up into a smile every time she shooshes or mumbles something under her breath, as though she gains a peverse pleasure in controlling me. She forcefully pushes the corners of her lips down using her many strained muscles with annoyance at 'almost' being caught.

I know, lady. We both know I know. You're only allowing yourself to become cocky due to your lack of self control and knowing I will not tell you otherwise until I shout it. You want that reaction. You want me to shout. I will keep calm, I will not. Even if I have to cut my own tongue out of my own god-forsaken mouth, I will not yell or become increasingly angered. I will not yell or become increasingly angered. I will not yell.

She did it again.

She begun to yell. I was right. If I waited long enough ... she would subsequently snap.

Somehow I felt water flowing on my cheeks as I stared out of the window with a solemn expression. My body language was tight to myself. My hands did not move from sandwiched between my thighs, my left leg crossed over my right with force. I couldn't register her voice, her murmured of disapproval, nothing. My brain fogged over. My breathing quickened. My heart rate rose as did my blood pressure.

Suddenly I was back where I belonged. I was a little boy, dressed in my fine suit to meet the next businessman my parents would show me off to. They would have people meet me to ensure their popularity because I was so... 'clever'. I was told how disgraceful I was before I could speak. I would become increasingly annoyed as the ones who were supposed to love me more than anybody in the 'whole wide world'(as I used to say. A childish term.) tried to silence me as everyone else does. It would end with me, an eight year old Mycroft, screaming and throwing a tantrum in the back of the car due to the sensory meltdown.

My arms would flail. I would sob and heave until my hearts content. They would punish me by taking away the comfort items I loved most. Sometimes they would even give them to one-year-old sherlock to spit on and ruin ...

I was taken aback as I was pulled back to reality. I suddenly I realised the tears were spilling from my face like raindrops.

The ice was broken by the sharp hiss of a loud, feigned murmur.

"Utter disgrace. No wonder your parents think so." She hissed, almost hateful. My throat tensed. My eyes reddened. I could not do this any further. If I continued having her as my driver ... I did not want to imagine the pain I would be in.

Perhaps she is purposefully clouding my judgement.

I am unsure what she gains other than degrading me ...

...

I stepped out of the car with ease as she reversed to park.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

3.55pm.

Changed.2.0

3 minutes late for my appointment.

3 minutes after I had the telling of my life for speaking in my own car. What a waste of life that woman is. I do hope she has such a wonderful journey on the way home... it is only what's best for her.

Regardless, I didn't say a word. I am uncertain why I didn't. I stood out of the car as it was still moving to park. I used my umbrella to stop me falling over and I walked into the building with a scowl on my face.

I felt as though she was... harming me mentally.

Now, as I walk through the double doors - the air is pleasent.

It is almost a cherry scent. Just like my car.

I turned around to the door, watching the driver drive off with feigned dismay. Her attempts at catching me out and provoking a reaction are futile. I suppose this is why Anthea hired her. A challenge...

......... ......... ......... ........ ........ ........

He said he wanted the past. I suppose I should deliver, at some point. Maybe even tell him what I'm doing in the moment. Maybe mention a case I'm within. I am unsure... I am dazed and confused. I am sure our next interaction will be very, very exciting.

I am, walking into Mrs. S. Room. She is waiting for me at the table with a silent stare. An intent yet terrifying stare. She stares at me with kindness and appreciation, and even she is scared of me.

She has brought my favourite biscuits and has prepared tea for us to uplift the mood. To ensure my comfort. To allow me to open up, perhaps. She knows her actions are not good enough. Why does she still try.

I would rather, that he helped me with 'therapy'. He seemed to have ideas that may work. I am not good at deducting my own person, but being unable to open up to others, even gradually, defeats the purpose of that very plan. Anthea, you great, great idiot.

Yes, Mycroft, you have told him about your therapist interactions. I had to, it was only fair ... no, it wasn't, was it? Not fair to myself. As long as he's happy, I do not seem to mind. He does not frighten me anymore. Too soon... Perhaps I am foolish to become comfortable in his prescense. I am almost sure that is the antidepressant whoosh talking. I have to endure a fuzzy brain and an absent mind. My head is light and fuzzym i cannot concentrate. It is in the way of my work and that is not good enough. I need a change of medication yet crave the bland, numbness it subjects me to.

Whatever shall I do. Perhaps I'll take both, even it out. Maybe, I will take more than needed. Help myself in ways my own mind cannot. I feel as though there is a frog in my brain croaking and eating away at what sanity I have left.

... I will update later, if it serves to be of my time.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

Another case solved, I suppose, Sherlock.

John has written about you in his blog once again. It sickens me how much he looks up to the likes of you, though he's not far from similar. You two get along. It's just that. My question is, Daring brother of mine, in any world was it necessary for him to mention that your 'eyes sparkled with red tints as the wild fire blared to life', when the wildfire was concrete evidence against a private case. What an amazing time we had, yes! Can you hear my sarcasm dripping from my mouth like blood from biting my tongue so hard, brother, or did Mummy raise you that stupid. All he can scribble and write about is your features, as he writes about our most confidential mission that is still ongoing. You do understand how rotten of him that is. The apple does not fall far from the tree, I do suppose. Maybe tell him so. Or rather, I will tell him so. I have already deleted the short from the blog. Regardless it'll always be on the internet for prying eyes to see with the a thousand reblogs it has. Of course, I mean Harry. They are quite similar. What, do not say he cannot be similar. Of course Harry is an alcoholic, that much is obvious. That's as if you saying we are not alike because you're a drug addict. We are alike. I stand by it, as painful as it is. Yet honestly his parents do not sound like a lovely couple neither. I do hope he finds peace while residing in his room for hopefully eternity, Sherlock. If i find him, I'm going to bash his skull in until his brain is completely strewn in red across my desk. Utter liquid, it'll be. Out of his skull, a deep crimson covered in tendons and slime. I will ensure his eyes are chewed from their residing sockets for ever being able to see to write this ghoulish fantasy fanfiction while people were dying. How can you two be so inconsiderate.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

Ooc - very much agreed.

This scene. I can understand why people have said “it’s not in character”; though I couldn’t disagree more.

Mycroft himself has spoken of his distaste for “leg work” and told us that “field work is not [his] natural milieu”. He doesn’t say why. Laziness is perhaps presumed by the viewer, but - having seen this - I don’t think so.

We know that Mycroft favours logical thinking patterns and that he believes emotions cloud the judgement. He therefore tries to eliminate all emotion from his thought processes. However THAT DOES NOT MEAN HE DOESN’T FEEL THEM. A stoic is not a psychopath. As humans we are designed, in-built to experience emotion. Mycroft may adhere to principles of stoicism, he may be disdainful and (I would argue) even fearful of strong emotions, but he absolutely has them. Far, FAR more than he would like, wishes to admit or wishes anyone to know about. He wears his Iceman label as a shield. It’s his protection.

Mycroft has not reached the position he is in without having to make difficult decisions. Has he ordered Loss of Life, imprisonment? Probably. More than likely. But from behind a desk. A shield against emotional attachment. “What about the girl on the plane?” I hear people ask. He was prepared to have that child crash that plane into the sea! If that’s not cold detachment I don’t know what is! Hmmm, actually he does what he always does (where Sherlock isn’t concerned!) he separates emotion and deals with the logistics. And, in a logical sense at least, he’s right! If that plane crashes into a town or city then hundreds may die. From a logical perspective, yes. He’s no stranger to decisions like this and as long as that person remains abstract to him then that gives him the ability to cope emotionally. He doesn’t know this child. He wouldn’t want to know this child, because that would make it too hard. Has anyone noticed how he protests the most fervently at the phone calls with the child? He doesn’t WANT to be drawn in. Has anyone noticed how at one point of the phonecall he covers his ears? Emotional protection. He’s protecting himself from becoming emotionally involved and it clouding his thought process.

When Mycroft is handed that gun he is being asked to DIRECTLY kill a person. There is no shield. He is being asked to point that gun at a living, breathing person and pull the trigger. And he is not capable of doing so. He has always KNOWN he isn’t capable of doing so and that is undoubtedly the real reason for his dislike of field work. Behind his desk he can do what he does best. Think. Plan. And his hands stay clean. Logically, there is no other choice and he has a man in front of him begging him to shoot him. Logically he knows this, but doing it yourself is very different to giving the order for it to be done when you’re safely back in your office.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

ooc - I'm gonna read more of the scripts to learn mycroft better lollll I do hope I can make him sassy

I love the fact that they always need to highlight the fact that Mycroft's voice is a familiar voice for Sherlock.

(And while they changed the ASIB scene slightly because it wouldn't make sense for Mycroft to sit down among corpses waiting for Sherlock to arrive, I love that both times the "familiar voice" is followed by the scene being illuminated. For Sherlock, Mycroft is the key to the solution. He's the one who taught him how to deduce, the one who helps him when he's stumped.)

[mycroftholmesisonline]

\\ A response

You hold power, people are attracted to power, nearly all people. That’s why people flock to you. They want what you have, to be you. To experience the man they believe has it all. I don’t think you need to be fixed, Mycroft. I just think you need to be released. Legwork is the fun part. You just do the boring bits cause you don’t like to get dirty. That’s silly to me. You could get dirty. You might have fun with it. You do not want me to hold my tongue, and you do not want me to be restricted and yet you act as though it might upset you for me to let loose. I do not wish to invoke you wrath- well… I lie. I would love to. I want to see what it might make you do. But you become dreadfully annoying to talk to.

You are controlled, you control yourself, make yourself perfect to please it. You love to hold yourself to this high standard. Because you are king. And no-one is better than the king. Perhaps you should be, you are the perfect man to be king. That is why they bow to you. I do not think you can control me, and I do not think you will kill me. No one has yet. I don’t think it would be entertaining to kill me. I don’t scream. I hardly ever cry. I’d make an incredibly boring victim. I have been told I’m fascinating to torture. A puzzle, if you will. But that is all. My murder will be dull and perhaps will scar the one who does it if he is not prepared for it. I think I will smile.

On the contrary, we need our control. We need it to survive. You do not seem to understand that… but that’s alright. I don’t expect you to. My work does lead to a better outcome for me. I am safe in my work. I do not want to work for the government, I could not. It would mean more drugs or therapy or hospitals or people trying to pick me apart. Working for the government would mean becoming an attraction for psychiatrists and interested parties to gawk at and try to decipher.

I will listen and learn, Mycroft. As you command it. I do think you are desperate, despite your words. I think it shows plenty. If you weren’t you wouldn’t apologize. If you weren’t you wouldn’t think about me. You want entertainment just as badly as I do. And I am happy to provide. I am sure I still entertain you. I stay because of this. Because of the uncomfortability. Because I know that you are the only one who will ever truly be able to see into me. Though again, I do not get overwhelmed. I do not know what that is. I do not crave being controlled. I do not like being controlled. I am not abused.

I do not search for your abuse nor anyone's. I do not search for someone to control me. I like being mine, making my decisions, and behaving in the way I intend. Your insinuation that I want someone above me telling me… that I want someone to control me is sickening. It shows me little more than the fact that you are projecting your own ideals onto me. Therapy does not work on me. Not the kind you are working with. Perhaps something extreme. But that would mean allowing myself to break and I’m not interested in that.

I do not want to hurt Anthea. She is a clever girl. I would hate to hurt her. Though your threat is very sweet. I am glad there is someone in this world that you do care for. I don’t think your ability to make the choices I make everyday makes you better than me. You’re only better because you did not suggest them outright.

I do not chase pain. I do not know pain, how do I chase what I do not know? I cannot be cured. I have a disability. It is incurable. It will stay with me until I die. And I do not seek jobs that are hated. I seek jobs that interest me. What I world that would be, where no one wins and no one loses.

I’m surprised you haven’t stopped me. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to. I’ll leave you a gift. Perhaps something mundane. I cannot promise luxury. But it will be interesting nonetheless. I’m sure you will at least be able to make use of it as a paper weight. I appreciate your toying with me even as pointless as it is. It’s entertaining to watch you try and make me squirm. Maybe someday you will succeed. But I do not think so.

I don’t think I can feel happiness. I don’t think it’s in the cards for me. I was not created to be happy. I was not created to experience. I was created for a purpose. One given to me at my birth. Must you feel what an animal feels to understand it? Must you feel what it is to be a story to read? I do not think so.

-♠️

Your letter has been collected : (Yes/No).

Mycroft Holmes will reply at his convienience.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

Around noon, when the day was beginning to drag and tea cups were being refilled. A little package mysteriously showed up on his desk. It was placed there purposefully, the box was wrapped with a piece of twine that might allow it to fall apart once the bow was undone.

Scrawled with Mycroft's own pen was a little note that read.

'Hello Mycroft, I hope this is an acceptable gift. I think it suits you. -♠️'

Inside the box was a king. It was heavy, clearly made of a beautiful black marble.

The atmosphere of the room was tense. I took the twine in my fingers and pulled gently. Almost cautiously as I stood leaning over the brown glazed table. The room was spotless and there was a faint scent of cherry drifting around from the scented candle that lay amongst the other various things laying amongst my desk. My lips pursed with almost confused. My body language was closed in on itself... I was unsure why. Maybe the suspense. I was curious as to what you had in store for me. Perhaps too curious. I could be walking into a trap. I hoped I was, in some sense. It would be entertaining. Exciting. Thrilling.

I took note of the handwriting on the note that was left. You think this suits me? How ... flattering.

The box folded open with a bump against the table. There it lay, the chess piece, adorned in two miniature cushions that would be used on jewelery to ensure it did not become damaged. My eyes widened, slightly, and I was unsure what to make of it.

I turned my attention to the handwiriting on the note as it caught my eye. It was so deeply familiar. I had been sent letters scrawled in the same handwriting sent from 'The Office' on the bottom floor... well, basement, every day since six months ago. The Office was more a Box Office. They were sent letters, and those letters would be rearranged and sent up to their corrosponding rooms. Sometimes, those letters would take days to appear. My individual letters, however, would always encase information about other individuals, whether it be 'enemies', as some would say, or 'colleagues' that worked around the building. Nothing extremely out of the ordinary ... codes, passwords, the lot. I suppose I called them 'advantages'. It made many of my jobs easier.

It seems as though I had met him inadvertently, many, many times.

My attention was caught as I saw the light from the window glistening against the intricate details of The King. I allowed myself to find joy in the little things, glancing down at the object before staring intently. I am unsure of the object. I'm sure nobody else understood what it meant, which means asking for a second opinion is futile. It would have to be between us. Kept between us. Obviously, I wouldn't tell anybody about this situation regardless. Anthea only happens to know due to monitoring my social media profiles. I trust her to.

My hands flexed into muscles and rested against the back of my seat as I silently inspected the object. The situation was... having me act less than cautious. I was more confused. There was no real danger. No fear. I understood the moment. The symbolism. I had thought you were bluffing when you mentioned giving me a gift. Should I feel gratitude? I almost feel dismayed as it is such a small, insignificant item. What would I want this here for, hm? I doubt the security even pestered you when you entered the room to leave this here.

With that, I slowly tipped the box upside down, allowing the chess piece to roll out. It made a clunking noise as it finally hit the table. I inspected it, my expression almost solemn and concentrated. My lips pushed together in a thin line as I gently took the piece between my left index finger and thumb. It had weight in it. Perhaps you were right, a perfect paperweight though nothing more. I am fondly reminded of our conversation, though fond is a strange word to use.

I held it in my palm, lifting it up closer to my view to inspect the marble cast that glazed over it. It was gorgeous. Utterly gorgeous. I was sure it would have been quite cheap for what it is. My lips parted in a sigh, coating the item in a fog of condensation. I will try not be too ungreatful, I suppose. Oh, bitter me. I suppose I am disappointed that it is so physically worthless.

I can't help it.

My mind, though calm, is screaming danger alarms. In hopes to ease them, I let out a soft chuckle before my mouth tensed, stopping my physical movements entirely. It trapped me within my mind. My heart raced within my chest, battering against my ribcage with quick, light huffs. Why was I smiling. I breathed harder than normal to regulate myself. Guilt pooled in my stomach. Anthea could not grasp a chuckle from me, why did this.

To ease the situation, I spoke. "What an idiot." I murmured softly. To myself, of course. My expression contorted into a curious annoyance as my tongue came to rest poking out slightly past my lips. I gripped the chess piece once again and sighed with fake dismay to trick myself into believing I didn't find it worth anything. Why would I.

I pulled my chair out from under the table. It made a screeching noise against the floor which my eyebrows furrowed and nose crinkled at. What a disgusting sound. I sat on it quicker than I normally would, inspecting it further.

Do I now have to return a favour? Is that what this is for? To make me feel comfortable before you spit out that you want something from me because you 'did this for me'?

Whatever would I do. For now, I gripped it, and I placed it in front of me. It was heavy, as though it was made entire of resin. I sighed softly, and I put it on top of a pile of case files that had obviously been touched in the last hour. What, too nosy to leave them alone? How typical.

I suppose, I was thankful for the item. It made me feel powerful, though it was annoying. It suggested my power. The way I ensure to rule over people and protect them. Sometimes it didn't feel that way ... people above me would beg to differ. I would not call them bosses by any means, just people whom do to me what I do to others.

Though, The King in chess is able to only move one square at a time. It forces others to do things for it before he dies trying to do them himself. If the king dies, the game is over. His life or death is important and miserable for others yet it would suit himself as he is practically useless. I couldn't figure out if it were a compliment or a hurtful insinuation. I stopped reading into it, taking it from face value eventually.

I truthfully decided It makes me feel something and I suppose, that is enough.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

. 🍷 .

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock's hands would grip my own, every tike his body startled awake. He would convulse, his heart stopping in the moment between waking up and falling asleep.

Prior, he would be unable to sleep. He would never go to Mummy and Daddy about such things. Their use of emotional neglect always made Sherlock confused. For lack of a brtter term. I would feel obligated to allow him to cuddle within my own bed. I would hold his hands while we slept so I could wake up as he did, to help with what he needed.

Later on, we found the seizures were stress induced due to our parents' squabbles. The way they would put us against each other. He was terrified of being in the same room as me, but I, being the only option, were the ones he stuck to. I felt like paper, and he was the glue.

As it turned out, his nightmares consisted of myself and my parents around those ages. They would wake him up in such a cold sweat hurry that his mind could not just cry but yearned something more to regulate and ease the pain.

Their wrath took a toll on the both of us. Their wrath turned into my wrath, when I was fourteen. He was seven. Oh, how stupid was I to believe their lies. A frequent lie was how I was better, for all they now talk about is how much of a failure I am. I understand. I do not see it anymore.

Infact, I see myself as less.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

Ooc - Ahh. I want to find a way to write about this further.

OOC . HEADCANON

Ooc; I do believe mycroft could have somebody he cares for that takes up some of his time, at one point in his life.

Ooc; Maybe one day (in timeline of my roleplay status, it would be a few years prior. Maybe a long time.) he's lumbered with this little boy who's parents have done something awful. Against him. They are now dead (I imply they've been killed.) or are being perished for it. He fosters him for a while, of course not all his life which is why I used the word Foster as it would be a temporary home, but he eventually has to find somebody to adopt the little boy when he realises the life he leads is something he doesn't want the little boy to be part of.

Ooc; Which honestly, breaks the poor man. He can barely think about it. He told himself he wouldn't but he's repressed it far in his memory.

[mycroftholmesisonline]

. 🍷 .

Mycroft Headcanon

Rp Related

Me omw to project fps onto mycroft .... the obsession that comes after meeting a person. He wants to know everything about them. Cannot sleep without a reply. His emotions depend on them. Etcetera ...

Ofc its very, very subtle at first... as in, he's captivated and that's why he thought it was intentional that he was wrapped around his finger. But turns out that wasn't even the intention. You know. Its not a crush I suppose, yet a genuine obsessiveness.